Chương 17

Perith cursed the date of his birth. If he had been born only three days later, then this wouldn't have happened for another year. He wouldn't have had to enter the lottery for a whole year if he was just three days younger! Life was unfair. He got in line with the rest of the boys and girls. They were all dressed in their finest clothes, as though they weren't about to find out which of them was doomed.

Like they were going to church instead to hear about Vorulsht and his mercy, or the history of the Departed Ones. This was the line for the young. Those entering the lottery for the first time. Nobody knew how many yellow stones were in the pot. But everyone knew that if you reached into the pot and you drew yellow, well, you'd become Inalten. They'd drown you, and then bring you back. Except you wouldn't be you anymore. Perith liked being Perith very much, thank you, and he certainly didn't want to be drowned.

But if he didn't take part in the lottery, well, that was the same as volunteering. Right now at this moment the undead were marching through the streets, examining everyone who wasn't lining up. The parents had papers for their children. There were some children in line, clinging to the skirts of their mother or father, but they wouldn't be drawing stones. Their parents had to, and hadn't found someone to watch their children while they waited to see whether or not their children were about to be orphaned.

It was a grand thing, Lottery Day. The actual drownings didn't happen here. They happened somewhere else. Somewhere different every time. The doomed were brought before Tal, the Risen. He spoke with them, briefly, and drowned them himself. Like a priest taking a final confession. Perith wondered idly how many people Tal had killed. His line started moving. He stepped forward. Then he stepped forward again. The line kept moving in a slow, orderly fashion. That was good, right?

What were the chances that he'd draw a yellow stone on the first time? Not very high, right? It wasn't just his town participating in the lottery, there were nineteen villages in this county and two cities. There must be hundreds of thousands of people between the ages of fifteen and twenty five, and only one hundred and thirteen yellow stones in all of the urns. The other kids in line didn't seem as nervous as he felt. Oh, wait, that one had pissed himself. And that one was hyperventilating.

Yeah, he wasn't the only one who was afraid. That made him feel better, for some reason. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The line moved slowly forward. It was Perith's turn. He looked at the white-eyed undead who held the urn out for Perith. She was an old woman. Probably died of natural causes, Perith thought. Lucky witch. He reached in, sorted around. He'd heard that the yellow stones were polished, so he felt for one that was rough. He fumbled around for ten seconds.

Twenty. Then, with his eyes closed, he pulled out a rough stone and clenched it in his fist. He moved out of the way for the next person.

"Present your stone, son," said a soldier.

"We need to see it before you can go."

"I know," he said.

"I just." He realized he was hyperventilating. He lifted his hand, and opened it. The yellow stone glinted in the sunlight.

"No," he whispered.

"No, no, no no no no!" The administrators of the lottery exchanged looks, and two undead were suddenly behind Perith.

"Be gentle with him," the soldier said to the undead as they grabbed him by either elbow and led him away. He blacked out, but they didn't slow down a bit as they dragged him into the wagon they'd arrived in. He awoke to the smell of ammonia. He'd never smelled ammonia, so that was a new experience. Not a pleasant one. He was in the back of the cart, a shackle on his ankle to keep him from running off. He was the only one in the cart. He was the only one from his village who was going to die in the ceremony.

Did that make him feel better or worse, he wondered.

"Sorry, son. Your old life is over," the soldier from earlier said.

"I know that," Perith said.

"I—""You're not going to die, though. We made a mistake. The urns that the young ones draw from, they're not supposed to have any yellow stones in them. We try to fill all the numbers with volunteers, but we were twelve short this time. So we put twelve stones in the urns and they were supposed to be in the urns that the adults drew from. Those who were twenty to twenty-five."

"So it was a mistake?" Perith asked.

"I'm not going to die?"

"I said that, right? You're not going to die. Tal says that those between ages fifteen and twenty-five must take part in the lottery, but the administrators of the lottery don't like it when kids like you draw yellow. So we fix the odds. That's why fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen year olds have their own line. It's not supposed to have any yellow in it."

"But mine did."

"Yeah, it did." The soldier rubbed the back of his neck.

"Sorry about that."

"But it's a mistake? I'm not going to die?"

"I said that, right?" the man said, chuckling.

"But, well, there's a problem."

"What's that?"

"Everyone in your village saw you draw yellow," the man said.

"And the word will spread. Anyone who knows who you are will think you're supposed to be a deadman walking. They'll be suspicious if you come back to town with your heart still beating. Understand?" Perith's jaw dropped.

"But, you said, I don't have to die?"

"No. We'll find someone else to take your place. Either a last minute volunteer, or something else. You're safe. But you can never go home."

"But…what will happen to me?" Perith asked.

"You did draw yellow," the soldier said.

"We don't want to turn you into Inalten. But you did draw yellow. So when we get to the city, you're going to present yourself to the army recruiter, you're going to tell him your name is Urstin, that you've run away from home and won't go back, and that you want to join the army."

"I don't want to join the army."

"You drew yellow, son. The other option is that we go through with the ceremony as planned. Either you take a soldier's place and a soldier takes yours, or you die. Understand?" Perith swallowed.

"I understand," he said.

"You know what the penalty for desertion is, son?"

"Hanging," he said.

"And then you go right back to marching, that's right," the soldier agreed.

"We'll send a guard with you to make sure you do your part and sign up. After that, you're the army's problem. Good luck, son. I'm sorry you drew the wrong stone."

"Thanks," Perith said, smiling at the man to show his gratitude. He was grateful. He'd rather be a soldier than be dead. Perith had been five years old when the Lottery was first enacted. If only he'd been three days younger.