The Immortal City

by May Peterson

  That was where I had first awoken here, the night of my earliest memory. I’d already had wings then, wide and sand-colored. The dove spirit had given me many gifts upon my rebirth—immortality, supernatural strength, the virtue to heal others’ wounds. Speed and acute vision, the bird-shape I could take if I shed my human form completely. But best of all were those wings, which I wore even now. Before I had known even my name, found my feet, I had found my wings. I may never have had the freedom to come up to the bright outsides without them, see hints of the world I’d forgotten.

  Now they took me home, to my spire. The only place I could quite breathe. It was an old spiraling tower that must have once been part of some elaborate building, its other parts worn away by ruin or neglect. Its derelict solitude had a kind of majesty to it, a testament of what this city once had been. One of my first projects in Serenity had been poking around to learn why so many parts of the city looked like the dried bones of a cadaverous palace. Some towers reached up into the sky almost as high as the mountain crags, more storeys than I could count. The tales always varied: that this had been the domain of a witch who wove architecture out of thin air, that it had been his personal canvas before death took him, and most of the buildings served no purpose. That the high spires were designed for bird-souls, for flight rather than climbing, even though the night-streets were more popular homes now. One story that particularly enchanted me was that Serenity had been the last bastion of a time-blasted mortal empire, whose prowess of construction was so great that without its human members, the integrity of the structures couldn’t be reproduced over the centuries. What an impact that must be to make, so that no one could reimagine the shadow you left when you were gone, even as the outline of it was everywhere.

  It was also just a convenient space. It stood just under the mountain’s face, deep enough that the sun wouldn’t fall much through my windows while I slept, but not so deep to be in the night-streets. I could see almost the whole city from its height.

  The moon was hitting it now as I ascended, glossing the stone exterior pale silver. I swept in through the window, into the dilapidated apartments I kept tidy for myself. This probably used to be some priestly chamber; once-narrow windows were chipped wide enough for me to glide through. A small space, but clean, and mine. A door separated it from what had been the stairwell winding down the tower. Much of the stairs had crumbled away over time, and I had pushed apart many of the pieces that had remained. Couldn’t have random guests knocking on my door, and it also kept curious mortals from exploring.

  I shoved the thick curtain over the opening, then sank to the floor. I slid halfway under my bed, pulled out the box I hid there. You could count on one hand the number of people I actually knew, names that went to faces that I’d seen more than once. No wonder it shook me to have another one added; I needed to relax.

  But it bothered me.

  “Ari. What do you remember—anything?” That voice had drawn me out of my sleep. I’d been lying on the silver-laced examining table, arms bound, wondering how the metal could be so cold and still burn like that. The gaze taking me in then had been bladelike, incisive. Smiling. Eyes red as spots of disease.

  My response had been so eloquent. “Ari?”

  How satisfied that smile had become.

  It bothered me that a person could be so blank. It didn’t seem physically possible. Surely something else had to be tangled in the framework of my body and the years that had built it. I’d woken feeling that I existed, had already existed, only that none of the details were there. I’d died, they’d said. Died and been resurrected by the mercy of the dove spirit now sharing my soul. And I would never die again.

  Surely the person who’d died had to have been someone. But this was the next thing they’d told me. I had sold that person in exchange for blankness. All of my past self had been given to the merchant of amnesia, and I couldn’t remember why I would have wished that self away.

  The box was full of scraps. My theory was that some of them must have been letters. I’d simply found them under me, scattered in my room, one empty day under the new moon. There should be a logic piecing together where they’d come from, but that was also blank. Some of them could have been book pages, drawings. I couldn’t make out any sentences now, but the pages must have been mine. Only one word had any context, occurring at the edge of some of the scraps, as if written at the tops of letters. Ari.

  Someone knew my name.

  A force struck the door, making me jump. But it was soft, repeating itself: just a knock. Total shit hell. Only one asshole came and actually knocked at my door, thinking he was brilliant for it. Everyone else sent a message to my window or waited for me to appear elsewhere.

  I jammed the scraps and box back under the bed, replaced the layer of blankets, and went to the door.

  Sure enough, there the fucker was. Kadzuhikhan. One brow cocked, pipe between his lips, clouding his scent with tobacco.

  Half the point of my spire was that the moon-souls without wings—in other words, most of them—couldn’t be fucked to reach it, which resulted in a hell of a lot of privacy. But cat-souls, with their power to step through nether space and appear anywhere, had to cock that up. Always underfoot.

  I bowed. Kadzuhikhan was one of the city’s perpetual big brothers; I didn’t mind paying him a bit of respect. He looked the part. Moderate height but broad and stout, with impressive musculature, half on display through the bandages he kept wound around his midsection. Pale skin caught the moon, and the glow tingeing his pipe smoke gave him an air of ghostly majesty. He entered at my gesture, and then I saw it—he had his damn sword, Lightray. It brushed me as he passed, its silver plating throwing off a sting like hot coals. Explained the bandages around his hands.

  “Would you watch that thing? Damn. I don’t want to spend all day trying to sleep on burns.”

  His flat expression warmed. A bit. “Fear not, Your Delicacy. He’ll stay in his sheath like a good boy.” He puffed a bank of smoke out. “I saw you dive in, so decided to pop up.”

  I couldn’t restrain a sneer at the tobacco. Still hadn’t gotten used to smelling everything so acutely, but then, one never really did. Hence the pipe; deadened the nose somewhat. “I’ve got liquor.”

  He pointed as if I’d answered an unspoken question. “There’s a lad.”

  Pulling up the table, I armed us both with wine and waited for him to deliver whatever request or advice he’d brought. It was hard to read him. Plain, form-fitting gray garment that draped his back but left his broad chest exposed; bare feet; slight swish of a cat tail at his back. Like most moon-souls who lived mainly in Serenity, he maintained a constant half-shape—a hybrid body, benefiting from hints of animal on the foundation of human. It always struck me as surreal, and no less so now—somehow, the laws of the world had produced this scene. A cat and a dove, sitting down to drinks together, just like that.

  Kadzuhikhan sipped his liquor. I got tired of waiting. “Is this a de facto visit on behalf of his lordship?”

  He sucked long on the pipe, poured more wine. “Of course. But fuck him. Mostly I wanted to see if you were still kicking. His lordship’s business can wait.”

  Mm. Which may have been his way of saying, wanted to see if you were up for some cock? We’d fucked before, which probably should have been strange, considering how mentor-like he’d always been toward me. Protective, in a way. Managerial. But we were also both bored a lot, and he was a gorgeous, energetic lover. Only thing was, he preferred fresh, mortal bedmates. Unprepared—blushing and virginal, the kind who could be effectively described as “ravaged” when fucked. This may be what I knew best about him: he enjoyed the upper hand, even if he wasn’t violent in wielding it. One way or another, I had to remember that Kadzuhikhan was proudly identified with his trade. It had many polite names, but none of them got to the essence quite as well as “pimp.” He always seemed to treat his work
ers well, but it was hard to shake an uneasy feeling around him. I didn’t remember my mortal life, but it wasn’t hard to reassemble the wisdom that pimps tended to be bad news to those who worked for them.

  So no surprise that the possible invitation made something in me clench. I picked as noncommittal a response as I could, and shrugged. “Not much to kick. It’s all the same.”

  His silence was pointed. He knew. Because his immortality was demarcated by the same amnesiac void as mine, even if he’d had longer to fill the gaps with new memories. We both had nothing but Serenity to care about.

  “Let’s say—” he puffed again, purring “—a party.” By which he meant an orgy. Probably with a number of his workers earning their bread by serving as entertainers. “Tomorrow night. Mountains of fresh meat, just flushing in. Lots of firm, tight ass. Whatever poison you want to go with, and drinking.”

  Drinking. Not alcohol, but blood. Blood-donors, supplying the immortal orgy-goers within their bodies’ limits in exchange for a night they’d either never forget or never remember, depending on their choice. And they’d probably all be drinking spirits touched with silver colloid. Made for a nice toxic buzz that booze never brought me anymore.

  My mouth was dry. “Eh. Not in the mood.” At the raised eyebrow, I shrugged again. “I take it this is what Umber sent you for?”

  He didn’t even bother lying. “I would have asked you without the nod from him. You depress me, lying around up here. Act like you’re not actually dead anymore for a change.”

  Lord Umber. My employer and Kadzuhikhan’s business partner. Umber sold amnesia, gifting anyone who paid him with the bliss of oblivion. Then, those who gave up their memories usually became donors for Serenity’s crowd of blood-drinkers. Kadzuhikhan got all the blood donation he wanted and plenty of fresh, fit candidates to join his sex-selling business. I helped out by healing the blood-donors after they gave blood, as well as making sure the sex workers were in good health, and in return I got to not be bothered by everyone who Umber had his talons in. Which was probably everyone. I’d tried my best to avoid becoming dependent on the rush of blood-drink, the way it warped hunger. So far, I’d succeeded, and also fucked off for most of the rest of the dealings. But I’d figured sooner or later I’d be asked to earn my keep again.

  “I don’t lie around up here. I sleep. And then fly. Sleep and fly. It’s a system.” All right, there were gaps. Including much in the way of food—starvation was almost impossible for me now, but that didn’t mean my spare-eating afterlife style was pleasant. I could probably do with a little revelry, at least with blood and meat from actual non-human animals. Maybe a way to run off my libido. But the thought of another of Kadzuhikhan’s orgies struck me as surprisingly bleak. “Why’s this bash so important?”

  I could swear his claws protracted. “Fucking hell, you are fidgety. I’m asking you to drop your ‘sad bird in a cage’ act for one night because the sympathy pains are getting unbearable, and because it should be a hell of a night. But you just want to pick at the fine print. The fact that his lordship is hoping you’ll play host is mostly beside the point. So you do a little supernatural healing for a few blood-donors. It won’t be that much work, and I know you enjoy it.” He swabbed his face with one hand, his inestimable age actually showing through for a moment. “Look. Umber is a piece of shit who only thinks about himself. I get it. But this is what we’ve got.”

  He may as well have said, We both know there’s nothing to go back to.

  And he was right.

  I looked down into my cup, the empty reflection there. “Stop begging. I’ll go, if you want the company that badly.”

  His purr became more like a snicker. “Big heart.”

  Sourness crawled through my stomach. “Oh, you know me. An outright angel.”

  * * *

  I sought out the only person I knew who I could count on to have worse insomnia than me.

  Tamueji was not exactly a friend. She and I didn’t pal around, drink together, go places together. She was more like someone to talk with who seemed to expect very little. It was...nice.

  Finding her was the roll of a die. She was the Watcher of Shadows, maestro of espionage and the information trade in Serenity’s shadows; she might at times lurk through daylight hours in the bowels of the night-streets, where the sun dared not come. Or she could be poised on the mountain, as if surveying a vibrantly decaying kingdom. Hundreds of bird-souls—spies, informants, detectives—answered to her from over a dozen flocks, but she often appeared to be gathering her intel herself, as often as she seemed to sit in meditation on the world around her, plucking secrets from the brittle air.

  It was the diversion of an hour or so to come across her this time, her legs swinging over the edge of a chipped tower side. Tamueji’s crow wings were almost more purple than black, catching shades of blue and red in her feathers. Her short hair, collected demeanor, and impressive physique made her look like a cool goddess of the night wind. She nodded with a quirked grin as I descended, the most animated greeting I usually received from her.

  The sun had not yet set. She stood under a veil of shade, as if daring the light to touch her.

  I sat down nearby and she raised brows at me. “If it isn’t Ari. So the dead walketh again. Or in your case, flyeth.”

  I folded my owl-tinged wings around myself. “You are the second person in the last twelve hours to accuse me of acting like I’m still dead.”

  She lifted palms in gentle protest. “Accuse? Nay. Who the fuck am I to disparage being dead? My best friends are ghosts.”

  Heh. They would be.

  I had first crossed her path accidentally. Her role in the city did not require her to interact with me or Kadzuhikhan very often. She didn’t seem to make trade with the sex workers, or have any regular need to seek out a dove-soul healer. But I’d wandered to the gates to stare down at Ancestor Rock one night, and she had been there. Counting stones and gazing out at the stars.

  “What are you doing?” I had asked.

  Her shrug had been almost invisible. “Remembering.”

  Somehow that had stuck in me, gathering gravity. So she had things to remember. “May I ask what you’re remembering?”

  She’d flashed a cool grin. “I believe you just did.” The flex of her wings had been like the stretch before a yawn. “Remembering deaths.”

  “Oh.” That had such finality to it that it’d seemed like a close to what was barely a conversation. “Mind if I stay?”

  Her laugh was like a cat’s tongue. “No.”

  “All right.” I sniffed, waited a few minutes. “Will it bother you if I talk?”

  The laughter bubbled over. “No.”

  So it began. Some nights, some wayward evenings when I couldn’t sleep and would rather face the sun than my dreams, I’d find her roosting somewhere and would talk. Eventually, she began talking back.

  Tamueji’s non-judgmental presence taught me something. I craved friendship. My relationship with Kadzuhikhan was too complicated, too wrapped up with obligations and Umber and Kadzuhikhan’s strange brotherly authority. Tamueji was simpler. She only talked or listened. When she was done, she flew away.

  And she remembered things. I envied that. But she was not my friend. We weren’t that close.

  I wished someone was. I wished someone remembered me.

  The face of Hei, the boy I’d caught, flashed in my mind now as I came back to the present. “You said once you would count deaths. Whose deaths were they? The people who died trying to become immortal?”

  It may have been a step too far to ask. She didn’t always answer when I questioned her, but her silence was like a cowl of timeless patience. Not angry that I asked, but not lifting simply because of it. She would speak when she wished to. The Watcher of Shadows was like the eye of the city, scribing the business of the skies into Serenity’s memories. Perhaps the onl
y way she could be at peace with such a flow of knowledge was to keep it submerged in silence.

  So I assumed she wouldn’t answer. It surprised me when her gaze tilted toward me, growing solemn. “Yes. The deaths of pilgrims. The deaths of amnesia-seekers. Traders, lost souls. The deaths that lead to every ghost that fills this city. Deaths I haven’t seen. Deaths I have.”

  Such a task made her seem godlike, omniscient. “Why?”

  Her silence fell again, cool and familiar, before parting once more. “Years are measured by the sun, yes? Seasons. Here, the sun means far less to us. And years pile up, too many to count. So I measure time by the deaths. Deaths are what give this city life. Ghosts move its gates, light up its walls. Living-again rule Serenity. Death may as well be birth.”

  She said this with a flicker of warmth, as if the concept amused her. But it did something else to me. It was shockingly touching to hear her call ghosts a form of life. To suggest that even my presence was something that made the city warmer.

  Then, without warning, she turned and sat facing me, wings draped at her side. “What would you be, if you weren’t a dove-soul? If you could have risen as something else?”

  Uh. I frowned, considered. “That’s a question. Hm.” I recalled Hei soaring to the earth, certain that he’d be caught. To feel certain of anything again. “Once I probably would have said cat-soul. The cat-step is a hard virtue not to envy. Being able to transport yourself anywhere instantly? Yes, please. Now, I don’t know. I like having wings.” I liked that I could catch Hei and give him his angel’s flight. “What about you?”

  Her eyes drifted, as if searching for her thoughts. “I would choose to be a ghost. It sounds grim, but stay with me. The trouble with being a ghost is that you start your afterlife with a curse—with a chain. But you can purify a curse. Most of the ghosts that control the gates are chained to it, but I think that’s only because they aren’t ready to let go of their curses. The pieces of life that still weigh on them. But once those chains are broken? No one is more free. A liberated ghost can go anywhere. See anyone, be anywhere. I would choose that over being a living-again any day.”