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    The Admonishments of Kherishdar: The Chapbooks of Kherishdar, #2
    The Admonishments of Kherishdar: The Chapbooks of Kherishdar, #2
    The Admonishments of Kherishdar: The Chapbooks of Kherishdar, #2
    Ebook83 pages52 minutes

    The Admonishments of Kherishdar: The Chapbooks of Kherishdar, #2

    By M.C.A. Hogarth

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    About this ebook

    n Kherishdar, when a person commits a crime, they become their sin....

    Suicide. Rape. Child Abuse. Addiction. Twenty-five crimes. Twenty-five stories. Twenty-five narrators... and one minister over them all, to judge, convict and Correct the faulty: the priest who serves Shame.

    This companion volume to The Aphorisms of Kherishdar explores the wayward and their journey back to society, offering another glimpse into the Ai-Naidari culture.

    A darker, more difficult glimpse--

    Without Shame, there is no Civilization.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherM.C.A. Hogarth
    Release dateJul 22, 2014
    ISBN9781501429637
    The Admonishments of Kherishdar: The Chapbooks of Kherishdar, #2

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      Book preview

      The Admonishments of Kherishdar - M.C.A. Hogarth

      title-admonishments

      INTRODUCTION

      These are not my stories. If I had my way, you would never see them. I have read your books. I have walked unseen through your streets. You call my empire rigid and unforgiving, but you visit the most unspeakable cruelties on those who violate your unwritten laws. You speak of the value of the individual, yet your society casually disposes of those it considers unsalvageable. You speak of redemption and redeem no one.

      You call our ways unkind. But your kindness is torture.

      I am the altar upon which society sacrifices its murderers, its thieves, its wayward spirits. I am their Correction... or their destruction. I serve Shame. Without me, there is no Civilization.

      These stories are anonymous offerings left by souls in their most vulnerable moments. Read them with respect.

      korsignatureillo-dawn

      IMPROPER GUILT

      fada [ fa DAH ], (noun) — guilt, improper; used only when a person feels guilt for a situation for which they are not responsible. Sometimes incorrectly translated survivor's guilt, but is more broadly applicable to any instance where a person takes on guilt for something undeserving.

      Her body first, wan and slack. Then the infant's, terrible and new. Finally her mate's, wasted away by an unworthy fever.

      In my head, the whisper of my own voice: You should have children. And I shouted it down and still it grew, insidious, until I couldn't stop screaming and everything outside myself dwindled to noise and light.

      Touch on my hand. No one is allowed to do that. Except the Emperor. And Death. Let it be someone lesser, it's all I deserve. But even with my eyes open, I can't see... only feel. Two hands, hard, long-fingered. Peeling the robes of office from my skin until the cold pricks through the felt of fur.

      I'm cold. I deserve the cold. I deserve it more than the dead.

      The shape of the world now is hard: metal beneath each wrist. A point digging into the nape of my neck until my body describes an arch. Hands steady me, clasping my ribs. Broad hands. I did not give permission. Was I ever worthy to have it?

      I drive my own to death. They would be alive—

      "Masirkedi."

      That was what I was: masirkedi, a Noble charged with an entire city district. That is what I am: Noble enough to kill by suggestion, for my suggestions have the weight of law.

      I was sent for, and I am here. This is your Correction.

      The words shock tears from my blinded eyes, lancing past the noise in my head, past the whispers.

      "Your sin, masirkedi. Tell me."

      Dead, three dead—

      The grief of it pierces me, and blood runs down my side, hotter than my skin.

      They were just wed, they were just wed, and I told them, I said—

      no family is complete without children

      —I drove them to death!

      A sharp slap, hard enough to throw my face against my collarbone. I wobble; hands steady me, warm hands. There are rents on my cheek.

      You did no such thing, the voice says, implacable. Or do you think you can ordain the living or dying of every Ai-Naidar?

      I gasp into the silence at the hubris of it. Something drips onto the stone. Sweat, blood, something hot. I sink with it, back into my flesh.

      Enough, the voice says. Gentler, "Enough. You have bled white guilt and red blood for them. Now weep, masirkedi. You are safe here."

      S-safe? I repeat.

      The hands drag me from the cold and the steel, into an embrace faced in silk but steady as the heart I hear beneath my ear.

      Weep, the voice murmurs into my ear. And be expiated.

      I turn my face into the breast of Shame and sob.

      COVETOUSNESS

      dashalin [ dah shah LEEN ], (interjection) — What is repented of is forgiven. Since the public condemnation of wrong-doing is one of the duties of

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