Cinders & Salt: Echoes of Ventlight Book 1 by Cameron O'Connell

Author:Cameron O'Connell [O'Connell, Cameron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Argento Publishing, LLC
Published: 2021-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

XIII

Interlude: Trauma

When I was a younger man, I visited a bazaar in Thebes where I, among a crowd of jeering onlookers, gathered to watch a street performer pull dozens of tiles out of a sack that should have held perhaps a quarter that number.

The tiles were hand painted, each representing but a fragment of an image that took shape as he flung them about—a feat that became more and more impressive with every unerring throw. Once the mosaic was complete and his audience satisfied, he pocketed his donations, asked his young assistant to collect the tiles, and began again.

In truth, it was not an inspired performance. Some sleight of hand, a little showmanship, and a flawless memory. Indeed, the only reason it has stuck with me all these years is what happened the one time he failed to produce the image. I can still remember his startled face when he drew the first unfamiliar tile. Apparently a rival had swapped several of them with dubious facsimiles—a prank that left the performer as befuddled as his creation was flawed.

Several years later, back when I was still working alone and before I discovered my true discipline, I killed a Domina who had made a small fortune feeding her wealthiest clients to a pet succubus she kept caged in the wine cellar. She was not a cruel mistress, from what I understand. Her girls were treated well, their needs catered to. But then, that is not particularly surprising. In my experience, even murderers have at least one redeeming quality.

In any case, those few who survived the encounter with the succubus became addicts—slavish fiends willing to trade away their lands, titles, and inheritances for yet another fatal caress. Ironically, it was their dispossessed children and jilted spouses who brought the brothel-keeper’s illicit activity to the Order’s attention.

I will not trouble you with the details of the Domina’s grisly death, but I should note it was ultimately prosaic compared to the bloodbath that was unleashed when her captive succubus broke free during our struggle. I found the grotesque creature mounted atop a headless corpse several hours past sundown, riding his lifeless body like a child’s hobby-horse, her scaly flesh coated liberally in the blood of the half-dozen men who had caught her scent and come running only to tear each other apart for the honor of dying inside her.

For some reason, I have always associated that uniquely disturbing, altogether chaotic episode with that failed street performance—struck perhaps by how our minds can take an absurd number of fragments and arrange them in a seemingly logical sequence over and over again, only to falter the moment we encounter a piece that could not possibly fit.

That, I think, is the essence of trauma.

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