Colorless

42 - Clashing Colors

The yellow-stained heart sat on a plate before him, raw and drained of blood.

Priests who had refused to eat, who had fallen into prayer or pleaded or fought, were dragged away from the table and off to some unknown fate. Cyran didn't fight. He feared dying now more than ever. He'd made Lettie a promise. He had a baby girl waiting for him. He'd survive no matter what.

Cyran was half-convinced that the heart on his plate belonged to Kin. He had no reason to think so. Just an hour before, he'd heard Ianthe and Kier talking, and they believe Kin to still be alive then. But no matter how distant a possibility, it could have been Kin's, and Cyran couldn't get that idea out of his head. Kin was irritating and condescending, but he was his partner. And he'd be proud of Cyran, for trying to fix things with his wife and daughter. Proud in a horribly smug and superior way, but still proud.

The priest across from Cyran kicked his leg. He was a younger man, with pale pink hair in a bun on his head. He had already eaten half of the heart on his own plate, and he looked meaningfully at Cyran's before darting his gaze to the end of the table where one of the higher-ranked leaders was hovering, watching for more people who weren't participating.

He cut away a piece of the tough meat, took a deep breath and thought of Jasmine and Lettie and Kin and Raleigh, and he tore the bite from his fork with his teeth.

Cyran chewed that single bite until the man had passed, and with his next bite, he slid the chewed piece of heart into his hand and then his sleeve.

The pink-haired priest caught on to what he was doing, but he gave Cyran a short nod and kept his eyes on his own plate from then on.

Cyran finished a good chunk of the heart using that technique, grateful that he'd learned simple slight of hand to entertain his younger brothers.

They remained in that room until every remaining priest had eaten most if not all of the heart in front of them. It took far too long. Cyran had a wad of chewed, raw meat in his sleeve, and a rolling nausea in his stomach. His neck pricked at the constant fear of being caught. He wondered if they'd let him leave to use the toilet but feared calling any sort of attention to himself. Instead, he kept his head down and hunched his back and wished that he wasn't so tall.

Young teens in white gowns collected the plates. From their pale skin and careful steps, Cyran suspected they were Colorless. He wondered where Nell was. If she and Kin had managed to escape, or if they were in Ianthe's hands now.

Kier said some more lofty words that reminded Cyran of boring church days as a child. He tried to listen but between worry and fear and illness, he found his focus wavering. He ended his speech to a round of cheers and applause from most of those remaining. Others looked just as sick and disturbed as Cyran felt. But they'd eaten now. There was no saving those who were forced to partake. Cyran kept his hand on the cross around his neck so his meal wouldn't fall from his sleeve. He prayed with his last drop of faith that he hadn't swallowed any bit of heart. Maybe Kin would have to kill him too. He'd at least have time to say goodbye. To prepare himself. It was more than Raleigh had.

He gripped the edge of the table with his free hand until the wood dented beneath his fingers. Now was not the time for tears. He still had to worry about escaping and then about finding Kin and Nell before Ianthe could.

Even after Kier had finished proselytizing, the priests were made to wait at their tables. No food or drink was served, and no one was allowed to leave. Quiet conversation rippled across the tables.

"They don't want people throwing up right away," one of the men at Cyran's table guessed. Others nodded in agreement.

Cyran tried to look at ease. He forced a smile when his table laughed though he hadn't heard the joke, and he waited for the moment he'd be found out and killed.