Sample Sunday: Creators: The protests begin

What if you had to choose who will live and who will die?

*****

“There isn’t enough food, is there?” Mei asked quietly.  The angry expression had faded, replaced by one of concern, and Liang knew she was worried not just about the decrease in the food supply, but also about him.

“No, there isn’t,” he admitted.  In a way, it was a relief to unburden himself at last.  He felt lighter for not having to conceal the knowledge any longer, but rather than making him feel better, this made him feel worse.  How could he be relieved to know that his sister would now have to be as burdened by the awful knowledge as he was?

Mei picked up her napkin and toyed with it, winding it around her fingers.  “I suspected as much.  I’ve been doing calculations, and I knew the numbers weren’t adding up.”

Liang paused in his pacing and smiled ruefully at his sister.  “I should have known you’d start calculating.”

“I’ve also been calculating the yield from the hydroponics, and I know those numbers don’t add up either.  So what next?”

Righting his chair, Liang dropped into it, suddenly exhausted.  “We step up production on the domes and activate them ahead of schedule.”

He sat quietly, watching the emotions play over his sister’s face as she worked out what this meant.  It seemed she, like him, was trying to reject what was becoming apparent.

“So, that means…” she began, but her voice faltered.  She bit her lower lip, and tears welled in her eyes.

“It means that the leadership team has to do an evaluation of all our Contributors.  It means we have to place every last one of them on a scale, from necessary to dispensable,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue.

His sister stifled a sob and turned her head away from him.  He looked away as well, unable to bear her pain.  It reminded him too much of his own.

“But…but how…  What are you going to say to people?” she finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  There will be no announcement to the public of what we’re doing.  Instead, people will be moved into the domes in stages and, after the last stage, the domes will be sealed.  And I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I condemned thousands of people to death without saying a word to them.”

“You can’t be serious!  The Job Creators can’t just keep people in the dark like that!” Mei cried, rising from her seat.

“Think about what would happen if we told them.”  He softened his voice, trying to get her to calm down.  Her shoulders tensed and then collapsed, and she sank into her chair.

“But it’s not fair.”  Her protest was a mere whisper, and Liang responded to it with a bitter laugh.

“Not fair?  It’s cruel, is what you mean.  We’re leading people to believe we’re conducting more dome tests and then, when the doors are permanently sealed and the realization of what’s happening to them sinks in, those of us who were lucky enough to have a ticket to the inside will go about our business as if millions of people aren’t dying right outside our doors.”

Mei sobbed, and Liang was stricken that he’d spoken so baldly.  He had desperately wanted to protect his sister, then he had given her the truth in such harsh terms.  But was there any gentle way of delivering such news?

They sat silently for a long time, their food untouched—which only served to make Liang feel even guiltier.  Here they were, the world on the brink of a famine that would kill billions, and he was wasting food because he didn’t feel like eating.  The thought made him sick to his stomach and he doubled over, wrapping his arms around his midsection.

“You know, I used to be so jealous of you,” Mei said softly, her voice startling him out of his miserable reverie.  “I used to wish that I was the oldest, that I could be the CEO of Zhang Agritech.  But now…now that I know what’s going on, Li, I…I don’t even know what to say.  I wouldn’t want anyone to be in the position you’re in, least of all you.”

“Someone has to make the decisions,” Liang said, clutching his stomach.

“That’s the really horrible part, isn’t it?”

Sample Sunday: Mira stands up to the Beast

“Mira, you are a sentimental fool,” I said, shaking my head and smiling rather condescendingly at her.  “Your heart bleeds for those who know nothing of you and care nothing for you.  Why waste your time?”

“Why do I even bother to discuss these things with you?”  Her eyes were full of reproach, and I could see that I had ruined her cheerful mood.

“Why do you?” I sneered.

“Never mind.”  She tossed the book aside rather fiercely and rose from her seat, stalking over to the bookshelves on the other side of the chamber.

I watched the rigid set of her shoulders as she moved.  I knew exactly why she read such things to me and then attempted to discuss them with me.  She was searching for some good within me, attempting to give me the opportunity to prove myself redeemable.  She was incurably naive in this respect. 

“Would you rather I read to you about wars and pestilence?” she called, after a long moment of silence.  She remained with her back to me, and she ran a rather listless finger over the leather-bound spines on the shelves.

“Why should I wish to hear about pestilence?  I have already told you numerous times that the sufferings of others are meaningless to me.  Perhaps if I were suffering from a pestilence myself, I might muster some curiosity on the subject, if only in the hopes that it would enable me to find a cure.”

“Of course.  You care to hear of something only if it directly involves you.”  The line of her slender shoulders grew even tauter, and I watched as one of her hands balled into a fist.  I could see her body heave as she took a deep breath, and I knew she was attempting to quell her anger.

“Wars are another matter,” I said, wanting to stoke her anger before she could regain her faculties and answer my scathing remarks with smiles, as she had taken to doing as of late.

She turned to eye me warily.  “Indeed?”

“Certainly.”  I sat back in my chair.  I felt a sense of satisfaction creep over me as I watched her face.

My next words were certain to provoke her.  “There is appeal in hearing about those who have used might and brutal force to take what they will.”

There was a flicker of horror in her eyes, but her recovery surprised me.  “Not everyone is as unscrupulous as you,” she said triumphantly, her smile returning.  “I shall be glad to read you war tales.  Shall I start with the tale of the ancient Eudorian king who went to war to free the slaves of Lynere, or would you prefer the history of the knights of Altheria who swore their lives to the noble service of stamping out injustice wherever they encountered it?”

Ah, but two can play at this game.

“Neither.  I would prefer for you to read the history of Marcus the Black, who went to war for the sheer thrill of cutting down his enemy.”

I watched as Mira scanned the shelf and removed a book.  She walked over to me and deliberately flung the tome into my lap.  “Read it yourself then.”  She spun on her heel and stormed out of the library with a furious rustle of silken skirts.

Sample Sunday: Angering the Beast

After spending a night in the Beast's castle, Mira's father takes what he thinks is the perfect gift for his daughter and suffers the consequences...


Peering out, I could see that the man was approaching the gates.  He paused as he reached them, glancing back over his shoulder.  I moved into the shadows, concealing myself from his gaze.  He stared at the castle for several long moments before stepping down from his wagon and walking carefully across the gravel path to the castle walls, casting glances about him as he went.  I was perplexed, but then I saw his object.  Slowly, he approached the castle wall and reached out a hand to touch one of the roses.  I went perfectly still, my spine rigid.  Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled out a small penknife and used it to cut the rose from the vine. 

Pure, sheer rage washed over me like a black wave, and I let out an ear-splitting roar.  Before turning from the window, I could see the man start, his face as pale as milk.  I ran on all fours from the second floor, down the stairs, and burst through the front entrance of the castle.

“Merciful heaven!” the man shrieked, dropping to his knees and throwing his arms over his head at the sight of me.

He was tall and thin with arms and legs that were ropy and well-muscled.  His hair was a drab shade of brown, and what I could see of his face was very plain and trembling with terror.

“You dare to steal one of my roses?” I roared.

He cried out in terror.  “For-forgive me.  I d-did not mean any harm,” he said, sinking closer to the ground, as if he sought to sink directly through it, the rose still clutched in his hand.  I could see a bright spot of blood on his thumb from where he had pricked himself with one of the thorns.  He had dropped his knife and it laid useless on the ground, far too small to be any threat to me and my rapier-sharp claws.

“You did not mean any harm?” I asked, my voice lowering into a deep and menacing growl.  “I offer you my hospitality, feed you and shelter you for the night, and you repay me by taking what I hold most dear?”

“I did not think anyone lived here.  I did not think the rose would be missed,” he said, in a small and terrified voice.

“Then who fed you, built you a fire?” I asked, astounded by the stupidity of his statement.

“I am sorry.  Please, I beg you, have mercy on me.”

“Mercy?  Why should I have mercy on a thief?  I should strike you dead where you cower,” I growled furiously.

He lowered his arms and looked up into my face.  I could see an expression of abject terror in his eyes, and a shudder of revulsion passed over his features.  I raised one of my arms, ready to strike him down, but he held the rose out and pleaded with me.

“I beg you, do not kill me.  I have three daughters waiting for me at home.  What will become of them if I do not return?” he asked, his voice pitiful.

“Your daughters are none of my concern!” I shouted unthinkingly.  “Why did you take my rose?”

“I took it for my youngest daughter.  Her sisters asked me for expensive gifts, but she asked only for my safe return.  I wanted to bring her a book, but could find none,” he babbled.  “She is such a good child, such a kind and generous child, and I could not bear to return without a gift for her.  When I saw this rose, I knew that she would love it.  She has always loved flowers.”

Slowly and in spite of my rage, my mind was beginning to work.  This man had three daughters, one of whom he described as kind and generous and who loved roses.  Surely it would be a waste to simply kill him.  Perhaps there was another option.  I was silent for so long that the man ceased to shake and sob and went into what appeared to be a state of shock.  His eyes went dull, and I knew that he believed I was going to kill him.

“You have two choices,” I growled, speaking slowly.  “Your first choice is to go home and, in a fortnight, return to me.  You will be placed in my dungeon as my prisoner, where you will die.  Your second choice is to send your youngest daughter to me in your place.  I will not confine her to the dungeon, nor will I mistreat her in any manner.  She will be well cared for and protected in my castle, but she must remain with me forever.”

The man began to shake and sob again.  “Please, have mercy!  I will not send my youngest to you!  But if I die, how will my daughters survive?”

“Those are your choices,” I replied coldly.  “I care not what difficulty they cause you.”

“Please, sir, I beg you…”

“Silence!” I roared.  “Be gone before I change my mind and kill you after all!”

My words spurred the man to action.  Without looking at me, he clambered up into his wagon, his hand clutched so tightly around the rose that it was white.  The rose itself was a deep, deep crimson, the color of the blood that ran from the puncture wound in the man’s thumb.  The horse was nearly screaming in fear.  His eyes rolled back in his head, showing me their whites, and he reared and nearly toppled both the wagon and himself.  The man managed to hold on and, as he applied the whip, the horse shot forward and sped out of the gate at breakneck speed.

I stood watching the man as he disappeared in a cloud of dust down the road.  Then I closed the gates and walked back into the castle, finding my servants assembled in the great hall.

“I expect you heard every word of that exchange,” I growled.  They stared at me with their blank eyes but did not move.  “Then you know what needs to be done!  Ready both the dungeon and one of the guest chambers!  We shall be prepared to deal with whoever returns here in a fortnight’s time.”

To preview other chapters, read reviews, and purchase a copy of The Eye of the Beholder for Kindle, visit Amazon; or visit Goodreads for additional reviews.

Sample Sunday: Mira and the Beast meet at last

 After all of the agonizing anticipation, Mira and the Beast finally meet...


“Who are you?” I asked, my voice sounding hoarse and dusty.  My eyes wanted to dart about the chamber, but I was afraid of what I might see, so I resolutely fixed my gaze upon the light of the candle.

There was a long silence and then I heard a slight rustling from the other side of the library.  Someone was sitting in the shadowy far right corner, which was a good distance from where I stood.  That thought offered some comfort, and I felt the tension in my body ease slightly.

The silence became so long that I grew vexed.  It was unspeakably rude for this creature to sit in the chamber watching me but refusing to acknowledge me.  “I would appreciate the favor of an answer to my question,” I said.  I was surprised at the sharpness of my own voice, and relieved that the edge concealed a slight quaver.

From the corner came a deep rumbling that baffled me upon first hearing but, when I listened more closely, I realized it was a voice so roughened by bestial sounds it was nearly unintelligible. 

“Why do you ask who I am?  I would imagine you are capable of guessing,” the voice said.
Any courage I may have mustered was quickly quelled by the sound of that strange voice, but I did my best to conceal this.  “I suppose you think I should conjecture that you are the master of this castle, but I know that there must be servants, and I cannot be certain that you are not one of them.”

Another silence followed this declaration and then the voice rose from the corner once again.
“Indeed, there are servants in this castle, but you are incorrect that I could be one of them.  They are mute, as you will discover for yourself when you see them.”

“They are all of them mute?” I asked, astonished.  Had the beast purposely chosen them as his servants because of this—or had he done something to ensure they could not speak?

“Aye,” he said, and I noticed for the first time that he sounded…antiquated.  There was something odd about his accent and the manner in which he phrased his speech.

“You have been living here without another soul with whom you could speak?”  I was intrigued in spite of myself.

“By choice,” was the succinct response.

“Then why am I here?”  The question escaped my lips before I could stop it. 

The tension in the chamber crackled to life once more and I took a faltering step backward, bumping into one of the ladders that were spaced throughout the chamber, allowing access to the upper shelves.  My hand curled around the rail, and I found myself leaning against the ladder for support.

“You know why you are here,” the voice replied, at last.  There was a dangerous undercurrent in it, a low growl that had not been there before.

I could say nothing in response to this and, instead, turned to leave the library, but the voice stopped me. 

“There are some things of which we will never speak,” it said.  “But we must learn to live and even to converse with one another, for there is not another soul in the castle with whom we might speak.  Or do you believe yourself capable of enduring an eternity of silence?”

“No,” I admitted, though I was loath to answer the question. 

I heard more rustling from the corner and imagined that the beast must have been moving about impatiently, though I had no wish to look and confirm my conjecture.  I did not understand what was passing between us.  When he spoke, he gave me the distinct impression that the sound of my voice pained him, but he was making the assertion that he and I needed to converse.  The contradiction confounded me and, once again, my nervous tongue betrayed me.

“It seems apparent to me that you have no wish to speak, so why are you suggesting that we converse with one another?” I asked.

The beast growled and I tightened my hold on the ladder’s rail.  “What do you suggest?  Do you suggest I return to my quarters and remain there forever without seeing or speaking to you?”

“I suggest you do whatever pleases you,” I responded, an impatient edge to my voice.  “I also ask that you have the courtesy to tell me what it is you have planned for me.”

“Planned for you?  You are a guest in this castle.  You may do as you wish.”

“A guest?  I would have called myself a prisoner.”

“You have not the slightest idea what it means to be a prisoner,” he said.  The words were spoken so softly and were so layered with bestial growls that I nearly did not understand them.

“You frighten me,” I said, bluntly.  I could not fathom how it was that I found the courage to be so honest with him.  Perhaps it was simply because I had lived in such fear and gloom that I had not the tolerance for it any longer.  Perhaps I merely wished to provoke the worst so that I might weather the storm and have done with it.

“You have not yet seen me,” he said.

“No, I have not, but my father described you, and that description was enough to frighten me.”

“I give my word that, though I may frighten you, I will not harm you.”

“Why should I believe that?” I demanded.  “You threatened harm enough to my father.  Why should your behavior toward me be any different?”

“Your father stole from me,” the beast snarled.

I flinched but refused to relent, even though my heart pounded so hard that I thought it might burst from sheer terror.  “He did not mean to steal from you.  He was simply looking for a gift for me, and he did not know the rose belonged to anyone.”

“That does not change the fact that he took something that was not his.”

“And how was he to know that you did not wish him to take it?  You offered him food and lodging freely enough.”

“That is why he should not have dared to take more from me.”  It sounded as though the beast was exercising every bit of self-control he possessed not to begin shouting at me.

I was suddenly weary of this fight.  I had to admit that the beast’s words were not devoid of truth, though I felt his reaction had been unreasonable.  Papa had made a simple error, and a decent soul would have been more understanding.

“Very well,” I said.  “I have no wish to quarrel with you.  You do not know my father as I do, and it seems you will not be persuaded to believe anything different from what you have already decided to believe.”

“What I find curious is that you defend the man who sent you here to live with me,” the beast said, with a cruel edge to his voice.

“You think he sent me here?” I asked, amazed. 

“Why else would you be here?”

“I came here of my own free will.”

“Why?” the beast asked, sounding amazed in return.

“Why?  Is it not obvious to you?  I was afraid of what might happen to Papa should he return here, so I came in his place.  I could not help but feel responsible.  He brought the rose to me out of the goodness of his own heart, out of a desire to please me.  I could not allow him to be punished for the kindness of his actions.”

The beast said nothing, and I had the sense that he was finding it hard to believe what I had told him.  This was both surprising and rather sad.  Had he never loved another enough to wish to sacrifice his own comfort and happiness for the sake of the person he loved?  A life without sound was punishment enough, but what of a life without love?  What sort of punishment was that?