Dreams of the Eaten

by Arianne Thompson

  But he was too tired to think, to argue, to contemplate even one more last-ditch skin-saving maneuver. He had nothing left.

  So Vuchak surrendered. “No, marka. Your will is mine.”

  Weisei rose, satisfied and somehow more commanding, as if he knew Vuchak could no longer hold the reins himself. “Good! Now both of you are going to dry off and rest yourselves, and I don’t want to hear one more word between you until sunset. We’ll camp here today and start again tonight. Are these words clear to you?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison – and Vuchak couldn’t speak for Hakai, but his own pledge was sincerely meant. He’d spent everything he had, but it had been worth it: to rescue Hakai and Dulei, yes, but also to enjoy this rare opportunity to subordinate himself to a superior presence, and be what he always should have been – an unquestioning avatar of loyalty and service.

  And having finally reclaimed his rightful place, Vuchak was glad to peel off the sodden remains of the day, and follow his last order straight to bed.

  THE MAN, HAKAI, did not sleep. He sat in place, straight-backed and cross-legged on the ground, and waited.

  But it was impossible to stay still as he shivered.

  The prince, Weisei, regarded him fretfully. “Please, Hakai – won’t you have anything?”

  The knight, Vuchak, was long since asleep.

  The man dipped his head in deference, and repeated his reply. “Later, sir – a little later. I’d like to keep watch for now.”

  The prince held silent then, as if he might order him to do otherwise. Finally, he folded himself in his blanket and reclined to rest on one arm. “Well, all right, then... but see that you care for yourself. We’re very glad to have you back with us, and we don’t want anything else to happen to you.”

  The man made the ashet, holding out his upturned wrists in the traditional gesture of fealty. The prince contented himself with that, and lay down to sleep.

  For a short while, there was nothing but the wind in the hills, and the distant lap of the river, and the cold, constant light of the sun. The man, Hakai, weathered it all with stoic indifference.

  But it was impossible to stay silent.

  “Sir... you know I didn’t mean to be taken. You know I would never choose to leave you.”

  The prince, Weisei, answered in a voice smeared with weariness. “Hakai, of course we do. Both of us. Vuchak’s just anxious, that’s all. He’ll be more reasonable when he’s rested – you’ll see.”

  The man nodded. Nothing more was said. Soon, the prince had followed his knight into the land of exhaustion and dreams, and only the man was left to guard them.

  He sat watch as the sun dried his clothes, and an unwholesome sweat dampened them again. He held fast as his shivering stopped, and an uncontrollable tremor replaced it. He kept the promise he’d made, even as he was afflicted by the one that had been extracted from him.

  In the end, it was impossible to stay.

  So the man, Hakai, stood and walked down to the river, where the voice, Fuseau, waited to receive him.

  PORTÉ WAS AWAKENED by a disturbance in the water. They opened their eyes to a kin-shaped figure swimming downwards, whitening for attention.

  By the time they were close enough to sign, there was no mistaking them: that was Entrechat, the swiftest and second-brightest of the Many... brightest, now.

  They stayed just long enough to deliver their message, their gestures uncharacteristically constrained. The earthling came back, they said. Prince Jeté is calling for us. Entrechat spared a glance for Bombé, but did not need to add the obvious: their crippled sibling could not keep up, and would have to be left behind.

  Porté would not argue the point – but nor would they leave so quickly. I’ll be right behind you, they promised. And as Entrechat swam off, Porté tried to think of an appropriate goodbye. Don’t worry –

  But Bombé wasn’t listening. They were diving down to the smallest of the three graves, rooting through the delicate layer of stones with a strange, profane urgency.

  What on earth...?

  It was no use signing – Bombé wouldn’t see it. Porté dove down afterwards, intending to bodily accost their sibling. But even as they reached out, Bombé pulled something up from the cairn and thrust it into their sibling’s grasping hand.

  Porté didn’t even have time to flinch. They floated there, staring stupidly at the thing in their hands, until the current began to pull them downstream.

  This was Flamant-Rose’s bag of treasures – the little sack they’d used to keep all the most interesting rocks they’d found on the trip. The one they’d emptied and filled over and over again, struggling to find some arrangement that would let them fit in just one more stone without spilling.

  By and by, Porté noticed its sibling’s gestures.

  – must have fallen out. But I think most of them are still there. You should take it with you.

  The tie-strap and draw-strings waved in the water, still fed through the slits in the mouth of the bag. Flamant-Rose had worn it as a belt... but it would never, ever fit Porté.

  They watched dumbly as Bombé took the bag away. They floated useless in the current as their wounded sibling tied the straps. And they did not object as the belt was fashioned into a crude necklace, and the bag became an oversized amulet, and the weight of all those little stones drifted down to hang with firm finality around Porté’s neck.

  When they finally glanced up, Bombé’s black gaze was waiting to meet them.

  Thank you, Porté said, their colors softening with a sentiment too immense for words.

  Bombé’s colors remained dull and fixed. Get it done.

  Too late, Porté understood. The bag of stones was not a gesture of love. It was a mortal obligation, a guarantee that they would not falter or fail in their duty – a promise that Porté would do in Flamant-Rose’s name what Bombé would have done for Princess Ondine... no matter how grim or sinister the task.

  And who could say no to that?

  I will, Porté replied, though the sign came out small and sloppy, and swam up before their sibling could question their resolve. They glanced back, just once, to see Bombé finish replacing the cairn-stones over Flamant-Rose’s body and resume swimming in relentless, tethered circles.

  It was hard to know what to think about that... and not for the first time, Porté was powerfully glad not to be asked to think.

  At any rate, it wasn’t hard to find the others: a churning cluster of legs and tails distorted the glittering light from above, casting scissoring freshwater shadows as the Many watched something of interest in the air-breathing world. Porté surfaced into the blinding sunlight, their inner eyelids clearing to show them a repeat of the scenario they’d witnessed yesterday: there was Prince Jeté, squatting majestic and serene at the shoreline, and Fuseau translating for the blindfolded earthling before him.

  Porté was impressed in spite of themself. They knew the earthling had been blackmailed somehow – Jeté would never have let him go without first ensuring his return – but they’d missed out on the gossip while paying respects with Bombé. What invisible string had pulled him back here?

  Well, whatever it was, it was all but choking him: this time, the human man was just standing there, dry and dignified – but if anything, he seemed more distraught now than before.

  Please, you promised to give it back to me, Fuseau’s hands translated.

  Prince Jeté bared his gum-ridges in a sneer, revealing a small canister clasped between them. And you promised to lead us to the monster, he replied. We will return your dirty treat when she is dead.

  As Fuseau rendered the signs into foreign words, Jeté turned his head and spat the canister at the Many. Plié caught it, and passed it to Demi-Plié as quickly as if it might explode. Porté squinted, brimming with curiosity. What could it be?

  The man was talking again, his voice fear-sodden and stammering. Yes, but I need it to keep helping you. I’ll be ill without it.

&nb
sp; The answer was swift and pitiless. Then you had better satisfy us quickly. We won’t –

  Porté registered a rough poke in the arm. “Here, take it,” Tournant whispered, and passed them the canister.

  Porté stared at the innocuous little tin. It was round and plain, probably watertight, with years of accumulated dents and scratches marring the black-and-yellow print on the lid. It wouldn’t have been legible even if Porté knew the language. “What? Why me?”

  Tournant jerked their head to the half-empty bag hanging at Porté’s chest. “Because you’re the one with somewhere to put it!”

  Well, there wasn’t much arguing with that. Porté shut up to do as they were told... but not before sneaking a peek at the contents. It was light, but not empty, and didn’t rattle when shaken. Something was in there, but what?

  Kicking harder to put their head and shoulders well out of the water, they closed their webbed fingers over the tin and carefully pried it open. There was something brown and mounded inside, like dried grass clippings – but the first whiff told Porté everything they needed to know.

  They shut the tin hurriedly, before anyone caught them snooping, and watched the earth-man’s pleas with a sinking heart. Poor fool... no wonder he’d come back.

  – between two hills, the man was saying, which the People of the Crow call the Red Brothers. It’s the entrance to the southern path up the mountain, which is called the M-A-I...

  The translation slowed as Fuseau began to spell a strange word, and the sharp, sweet aroma from the little tin lingered in Porté’s mind.

  Back home, tarré was one of half a dozen spices kept stocked in the larder. One couldn’t imagine mackerel-cabbage or mussel stew without it. But only the master-chef was allowed to add the tarré, because it had to be kept locked up. For mereaux, it was a pleasant, savory seasoning – but for earthlings, it was a ruinously addictive drug. In the House of Losange, any human fosterlings caught with it had to be cast out at once: they would inevitably spread their addiction to others, and if an overdose didn’t kill them, the withdrawal probably would.

  –and I’ll be glad to show you the way, if you would graciously allow me one pipeful, just a pinch –

  Porté couldn’t bear to watch the translation any more. They shouldn’t have cared at all – not after a tragedy of such magnitude, and not when half of it was the result of this earth-man’s collusion with the traitor Champagne. And yet somehow, watching this poor warm-blooded worm beg for his life’s last pleasure was all that much more pitiable: sadness after sadness, and waste following waste.

  Porté treaded water, holding themself upright and visible in case Prince Jeté would change his mind and want to give the earthling some relief after all. But no mercy was given, and when the audience was over, Porté was glad to tuck the terrible little tin away in the bag, pull the drawstrings taut, and follow its siblings underwater, where they didn’t have to hear any human voice, or abet the torment of any living thing.

  Soon. It would all be over with soon.

  Maybe it could even be over now. Maybe there was some other way, some other price that wouldn’t demand death and more death. After all, weren’t the House of the Crow rich and powerful, and wasn’t this mostly their fault anyway? Couldn’t they be made to give up one of their own royal children to replace Princess Ondine – a human ward to come and live with the House of Losange? After all, that was how the Emboucheaux handled things between themselves. And of course it wouldn’t do to question the prince directly, but perhaps if Porté could get a private word with Fuseau –

  Porté halted as they realized that nobody was going to the river-bottom – that the cohort had not been dismissed. Prince Jeté had turned and crawled into the water, but stopped in the shallows, when he was barely submerged. This wasn’t usual. Something else was happening.

  Porté dug their toes into the rocky sediment, holding themselves in place within easy noticing-distance of their greatest sibling, and waited for his instruction.

  Jeté’s metamorphosis had darkened him handsomely. But now he paled to his old, juvenile coloring – white down his front, a soft blue-green over his back and sides, as he had been when he himself was one of the Many. This was a captain taking off his coat, a commander dismounting to address his troops as a level-footed equal, and as his heavy haunches settled and the water cleared, Jeté’s vast amber eyes regarded the cohort with fraternal affection.

  Myselves, he addressed them, I have failed you.

  Some of the cohort whitened in surprise and protest, but none ventured to interrupt their prince’s graceful gestures.

  I have failed you. The fault which has brought us to this unforgivable sadness is mine. And I am sorry that the burden of correcting it must fall equally between us.

  Jeté closed his eyes, a blink as slow and old as a grandmother-river. You know that I did not seek to carry our house’s name. Just so, I know that you did not choose this task. There is no shame in acknowledging our fears, our doubts, our regrets. In the end, we have only to do what is asked of us, in love and bravery. Our Mother asks for nothing more.

  Porté knew he was telling the truth. Placid, steadfast Jeté had never wanted to become one of the Few. Tournant had always been the ambitious one. But Mother had selected Jeté, and they – he, now – had undergone the painful change with as much stoic dignity as anyone could have wanted. Now he was asking the rest of his siblings to follow his example.

  But what they were about to do...

  We cannot bring back our dear Ondine, Jeté continued, the water sharpening with his grief-taste as he made the two-handed undulating wave that was her name-sign. But even as her life was the last given to our house, we pledge that her death will be the first paid for. Promise me this, myselves. Promise it with me.

  The cohort repeated the sign, copying Jeté’s colors as they did. Promise.

  But Porté’s doubts only grew louder. The monster had slaughtered Ondine in five effortless seconds. In the time it needed to spring on her, and bring them both crashing down into the water, it had already torn out her throat. Who could stand against a thing like that?

  But there was something else in the water now – an odd, intoxicating flavor mixed in with the taste of Jeté’s grief. Porté flexed their toes in the sediment, fidgety and strangely impatient.

  And we promise this not because we hold Ondine more dearly than our Pirouet, our Flamant-Rose, but because they have trusted us to carry their share of the burden – to act in love and bravery on their behalf. Believe that they go with us, myselves. Believe with me.

  Believe, the cohort signed back, this time in almost perfect unison. The taste grew stronger, making Porté’s gill-plumes prickle and ripple with desire. In that moment, they could have carried any burden, swum to the sea and back and thrashed any treacherous earth-person who got in the way – oh, if only there was someone to beat!

  They didn’t believe, though. They didn’t believe that their slain siblings would have wanted this.

  We will destroy the monster who has taken our dear princess. We will destroy the traitor Champagne. And when they are dead, we will take the man who shot our Pirouet, our Flamant-Rose, and you will decide his fate. Fight for them, myselves, in love and bravery. Fight with me.

  Fight, Porté signed back, stiffening with the barely-suppressed urge to do exactly that – and too late, they realized what was in the water.

  Jeté had been one of the Many, yes. Now he belonged to the Few – the rare mereaux whom Artisan had gifted with sex, with gender... with power. Female and male, she’d made them – mothers and consorts, tailed and tailless, nurturing and commanding, in love and in war.

  Now love was dead, and there was only war.

  Porté had heard stories of princes in battle – how they used their war-voice on land to terrify the enemy, and seeped rage into the water to inspire their cohorts. One taste, the old-timers would say, and you aren’t Many anymore.

  We have been Many, Jeté was signin
g, his colors darkening again. Now we must be One. One from Many. Many to One.

  The cohort was darkening too, swelling and mottling to a sinister crimson-black. One from Many, they repeated. Many to One.

  No, Porté tried to say, even as the rage gripped their body and clouded their mind. This isn’t love or bravery. They wouldn’t want this. Flamant-Rose wouldn’t want us to do this. The weight of the stones hung heavy around their neck, the cords of muscle underneath straining against the urge to wreck something. With a titanic effort, Porté tore their gaze away from the prince to seek agreement from their siblings, to see whether anyone else understood that too...

  ... but the others were already gone. Already their eyes were going hard and fixed, and the thousand tiny tells that distinguished one from the next were fading away. Rambunctious Plié and Demi-Plié, eager Entrechat and fair-minded Fuseau, and even rude, rough Tournant... all were melting down into a single many-bodied extension of their prince’s will. All alike. All the same.

  Stop, wait, Porté’s ebbing mind urged. One from Many, their hands said.

  They looked back to Jeté, pleading with him through their eyes as their heart raced and their muscles clenched. This isn’t right. This isn’t us. They were Porté, they fought to remind themselves, one of Many – a stevedore, a helper, a good sibling, a bad-joke-teller, a strong and gentle mover of things... Please don’t do this. Please, please don’t make me do this.

  Then Jeté’s vast amber gaze met them, and an eddy in the current jostled the bag of stones into a brief and fatal weightlessness, and Porté could not recall any reason why they ought to resist. They’d wanted this. They always had.

  They had wished to be alike with their siblings, as matched and perfect as eggs in a roe – and now they were. They had wished to be useful, valuable – and now they would be. They would make the man and the monster and the traitor Champagne matched and perfect with Ondine and Pirouet and Flamant-Rose. Two small bodies and one large one. All alike. All the same.