by Jane Kindred
The disturbing revelation that Cree was somehow “Meer-tainted” was somewhat overshadowed by the comparison. “How very flattering.”
“I am not here to flatter you. I am here to tell you that you must not pursue Ume Sky.”
Cree threw off her blanket and jumped to her feet, all of the Caretaker’s manipulative nonsense forgotten in her outrage. “How dare you try to dictate to me what I can and cannot do? She’s my wife and I’m damned well going after her.”
The Caretaker’s tone was stern and intractable. “I said nothing of ‘can’. I said must. If you interfere with Ume Sky’s efforts to engage with the child, the results will be disastrous.”
“And just what do you mean by disastrous?”
“Ume Sky is needed. You would seek to deter her from what she must do.”
It was all Cree could do not to strangle the woman. “I’ve had it up to here with all this vague, mysterious bullshit. What the hell do you need Ume for? What is it you think only she can do? Or do you even have a fucking clue?”
The stony expression didn’t change, but a fleeting flush of color beneath the oddly translucent skin said all the Hidden Folk’s dismissal of human emotion was just more bullshit. “Not everything is revealed to us. What we know is that Ume’s bond with the child’s father, combined with her nature, makes her uniquely suited to care for the boy. He has known very little of kindness, and this makes his skill all the more dangerous. He has not been taught to understand the implications of what he is able to do and what the consequences are. In the wrong hands, Pearl can be manipulated into doing great harm.”
“In the wrong hands?” How could he be in the wrong hands with Ahr? Cree frowned. “You said he was with Ahr. You said he was safe.”
“Pearl has gone from Rhyman. We were unable to see him clearly in the flow and so we sent Ume Sky, but we are more certain now that he is no longer there. He has crossed the sea where we cannot feel his connection.”
Cree rubbed her hand over her mouth, trying not to panic, fear for not only Ume but for Pearl as well closing around her heart, which she hadn’t expected. “You sent Ume to the Delta. To the place that clearly isn’t safe for a woman like her. Or like me, for that matter.”
“Ume Sky is highly capable of looking after herself.”
“I know that, damn you, but she shouldn’t have to be in a position where she needs to.” Cree pushed her hair back from her forehead with a rough motion, her fingers gripping the curls at the crown. There was no question of not going after Ume. The Hidden Folk were out of their minds if they thought they could persuade Cree not to “interfere”.
“I cannot stop you from pursuing Ume Sky.” Apparently, it didn’t matter to the Hidden Folk if Cree spoke aloud. “But I must reiterate that it is your presence that will cause harm.”
Cree’s hand dropped heavily to her side. “Why? You still haven’t told me why! What is so dangerous about my presence, about my being at Ume’s side if she’s to help Pearl?” The name had come out without thinking. Cree had tried to avoid using it, to keep the boy—her boy—from being too real. But he was hers, and she needed to be with both of them.
“Pearl will know you for who you are the moment he sees you. And in his present state, he will not receive that knowledge with welcome.”
Eighteen: Resurrection
Soth Szofl had its own Meer. They seemed not to remember that they’d had one before, though they recalled how the Age of Meer had ended in the Delta. But stories of the Deltan Expurgation didn’t deter them. MeerZarafet was the answer to their prayers.
Pearl didn’t care for the name, which meant “grace” in the local dialect, but Pike had given it to him, so he had to answer to it. His performance in depicting the fall of MeerHraethe had given him away, and though Pearl had recoiled from the mob when they tried to get close to him, fearing they meant to destroy him, their reaction had been one of wonder and not fear. Pike, ever the pragmatic entrepreneur, had stepped in and established himself as the Meer’s regent.
He claimed to have raised Pearl in secret, protecting him from the Expurgation after his father was killed, and the people of Szofl were eager to believe it. Deltans were generally looked upon by the Eastern continental states as intellectually and culturally inferior. It pleased the Szofelians both to regard their distant neighbors as barbarians for their superstitious practices, and to have finally gotten something their rivals no longer had—even if it meant embracing that same superstition.
Because Pearl couldn’t conjure in the usual way, Pike used Pearl’s ability combined with the clockworks that were so ubiquitous here to fashion a sort of spinneret that turned the embossments of precious metals and gemstones into priceless filaments and fibers. From these, he had Pearl’s wardrobe fashioned after engaging weavers and tailors who were more than eager to be part of the new Meeric retinue. After the Expurgation, trade in Szofl had dwindled when the Deltan city-states had slowed their exports of luxury goods and their imports of the more practical Szofelian minerals and grains, which the Deltans had begun to mine and cultivate on their own. What had remained and flourished on both coasts was the seedy wharf trade Pearl had seen on his travels.
Now Szofl’s artisans once again had a market, and if that was because of Pearl, he couldn’t fault them for eagerly embracing Meeric rule. He understood the need to create and to have an outlet for that creative expression. Accordingly, he added conjury of painters’ pigments to his repertoire, and resins for perfume makers, as well as rich clays for those who worked in pottery and sculpting. Anything that could be extracted or extruded from his drawings, he could provide.
Not everyone, however, was pleased at first with the newly established Meerocracy. Those whose governance Pearl had displaced still held the power—at least, in name—but not the prestige. Though they resented him, the ruling body of Soth Szofl also coveted Pearl’s ability, in addition to being somewhat afraid of him—despite the fact that he’d done nothing to threaten them other than to be what he was. But as in the Delta for the last millennium, that was more than enough.
And in more recent weeks, the rumors of the destruction of the prelates of Rhyman and In’La had made their way across the sea. Those who might otherwise have protested Pearl’s establishment as the new potentate of the soth kept their objections quiet outside their private circles. No one wished to meet the fate of Prelates Nesre or Vithius. It was a delicate balance between greed, resentment and fear that formed the basis of Szofl’s budding Meerocracy.
For Pearl’s part, his new circumstances were at least an improvement over what he’d endured as Nesre’s slave and Pike’s prisoner. It wasn’t a life he would have chosen if his life were his own, but so long as he didn’t have to live in a cage or wear a collar, and so long as his meals came regularly, he considered his lot much improved.
The grand building of marble columns and stained glass that had been the governor’s palace had become Pearl’s new temple. Dressed in his silken finery, Pearl presided over his court in silence, granting vetmas, while the governor and his cabinet made the policy that determined who would see Pearl and what blessings he would bestow upon them. In this way, the presence of Pearl in Szofl could be viewed as an extension of the same rule that had been in place before. Pike, meanwhile, claiming to be the only one who could communicate with Pearl, was his voice.
Pearl had considered whether it would be wiser to admit he could speak for himself, but decided against it. As soon as anyone knew he had the ability to utter his vetmas aloud, they would demand grander things of him. Just the thought of having to use his voice for the many desires he saw in their heads as they coveted his vetmas made his throat hurt. And with Pike as his voice, it was a simple matter to keep the promise Pearl had made to obey him.
Pike, in turn, proved to be exceedingly cunning in matters of state. To mollify the wounded pride of the members of the Szofelian governing body, he kept
them liberally supplied with any vetma Pearl could fulfill, which soon proved quite satisfactory to them after all. When Pike suggested they change the names of their roles to templar priests in the Deltan tradition, no one objected. It was the prestige they’d lost with Pearl’s coming that they desired, and templars had always held the prestige in the Delta. A Meer was only as powerful as his templars allowed him to be. Pike was smart enough to know it.
Almost overnight, Soth Szofl had become what its citizens had long reviled, a place where privilege determined one’s place in society, and where those who occupied the highest rung in that society granted their favor to those who curried it most effectively. Szofl had been an exemplary democracy, but with the prospect of having one’s most fervent wishes granted for the right price, the art of currying favor with the templars had swiftly subverted the ideals of equality and fairness. Every petitioner imagined his or her own motives justified whatever manipulation was necessary to achieve what they desired.
Pearl drew wistful pictures of the golden-haired Meer of old—before the ancient madness had come, before the city had fallen into darkness—the bright-eyed, proud Meer who respected the autonomy of its citizens and who in turn had earned the loyalty of his soth. This version of Szofl seemed more real to Pearl, more alive. Even the colors were more vibrant, and the motion his strokes of pastels and inks inspired made it seem almost within reach.
But Pearl kept these drawings to himself. He wished he’d known the Meer. He reminded Pearl of his father, though Pearl had known neither man. The architecture of both cities, erected by their Meer, told him both Meer had possessed an unrivaled zest for life. It was a drive Pearl himself couldn’t quite fathom. But creating, and the drive to create, he understood. It made him wonder what his own soth might be like if he were ever to have the freedom to make one.
The rubble of a civilization was beneath Ra’s feet. Shiva had brought this into being, and Shiva had torn it down. It was a rust-eaten monument to her unchallengeable might. Ra recalled its splendor: unfathomable architecture of gargoyles, spires and iron convolutions. It was architecture that, like Shiva, could both terrify and delight. Ra’s ordinary Rhyman was a feeble village next to the glory of Soth AhlZel.
Each Meer conjured according to skill and whim, resulting in the peculiar variety of cities such as Soth In’La, full of complicated industry and invention among its dull gray edifices, and Soth Rhyman, unassuming, unadorned and nearly archaic in its simplicity. The motorized bicycle Ra had conjured for Geffn was the pure invention of In’La’s former Meer—not Shiva, who took refuge there now, but another, whose name escaped Ra for the moment, though it seemed she ought to remember. It was machination of which Ra could never have conceived, but, having once seen it in the Meeric mist, could easily duplicate.
Ra’s Soth Rhyman had been in embryonic existence when he’d been solicited to rule it, and he’d multiplied the unimaginative white stone buildings, already built by men, without embellishment. The exception was his temple, which he’d formed over four centuries, a product of his ruminations. If not inventive, the effect was unexpectedly pleasant to the eye. The ornate temple with its mosaics of peacock and gold stood over the simple white in stark and sometimes breathtaking contrast. At the sun’s height, the white stone radiated light across the desert-rimmed valley. It was a respectable accomplishment, and though Ra hadn’t known it then, it was perceived as the finest city in the Delta.
But here was the unrivaled crown of all Meeric fabrication, destroyed because Shiva feared her son. Ra leapt among the ruins and saw once more their former magnificence. Her blood whispered to her how it had been, what terrifying ghoul had been carved here over a dark and brooding hall, what twisted coil of breathtaking delicacy was the spire of this narrow aerie above it. She could see it all, every detail of Shiva’s imagining as it had come into being. She laughed. Shiva, the fool, had nothing now, and Soth AhlZel was, in the end, Ra’s. Ra might lack the creative fluid of her mother, but she had begun to understand, after nearly four hundred years, what kind of power she had to conjure. Perhaps she surpassed Shiva after all. It remained to be seen.
“Here, the dark and brooding hall!” Ra shouted. “Here, its terrifying ghoul!” She danced across the dust. “Here, the narrow aerie! Here, its twisted, coiling spire!”
The ground began to move as though the mountain shook with a tremendous quake, and Ra whirled about, screaming with laughter until she was nearly sick. Shiva’s mighty work was being resurrected, torrents of stone and wood and metal raining into solid shapes upon the ground. Ra ran through the dead streets shouting up each arch, each wall, each fountain that Shiva had doubtless birthed with agony. She swung from lampposts and climbed the mounting bases of clocks. It was simple. It was effortless. She was Ra.
Soth AhlZel rose from the fa of Soth Zelman, legacy of Shiva left to Ra. The winds shifted as they were pierced by its heights towering above Munt Zelfaal itself, the climate disrupted. Rain of simple water began to join the shower of creation, and Ra climbed up onto the highest spire and laughed up into it. She crouched over the building, over AhlZel, a gargoyle more terrifying than any Shiva had carved, and screamed, at last, the temple into being.
“Ludtaht Shiva!” she cried as its open dome pressed round and pregnant against the darkening sky. Her voice echoed back at her from the many empty buildings. “Ludtaht Shiva, now Ludtaht Ra!”
Nineteen: Resignation
The trees through the ebony-banded window had become burning bushes, an ancient omen of the wrath of a Meer. Flames of copper, ruby and vermillion leapt in an infernal profusion, heralding the change of seasons. Ahr looked on the courtyard, ever the measure for him of the passage of time. The temperature couldn’t have told him it was autumn, for though it was cool on the hill, it was the same sweet Rhymanic wind that blew in summer. He watched its erotic dance with the trees, provocative virgins with their veils flung down in deliberate temptation. The Anamnesis glistened like a garment of silver behind them.
There were no copulating ghosts in the courtyard today. They had never shared that carnal embrace in autumn. With autumn had come silence, and the qualm of forbidden life inside her.
“An exquisite view.” Merit’s voice from the passage behind him startled Ahr from his reverie. Merit approached and stood beside him at the un-glassed window, looking out. “But perhaps you see something I don’t. You don’t seem to be enjoying it.”
Ahr moved his head in something noncommittal. A nod, perhaps, or a shrug.
“Why do you avoid me, Ahr?”
“I don’t avoid you.” Ahr tried to sound insulted.
“Ahr.” Merit turned to look at him. “Please.” He shook his head in disgust at Ahr’s transparent pretense, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Ahr sighed and rested his elbows against the sill. “I’m sorry, Merit. But it’s the way you look at me.”
Merit raised an eyebrow. “And what way is that?”
Ahr faced the courtyard, avoiding his eyes. “The lack of judgment,” he said angrily. “The lack of hatred.” He paused, his voice threatening to falter. “Your damned forgiveness!” It was ludicrous what he’d said, and he knew it, and an expulsion of laughter that was almost tears burst out of him.
“Ahr.” Merit’s voice was gentle. “For Ra’s sake.”
Ahr stopped laughing and breathed in wearily, letting it out with a sigh. “Why can’t anybody hate me the way I used to hate myself?” he lamented. “I miss it.”
“Is that all you miss?” Ahr feigned ignorance at Merit’s meaning. “You miss him,” said Merit. “Even more than I do.”
Ahr dropped his head into his hands, elbows still perched on the sill, and rubbed his face as though he could scrub Ra away. “Merit, Merit,” he said into them. “How can I?”
“Because you love him.” Merit cupped the back of Ahr’s neck in his hand, thumb smoothing a
gainst his cheek. “You love him,” he said again, shaking Ahr, and then kissed him, irrevocably, drawing Ahr’s head to him in a way that betrayed that this was no kiss of friendship.
Stunned, Ahr stood passive beneath the kiss, bringing the back of his hand to his startled mouth when Merit released him.
“Forgive me.” Merit backed away. “I don’t know why I did that. Forgive me.” He turned and left Ahr to his speechless surprise.
In the evening, Ahr came down to dinner late, his head full of thought. Merit was seated as usual at the head of the table, taking a slice of lamb from a tray as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Ahr followed his example and ate without reservation, making idle conversation as they partook of their meal. He’d made a decision he was certain Merit wouldn’t like, and he waited until the servants had cleared the remains of dinner and left them with tea before he broached it.
“I’m leaving Rhyman,” he said as Merit lifted his cup.
Merit’s matchless composure crumbled. “Ai, meerrá, no, Ahr.” He dropped the cup into its saucer with a loud clatter. “It will never happen again, I swear to you. Please forget it.”
Ahr had known Merit would take it this way, and it pained him. He reached across the gleaming oak table and gripped Merit’s anxious hand. “It isn’t that, my friend. I know you’ll find it impossible to believe, but it was a coincidence. I’ve been thinking of how to tell you this for days.”
“And I pushed you into the abyss.”
“No,” Ahr insisted. “Gods, no. There was nothing wrong with what you did. It surprised me, yes, but nothing more.”