A Matter of Years

Lightning flashed brilliantly across the sky. The bright, demanding streaks illuminated the surrounding sea of citizens, their expressions set in that familiar mask of horrid anticipation as they were every year.

The booming clap of thunder rang in my ears as High Measurer Auguste de l’Équilibre stood behind the altar in the Square. It was the High Measurer’s job, after all, to begin the ritual. He shut his eyes, and his finger began to move across the pages of the civic ledger, which contained every single one of our names if we were above fifteen. I was to be registered in two years.

His finger froze. Slowly, High Measurer de l’Équilibre opened his eyes and spoke the name aloud.

“Étienne Ferrand.”

My heart dropped as the figure beside me tensed. My brother.

“Étienne, you can’t go,” I whispered, my voice shaking with worry. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face what was to come.

Étienne just leaned down and kissed the top of my head, though I could feel his body trembling. “I’ll be alright, Luc.”

Someone in dark armor came up to us and firmly grasped Étienne’s arm. I recognized him as one of the seven Crown members. They didn’t come out of the Royal Seat often, only to accompany the High Measurer to Prunings.

He pulled my brother away from me and shoved him right in front of the High Measurer, who was looking down upon Étienne with disinterest.

“Henri.” The High Measurer spoke, commanding and cold. Just like he did every year, Henri de l’Équilibre came to stand beside his father, his youthful features tense and anxious. He only looked a few years older than I was.

Lightning flashed again, thunder following with a deep rumble.

“The Measurestone, child.”

Henri visibly inhaled and reached inside his armor pocket. As the Heir of Measure, Henri de l’Équilibre was forced to roll the Measurestone at every Pruning. Henri moved the civic ledger aside and stared at the bare altar.

My heart was pounding, my pulse ringing in my ears.

The High Measurer gave a signal with his head to a man in a gray cloak, holding a piece of parchment in his hands. He was Marcel Valmont, the head Council member. The only sounds in the Square became the scratch of Marcel’s quill against the parchment and my own uneven breaths. I knew he was beginning to write a Record of how this Pruning would go.

“Now. Roll the Measurestone.” The High Measurer commanded Henri.

Henri's jaw tightened and he opened his palm, rolling the small, metal 100-sided Measurestone across the altar. Silence fell as the Measurestone finally made its decision.

Henri’s face paled. Once again, the High Measurer’s cold expression did not change.

“Ninety-six.”

I felt my throat constrict, leaving me with a loss of breath. No. No. Not Étienne.

But I could not say a word.

The Axil was already upon him.

Its nonhuman claws reached out, and a swirling mist emanated from Étienne’s chest. “No…” he whispered. He knew. We all did.

Étienne’s whispers were punctuated with the sound of metal hitting metal. Golden coins, Accrued Measure, as the Crown liked to call them, ninety-six of them to be exact, formed from the mist and fell into the Axil’s outstretched claws.

And Étienne Ferrand dropped to the ground.

The High Measurer watched the scene with something akin to boredom. He gave yet another head signal to Marcel, who finished his Record. I already knew what was written there. He then took Marcel’s quill, and I watched as the tip moved in a “X” over what must have been Étienne’s name in the civic ledger.

“Everyone,” The High Measurer spoke in his usual detached tone, addressing the whispering citizens. “This concludes our 169th Pruning. Étienne Ferrand has died of terminal measure.”

“Henri.” he called to his son. Henri seemed to snap out of it, his face still pale and drawn as he followed his father, the seven Crown, and the Council members back to the Royal Seat, its stone walls bleak and dreary.

I stood there, my knees threatening to give out as tears blurred my vision. The Crown didn’t even bother doing anything with my brother’s body. He still laid there, his eyes wide yet staring at nothing.

I barely even registered my parents’ arms around me and their broken whispers. That Measurestone. The Crown, the Axil, the High Measurer himself. They had taken ninety-six years of my brother’s life.