Idol of Blood (11 page)

“Well, it certainly can be,” Ume agreed, and then threw him a wink. “But having been both, I'd have to say I didn't care for it.”

Ahr smiled. “I suppose it's grown on me. It just feels like who I am now.”

“It does appear to suit you. You seem content.”

They'd reached the arch before the hall and Ahr stopped. “Do I?” The idea seemed to surprise him, but he nodded thoughtfully. “Do you have lodgings for the night? Merit and I would be happy to have you here.”

Ume swatted his arm playfully. “What cheek, sir! I'm a married woman.” He blushed again, which Ume found delightful. The female Azhra had been somewhat unmovable. “All teasing aside, I'd be very grateful for a room. I'm headed elsewhere in the morning, but it would be lovely to freshen up here instead of some tawdry inn.”

Accepting a room had seemed a fine idea at the time, and dinner with Ahr and Merit was a treat. Both the food and the company were exceptional. But after she'd retired for the night, Ume found it almost impossible to sleep. The last night she'd spent in a Meeric temple had ended in blood and horror. Whenever she closed her eyes and started to drift off, she jerked awake with her heart pounding, transported back to that early morning, after her rapturous night with Alya, when she'd been dragged naked from the bed by his templars and out onto the steps of the temple to watch Alya die.

There was no sense in continuing to lie here tormenting herself. Ume sat up, pulling on the robe Merit had provided, and lit the lamp by her bed. She'd persuaded Ahr to give her a tour of the temple, seeking any sign of Pearl, but found nothing, and her attempts to bring up the subject with UtMerit had been as fruitless as they'd been with Ahr. The only things that might have been Pearl's were a handful of lovely pastel drawings that had been framed and hung here and there throughout the temple. When she'd asked Ahr about them, he'd turned to Merit, uncertain of their origin, and Merit had only shrugged and said they must have been here before he'd occupied the place.

One of the drawings hung on the wall above her bed, and Ume raised the lamp to study it. Pearl's father, MeerAlya, had been an artist. He'd painted Ume, in fact, the beginning of his seduction of his own sacred courtesan. The memory of his stark appraisal of her still made her blush—and nothing made Ume Sky blush. He had engaged her, he said, to have her sit for him, and he'd drawn her first, and then brought her back for a second assignation to show her the sculpture he'd done of her. No one had ever looked at Ume without desire, but MeerAlya's gaze had seemed purely analytical, a study of his subject for a work of art. And yet it hadn't. His pale azure eyes had gazed not only on her but straight into her, making her feel naked in a way that she'd never experienced with any ordinary man.

Ume shook the memories away and concentrated on the drawing before her. These lines had the flawless look of the same Meeric sensibility to them, rendered with exceptional care and skill. The drawing depicted a bustling pier in the southern Delta, the color so vivid and the detail so rich she felt she could almost step into the scene.

Ume rubbed her eyes. She was sleepier than she thought. The waves beyond the pier seemed to be moving. In the distance, a ship she hadn't noticed before was setting sail. Ume rose onto her knees to get closer and held the lamp higher. The ship, in fact, dominated the picture. She couldn't imagine how she hadn't noticed it before.

On its hull, the name of the ship was painted in white, clear script against an almost ebony wood:
The Lady's Bounty
. Two figures stood on the deck, a man and a child, isolated in a vignette of light. They turned toward her distinctly—impossibly—and Ume gasped. She knew the faces. The man was the Meerhunter, Pike, who'd abducted her twice in his quest to find MeerRa. And the child was Pearl.

Ten: Restitution

The vaguely troubling visit of Ume Sky was as brief as it was mysterious, but it had given Ahr a sense of closure to the life of the girl he'd been. It was an immense relief to know Ume didn't blame him for the death of MeerAlya, even if Ahr still blamed himself. He'd hated feeling that his vendetta against Ra had destroyed the life of another Meeric consort—and who knew how many others throughout the
soths
there might have been? But Ume seemed happy, and he was glad she'd found peace with Cree outside the Delta.

Though it didn't explain why she'd chosen to come back not once but twice in recent months. Somehow, he knew, it had something to do with Ra. If Ume and Cree had fallen in with Meerhunters—which he found unlikely—he knew there was no trace of Ra in Rhyman. He had to content himself with the knowledge that any threat to Merit's reign had been successfully averted. The only trace of Ra was in Ahr's merciless memory.

Both the Ra of the past and the Ra of the present seemed to be vying for Ahr's affections within the ceaseless torment of that arena. Ahr couldn't go anywhere within the temple without one of his ghosts following, reminding him of how MeerRa's body had smelled and tasted—and how it had felt to be tasted by him—how the sheen of his ebony hair had caught the light here as it swung when he dipped his head to Ahr's breast, how the petals in the courtyard had scattered in that deep silk as he lay above her there, both of them naked under the moonlight and unashamed.

When he tried to replace that memory with another, to punish himself by reliving the Expurgation as he had for most of his life, he saw instead the renaissanced Ra, wet from the river on that night she'd meant to drown—for Mila, she'd said; for the daughter she'd stolen from Ahr. Ahr had breathed life into her, refusing to let her go, and Ra had looked up at him when she'd opened her eyes, her hand brushing wistfully against his cheek.
“How I loved you.”
Gods, how he'd loved Ra also.

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.”