A Shard of Sea and Bone (Death of the Multiverse Book 1)

by L. J. Engelmeier

  Svahta frowned at the advice. She hated vaguaries. “Trust in what?” she asked, half-sarcastic. “My heart?”

  “In the Infinity,” Aunt Serayah said, taking Svahta aback. “Not me, not you, an’ sure as shit not that Council a’ yours. The grand design. The final work a’ art. The big tapestry, hun. We’re a great big weavin’. Every thread got a purpose, an’ every thread makes the picture. You’re one. I’m one. Even that pest snipin’ its way through your Order’s a part a’ the master plan.”

  Svahta’s eyes widened. “You know about—”

  “Oh, don’t ya bother askin’ how I know. Old broad’s gotta keep ’er secrets, darlin’. Just trust it’ll all work out how it’s supposed to an’ you’ll fit in how you’re meant to. I can’t say more’n follow your heart, even when she flees.”

  Her aunt went quiet after that, and Svahta respected it.

  Rodi and his wife started slicing off blackened bits of roast calf and serving it to the guests, and when Svahta got hers, she dug into her plate. The meat seared her fingers and her tongue, but she continued to shovel in the taste of burnt beef. Something about it unsettled her stomach, though, just like the smoke lingering in the air, so she abandoned her food and washed it down with apple and persimmon cider, sweet with just an edge of sour.

  “How’s that partner a’ yours doin’?” her aunt asked conversationally. Her blue eyes glittered as she looked up from her plate.

  “Ri’s fine,” Svahta said, instantly uncomfortable. She shifted on her stool and took another long drink. She knew where her aunt was going with this, and it was largely because of the night Svahta had come home drunk a few years back rambling.

  “Ain’t seen ’er around here in a few weeks,” Aunt Serayah said. “Well, heard, rather. I like ’er—she’s a sweetheart—but I swear, that girl’s got a long tongue on ’er if I ever saw one. Like a crow in your dang ear, cawin’ away. Blackest thing I ever seen ’sides a damned crow, too, but a cute girl. Got a nice rear to ’er.”

  Svahta choked on her drink. She coughed and smacked at her chest until she could breathe. That was new. Her aunt had never been quite this blunt before. “Audhi,” Svahta croaked out, blushing. “She’s a colleague, an’ almost half my age. That s’all.”

  “’Course, hun. ’Course. Ain’t like you stare none.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Mmhm,” her aunt hummed, grinning. “Hun, I got three eyes, an’ you ain’t foolin’ shit.”

  Svahta’s cheeks grew heavier with blood. Her aunt was the only person who knew what Svahta could only admit to herself in the quiet of her own mind. She’s just—she’s such a—a conun—a con—a mystery, Svahta had slurred that fateful night to her aunt. She’s just—just full a’ murder, so full of it, but she’s so happy—like the world ain’t touching her—like she’s just—just in her own little—and she’s kind, Audhi. Kinder’n me sometimes. I just—I wanna be near ’er. None of it had been a lie, which was what had been so terrifying about the admission. She and Nori-Rin had been su-lanh for fifty-four years now. It had taken less than a year for them to become a single-minded unit. Less than a year and a half for them to become friends. Less than two years for them to want to die for one another.

  Less than ten for Svahta to feel the first inklings of love, like the hollowness of a fading sunset roosting in her throat. It was a gaping hole now, a constant ache, an emptiness that demanded completion. It devoured her if she thought about it, and as much as she tried to put it out of her mind, it was nearly impossible.

  She recalled the image Nori-Rin back in the assembly hall, squeezing Svahta’s hand, her brown eyes full of so much surety and strength. She was one of the only people who knew Svahta’s past in full. Who knew about the fire. About what Svahta had done. And she was still there. An unwavering force.

  In her mind’s eye, Svahta could see Nori-Rin sitting on that assembly bench, turned toward her, but without warning, the image morphed. Nori-Rin’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. Her eyes caved into her head. Looking down, Svahta could see she was no longer holding Nori-Rin’s hand—but her su-lanah’s heart, slick, bloody, beating.

  She shook the images from her head harshly. Nothing would happen to Nori-Rin. She wouldn’t allow it, but fear still niggled at the back of her mind. What if she did just stay here and go about her regular routine like the Council wanted? What if she answered prayers and tended to the Realm’s daily business, fulfilling assignments ravened in by the Council? What if she woke up tomorrow to black wings and a tiny scroll telling her her su-lanah had gone missing during the night—telling her that Nori-Rin’s body had been found, ripped of eyes and heart?

  She swallowed, hard.

  She wanted to believe Nori-Rin would keep herself out of harm’s way, but she knew better. Her su-lanah was a whirlwind of desires, someone who never thought beyond her first step forward. She followed whatever desire snagged her heart, in any direction it took her, as soon as it took her.

  “You’re worryin’ about ’er now,” Aunt Serayah said. Whether she knew that because of her abilities or because she could read it on Svahta’s face, it didn’t matter: she was right.

  “I wanna see ’er,” Svahta said, realizing the second the words left her mouth that that was exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to be there to rein Nori-Rin in, to watch over her, to protect her in a fight. “I’m worried about ’er. She’s… I dunno what to call it. Rash, maybe. I dunno what she’d do if someone came after her. Shik ’em an’ toss ’em an’ make a joke about it, probably.”

  “Shik,” Aunt Serayah parroted with a grin. “Startin’ to sound like ’at girl, you are, hun. Ain’t never catch half a’ what comes outta her yap.”

  “Takes some learnin’.” Svahta looked down at her wooden plate, at the scraps of burnt meat piled and torn apart in its center. She finished off her cider with a final swig and set the cup down with a decisive clip. “You—do ya think Vahtiki could manage the shrine work today? Jarl Domhnathuín could take over at the town hall. He does it often enough for me.”

  “Sounds like you’re tryin’ to convince yourself more’n me,” Aunt Serayah said. “You wanna go see that jabberin’ beauty a’ yours, I ain’t gonna stop ya. We can manage the Realm. I can manage myself. Only in danger a’ eatin’ too many sorberry preserves an’ passing out on the front stoop of Yahra’s.”

  “Promise you’ll look after yourself, Audhi?”

  “Cross my heart, hun.” Her aunt eased herself down from the pub stool with a winded huff, rounded the table, and pulled Svahta down by the neck to give her a cold, soft-lipped kiss high on her cheekbone. “You just keep yourself safe, hun. This is a battle a’ light an’ darkness, an’ it ain’t gonna be at all what it seems.”

  SCREAMS IN THE DEPTHS

  _______________________________

  It is in our dreams that we see our truest perceptions of the world.

  Dreams are the only time in our lives we do not lie to ourselves.

  Shaman Nakir Lo of the Mgni Tribe of the Realm of Star River, translated from Hochot

  THE GRAND REALM OF THE INFINITE

  THE SOUTHEASTERN GREAT BALCONY, THE CASTLE OF THE INFINITE ROYAL FAMILY,

  MOUNT DRAKIS, LUTANA, CAPITAL CITY-STATE OF THE ONE COUNTRY

  Leaning against the castle wall, Draven smothered a yawn.

  I made a deal with Kinrae, he reminded himself as his heavy eyelids fluttered shut. A couple more hours and I have an unlimited pass to experiment on him. I could make him dress in drag and play a pipe organ as long as I tell him it’s for science.

  The kings and queens that were present at the annual Kjall’a meeting had been droning on for so long, though, that the only thing keeping Draven awake was the biting cold. He couldn’t help it. It was eight in the morning and he hadn’t gone to bed last night, too focused on tweaking his coagulation potion in the lab after a minor breakthrough with the first batch. If he fell asleep now, he could only imagine what his parents would say. He knew it
wouldn’t go unnoticed. He was a notorious snorer.

  A notoriously attractive snorer, he corrected in his head. Snores so beautiful they’re the subject of ballads. Or is it odes? He opened his eyes, frowning. What is an ode, really? Do they have formal rules? A rhyme scheme? I should have paid more attention to those lessons as a boy.

  At his feet, Beaker wagged her tail and snapped at a snowflake, and Draven nudged her with his foot to sit down. It wouldn’t go over well with his parents if she caused a scene. They barely tolerated her as it was. It was years ago that Draven had found her during a trip to the markets. Beaker had been just a pup then, half-starved and tied to a vendor’s stall. The merchant hadn’t even asked for coin when Draven had grabbed him by his neck and demanded his dog. It hadn’t even struck Draven his parents might not be happy about the addition to the castle until he was halfway home with her tucked into his suit jacket. Kinrae, though—Kinrae had turned into a puddle over Beaker. He’d lavished her with attention, and he still liked to sneak her cuts of meat and pigs’ ears from dinner.

  Beaker rested her wolfish head against Draven’s legs and stared up at him with blue eyes, contented even though she was still covered in that slimy green mystery substance and was likely freezing out here. Draven had tried to leave her inside by the fire with Athirae and her nursemaid, but Beaker had followed him out onto the balcony anyway. He gave her head a pat.

  Around them, hundreds of snowflakes drifted down through the dangling, frozen branches of the weeping willows planted on the balcony. The flakes stuck to the thick pile of snow already collected on the stone table the dignitaries were seated around. Draven wondered if his parents had decorated the castle so pretentiously on purpose or if it was all leftovers from the time the Council had built it. And why did the meeting have to be outside in the middle of winter anyway? Why couldn’t one of the elementii they employed keep the snow off them and warm the air?

  Do we need such severe ambience? Can’t we all just curl up with blankets on the floor and talk about taxing the middle class to death to pay for our grandiosities, or whatever it is we do at these meetings?

  He really had no idea.

  With numb fingers, Draven adjusted his ratty apron into a cleaner line and crossed his arms. He wiggled his toes in his scuffed shoes. For an hour now, he hadn’t been able to feel them. The cold had taken most of the sensation from his face, too. He pinched his lips between his teeth and worried them back and forth just to get the feeling back into them.

  “I propose the Low Realm of Irises joins us for Kjall’a this year,” said a king that Draven didn’t care enough to try to recognize, a portly gentleman with a missing eye and a set of antlers growing from his head that were probably primed to shed any week now. He had a cup made of horn sitting in front of him, full of spiced wine. Draven could still taste the cloves and cinnamon from his own cup even though he’d finished it a while ago, which was probably why his bladder was protesting. Still, he wanted more. From where he stood, he could smell the wine in the horned king’s cup with ease thanks to his demonic senses. His mouth watered, especially for the scraps of breakfast left on plates the servants had yet to clear away. His cramping stomach made itself known with a sharp growl. He ignored it.

  King One-Eye’s hand was wrapped around his cup, each of his thick fingers adorned with gold rings. One finger tapped against the bone cup dully. “I have a niece in the Realm. She speaks highly of its kingdom.”

  And what do you get from that kingdom if you can get them into Kjall’a? Draven wondered. A marriage proposal? A nice title for your niece? And then what does that kindness to your niece get you from her parents?

  It was predictable how people used one another. Draven didn’t know how his kind-hearted brother could stand it.

  Another soft-spoken debate was opened at the table that Draven quickly tuned out with a roll of his eyes. He looked around the balcony instead. There was a strange lack of guards at the meeting today. The only one Draven saw was his father’s personal soldier, a mannish woman named Grimyaenath da Veig who had a pair of bat wings tucked in close to her armour and a fine layer of snow gathered in her wild red hair. She’d been sent to them from the low aristocracy of Sainte Adder, but all Draven really knew of her was her reputation: that her slate-grey eyes could see the future and that her hands had crafted more magic than Draven had ever seen in his life. She was a quiet woman, and she followed his father like a shadow. Now, it seemed, she was the sole protection available for every set of foreign dignitaries present—twenty-four sets in all—as they each presented their cases to Draven’s father about which Realm should be allowed into Kjall’a this year. Draven wondered who half of the monarchs were. Kinrae would know.

  Kinrae would also be in a pressed suit, sporting non-burnt hair, Draven thought sarcastically. But he isn’t here. So take me as I am, or watch me as I proceed to not care.

  Draven did recognize High Queen Frenn the Fierce of the Realm of the Crimson Gorge, however. She looked no older than ten, her high-backed chair dwarfing her. Patches of scales were scattered across her visible skin, and her emerald eyes were slit down the middle. She was harsher in person than in the paintings Draven had seen of her in his old history books—and in those, she was hoisting the severed head of a hollowsoul up on a spear.

  Draven also recognized two kings at the table. There was High King Nelo al-Loriaris, a dark-skinned man with hair that fell in tight black curls down his back, a man known both for his collection of wild and obscure beasts gathered from across the Infinity and for being a connoisseur and salesman of highly sought-after information. Draven had seen the man around the castle more than once over the years. His flowing skirt always trailed behind him as he eyed servant girls with baby fat still clinging to their cheeks. A beautiful dark-skinned woman with a band of gold around her forehead was sitting next to him, a fine coat of snow collected in the hollows of her collarbone, her sagging breasts bared, areolas wrinkled and tight.

  The other king Draven recognized was High King Albert II of House Renald, whose curled mustache was unmistakable. It always looked like it was being held captive by his stern face, itching to take flight. He had some of the coldest brown eyes Draven had ever seen, too, yet he’d earned Draven’s parents’ favour somehow. Draven’s sister Artysaedra was currently engaged to Albert’s son, the blond boy sitting next to Albert whose rigid posture screamed pretentious tool. The kid wore an ascot like a thief wore a noose.

  Draven didn’t envy his sister a bit. He was lucky his parents hadn’t decided to saddle him with some foreign princess yet, though he imagined it was only a matter of time.

  None of the monarchs seemed to notice Draven, for which he was grateful, so he took his time studying them. They all looked different—some pale, some tan, some with hair like coal and others like fine silver. They all wore different clothing—flowing white chitons that fastened over one shoulder and left a lot of bare skin, high-collared wool jackets that were as stiff as the people in them, navy cassocks with starched pellegrinas, corsets and tall headdresses made of pearl and fish ribs, gowns inlaid with half a treasury’s worth of jewels, intricate silver armour without a scratch on it, crystal epaulettes, fur pelts, face paint, whalebone piercings, slick leather, beaded fringe, veils of living flowers.

  Draven’s parents almost looked plain as a result.

  There was his father, who likely due to his mixed blood and some sort of genetic anomaly, didn’t have an animal marker, despite being a wolf demon with a well-known second form. His white hair was brushed off his crown-encircled forehead today, and his beard was trimmed short. The clean-cut wool coat he wore was almost completely obscured by snow, his golden chain of office draped from shoulder to shoulder and gleaming with its affixed rubies and white sapphires. He could have passed as a human had he wanted to—if he hid his fangs and didn’t tell anyone he was over two million years old.

  Nothing scares a human more than when you look twenty and tell them you’re over four thous
and, Draven thought with a smirk, not that he had much experience conversing with humans. Not many lived in the Realm of the Infinite, and besides, his horns gave away his heritage long before he could open his mouth.

  At his father’s side, Draven’s mother was her husband’s inversion. Her face was severe and expressionless, at odds with the rest of her body, which was as delicate and dainty as a silver teaspoon. Two smooth black horns curled up and back from her forehead, and deep-set, her eyes were like wine hit by sunlight. In all, there was nothing human about her. Even the aura she exuded was fraught with cold, otherworldly preeminence. Draven took after her, he thought. At least in looks. They had the same dark olive skin, black hair, red eyes, curved horns—even the same open disgust for public affairs.

  His mother reached up to touch the fist-sized locket hanging over her corseted breast, its encrusted garnets winking back the blinding light of the overcast sky. When she glanced over at Draven and Beaker—who had stuck her head between Draven’s legs and was wagging her tail—his mother curled her lip. Draven barely kept himself from giving a jaunty wave back.

  “Is something the matter, Eijeinfinae?” asked Albert Renald from the other end of the oblong table, but he wasn’t looking at Draven’s mother. Instead, he was staring at Draven like the cheeky bastard Draven knew he was, his silk-gloved fingers linked together on the snow-covered table.

  Before Draven’s mother could answer him, a queen sitting a few seats down from Albert who Draven didn’t recognize gave a smoky chuckle and smirked.

  “Where your other son?” she asked in clumsy Common Tongue, her pointed feline ears perked in the nest of her bright copper hair. She waved a sharpened nail toward Draven. “This one I never see before. Il kroqat.”

  “I don’t imagine you would have, Nianna’so, my dear,” High King al-Loriaris piped up from across the table. He took a loud sip of his wine in a poor attempt to hide his crooked smirk. “Draven is quite the elusive thing. Few are blessed with his company, I hear. Far more beds blessed with his presence. Not one for public affairs, really, as his talents lie elsewhere. Quite the little inventor, too, from what I know. What was that latest product of yours again, Your Royal Highness? I saw them selling it down in the city. Something for fungus removal?”