by Jane Kindred
“He’s cold, Jak. He’s been dead for hours.”
“No.” Jak turned to Geffn as though he would refute it. “No—I carried him down to the bike. I stanched the wound.”
Geffn took Jak in his arms. “I’m so sorry.” More words, unintelligible as Deltan.
“No.” Jak pushed Geffn away. “You’re wrong. You don’t want him here. It’s just as it was with Ra.”
Peta spoke quietly. “I told you no good could come of her association.”
“Ta!” Geffn rounded on her. “Not now. This isn’t Jak’s fault.” He reached for Jak once more, and Jak struck him, a burst of pain in the balled fist bringing unwanted clarity as Geffn stumbled back with a soft curse and a hand to his eye.
“Jak.” Rem’s stern rebuke brought Jak back toward the bike, back toward Ahr: a silent, empty heap in the sidecar. Bunched layers of the Meer’s heavy cloak supported his chin.
“The cloak,” said Jak. “The cloak is Meeric. It kept him safe until I got him home. I stanched the wound just as you taught me, Ta. You’re mistaken. Feel for his pulse.”
“Jak. Stop.” Geffn’s hand dropped from his swelling eye. “Ahr is dead.”
“Don’t you say that!” Jak shoved him with both hands, but Geffn was persistent, drawing Jak into his arms once more despite furious resistance.
They lost their footing in the waterlogged earth, and Geffn caught Jak against him, bracing one knee in the mud as they went down, refusing to let go. “Jak,” he whispered. “Marsh Willow.” It was a pet name, not uttered since their informal separation. The sound of it burst something inside Jak, some last capillary of defiance, and Jak stilled and wilted against Geffn’s body, unbreathing, as if time had stopped. “You’re home,” he whispered. “You’re with your family. Let him go. Let them both go.”
Home. Jak surrendered to the comfort of the single syllable. This was home. Mound RemPetaJakGeffnMellKeiren was home—solid and ordinary, and unmagical, as Jak was. Jak had tried to make Ahr fit into the world of Haethfalt from the moment he’d first arrived, foreign and dark and aloof, from the romantic east. The threads of his fate had been set long before, and Jak had only tangled them, had only gotten in the way. God had come from death to claim him as her own. And now she had.
Twenty-Eight: Ordinance
The coast of the Eastern Continent, known locally as Gundoumu Arazi, the Land of the Birth of the Sun, had been visible on the horizon as day broke. Cree collected her wages from the purser and disembarked, reluctant this time to set foot on land. The journey by sea had given her the illusion that time wasn’t passing, that the distance wasn’t being breached. But now she was here in Soth Szofl and there was no more delaying the inevitable.
She’d spent the voyage grasping at straws, trying to think of any other solution to the problem of Pearl, but there was none. The Hidden Folk had given up on him. What chance did a mere mortal have? What chance, indeed, did Pearl’s own mother have, if knowing she was his mother would trigger the darkness inside him?
Cree waited another day, holed up in her boarding room, but the longer she delayed, the harder it would be. And how much time was there, really? Among the locals at the dock, there was no talk of the madness of the young Meer, but he might have killed Ume already without giving over to it completely.
She shut down that line of thinking immediately. She would have known if Ume was gone. She would have felt it. But there was no more putting this off.
Ume took the folded drawing from her apron and sat with it a while longer on the edge of Pearl’s bed while he received petitioners in the great hall. Whatever was happening on Munt Zelfaal was destroying him, and looking at what he saw, she could hardly blame him.
There could be no doubt that the dark-haired figure in Pearl’s drawings was MeerRa. But this was no longer the MeerRa of whom Ahr and Merit had spoken with reverence. This was a fiend. She tore bodies apart with her bare hands like some tormenting demon, and her eyes stared from the drawing without any inkling of remorse. Pike kept Pearl under his control because Pearl refused to give up Ra’s whereabouts to him. But Ra was no one to be protected. Something had gone wrong in her resurrection. She was a revenant that needed to be destroyed. Ume had no idea whether Pike could do it, but someone had to try. And if Pike had what he wanted from Pearl, he would let him go. That was the bargain to which Pearl’s words had bound him.
If Pearl discovered what she was about to do, he would never forgive her, but better he hated her than to be enslaved, carrying on in the age-old tradition of Meeric parasitism. During the Expurgation, it was said that the parasites in such an arrangement were the Meer, but it had been clear to Ume then, and it was even clearer now, that it was the other way around.
She waited in the little reception room outside Pike’s quarters for him to arrive. He no longer handled the morning selection of petitioners. Pearl was a master at it now and needed no supervision once they’d been brought before him.
Pike paused at the sight of her when he entered, then nodded to her to follow as he passed through into his office. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Maiden Sky?” He sat, waving her into another chair, but Ume remained standing, the paper clutched in her hand inside the apron pocket. “You’ve been doing a fine job with the boy,” said Pike. “He’s never looked better than in your tailoring, and he’s most obedient. Not that he really has much of a choice. But he’s given me no cause to regret our arrangement.”
“You may change your mind when you hear what I have to say.”
As Pike flicked his eyebrows upward with interest, Ume took a preparatory breath and removed the drawing from her pocket. “Pearl has been keeping something from you.”
“Has he, now? How is that possible? He’s bound to obey me.”
“I don’t think it’s technically disobedience. It’s more a sin of omission.”
Pike’s eyes narrowed. “What do you have there?” He reached across his desk for it, but Ume kept it folded in her hand.
“Before I show this to you, I want your word that you’ll honor your arrangement with Pearl, the promise you made to him to set him free if he gave you what you wanted.”
With an irritated clearing of his throat, Pike rose halfway out of his seat to lean over the desk, and snatched the drawing from her. His expression went from annoyance to revulsion to alarm, before the gleam of greed slowly brightened his eyes.
“I believe you know who that is.”
“MeerRa herself,” Pike agreed. The stiff, courtly demeanor he’d been affecting melted from him as though he no longer felt the need for any pretense. He took his tobacco tin from the drawer and pinched a wad to tuck it behind his lip. “The little bastard has known where she was all along.”
“I can tell you where that cityscape is.”
Pike glanced up at her, his eyes hungry. “Where?”
“I want your assurance—”
“I can’t hurt the little monster. He swore me to that. And I damned well don’t have any intention of continuing on as a Meer panderer when I can get my hands on the greatest bounty in the Delta.” He shook the drawing at her. “This monster is a Meerhunter’s wet dream.”
“What a lovely sentiment.”
“Where the fuck is she?”
Ume drew herself up straight with resolve. “That’s Munt Zelfaal.”
“Munt Zelfaal?” Pike stared at the drawing with disbelief. “This is a mountain city. There’s nothing at the top of Munt Zelfaal.”
“Apparently, Ra has remedied that, because that is most definitely Munt Zelfaal.”
He squinted at the drawing. “How can you tell?”
“Because that’s not the first time he’s drawn it. Pearl has been burning his vision drawings. He says the city is Soth AhlZel.”
Pike’s eyes widened. “That’s a legend. The greatest Meericality that ever existed. It’s supposed to be nothing but
ruins.”
“Which MeerRa has raised from the dead as she raised herself.”
Pike spat tobacco juice onto the floor beside his chair, his fingers moving over the drawing as if he thought it might come to life beneath them as the objects of Pearl’s other drawings had. “This is very satisfactory, Maiden Sky. I’d say my bargain with Pearl has been fulfilled.”
Having arrived early enough to get a favorable position in line before the temple, Cree was among the first group chosen to petition the Meer. They were taken into a staging room for instruction on how to conduct themselves in making their petitions when they were called. Cree struggled a bit to understand, but she’d always found it easy to pick up new languages—she and Ume had traveled so much, she’d been exposed to many—and she’d studied Szofelian with the crew on the ship on the journey to the continent.
One thing that was clear from the Szofelian pronouns was that they were passing Pearl off as a girl. “MeerZarafet” would raise her hand to indicate a petitioner was to come forward from the kneeling rows, and each petitioner who came before her would kneel again and place his offering at the Meer’s feet, then bow with head to the floor until tapped by an attendant, at which time the petitioner should rise and state his petition, bow and give thanks, and depart.
Cree’s hands were clammy with sweat as she received the summons. She didn’t dare look at Pearl while she approached and made her offering, placing the ornate box containing the diadem of scarlet beryl and diamond in front of her as she dropped her head forward. When the attendant tapped her on the shoulder, it took several deep breaths before she could bring herself to stand.
Approaching the altar, she spoke the words automatically. “Vetma ai MeerZarafet.” And then his eyes met hers, and Cree’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t do it. She’d been mad to think she could do this. Every organ in her body ached. This was her own child, her unbelievably beautiful child.
“Your petition,” the attendant prompted with a frown of disapproval.
“I…” Cree glanced helplessly around her as though she might find someone there to stop her. If only Ume would step out of the crowd and rebuke her.
Pearl was studying her, his silver brows drawn together over pale blue eyes like little ice chips on the Northern Lake.
Cree tried to remember how it had felt to take Ume’s life in the vision she’d shared of Pearl’s, tried to remember the unimaginable horror of which he was capable. Instead of the carefully rehearsed speech importuning the Meer for an abundant haul next season for the fishermen of Stórströnd, she whispered a desperate prayer. “Please, someone, take this burden from me.” Hardly aware of what she was doing, Cree mumbled her thank-you as she bowed. She turned back swiftly toward the box, gripped with the certainty that she’d made a mistake. She’d take it back, no matter how shocking such an action would be. But it was gone. Some attendant had removed it already.
Her heart stopped, and she stood riveted to the spot, horror washing over her. “Wait,” she gasped as two guards stepped forward from the door and swept her between them, escorting her firmly out. “Please,” she protested. “There’s been a mistake. I need to see someone in the temple. There’s someone I need to talk to. It’s urgent.”
“You’ve outstayed your welcome,” one of them replied as they hauled her through the crowd to the exit.
“He’s Deltan,” said the other. “We know what kind of intentions you lot have for the Meer.” The guard shoved her toward the street, and Cree stumbled and caught herself, staring at the cobblestone. Black despair settled over her. What had she done?
“Cree!” Ume’s voice rang out from the throng, and Cree looked up to see her pushing her way through. “Cree, what are you doing here? How did you find me?” Ume reached her, and Cree threw her arms around the blessed, petite body.
“I got your note…they told me not to…the Hidden Folk…I wasn’t going to just sit in Stórströnd and wait.” Cree stopped herself. She was babbling. She forced herself to be calm. “He can’t open that offering. You have to get it back. Meeralyá, Ume, you don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Slow down.” Ume drew Cree’s arms from around her neck and held her calloused hands in a firm but comforting grip. “What are you talking about? Done what, love?”
“There’s no time.” Cree yanked her hands away, unable to look Ume in the eye, and paced the curb. “He can’t put that diadem on. They said he’d gone mad and was going to kill you, kill thousands. I should have told them to shove their smug, dire predictions up their creepy asses.”
“Cree, sweetheart, you’re not making any sense—”
“The Hidden Folk, dammit. They gave me the diadem. It’s poisoned.”
Ume’s voice was tinged with alarm. “What diadem?”
“My offering.” Cree could feel herself shutting down, the panic turning to numbness. “I changed my mind as soon as I saw him, but they’d already taken it somewhere. He’s obligated to accept all offerings, the Hidden Folk told me. He’ll wear it. And it will kill him.”
“Cree.”
She faced Ume at last, saw the look in the wide, amber eyes. Cree had lost her. And she deserved to. “They said he’d already been poisoned, something in the Meeric blood. They showed me one of his visions—of murdering you.”
Ume shook her head and turned on her heel, heading back toward the entrance. When Cree remained where she was, Ume paused and looked back, fury flashing in the amber. “Why are you standing there? Come on! He’s your damned son, and you’re damned well going to save him.”
Cree shook herself from the paralysis of despair and hurried with her. Ume, dragging Cree with her by the arm so she wouldn’t be challenged, was an unstoppable force. A sharp word from her moved people out of the way. Her hand, raised in an emphatic gesture, caused the guards to step aside and allow her in.
Pearl was no longer in the altar room, and Ume moved faster, a determined bolt of electrical current, heading for the marble stairs on the opposite end of the rotunda.
“You know where the offerings have been taken?” Cree asked, a bit breathless from Ume’s pace as they charged up the steps. “We can get it back?”
“Forget the offerings. We’re going straight to Pearl.”
Of course. Cree’s panic had kept her from thinking straight. All they had to do was warn him and stop him from accepting the offering. She tried not to think about what he might do when he learned what she’d done. And she prayed Ume wouldn’t tell him who she was.
A guard was posted outside Pearl’s door, but he stood aside for Ume. Apparently, she was treated with high regard in Pearl’s court.
Ume let go of her arm as they hurried through the outer rooms. “You’re right that he’s been poisoned by something. But it’s MeerRa who’s gone mad, and drawing it is killing him.” She threw open the door to his private chambers without knocking. The room was empty. Ume visibly relaxed. “He must still be in the bath. It’s a ritual the Meer must practice before every vetma is granted, purification and clarity. He won’t have put anything on yet that’s he’s received.” The bath chamber was apparently through a small door inside the bedroom, and Ume knocked briskly, calling out “Pearl, it’s Ume” as she opened it.
Cree knew as soon as the door was opened. Ume went still and quiet, staring.
“Meeralyá,” Cree breathed out the oath she had no right to utter through the squeezing misery in her chest. She took Ume’s hand from the doorknob and pushed the door wider. Inside the steaming, incense-heavy room, in a sunken tub ringed with candles, her son slumped against the marble rim, the beautiful topaz-blue eyes closed. The water in the tub was red. Had he hemorrhaged from the poison? It wasn’t what Cree had expected.
And then she saw the gilded razor on the rim of the tub, dark with blood. He hadn’t put on the diadem at all.
“Oh gods.” She knelt by the tub and lifted Pearl�
�s arm. A long, thin gash was dripping curls of red into the tub. But it was flowing still. His heart was pumping. He was alive. Barely. “Help me get him out, Ume.” She’d suddenly become the calm, decisive one. “He’s not dead. We can stop the bleeding.” She reached into the murky water and cradled him, finding him surprisingly light, and lifted him out without Ume after all. Blood was flowing from both wrists.
While Ume grabbed up towels to slow the bleeding, Cree laid him gently onto the floor, smoothing the wet hair from his face. Her boy. Her beautiful boy. Ume pressed the towels to his wrists, holding them both, but the pale blue cloth was swiftly turning red.
Cree straightened. “Where’s your sewing kit?”
Ume blinked at her in confusion. “Sewing?”
“He needs to be stitched up or we’ll lose him.”
The wrinkled nose smoothed, and Ume nodded. “My room’s right next to his, to the left of his bedroom door as you step out. It’s on the bed.”
Cree fetched the kit, and Ume went to work with her needle, sterilized in the flame of a candle, using a heavy quilting thread, while Cree kept a towel pressed to the other wrist. They soon had him patched up, and Cree carried him to the bed after Ume had dressed him—a process during which Cree couldn’t fail to notice the marks of past beatings on his skin, and the mutilation he’d suffered at Nesre’s hands.
Ume tucked the blankets up around him. “He should be waking.”
“He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Ume’s eyes implored Cree as she looked up at her. “Are we going to lose him anyway?”
Before she opened her mouth to answer this unanswerable question, a strange mist thickened the air. Cree thought at first it was the steam escaping from the bathroom, but it multiplied swiftly, shrouding the room, before dissipating to reveal one of the Hidden Folk’s halls superimposed over the temple bedroom.
The Caretaker approached, going to Pearl’s bedside. “He will live,” she decreed after letting her hand hover in the air over him. “With our assistance in replenishing his blood.”