Idol of Bone

by Jane Kindred

  Cree stirred and opened her eyes, then sat up with a start. “What time is it?” A Deltan clock chimed on the mantel as she spoke, softly intoning six bells. “Midday? Are you kidding me?” She threw off the blankets—and Ume—and scrambled for her boots. “Why did you let me sleep?”

  “You were tired, love. You looked so peaceful.”

  Cree paused in yanking on one of her boots. “Ume, I need this job. We need the money.”

  “Some agrarian paradise this turned out to be.” Ume tucked her feet beneath her and drew her skirt around her calves. “You know I could work.”

  “It’s an honest wage. And you are not going to work.”

  Ume felt her eyes flare with anger. “So my work isn’t honest. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Cree caught herself before giving the antiquated imprecation, her expression like that of a cat that had flattened its ears. “You know it isn’t that at all. We are not in the Delta, Ume. Patrons of exiled sacred courtesans aren’t exactly flocking to Mole Downs in the falend.”

  Ume sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “You’re right. I know.”

  Cree’s expression was troubled. “Do you miss it?”

  “Do I miss what? Working? Or the prestige of being a temple whore?”

  “I’m guessing there’s no correct answer to this question.” Cree tied her boot and pulled on the other, pensive for a moment as she laced it up. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again. “Do you miss him? Do you miss Alya?”

  “Cree—”

  “I’m not asking out of jealousy. I just want to know if you’re sad. I want you to share yourself with me.”

  Did she miss the god who’d taken and devoured her, giving her unspeakable pleasure for a night that had changed her forever? Would a corpse at the bottom of a lake miss the sunlight? She’d been MeerAlya’s consort only on that single occasion, but their intimacy had been the totality of an eclipse, Alya the blinding corona around the darkness into which her world had been swallowed.

  Ume watched her lover transform into a dashing pub steward as she put on her tie and buttoned up her waistcoat. “You’re still the most handsome gentleman in town,” she purred in the voice that was once her signature among the patrons who frequented the temple courtesans of the Meer of In’La.

  Cree blushed. “And we’re changing the subject. Skillfully.”

  “Yes, I miss him,” Ume said in an altogether different voice. “Still. But that has nothing to do with wanting something to do. I thought I’d be raising babies by now.” Ume stopped, horrified at what she’d said. “I’m sorry, Cree. That’s not what I…” She swallowed at the blank mask that had slid over Cree’s features. Cree was supposed to be the one who carried the babies Ume had wanted to raise, only Cree was broken. Her single pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage. Or a stillbirth. Whatever it was when you carried a pregnancy that far along only to lose it. The delivery had been a forcible extraction that had rendered Cree sterile.

  Cree turned and put on her cap and scarf, taking her coat off the hook. “Don’t wait up for me. Get some sleep.”

  Ume tried to ignore the heaviness in the air between them. “I thought I’d come by the pub later tonight.”

  “Why, so I can get in a fistfight when somebody tries to manhandle you, and lose my job?”

  “Nobody’s going to manhandle me.” Ume gave her a sly smile. “Although I do love it when you resort to fisticuffs to protect my virtue.”

  Cree laughed as if the earlier moment hadn’t happened. Thank goodness. Ume hated to make her remember that time. Cree tipped her hat. “I aim to please, Maiden Sky.”

  Jak was quiet as they rode toward the Downs, but that wasn’t unusual between them. Ahr enjoyed listening to the soft humming sound of the little camelids as they pulled the cart. Unlike their larger, sturdier cousins in the Delta, these animals bore a heavy, curly wool almost like a sheep’s that made them perfectly suited for the climate, while their nimble size gave them sure footing on the rocky highland terrain. Not to mention how useful the fine qirhu wool was for garments, come winter. Jak had tried teaching Ahr to knit with it, but domestic skills had never been his forte.

  When they reached Mole Downs, Jak presented Ahr with a list as long as his arm. “This is everything that I know you haven’t thought of.”

  Ahr glared, perusing the list. “Sometimes, my friend, you can be extremely annoying.”

  Jak grinned. “Really? I haven’t heard that before. I’ll meet you at the pub when you’ve found everything and gotten an idea what they want to trade for it. Haethfalt’s got a surplus with pretty much everyone in town with all the crops we’ve traded on credit.”

  “Your total lack of gloating is what I love about you.” Ahr folded the list. “Wait. Meet at the pub? What are you going to be doing while I’m scrounging around town for—” He glanced at the paper again. “Szofelian rock salt?”

  Jak’s gray eyes crinkled mischievously at the corners. “Drinking, of course. I suggest you get moving or you’ll end up having to drive us home.” Jak walked away, hands tucked into the back pockets of a pair of canvas dungarees beneath a heavy wool peacoat, emphasizing the fine posterior.

  “You’re serious,” said Ahr, but Jak was no longer in hearing range. “Well, now I’m beginning to think you have a penis after all.” He’d spoken in Deltan, but a passing merchant gave him the stink-eye. Ahr had forgotten he couldn’t count on not being understood here the way he could in Haethfalt. Mole Downs was the “cosmopolitan” center of the falend—the wasteland—where a kind of argot was spoken, cobbled together of the languages that passed through.

  He sighed and headed off with his shopping list.

  There was a new bartender since Jak had been here last. Jak pegged this one instantly as a kindred soul—a fairly rare occurrence in the Downs—not to mention devastatingly handsome. A lazy afternoon at the bar was looking better.

  “You’re new here,” Jak observed after ordering a pint.

  The bartender smiled, the broad white grin adding to the charm. “Cree Silva.” The firm handshake was promising.

  “Jak na Fyn.”

  Cree gave Jak a look of appraisal. “You a Downser?”

  “Nope, not me.” Jak sipped the frothy brew. “Drove down from Haethfalt for some last-minute supplies before storm season.”

  Cree’s eyebrow twitched. “Wouldn’t want to run out of ale in a blizzard.”

  Jak laughed. “My friend is getting the supplies. I’m enjoying a little smug satisfaction at knowing he’d need them.”

  The broad grin flashed again before another customer took Cree’s attention. Jak watched the wiry bartender move smoothly from patron to patron, handling jiggers and muddlers like a pro. It was a welcome distraction from dwelling on the unconsummated energy between Jak and Ahr, and from thinking of Ra’s long, slender limbs…and other things.

  “He’s something, isn’t he?”

  Jak turned at the silky voice and nearly choked on a bit of ale. An elegant, exotic woman with skin the color of the caramel ale in Jak’s glass draped a graceful arm against the bar, a fall of hair in a deep coppery gold making a striking contrast against her skin. Equally striking golden-brown eyes like a cat’s twinkled at Jak in an unnervingly suggestive way. If winter was supposed to put temptation out of reach, it was getting off to a poor start.

  The woman crossed her arms on the bar and watched the bartender work. All eyes in the establishment seemed to be on her now, and with good reason. It dawned on Jak that she must be a professional. “I’m here with a—a friend,” Jak stammered.

  Chestnut eyebrows arched with amusement. “How lovely for you.” Heat rose in Jak’s cheeks. “I’m Ume.”

  “Jak.”

  Ume’s burgundy-stained lips turned upward in a sly smile. “Lovely to meet you, Jak.” She held out a hand as if
she expected it to be kissed, and Jak made an awkward attempt, lips brushing soft knuckles that smelled of violets. Ume fluttered kohl-lined lashes over the almond-shaped amber eyes. “The bartender’s my husband.”

  Jak swallowed, not sure what to say to this, and picked up the pint glass to fill the awkward moment.

  “Ume, are you tormenting my new friend?” Cree glanced over, pocketing a tip from a patron who’d left, and slid an arm smoothly along the wood to where Ume stood.

  “Of course.” Ume leaned over the bar for a kiss and Cree gave it to her, with impressive skill.

  Ume gave Jak a sidelong smile. “Sorry. I can’t help myself. I get a little bored in these chilly backwater burgs.” She rubbed her hands over her sleeves and Jak saw a hint of some kind of decorative marks on the dark skin. “And Jak looked fun to play with.”

  Cree gave Jak an apologetic look. “You’ll have to forgive my little spider. She thought you were a fly.”

  “A fly?” Jak gulped down the rest of the ale.

  Ume laughed, a soft delightful sound. “They buzz about Cree like he’s made of sugar.” She winked at Cree. “A rumor I will neither deny nor confirm.”

  “Gods, you’re awful,” Cree laughed, deep brown eyes crinkling with pleasure, obviously mad about his wife, and with good reason. “The temperature in here’s risen ten degrees and you’re making my customers’ eyes pop out of their heads. Why don’t you go grab a booth and read Jak’s palm? She’s wonderful at it,” Cree added with a smile at Jak.

  “I don’t really believe in fate.” But Ume had pulled Jak firmly from the stool and was heading for a quiet corner booth. It seemed there was nothing for it but to go along.

  Ume slid onto the bench as Jak sat opposite, holding Jak’s hand palm-up and tracing its lines with her soft fingers. “This is very interesting.”

  Despite thinking it nonsense, Jak couldn’t help but be intrigued. “What is?”

  “Your love line—it branches in two directions, almost mirror images of each other.” She glanced up. “You’ve been touched by magic. You see these little feathery wisps around the right one?” Ume bit her lip, her amber eyes suddenly bright with moisture, and she let go. “I’m sorry.”

  That was a little disconcerting. “Did you see something bad?”

  Ume shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that.” She held out her own palm and ran her finger over it. “I have them, too.” The faint marks stopped abruptly at a conjunction of heavy lines. “But it’s over. Long ago. Yours seem to begin where the branch is, as if they’ve just appeared out of nowhere. It’s a luck sign.” She seemed to recover from the touch of melancholy and took up Jak’s hand again. “A very strong life line, good health.” She frowned and pressed Jak’s hand as if in comfort.

  “Now what?”

  “Scars at the beginning. They’re faded. Your father—”

  Jak snatched the hand away. “I don’t have a father.” The words came out sharp and loud.

  Ume nodded. “A long life, touched by magic,” she said as if the last bit hadn’t happened. She took Jak’s hand again, but this time just to hold it, soothing, as if it were her touch that had magic in it. “We don’t have many friends here, Jak. We move about a lot. But I hope we’ll see you again.”

  Ahr had managed to find the vendors for nearly every item on the list, except a “five-point tin feathering gasket”, whatever that was—merchants looked at him like he was mental when he asked for it. He headed to the pub to meet Jak in record time, feeling fairly pleased with himself. Jak liked to tease him, but he’d learned a great deal about subsistence farming since he’d first arrived in Haethfalt. He wasn’t the naïve city boy he’d been three years ago.

  He mounted the steps to the pub, flexing his fingers in anticipation of some warmth and a pint of buttered ale to wrap them around, but as he lifted his eyes to the bar in search of Jak, his heart gave a painful jerk.

  For an instant that felt as if time had stopped, the bartender’s gaze met his before Ahr backed out and hurried down the steps.

  “Azhra!”

  Ahr stopped still, snow spitting around him as new precipitation began to fall. Hurried footsteps followed him down to the street.

  “Azhra, I know that’s you. I don’t know how it is, but I know it’s you.”

  Ahr turned slowly, face-to-face with Cree Silva, with whom he’d once conspired against an empire. “My name isn’t Azhra,” he said quietly. “It was never Azhra.”

  Cree searched his eyes. “But it’s you.” He didn’t deny it. “Are you living in Mole Downs? Ume’s here. I know she’d love to see you.”

  Ahr shook his head. “Just passing through.” He gave her a sad smile. “I’m glad about Ume. I’m glad you’re together. I’m glad you both got out.”

  “Barely,” said Cree. Something haunted passed over her eyes, and Ahr couldn’t look at them any longer.

  “I did what I had to do, Cree. I don’t—” He swallowed a painful lump in his throat. “I don’t regret it.”

  “I wish you’d see Ume.” Cree extended a hand toward him, and he stepped back out of reach. “She doesn’t blame us. She doesn’t blame you. It’s all so long ago.”

  Ahr’s breath caught in his throat, and the words barely escaped in a whisper that burned his lungs. “It was yesterday, Cree. It will always be yesterday for me.” He turned away and hurried toward the nearest storefront, any store, moving blindly, afraid Cree was in pursuit, afraid he’d break down. Afraid the past would bury him alive.

  A hand pressed his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, turning to see Jak regarding him, perplexed. “Ahr, what’s wrong? Sooth, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Just jumpy,” he managed with a tight laugh. “My mind was a thousand miles away.”

  “I saw you leaving the bar. Why didn’t you come in and warm yourself up with a drink? Did you find what you needed?”

  He swallowed and nodded, forcing himself to be normal and stop acting like a fool. “Yes, but I realized I’d forgotten one thing just as I was heading in.” He held up the list with his thumb on the circled item. “I couldn’t find this.”

  The corners of Jak’s eyes made charming crow’s feet. “I was pulling your leg with that one. Sorry. That was mean.” Jak took the list. “You found everything else? I’m impressed. We’ve still got an hour to do the bartering and load it all up, and we’ll be home before dinner.”

  The return trip was even quieter than the drive into town, and slower with the load the qirhu were hauling. The snow coming down more heavily seemed a good enough reason for the silence, though Ahr had other reasons. As it turned out, Jak had reasons as well.

  “We’ve had a visitor at RemPeta,” Jak said at last. “A rather peculiar one.”

  Ahr turned his head, noting the falsely disinterested tone. “Peculiar how?”

  “She’s not from anywhere around here. And she doesn’t seem to remember where she’s from. At least, she isn’t saying if she does.”

  “That is…odd.”

  Jak was silent again for a moment before going on. “What do you know about magic?”

  The hair rose on the back of Ahr’s neck. “Why would I know anything about magic?”

  “I had my palm read today at the bar. It was silly, really. The bartender’s wife…I guess she’s some kind of Deltan fortune-teller. But she said I was touched by magic.” Jak shrugged, and Ahr kept his mouth shut, afraid he’d give away that he knew the Deltan “fortune-teller”, and the bartender too. “Maybe she meant earth magic, but that isn’t really magic so much as common sense—honoring the spirits of the land and of those who come before you.” Jak made a warding sign against “Hidden Folk”, seemingly not even aware of the gesture. Falenden were a bundle of contradictions, and pragmatic Jak was no exception.

  “Anyway, you’re from the Delta, so I thought maybe you’
d know if there was anything to it.” Jak glanced at him and laughed. “I mean, of course it’s ridiculous, but…” That shrug again. This was about more than a palm reading.

  “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that ‘fortune’.” Ahr forced himself to laugh. “It’s a scam. You could get one from any girl in the market in Rhyman.”

  Jak gave him a curious look. “Rhyman. That’s where you’re from? You’ve never said before.”

  Ahr looked away. “It hardly matters. All the Great Cities are the same. All blighted.”

  Jak seemed to sense this was dangerous territory and said nothing more until they’d reached Ahr’s mound and started unloading supplies. They stuck to practical topics, like canning and how to keep the peat bricks dry, and Ahr thought he’d escaped the near miss of encountering Cree and Ume after all these years. Until Jak circled back to the beginning of the conversation on the road as if no time had passed and said the one thing that nearly wrecked his composure.

  “But the Meer were supposedly magic—worshipped as gods, weren’t they?”

  Ahr stopped in the doorway of his mound, clutching a box of spice jars to his chest. “They’re all dead,” he bit out sourly when he’d found his voice. “Hardly godlike.” He continued down the stairs, hoping Jak would drop the subject—wishing Jak would leave before he lost it.

  Jak was right behind him. “It’s just that our visitor seems Deltan. And I think she might be…one of them. I think she might be Meer.”

  Ahr dropped the wooden box on his toes and swore, the sharp pain the only thing holding him together. “That’s preposterous. There are no more Meer. Why in the world would you think that?” He turned finally and confronted Jak, bracing to hear that Ume had given him away, that all he’d tried so hard to bury in the Deltan river mud and forget had finally followed him here to the end of the earth, and everything was about to come crashing down.

  Instead, Jak merely shrugged again. “I don’t know. Just…something about her. Like I said, she’s peculiar.”

  Ahr picked up the box and set it on the table, inspecting it to see if he’d broken any. “For your sake—and hers,” he said as lightly as he could, “you’d better hope she’s not.” He busied himself with putting the jars away in his cupboard.