Idol of Blood (5 page)

With a palpable, electric shock, the kiss transformed. Ra was caressing Jak's mouth, bathing Jak with red tears, tongue tenderly probing. Jak held on to her, gathered the unbearable bliss of her thin body, kissed ardently and was kissed.

When Ra let go at last and laid her head beside Jak's, contained in Jak's arms, there was a thin gloss of perspiration on the alabaster skin. Jak held her fearfully. Something had happened.

“You took it.” Jak lifted Ra's face with a cupped hand beneath her jaw and looked into her eyes. “It's gone. You took my shame.” The fact of Jak's systematic torment through childhood and adolescence was still the same. The memory hadn't dissipated. The pain was still as terrible as ever, but the sense of shame and degradation that had overwhelmed Jak, ruled Jak, was no more. The demon had been Kol, and he was exorcised. There was nothing left but a sad memory of the holocaust Jak's body had endured, and the fond mourning of childhood.

Four:
Obfuscation

Something private and dark had made the Meeric flow murky. Pearl shied away from these muddied currents, knowing this was nothing he needed to draw. Nothing he wanted to draw. Though it was difficult not to feel the darkness itself. A new conceit had entered the flow—shame—as though it belonged within the Meeric experience, but Pearl recoiled from the taste of it, souring his tongue as if he'd bitten it.

Avoiding the darkness, Pearl concentrated on the whereabouts of his new friend. He'd given the Meerchild's predicament a great deal of thought, trying to find the child in the Meeric flow, but communication seemed to be at the other child's discretion. As with the mirror box in which he'd spent his early years, something seemed to prevent the Meerchild's detection by other Meer from without. Only the child itself could initiate contact, as Pearl had done with Ra once through her dream.

The child seemed to know little about its surroundings, just as Pearl had been unaware of his own, but it gave Pearl one piece of information that brought things into focus within the misty depths of the Meeric flow. When Pearl named a place, the child always answered
isch bess
. “It's possible.” There was a city in the Delta known as the City of Possibility. The more Pearl meditated upon it, the more certain he became. The child was being kept in
Soth
Bessaht.

He knew instinctively that Merit and Ahr would never let him seek the child on his own, but this was something he had to do, and he also knew he could never explain. His reading of the Meeric flow told him they would want to send armed men to
Soth
Bessaht to find the child themselves, and that this would mean war in the Delta. Merit's reign was too precarious to risk such conflict. Just as Pearl had a duty to find the child who had reached out to him through the flow, he had a duty to protect those who cared for him. It was the Meeric covenant.

He spent the afternoon drawing a parting picture for each of his friends, peering deep into the well of images to find the ones that spoke to each man personally. They would be pleased, and they would study the drawings closely out of affection for him. It was the only thing he could think of.

The courtyard was breathtaking. Pink and paler pink blossoms fluttered down over it continually, floating on the fragrant air like the tiny, papery wings of butterflies. There were these, also, true butterflies, bright berry red and veined translucent blue, dancing in the terraced garden, some distracted and wandering in through the open arches of the temple so that whispers alighted on one's arm or head from time to time, unexpectedly. A citrine haze dominated among the scattering of pink, a ceiling of fresh leaf, the tips of trees paired either side of the narrow courtyard meeting each other overhead. Below, the Anamnesis was rushing, full of far-off mountain snow in the height of spring, and humming with great dragonflies in sapphire, emerald and vermillion.

Ahr perused the magnificent drawing, an impossibly detailed study in pastels that seemed to evoke not only sights but sounds and scents, and ephemeral touch as well. Pearl had left it for him this morning on the breakfast table, and another for Merit that seemed to be of a far-off city done in intricate strokes and smudges of dark charcoal, curling with billows of ink throughout it all like a brooding storm. Ahr had only glanced at Merit's piece a moment, riveted by the beauty of the one Pearl had done for him. It was the view from the top of the steps on the river side of the temple, and looking at it was like standing there, as if one could step right into the drawing and be part of it.

It transported Ahr to the days when Ra had walked in this garden—not the woman who'd returned from the grave in MeerRa's place to torment Ahr, but the god who had ruled Rhyman, and ruled Ahr's body. Like Ra, Ahr had become someone else, though through different means—seeking out the forbidden aid of another Meer to accomplish it. MeerShiva, Ra's mother, had granted Ahr the
vetma
of a new life after the Expurgation of the Meer, transforming Ahr into a man and allowing him to flee the woman he'd been. Ahr had said it was shame that drove her to beg that
vetma
, and that was part of it, but in truth, she'd no longer been able to bear to live in the body whose every part Ra had possessed with the force of his Meeric desire.

Leaving the Delta behind, Ahr had believed for a time that he'd succeeded in escaping the woman he'd been, the woman Ra had bewitched—the woman whose bitterness at Ra's betrayal had ended the reign of the Meer and nearly stricken them from the world. Ahr had found Haethfalt. And Jak. But Ra had pursued Ahr there, defying death—and stolen Jak's heart just as surely as MeerRa had once stolen Ahr's.

Rhyman, ironically, had become the only place Ahr could escape Ra. But even that effort had proved pointless, as Pearl's drawing so aptly illustrated. Ra's essence was in every stone in the garden, every leaf and bud on the trees, every musky scent that lingered in the incense pots among the flowers. Ra had spoken it all into being. But that was hardly Pearl's fault. Pearl's gift was merely a reflection of what he saw. Ahr was lucky Pearl didn't draw—or at least didn't share such drawings if he did—the reflections of the Ra and Ahr of the past. He knew those echoes still lingered in Pearl's visions.

Ahr shook himself and focused once more on the gift itself. The remarkable thing was how perfectly the drawing captured the view on this very morning. Yesterday, the sky over the river plain had been overcast, robbing Rhyman of its color. The drawing seemed to have given it back, or perhaps had stolen the image itself the day before, leaving reality duller.

Merit was absorbed in his own masterpiece, lost somewhere in thought as he sipped his tea. Ahr took his drawing to the arch and looked out, comparing the two, unable to find a single deviation. Pearl's vision and his gift were truly extraordinary. It was as easy to become lost in the copy while looking away from the reality as it was to do the reverse. It almost didn't matter which was which.

But there was a distinction between the two after all. In a tiny, flowery script at the bottom right corner, Pearl had signed his drawing, and Ahr peered closer to see it. There was an inscription of some kind, and after studying the florid marks intently, he was able to make it out at last:
Forget Pearl when you look on this.

The words were mildly troubling. They reminded him of the vicious words Ahr had said to Ra as the Meer was slain in front of her while the virgin's veil fluttered down from her face:
“Look on me and see who it is that has killed you. Remember Ahr!”
They were words Ahr had wanted to take back as soon as they were uttered, words that had haunted her, and still haunted him. And Ra had certainly remembered—enough to drive him from the grave in pursuit of Ahr. Ahr wished they could both forget it.

But what did it mean to “forget pearl”? What pearl? There were no pearls in the picture at all. It was a mystery, if a lovely one. Perhaps an admirer had left the sumptuous drawing as a gift. There were still many who came with offerings hoping for favor from Merit and his Second, as if the Meer still reigned. Ahr would have to have it framed and hung in his room.

Merit found himself weeping as he pondered the unusual drawing. He didn't recognize the place, and yet it filled him with inexplicable emotion, conjuring images in his head like snatches of odd memories he couldn't pin down, or a mournful song on the tip of his tongue whose melody escaped him. Had he been there once? The bold, dark lines evoked a feeling almost of madness. Merit wanted to look away, but the beauty of the place entranced him. Curling lines of ink transected the hazy depths of the image in fantastic swirls and flourishes. Pearl had wanted to please him, he knew, using the unfamiliar medium, though he preferred the ones he was used to. It was touching how much the boy wanted to please. In his quiet, solemn way, he was much like MeerRa, always thinking of how he could bless those around him.

Merit peered closer. The curls of ink almost seemed to move the longer he stared at it, forming other shapes. It made him feel a bit dizzy and flushed, as if a fever were coming on. He thought for a moment the madness of the place in the image was catching. But the shapes seemed to be words. They
were
words, weaving in and out of the smudges behind them in a way Merit couldn't imagine how the boy had managed. But they were too difficult to make out.

He took the drawing to his study and pulled out his spectacles, not wanting Ahr to see that his eyes had weakened with age. Now the words were clear:
Remember Pearl, as you remember this.
Meaningless, like the rest, and equally as troubling. Merit turned the hauntingly lovely image facedown and tucked it into a drawer. He'd figure out where it came from later. Right now, it made his head hurt to think about it.

Pearl felt a bit guilty as he walked away from the temple unnoticed. It hadn't been a very nice trick. But his words couldn't be taken back. He'd make up for it when he returned. The servants, he knew, would never mention his absence, as they were never to mention his presence. And if they did, Ahr and Merit wouldn't be able to understand them. For all intents and purposes, Pearl no longer existed for them, and couldn't until he took the pictures back and spoke new words that would change the meaning of the ones he'd left. That was the only way a Meer could “undo” what he'd conjured.

He'd taken a flour sack from the pantry to carry his clothes—those would be difficult for them to make sense of while he was away—along with some crisp bread and dried fruit wrapped in paper. No point in wasting conjury on food. He'd discovered that to do so was rather inefficient; the energy it took to bring the food into being was greater than the energy the food provided. Better to conjure seeds or a pair of breeding livestock to grow food that would use the same elements from which the Meer conjured. This, after all, was how civilizations had begun, and how the Meer had continued to grant
vetmas
until the end of the Meeric Age.

Pearl saved his conjuring for money to book passage on a steamboat, or to speak words that would allow him to pass unnoticed among crowds.
Soth
Bessaht was the farthest south of the Deltan city-states, the only one that ran right into the sea. Like all Deltan
soths
, its focal point was the Meeric temple, and the temple at Bessaht was built like an open pavilion. Where
Ludtaht
Ra—like
Ludtaht
Alya in
Soth
In'La—had no glass in its windows and no doors in its arches,
Ludtaht
Izis had no walls at all. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for MeerIzis to sit exposed on her altar day in and day out. Even her bed had been in one of these wall-less rooms, partitioned off by columns that seemed to be the trunks of ancient trees. Presumably, it had been hung with heavy curtains between the columns, but these were long gone. The temple had been looted for every last bit of gold leaf and gemstone accent dust during the Expurgation. It was decorated now with climbing vines and brambles.

Pearl watched the temple pass by as he continued downriver. There was nowhere for the child to be kept there. He departed the riverboat at its last stop, just yards from the shore. The rhythmic pounding of waves carried to him like the beat of Meeric blood. He would listen here for the child.

Cree felt like an asshole for leaving Ume. She'd used the lame excuse that fishing boats paid better than tavern work and they needed the money. Ume had only blinked at her and tried to smile as if Cree weren't lying straight to her face and cutting out bits of her heart. She couldn't help it. She couldn't look in those eyes like rising moons burnished by a setting sun without thinking of how Nesre had used both Ume and Cree since before the Expurgation began. The Expurgation made her think of MeerAlya, and how heartbroken Ume had been after Cree had helped foment the rebellion against him and nearly gotten Ume killed. And thinking of Alya meant thinking of the child. Which meant thinking of what Nesre had done, and the endless circling spiral of regret was more than she could stand.

It was better out here on the water. She'd worked the docks before in In'La, but working a river barge was nothing like being afloat in the expanse of the Great Northern Lake, surrounded by so much water one couldn't see the shore. And out here, Cree was just one of the men. Able to do it easily since her youth, passing made it simpler to find work without having to prove herself. Unlike Ume, who'd always felt like a girl regardless of her outward presentation, Cree had never felt like a boy; she'd just found it easier to pretend to be one.

The best part of the work, however, was that it was hard. There wasn't time to think about the child that could never be hers, to wonder what he looked like or what he was doing. She was up before dawn swabbing decks and mending nets, spent her mornings casting and pulling in the hauls, and her afternoons cleaning and scaling and packing fish. At sunset, they headed back to the dock only to spend most of the night unloading and preparing for the next day's trip. In the spare moments between the myriad of laborious tasks, there was all they could eat from the day's catch. Not that she'd probably ever want to look at fish again after Stórströnd, let alone eat it, but hunger from a hard day of honest work made anything delicious.

It was the few hours of sleep each night that were difficult to bear. As tired as she was, Cree had expected sleep to be easy, but it was the only time she slowed down long enough to hear herself think. And her thoughts were deafening. How could she not have known the child had lived? What mother wouldn't know it, feel it in her bones that her child was alive, that he needed her? Cree had accepted the stillbirth without question, grateful for the ordeal to be over. Nesre hadn't needed her anymore, and he'd let her and Ume go. Had she wanted that freedom so badly she was willing to ignore the maternal instincts that said her child was alive? She'd left him to be raised in a cage like an animal. What kind of mother could let that happen?