A History of Madness (The Outlands Pentalogy Book 2) Read online

  THE OUTLANDS PENTALOGY

  A History of Madness

  Rebecca Crunden

  Copyright ©2017 Rebecca Crunden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be duplicated in any form without the written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations for reviews.

  ISBN-10: 1548579513

  ISBN-13: 978-1548579517

  Edited by Elizabeth Tanner

  Cover Design by Rachel Bowdler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The Elders referred to it as the Reckoning.

  Days of fire burned away most life on Earth, sending the few survivors into a long winter.

  In that time, all that was, was lost.

  Out of the ashes of the old world rose the Radiants – adapted, mutated, unlike any before.

  Years passed and the Radiants flourished in the new world, their ways far removed but not unrecognisable to those of their human ancestors.

  And then one day, from a steel door in the ground, a child crawled free.

  A curious child, the girl befriended the Radiants and taught them the language of the Belows.

  For many years the Radiants awaited the arrival of her kind, eager and curious to meet others like her.

  But when her people finally came, they came with fire. They came with fear.

  The war lasted for years, devastating both populations. A great wall was built around the lands under Franklin Crow’s control and tentative peace followed for more than a hundred years.

  Now fearful and mistrusting of the human race, the Radiants kept to themselves. The war faded into memory, and memory faded into myth. Safe in Joro, named for the Radian word for ‘open’, the Radiants developed their own histories. Man became demon. After all, they came up from below.

  Observant, cautious and wary, the Radiants watched and waited, wondering if their enemies would return to lay waste to them. Yet the Elders implored the Radiants not to seek revenge. They spoke of a prophecy. A child of their enemies who would come to be blessed with the gifts of both species.

  In the wake of a second war, this halfblood was believed to be the one to bring together demon and Radiant alike to usher in a new era of peace.

  And so they waited.

  AR116

  INTRODUCTION

  The Hangman and the Boy

  The group of little boys filed into the prison after their teacher, their eyes wide and their faces red with cold. The trip from the school to the prison hadn’t taken them long at all, but already the boys cried for their lunches and the warm schoolroom which, until an hour ago, had been the very last place they wanted to be.

  Redwater was a cold prison and despite their thick coats and warm trousers, all of the little boys were shivering, unable to shake either the cold or the strange feeling of death which lingered about the place like an ill wish.

  ‘As you know, this prison has been in constant use ever since the Last War,’ said the man leading the crowd. He was a broad-shouldered fellow with a thick moustache and narrow eyes, his long black hair tied in a knot at the base of his neck. He was known in Cutta as the King’s Hangman. The Whisperer. A favourite of the King, and far more terrifying.

  Well used to dealing with more mature visitors, he found the boys to be somewhat of a nuisance and tended to speed through much of the tour, simply to get it over with. He had shown them the cells, the pens, the infirmary and the museum already. Although the tour was meant to be informative, there were certainly more interesting places which the man would have preferred to show them. Over the years, however, they had learned that most little children did not quite recover from first-hand knowledge of torture – no matter how important it was to the Kingdom. Much to his annoyance, the practice was abandoned.

  As it happened, there was only one thing left to show them, and the Hangman was relieved. He wanted lunch, he wanted to take off his shoes – which pinched badly – and he wanted to get started on the memo he had put off the last two days already. It wasn’t due until the end of the week, but it was his daughter’s birthday in the morning and his Complement would undoubtedly chastise him for missing the grand event.

  With an internal sigh, trying to rally himself to the task at hand, the Hangman shook his head and forced himself to focus on the wide-eyed children before him, all less than half his size. It was hard not to loathe them somewhat for their malleable gullibility. Despite the inarguable truth that the ignorant, fearful mind was far easier to manipulate, thus creating an infinitely easier Kingdom to rule, the Hangman had little patience for the unintelligent, immature youths.

  In truth, he had no patience for most people, and could count on one hand the few people he could actually tolerate. But it was his duty to Crown and Council to ensure that the children of the Kingdom learned early on that dissenters and rebels had no place in Cutta, nor did inquisitive minds who asked too many questions. It had to be stamped out early. As a result, once a year, the Hangman readied himself for the endless tours of tiny humans through the prison he had long since regarded as his own sort of palace.

  A palace which would have been far more enjoyable without children.

  ‘Redwater once housed prisoners of war and traitors, now it houses those who defy King Markas,’ he found himself saying, his thoughts far away, wondering what was for lunch. ‘To be specific, these criminals are traitors themselves, merely of a different breed than those captured during the war.’

  One of the little boys, with a thick mop of straw-coloured hair, raised his hand.

  The Hangman nodded to him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why would anyone defy King Markas?’ said the boy. ‘He keeps us safe.’

  ‘Indeed he does,’ said the Hangman, nodding approvingly. ‘Very good. And what does he keep us safe from?’

  ‘Freedom,’ chorused the boys.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Hangman. ‘As to your question, there are a few amongst our noble species who do not share our views of comfort, conformity and continuation. They seek to undermine our methods, and as such they are brought here for discipline. Does anyone know what forms of discipline are administered within these walls?’

  A boy with black hair and a rather thick unibrow raised his hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If the crime is really bad they are executed!’

  ‘Very good,’ said the Hangman. ‘If the crime is not so bad, they are punished and returned to the lowest of society to work towards the betterment of our world so that they may repent. Or they are sent to the far reaches of the Kingdom so that the law-abiding citizens need not trouble themselves to deal with them. After all, our King is not without mercy.’

  In the back of the group, a boy with black hair and eyes vibrantly blue, stood silent and watchful.

  A smart, quiet boy, Thomas Anteros did as he was told. His clothes were impeccable and his timekeeper expensive, but his hair was haphazard, as if tugged at frequently. He was the only one not asking questions. As if he knew already the answers and would never contest them. It was refreshing when viewed alongside his brother who never shut up.

  Another boy raised his hand and the Hangman’s attention was turned away. ‘Yes?’ he said, nodding to the boy.

  ‘What if the really bad ones also want to repent?’

  The Hangman shook his head firmly. ‘We cannot let crimes go unpunished,’ he said. ‘Humankind is a strange species that often inclines itself towards destruction. You a
ll know of the Devastation?’

  The boys nodded in unison.

  ‘Good. Such an end is possible again if humans are allowed their freedom. Our noble King aims to ensure our species’ survival. As you know, we are not as mighty as we once were. Our population is dwindling. All precautions must be taken. To that end, the worst offenders are removed entirely from society so that they cannot poison the minds of others who are not so firm in their beliefs. Does that make sense?’

  The boys chirped that yes, it did make sense.

  Pleased, the Hangman led them through the large entrance hall, ornate with a staircase which led up to the offices of the captains, on past the side corridors which branched off into the examination and surgical wings, through the hallway with closed doors, each one containing a prisoner waiting to be sentenced, and out into the cold yard. Several prisoners were being worked already, straining under the exertion. The Hangman curled his lip as he watched the display. He fervently believed all dissenters ought to be hanged. There was no call to allow any mercy. Humanity was nearing its end. Each criminal was costly to their future. He had informed the King of his opinion numerous times and still they spared many of them.

  His eye twitched.

  The children pointed and whispered as they watched the prisoners work. It was almost the end of the demonstration, and the Hangman’s favourite spectacle was about to commence. One of the only reasons he had not pawned this duty off onto one of his subordinates was because he greatly enjoyed showing the children the spectacle.

  ‘Bring out the prisoner,’ said the Hangman, waving to one of the guards at the other end of the yard. He turned back to the children. ‘Now, boys, you will recall the conversation we just had?’

  The boys nodded.

  ‘What are some offences punishable by death?’

  All the boys raised their hands. He pointed to one.

  ‘Treason.’

  ‘Very good. What else?’ He pointed to another.

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Good, what else?’

  ‘Stealing.’

  ‘Excellent. And?’

  ‘Protesting.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Questioning the King’s authority!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘History!’

  ‘Very good,’ said the Hangman, clapping his hands together. He turned back and saw that the prisoner had been brought out and was tied to the pole in the centre of the yard. The Hangman raised his hand and signalled the guard to unmask the prisoner.

  The gasps of the children delighted him. The Hangman looked pointedly at the children and nodded to the boy with the singular eyebrow. ‘Do you know what his crime was?’

  The boy gaped at him.

  ‘Speak!’

  ‘He broke the law?’

  The Hangman nodded. ‘He killed a man. You see, this is not something the King enjoys doing. The laws are there and carefully laid out for all to see. It was his choice to kill, thus it is his choice to die. Do you see?’

  The boys nodded, although some of them were noticeably frightened.

  ‘You must not look away now, boys,’ he warned. ‘You must see this punishment and remember that the King’s word is law and to disobey is death.’

  ‘That bastard killed my sister!’ cried the man. ‘He deserved it!’

  The Hangman laughed coldly. ‘You see, children, this man tried to take the law into his own hands. But the law cannot be avoided. The law cannot be altered. Crown and Council maintain order for our safety, boys. Never forget that.’

  The Hangman nodded to the guard.

  A horrible sound, like thunder in a bottle, blasted through the small yard and everyone, even the prisoners, turned to watch as the man was torn apart.

  ‘You see, boys,’ he said when the shooting had stopped and the body hung limply from the ropes that secured it, ‘this is what becomes of lawbreakers.’

  One of the guards summoned a few prisoners from their duties to untie the body and haul it down from the post. The body was then dragged across the yard, a satisfying smear of blood trailing in its wake. The prisoners pulling the corpse looked ready to be sick, and the Hangman felt all the more satisfaction at their discomfort. The pit at the other end of the yard was full of bodies from earlier demonstrations that week, all of which were done for the benefit of the schoolboys. The corpse was strung up, blood from the fresh wounds seeping down over its flesh and covering its face so that it was simply a red creature; it might have been a boar ready for eating. It would hang there until the next demonstration.

  ‘Lunchtime!’ said the Hangman cheerfully, suddenly remembering how hungry he was. He strode back towards the front of the group, leading them inside where a fine meal was awaiting them.

  Had he looked back, he might have caught sight of the expression on the face of the one boy who had yet to move. Perhaps it would have chilled even the Hangman to the bone. Where fear and obedience spread like a drug through the veins of the other boys, little Thom Anteros had suddenly learned the value of power.

  AR128

  PART ONE

  Distance

  MONTH FOUR

  On his twelfth birthday, Nate Anteros was introduced to Matilda Marrow at the required Assigning. The ornate lighting and solemn atmosphere had been intimidating enough for all the twelve-year-olds involved, and proved even more difficult for the gangly boy with copper hair and a large bruise the size of an apple on his cheek.

  The word on everyone’s lips was that he was a troublesome boy, got into fights at school. He wasn’t popular. Few people spoke to him that night except Matty, who only spoke to him because she had to, and Tommy, who had come along to see who the latest member of their family would be, and because he flatly refused to be left out of anything.

  Matty’s parents were not amongst the most affluent in Anais, and a match to an Anteros, even one sporting a black eye, was better than they could have ever hoped for. Whatever looks they sent Nate’s way, whatever whispers they exchanged about him behind his back, were kept well concealed from his parents. Not that such snide comments would have been anything other than applauded by Hamish Anteros, who had hated his eldest son almost since his first birthday, but still, decorum won out.

  For their part, Nate and Matty became friends almost immediately. Unlike Tommy, Nate didn’t dislike his future Complement from the start. She liked getting into trouble as much as he, and their parents oft lamented their likeness.

  For a few years, their binding gave Nate hope. Matty became his and Tommy’s newest partner in crime and the trio spent much of their youth scrambling over fences or racing down streets, laughter bursting from their lips, their faces flushed with excitement. Every time Nate got himself into trouble, Matty was right there beside him, hands dirty, eyes downcast but glinting with mischief, lips desperately trying to suppress a smirk.

  On his fourteenth birthday, on a stayaway in one of the nicest resorts in Cutta, after the celebrations had died down, Nate snuck out of his bedroom and met Matty in the common room downstairs. They crept into the empty kitchens, stole as many pastries and sweets as they could carry, swiped a bottle of his father’s finest whiskey, and curled up beside the fire under a blanket.

  Later, drunk and full of chocolate and jam and sugar, they had sex. It was the first time for both of them; awkward, full of laughter and questions, messy and uncomfortable. Nate could still remember, so many years later, how he had kissed her rose-scented hair and been glad they were friends, if not in love, and if there was nothing else to be grateful for, at least there was that.

  Over the years, as Tommy fell in and out of love, hardly paying attention to Catherine Taenia, the girl he had been Assigned to, and Nate finished his studies and became more and more enamoured with rebellion, protestations and anarchy, a desire to tear down the system he felt so vehemently to be unjust overwhelming him, Matty’s mischievous inclinations changed from childish enjoyment into youthful tolerance.

  By the time Nate was twen
ty, she found him tiresome and problematic. When he was arrested, she ended things with an appeal to the King.

  Nate hadn’t loved her, but for some reason the rejection stung. Everything proved fleeting in the end. He hated it. There was no way to rely on such uncertainty. The only constant in his life was Tommy, and it was Tommy who, after months of trying to gain access, finally bought his way into the prison. The only one who would never abandon him.

  Tommy told him before he learned it from somewhere else: Matty was newly bound to another. Yet those words, spoken before their parting, were the most insignificant thing they exchanged that day. The part which caused no pain in comparison to all the rest. Nate had told Kitty that it was his mother who gave him the news of Matty. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Tommy’s visit. About what had happened before and after.

  Nate remembered scrambling as far away from the door as possible, fists balled, ready for attack, when Tommy entered. The look on his little brother’s face when he saw what months in Redwater could do to a person was forever branded into Nate’s memory.

  It wasn’t the first time in their lives that Nate had felt like the younger of the two, clinging to his brother and begging Tommy to kill him.

  Tommy had held him, reassuring Nate that he was safe, that nothing would ever happen to him again. Tommy wouldn’t let anything happen to him again.

  It was the only thing Nate remembered clearly. Most of the conversation was fragmented in his mind. Close to insanity most of his life, those months in prison had tipped him over the edge.

  He had spent so long speaking to his own shadow, clawing at walls, tearing his hair out, attempting to scratch open his wrists, and trying to hang himself on more than a couple of occasions, that for most of Tommy’s visit Nate was not even certain he was real. But Tommy had always been able to reach him when no one else ever could, and it was Tommy who drew him out of the tornados of his mind, assuring him that he was almost out and would never have to go back. Coming from anyone else, Nate would have believed it to be a sick jape at his expense. He trusted only Tommy.