by Jane Kindred
Chapter Nine
“Cillian. Cillian, can you hear me?”
Cillian opened one eye, the other too swollen, and focused on the anxious face peering down at him. “Cree.”
“Oh, thank the—Thank your veins, you’re alive.” Cree pressed a warm cloth against his swollen eye, and he winced. “They’ve all gone mad. I thought they’d killed you.”
“I wish they had.”
“Don’t say that.” Cree sank to her knees beside the couch. “Please forgive me. I had no idea it would come to this. No one said anything about killing him.”
“He knew.” Cillian shut his eye.
“What do you mean?”
“I was going to tell him. I couldn’t bear to lie to him after he—the way he touched me.” He was unable to keep the tears from escaping, though it hurt to cry. “But he already knew. He granted a vetma for the people. His magic. He spoke and gave himself to them.” Ignoring the stinging ache in every part of his body, Cillian curled on his side toward the window and wept.
Cree covered him with a blanket and drew the drapes. When she retreated into her room, he poured out his grief against the pillows. He imagined his tears as blood like the Meer’s, draining the essence of him from his body. He could almost believe he was bleeding to death. He could not stop hearing the thud of the iron club or seeing Alya’s open, crushed skull, blood from his ruined face flowing onto the steps.
The room was dark when Cillian opened the unswollen eye. He’d cried himself to sleep, and for a brief time forgotten what assaulted him mercilessly once more. Pressing his fingers to his cut lip, he struggled to sit up. He was battered and bruised, but Cree had saved him from worse, and for that much, he ought to thank her.
He desperately needed to use the privy, which meant disturbing her. Cillian sighed as he pushed the blanket away and cautiously moved his feet to the floor. The floorboards creaked as he staggered toward her room. The door was open a bit, and he edged inside, managing not to make any more noise as he slipped into the privy and pressed the door shut just shy of the latch.
When he came out, Cree was sitting up in bed.
She held out her hand. “Please come lie with me.”
“Cree…” There were no words left.
“I can’t bear this. I can’t bear you hating me. I can’t bear you hurting.”
“I don’t hate you.” When she pulled back the covers at her side, he reluctantly climbed into bed with her, stifling groans of pain. “Where’s Azhra?”
“She went back to Rhyman the morning after the meeting. There were representatives from each of the soths there to organize the expurgation across the Delta.”
“They killed them all.” His stomach lurched, and he had to fight to still it.
“I don’t know. No one spoke of assassination. I don’t know what happened.”
“They had to. They couldn’t have left a Meer alive and expected to escape his vengeance. They had magic, Cree, such magic.” He went silent, not trusting his voice.
“You loved him.”
Cillian’s heart ached physically at that. It was impossible, but she was right. The simple truth whispered in his head like Azhra’s answer outside the marketplace: “I loved him.”
Beneath the blanket, Cree slipped her fingers between his. “I am so sorry. Please believe that.” She rolled onto her side and buried her head against his neck. “You may not want this from me, and I don’t expect it in return, but I love you.”
Cillian squeezed her fingers but couldn’t speak. The Maiden Ume Sky was dead, and he no longer knew who he was. Inside him there was nothing but emptiness.
Morning came without mercy.
Over the next few days proclamations were distributed to every household in In’La. The soth would now be governed by the Council of Solicitors—priests templar with a fancy new name. There would be no representative body of the people. They had chosen one seasoned solicitor to rule the council and sit on the throne of MeerAlya: the Prelate Nesre.
The Meer’s body had been left to rot in the courtyard so that nothing of him would remain to return in another life. For days Cillian could keep nothing down, wanting to go to him, to bury him at least, knowing he couldn’t. When he was well enough to venture out, he found the council had confiscated Ume’s apartments, with every alyani she’d earned inside.
He owned nothing, had no livelihood. He was only Cillian Rede, a seventeen-year-old boy with a pretty face—and that, not quite so at present.
He couldn’t face Cree’s guilty eyes every morning or her sorrow at his distance. He didn’t blame her. There was no one—and everyone—to blame. But he couldn’t face being loved by her. He didn’t deserve love. When his bruises healed, he slipped away while she was at the docks one afternoon and returned to the streets. There was always plenty of work for a boy on his knees, though there was less demand for one as seasoned as Cillian. But this was where he’d started. He could start again. And if he couldn’t, there was always the Anamnesis.
He slept in an alley behind Lower Bank Street, far from the Garden, and lurked by the pubs until he caught a man’s eye. There was a silent language to it, postures and nods, to avoid either patron or peddler soliciting the wrong party and ending up being whipped in the square for his trouble. His patron followed him to the alley, and Cillian held out his hand for payment in advance, saying nothing, only waiting until the right number of coins crossed his palm. The patron tried to get away with two coppers, but Cillian left his hand out steadfastly until he was offered five—gratifying to know he could still exact a better price than most, but so far below Ume’s due that it was like a slap in the face.
He swallowed his pride and swallowed the cock, giving the man more than he’d earned. He was a dockhand and reminded Cillian of Cree. As he put himself back together, the dockhand gave Cillian’s cheek a fleeting caress, this time reminding him of Alya. Cillian closed his eyes, trying to shut out the terrible sound of iron against flesh and bone.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” Both the caress and the request were unusual. Cillian’s skill was obviously greater than a five-copper suck.
“No, he will not.”
Cillian’s eyes flew open, and he scrambled to his feet. Cree stood at the mouth of the alleyway, her expression impossible to read.
The dockhand took a step back. “Says who?”
Rolling up her sleeves, Cree marched into the alley. “Says his lover.”
Cillian groaned. They were drawing attention from inside the pub, and the dockhand took off running. Cree was not as street savvy, and Cillian had to grab her resisting arm and drag her away before they were reported.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded when they were out of sight of the pub.
“What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here?” Cree’s eyes held sadness and not the anger evident in her voice. “I’ve been looking all over In’La for you.”
Cillian paced away from her. There was love in her words, and he couldn’t bear it. If he acknowledged it, if he allowed himself to feel…
“I had to leave. You were smothering me.”
“Smothering you?” Cree recoiled as if he’d slapped her.
He pressed his hands to his head, as if he could hold himself together. “You can’t just go around calling me your lover.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. Do you have any idea what might have happened if I hadn’t dragged you away from there? Do you hear Sylus calling Dehr his lover on the street?”
The stiffness went out of her stance. “You do realize I’m not a man, Cill.”
“Do you realize I’m not?”
“Cillian—”
“I’m not anything. I’m no one.”
Cree’s eyes welled with tears, but he shook his head. Her pity was worse than her love.
“Just let me go.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked away. Cree made no attempt to follow.
Cillian didn’t see her again. The co
ldest months of the year were upon them, and he spent many nights huddled under stoops—and under the docks once the work ended for the season and he was sure he wouldn’t run into her—but winters were mild enough in the Delta, and he had done it before. He’d done it all before.
He spent money on a room in a flophouse on the coldest nights, but the rest he was saving. He was getting out. Perhaps to Rhyman, or farther, into the falend. Why not? His childhood dreams of barbarians were nonsense, but away sounded good, even if he had to be a farmhand on some anarchists’ collective.
One early morning after the turn of the year he was certain he saw Azhra in the market. Wrapped in the anonymity of her veil, she met his eyes briefly. There could be no match for that midnight-blue. The color made him think of Alya’s pale ones focusing on him in confusion, and he looked away and examined a cart of mussels through blurred vision. When he looked up again, she had vanished.
Cillian’s eighteenth birthday arrived after the equinox. He’d forgotten it, but a package was left for him at the pub he frequented. He frowned as the barkeep handed it to him. Who would know his birthday?
As he pulled back the layers of tissue, he caught a glimpse of something sparkling, and he paused. Glass beads on silk. It was one of Ume’s veils. Unease prickled against his skin. Was it some kind of message from Nesre?
He lifted the fabric, a black chiffon edged with delicate amber beads, wrapped around a simple pair of black slippers. Beneath was another item, an embroidered charcoal sheath that buttoned with a black pearl at the throat. His chest aching, he stroked the soft nap of the fabric. There was a faint scent of Ume about it, an essence of amber resin and rosewater. A forgotten sound, glass wind chimes that had hung on Ume’s terrace over the Anamnesis, tinkled in his head as he breathed it in. Whoever had sent this, it was dangerous. He couldn’t keep it.
As he started to wrap them back up, a pink shell box fell from the folds of the dress. Inside it was a pot of eye paint, a stick of kohl and a tiny brush. Beside them was a note. “It looked so lovely on you. I miss you, Ume. Please come. – Master Sylva”
Tears threatened. He wasn’t Ume. Ume was dead.
Cillian placed them back in the tissue. He should throw them away. He couldn’t keep them. He couldn’t see her. He was leaving In’La.
He took the package to the wastebin and stood over it. The scent of amber resin and rosewater tugged at him. He slipped the barkeep a copper to use the privy.
Standing naked in the cramped closet, he trembled with the silk pressed against his skin. Could he be Ume again? Did he dare?
He pulled the dress over his head and let the cool fabric whisper down his torso, over his partial erection, over his legs. With the pearl buttoned at his throat, he ran his hands over the silk, smoothing the wrinkles. In the looking glass over the basin, faded, its silver paint peeling and stained, Ume stared back.
Ume hired a carriage in the Garden to take her to Madame Fersi’s boardinghouse, clutching a drawstring purse that contained her savings. No one questioned her. The templars had not lost their appetite for courtesans with a change of name, and the Garden was as fruitful as ever. With the veil worn over her hair as a scarf, she was anonymous.
When she opened the door, Madame Fersi shook her head in disapproval but called up for Cree after a sigh of resignation. Pulling the veil across her face, Ume tucked the beads together to hold it in place. Cree appeared on the landing.
“Maiden Sky.” Her voice was husky with emotion. She came down to escort Ume and kissed her hand with a formal bow before leading her up the stairs. Cree’s hand was trembling.
When they were alone, Ume let her slip the veil away. Cree searched her eyes, and Ume lowered them to display the eye paint to its best advantage. She had allowed herself a smudge of gold—no symbol of a sacred eye, but enough to feel like herself.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Nor did I.” Ume’s lip quivered as she steeled herself to say what she’d come to say. “I don’t want to be him anymore, Cree. Not for you. Not for anyone. I don’t want to be Cillian.”
“I know.”
“I can’t.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve spent the last four months buying back every bit of your wardrobe I could find in the market.”
Ume’s eyes widened. “You did?”
“I did.” Cree took her hand and kissed the palm, her lips lingering, warm and soft. The muscles in Ume’s abdomen tightened, and she breathed in sharply as Cree stepped in and drew her close.
“I love you.” The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them.
Cree grinned. “I know.” She held Ume’s face between her hands and stroked her thumbs against her temples. “Thank you for coming back to me.” Her brown eyes darkened. “I missed you.” She whispered it almost angrily and prevented any reply by pulling Ume to her in a deep and hungry kiss. Ume surrendered, whimpering into her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks, and Cree kissed her tears, following their path to her throat as she unfastened the pearl closure. She pressed her mouth to the hollow there before moving downward, kissing Ume through the silk and traveling lower as she dropped to her knees.
Ume cried out as Cree closed her mouth over the fabric and enveloped the heat of her desire. Ume pressed into her, trapped by the silk, and couldn’t help gasping, “You’ll ruin the dress.”
Cree’s laughter against her made her strain against the silk even harder. With a stroke of her hand that was nearly Ume’s undoing, Cree released her and stood. She led her to the bedroom, and Ume let her slide the dress over her stomach and chest as Cree pushed her back onto the bed.
It was not Alya. It would never be Alya. But Cree was solid and warm as she climbed over her and pressed her clothed body to Ume’s naked flesh with her arms around her, holding her tight.
“I’ll take care of you, Ume,” she whispered against her temple. “I promise. I love you.”
Beneath Cree’s strong hands and warm mouth, her body began to remember it had once been the expression of the divine. Somewhere beneath the grief there was still life.
Life in In’La, however, remained oppressive. The new government had a tight fist, and the public dissent that had handed it its power was no longer tolerated. Neither had its inequities died with Alya. Instead of petitions and offerings, there were levies and taxes—new names for the same system of favoritism. Laws of caste and sex were more strictly enforced, and neither Cree nor Ume felt safe to be themselves. A temple courtesan in Ume’s tradition was found murdered, her body thrown in the mud beyond the Garden for bearing the wrong fruit.
There was nothing left for them in the stifling, perfumed air of the Delta.
In the dark hours of an early-summer morning, Ume woke Cree after tossing most of the night. She kissed the cool slope of her nape until Cree flicked at her in irritation.
Ume spoke against her shoulder. “Do you still think about being a farmer or a smith?”
“A what?” Cree rolled over. “Go back to sleep, Ume.”
“In the falend. You told me once you thought it was better there. A woman could be anything she pleases.”
“The falend?”
“Do you think a woman could be a lady? Would I have to be a farmer?”
Cree turned back toward her, finally awake. “You want to go to the falend? Truly go?”
“Truly go,” said Ume. “We could have babies. I mean, you could have babies, but I’d do all the mothering. You could be what you like.”
Cree laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. But no, love, you wouldn’t have to be a farmer.” She took Ume’s fingers and kissed the tips. “How could I bear to callus these pretty hands?”
Just after the solstice, as the winds began to blow from the south, they booked passage on a barge sailing upriver that would take them to Rhyman. Beyond the Delta, toward the desert and the falend beyond, they would travel on foot.
They arrived at the dock before dawn, Cree handsome in a black bro
cade coat Ume had made for her, her dark hair covered in a new black cap with a buckram bill and a twist of silk cord across the front—the latest style in In’La. Ume wore a gown of deepest gold with the amber-beaded veil. They might have been bound for a formal affair. If there was trouble, and for more rugged travel once they left Rhyman, Ume could wear the clothes she’d packed for Cree. But ahead of them lay the falend and the promise of a free life.
As they embarked, Ume knelt at the bank and murmured one last petition—“VetmaaiMeerAlya”—though his spirit was as lost as his body, denied the rite of fire.
“I wouldn’t do that in Rhyman.” The dockhand took her hand to help her up the gangplank. His voice had a familiar timbre like an aural déjà vu. Ume met his eyes and gasped. They were an exceptional shade of deep cobalt blue.
For a moment she was certain it was Azhra, following Cree’s custom and dressing as a man, but his vest was open, revealing a firm, flat chest. Yet he was the same height and size as Azhra, and his short hair the same sable shade. Did Azhra have a brother?
He tipped his hat to Cree as she turned back to see what was keeping Ume, and Cree made the same half-strangled gasp of surprise. “Azhra?” She spoke the name before she saw it couldn’t be.
As he drew the rope barricade between them, he leaned over the jute rail. “They say in the marketplace that the age of gods is past. That may be so, but the Anamnesis is still flowing. Sometimes you have to look deeper to see the thing that’s right in front of you.”
He tipped his hat again and shoved one boot against the barge to push it off into the river. “There’s one more thing I learned in the market.” He smiled, but his cobalt eyes were tinged with profound sorrow. “There is yet some magic in the Delta.”
About the Author
Jane Kindred has always had stories in her head. By the time she was twelve, reading fantasy and gothic romance by flashlight under the covers, she knew what she wanted to be: someone who created worlds of darkness and mystery that others could fall into, and maybe fall just a little bit in love.
