Idol of Blood

by Jane Kindred

  While Ahr wrestled with his silent obsession, the courtyard petals adorning the façade of Ludtaht Ra faded and blew away in the warm winds of summer. Below the temple, barges and steam ferries filled the Anamnesis with colorful droves of the exirhymanic—Deltan visitors from the provinces outside Rhyman. The center of Deltan culture had roused the curiosity of an entire region, making it the tourist destination of the season, but it was also a source of uneasiness for those in high places on the exirhymanic Prelatarian Courts.

  They regarded Merit as dangerous, and possibly mad. Rumors still circulated that he’d conspired with the vengeful spirit of a Meer to overthrow his predecessor, and many believed it hadn’t been a disembodied Meer at all, but a very ordinary renegade Meer in the person of Ahr himself who’d given UtMerit Rhyman.

  Ignoring the notoriety, Ahr took up the ritual of a daily walk through the streets of the soth during the hot summer afternoons. The route he took without exception was the processional of the former People’s Blessing, though he doubted anyone but Merit himself would recognize it. Ahr stopped on each of these pilgrimages before the teahouse and the square, facing the road. He was a virtuoso of masochism.

  Often after these walks, he went into the market and wandered without purpose, delaying the return to the temple. He avoided extended conversation with Merit. Though his friend respectfully never spoke of that spring morning’s revelations, he said it daily with his affection and his enjoyment of Ahr’s company: Ahr was forgiven. It was irksome.

  On one of these excursions to the market, Ahr happened upon a scarlet-banded tent that offered authentic Meeric coin, a collector’s item that boasted to be the only remaining relic of its kind. The superstitious believed that to possess one would protect against the evil influences of Meeric spirits. Ahr smiled in amusement as he read the placard with these claims. Any number of miracles were attributed to the coins: cures for baldness and impotence, good luck, the ability to predict the future—a curious aspiration from a place that once put soothsayers to death.

  He picked up a coin from the old merchant’s table and rubbed his thumb against the relief of Ra’s golden head. It was an old coin indeed, much older than Ahr. “What year is this gold piece?” he asked idly.

  “Ah, sir, you have a good eye.” The merchant leaned forward on his stool. “That particular coin is First Century.” He lowered his voice. “Minted when the Meer was only seventy years old.” First Century. The first of four. It was disconcerting to remember that Ra had lived so long—until Ahr had intervened.

  He paused in his inspection. Some cadence of the man’s speech was disturbingly familiar. Ahr glanced up and studied the wizened face.

  A jolt of alarm shook him. The merchant was Ahr’s father. Jehr’s aging eyes registered no recognition. Of course he wouldn’t. Who would expect to see one’s long-absent daughter in the body of a man? Ahr felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat nonetheless. The ancient response was involuntary, as though he were still a rebellious girl.

  To cover his discomfort, Ahr looked about at the dark-draped tables filled with gold and silver coins. Jehr couldn’t have come by such wealth by honest means. Commonfolk used lesser currency. Jehr had been a tax collector, and Ahr recalled that he’d fallen into debt with the unpleasant templar priest to whom she’d almost belonged. This coin was the debt. It must be. Ahr’s father had embezzled it.

  He had a rash desire to confiscate it, under authority of UtMerit. This was the price, or what remained of it, for Ahr’s body. He regarded the old man, who was waiting eagerly for the fish he’d enticed to bite. Ahr felt nothing either for or against him. He was a stranger. Ahr had no need to punish him. The templar had probably seen to that, for the theft had obviously been discovered, or Ahr would never have been sold. Yet somehow, Jehr had kept the coin hidden all these years, siphoning from it by degrees, no doubt, instead of returning it to repay his debt. He was a fool.

  Still, the dull glint of the coins in the shaded sunlight made Ahr’s heart race. He wanted it. It was irrational, but he couldn’t get the idea out of his head.

  “How much for all of it?”

  Jehr was taken aback. “All of it?” His voice shook with nervous laughter. “You must be someone of great importance to think you could afford that. There are thirty pounds of gold and ten of silver. And they’re worth far more than their original value.”

  “How much?” Ahr repeated.

  Jehr folded his arms. “Two thousand in Deltan universal coin. I don’t take Rhymanic money. You never know when the government is going to turn, especially with this madman in the court.”

  Ahr smiled. “I’ll take it all. Deliver it to the House of UtMerit. The steward will pay you.”

  Jehr grabbed the coin Ahr held and closed his fist over it tightly as though he could keep it all from Ahr inside the small sphere of his hand. “You’re from the House?” His wrinkled face had gone gray. “I’m just an old man trying to make a living, sir. If it’s contraband, I didn’t know!”

  “Relax, old man,” said Ahr, not caring if he did. “I’m quite serious. I want it all, and I’ll pay your price. Think of it as a retirement. You can spend it on your wife.”

  Jehr sat down abruptly and wiped his forehead. “Whom should I say the delivery is for?” His voice trembled. “Who are you, sir?”

  “I’m Naiahn,” said Ahr, and it was perfectly true. He was no one. No one at all.

  “UtMerit’s Second?” Jehr’s pasty color went even paler. “Forgive me, sir. I had no idea who you were—”

  “No. And you still don’t.”

  Jehr laughed weakly, not sure what his response should be. “Well.” He looked about. “I’ll see that it’s delivered this evening—this isn’t a joke?”

  “No, Oldfather, it isn’t a joke.”

  “All right, then, sir. I’ll take you at your word.” Jehr reached out to shake on the deal, and Ahr took the hand after a moment’s hesitation. “With all this magic coin in your possession, you’ll have plenty of vigor—potency—if you know what I mean.” Jehr leaned forward conspiratorially. “Best spend it on whores,” he said with a wink. “The woman in your bed will be as useless afterwards as an old pig’s bladder full of new wine.”

  Ahr removed his hand as though he’d shaken shit. “Indeed,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be amusing if your daughter was in my bed?”

  Jehr opened his mouth, made a sound of something he apparently thought better of saying, and closed it.

  When Merit arrived at the archway of his friend’s room that afternoon, he found Ahr engrossed in the mental subterfuge of written words. Ahr wrote, as always, with his hair unbound, and Merit smiled at the illusion this created. There sat “Society’s Virgin”, at home in her lover’s temple.

  Ahr looked up, the illusion dissipating, and Merit lifted his brow in mild amusement at what he’d come to tell him. “A grubby little fellow has arrived with a delivery, which he says ‘no one’ agreed to pay for. I can’t tell you how delightful it was to toy with him for some time on that phrase. ‘If no one agreed to it, then why are you here?’ ‘Because no one told me to come.’ ‘Why, then,’ said I, ‘no one is interested in what you have to sell.’” Merit laughed. “He was painfully ignorant of the entire exchange.”

  Ahr listened to the tale without cracking a smile. “Did you pay him?”

  Merit sighed at the lack of audience for his wit. “How is it that through two incarnations in this life, you’ve failed to develop a sense of humor?”

  “I take after my father,” said Ahr. “Did you pay him?”

  “Five thousand. In Deltan universal, mind you. He was clearly terrified, but stubborn on that condition. It amused me. He seemed to think I’d be insulted that he doubted the permanence of my rule. I told him not to worry. No one had faith in me.”

  Ahr rewarded him with an uncharacteristic laugh, and Merit was pleased, until Ahr spoke. �
�You gave him five thousand?” He was still laughing, and it was clear that this alone amused him. “My liege, you’ve been conned. I’d promised him two.”

  Merit frowned. He hated to be duped. “I’ll have him called back. That’s unacceptable.”

  “No.” A slight smile curved Ahr’s lips. “I prefer to think the item I bought is worth the greater sum.”

  Merit was unconvinced. “What is it you bought, anyway?”

  “A souvenir,” said Ahr. “Of a woman I used to sleep with.”

  Merit leaned against a column of the arch and folded his arms, amused and curious. “She must have been quite a woman.” Ahr shrugged and turned back to his papers.

  Merit had often wondered what sort of woman would catch Ahr’s fancy, or if Ahr favored women at all. He couldn’t imagine Ahr carnally involved with anyone, except one. He blushed to remember he’d often been privy to that union, his presence necessary for their protection, though he’d tried to be as unobtrusive as possible and gave them as much privacy as he could. But privacy was difficult in a house without doors, and Ra had never been one for modesty, nor Ahr for restraint. The arches had echoed with the sounds of her pleasure, and Merit, despite the awkwardness, had loved the sound.

  In a strange way, their pleasure had been his, their conjugation a fulfillment of his love for them. That love had never been sexual, though the sight of their embraces had aroused him, would have aroused anyone. Their bodies were sculpture, two pieces designed to be together, and if Ra had been more than human in his partaking of Ahr, so had she in her delight.

  He observed Ahr thoughtfully. “Which do you prefer now? Man or woman?”

  Ahr didn’t look up. “Neither. Both. It doesn’t matter.”

  Eleven: Fragmentation

  The garden at Mound Ahr burgeoned as highland summer came at last, and the small plot of corn Jak had planted between the mound and the copse of rowan was nearly overflowing with vibrant stalks. Jak suspected Ra of enhancing the fertility of the soil, but if she had, she wasn’t admitting to it, and Jak thought it better not to press the point.

  With the promise of some of the plentiful corn to the nearby mounds, they’d been able to obtain a goat, which would provide them with milk and cheese for some much needed protein—not to mention meat when they bred her the following year, though Jak hadn’t mentioned that eventuality to Ra. Except for this single exchange, however, they continued to keep to themselves, much as Ahr had always done, and were similarly left alone. Which suited Jak just fine.

  Ra insisted on learning to tend the goat herself, which led to no end of amusement for Jak. The sight of the exotic Meer seated on the low stool with her skirt pulled up to her knees and her ebony hair braided down her back like a Deltan milkmaid was utterly charming.

  Heading inside for lunch one afternoon, Jak stopped and leaned against the slats of the pen, smiling at the sight of Ra’s intent concentration amidst a pail of spilled milk.

  Ra looked up from the stool with an expression of vague bewilderment, unconscious of the prominent smudge of dirt across her nose. “I don’t know why we have this goat. I ought to have conjured the milk.”

  “But I like to watch you work.” Jak grinned. “It’s much more entertaining than Meericry.”

  Ra brushed the heel of her hand over her nose to catch the sweat running from her forehead, demonstrating how the smudge had come to be there. “Work, Nana, is highly overrated.”

  Jak froze, stunned by the mistake. “Nana,” said Jak. “You called me Nana.”

  “I told you, RaNa is only a borrowed name. Nana is better.” Ra took hold of the goat once more. “My little daughter.”

  Jak bent and moved Ra’s hand away from the teat of the irritated goat, crouching before her. “Ra. It’s Jak. Why do you call me Nana?”

  Ra squinted and made a small sound of confusion, then looked about at the verdant dale. “Are we…? Am I renaissanced? Have I come back?”

  Jak drew Ra to her feet. “Come inside, Ra.”

  “Snow,” said Ra, and a flurry of snowflakes scattered over them out of a cloudless sky, while Ra burst into a flood of red tears. Jak caught her as she staggered, leading her toward the mound. “I don’t feel well,” Ra apologized. “Send for Merit.”

  Jak agonized over Ra’s request. Had it been a moment of lucidity or more evidence of madness? Should Jak honor it? Would Merit know what was happening to his liege? And how could Jak send for Merit without leaving Ra?

  Ra had begun to ramble with a florid burst of speech, as sudden and alarming as the snow and the unexpected tears. In a blended storm of Mole and Deltan, she talked of everything and nothing, agitated one moment, blithe the next. She seemed unable to locate herself.

  Jak tried to make her rest, urging her down when she tried to leap from the bed at some novel thought. Despite her apparent consumption of food since their return from Rhyman, Ra was still underweight, and her bones seemed brittle beneath Jak’s hands. It struck Jak to the core. How had this gone unnoticed? But of course, it was more avoided than unnoticed. Jak had preferred to believe Ra was slowly improving.

  Silent for a moment, Ra seemed to calm, lying back and closing her eyes, and Jak smoothed the tangled hair from her face. “What is it, Ra? What’s happening?”

  A soft laugh bubbled out of her, her eyes still closed. “RaNa, RaNa, ahn na aht Ra,” she lilted. “Ahn na aht Ra, puir nai ahnna!” Her eyes flew open and fixed on Jak. “Mi la!” she cried and then laughed again, this time horrible and loud, and sprang from the bed, seizing Jak with the terrifying strength of the Meer. She swung Jak aside, and Jak tumbled helplessly, tossed against the wall like a bale of hay.

  “Ta aovet vetmas? Bessta vetma? Naiahlmánzelman ahns vetauschta!” She seemed to be reciting unintelligible poetry.

  Jak staggered up from the wall, one nostril seeping blood. “Ra, please. It’s me. It’s Jak.”

  “Isch ma!” Ra mocked. “Maísch! Vetmaaimeerra!” Ra leapt from the bed, spitting the words. She seized Jak by the throat, and Jak clawed at her iron hand, legs kicking impotently in air. “Meerrá!” snarled Ra, and then laughed once more. “Meerrá! Maísch MeerRa! Taísch naiahn!” Ra’s other hand lashed out, and Jak felt something wet against one cheek beneath the sharp sting of her nails.

  Ra’s coal-dark gaze fixed on Jak’s face, and her grip went slack. Jak dropped to the ground, choking and coughing in an exhausted huddle against Ra’s tile, afraid of vomiting, afraid of not. The further menace of Ra was at that moment incomprehensible. Jak’s lungs were molten.

  “Vetmaaimeershiva,” Ra whispered, and her hand went to her own face, tracing the scars on one cheek. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to Jak, who shrank at her touch. Ra’s fingers came away from Jak’s face smeared with blood.

  “Daufsuntma! Daufsuntma!” Ra threw herself facedown before Jak.

  Jak watched her cautiously. She was like an untame creature, docile as easily as violent, and as capriciously. Jak might have been killed. Might be still.

  “Daufsuntma,” Ra said once more, and her voice was a piteous plea.

  “Mole,” whispered Jak against a bruised larynx. “Speak to me in Mole, Ra. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Mole, mole,” Ra murmured, the word a meaningless sound. Her hands felt aimlessly along the tile as if she sought clarification there like an answer in raised dots for the blind. Her cheek rested on the floor, and she didn’t lift her head. The wandering hands ceased then, and she was still. “Forgive me.”

  Jak’s hand shook, wiping at the bloody cheek. Was this Ra? Was she herself?

  Ra looked up, her eyes distracted and vague. “Shiva’s mark,” she said, touching her cheek once more, and then touching Jak’s. She shrugged apologetically. “I should know you. Forgive me; I’ve forgotten.” She rose unsteadily, and Jak helped her to her feet—once more the slight and insubstantial Ra—and
led her back to bed.

  “Sleep, Ra,” Jak pleaded. Mercifully, Ra obeyed.

  Jak stayed by her despite the fear, head against Ra’s erratic heart. If Ra was peril, then so be it.

  When it had been dark for some time, Ra’s rapid breathing began to slow and she sighed in her sleep. “Mené midtlif,” she murmured, and Jak was flooded with relief. Perhaps the fit had passed and Ra knew Jak once more. “Mené lif, mené aovet, Ahr.”

  Ahr woke once more, troubled. He’d dreamt again of Ra—this time, the renaissant—and she beckoned him. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbing the stubble that scored his face. It was this place, these ghosts, that put these thoughts into his head. Perhaps it was time for him to leave. But how could he, when he’d promised to return to Jak, and Jak meant Ra?

  The thought of them together tormented him. He’d seen Ra’s love for Jak when she’d returned from MeerShiva. Ra’s mother, he reminded himself, the only woman you’ve ever been intimate with.

  Still trying to hate Ra then, he’d yet been jealous. Ra’s hand on Jak’s arm: that hand held my breast once. Ra’s mouth in conversation with Jak: that mouth breathed once into my cunt.

  Painfully, he’d been more jealous of Ra’s devotion to Jak than of Jak’s naked adoration of Ra. Despite the rejection, he longed to love Jak more than he’d once loved Ra. But it was a war he couldn’t win. Jak, he loved as comfort, sanctuary. Ra, he…damn himself, damn her, damn them both. Ra, he loved—in the most complete and terrifying definition of the word. He loved her, Ra, the woman renaissanced. Present tense. Inescapable. Irrevocable.

  He looked up at his reflection in the gold-leaf-bordered mirror across the room. Ahr had run from the shame of her crimes by fleeing womanhood, had thought to leave the ugliness of what she’d become by this exile of gender. He’d left the sex of which he was undeserving, but everything Ahr had been had come with him. He saw now a man who had swallowed the woman and deemed himself above reproach despite her heart in his belly. He didn’t deserve to love. Meerrá, how he missed his hatred!