Dreams of the Eaten

by Arianne Thompson

  “Then let it be treason!” Weisei swore, tearing his holy cloak off and hurling it to the floor. “I would rather be nothing than belong to this!”

  That was it. He had said it. It was done.

  The sadness in Penten’s eyes was nothing next to the sorrow in Vuchak’s heart. “The punishment is death,” she said gently – as if he didn’t already know.

  Weisei lifted his chin, the edge of his anger blunting just slightly on her kindly tone. “Yes, and as a child of Marhuk, no-one has any right to my life. I’ll accept my exile gladly, and –”

  Vuchak swallowed, floating on a wave of everything – of clarity, of regret, of wry, poignant consolation. Weisei hadn’t meant it. He still hadn’t realized it yet – didn’t see the hole in his reasoning. Leave it to him to hurl down his cloak in a single great act of misplaced bravery, and never feel the hair spilling loose and free down his own back.

  “The punishment,” Penten repeated, “is death.”

  Vuchak locked eyes with Harak, who still stood at attention behind her. The ancient, decrepit atodak was a white-haired emblem of duty – the very portrait of a life spent in service. He was old now, useless now, probably kept more for loyalty and sentiment than anything else…

  … but the old man’s rheumy eyes held Vuchak firm and fast, and in them lay a vision of perfect, unflinching clarity.

  Then To’taka’s gaze locked on him; he beckoned him forward with a lift of his chin. “Vuchak, are you prepared to serve?”

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Nobody had intended it to come to this. Everything had just happened too fast.

  Come on, Vichi. We just have to do one more right thing, and then you can rest.

  But there was still enough time for Vuchak to make his decision and step forward, offering his wrists to the assembly, and receiving theirs in turn. Then Ismat stepped up behind him, her knife scattering sunlight as it flashed in his periphery, and opened his throat.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE END

  AT THE TIME, it had been an odd bit of trivia.

  It’s a most curious practice, Faro had said, regaling Sil with some arcane fact about Marhuk’s children. Their companions share in all the best... except that when the little godling should misbehave, it’s his playmate that gets the smacking.

  But then, as now, Sil had more pressing matters on his mind: he found an angry white-streaked face in his vision, and then cold steel in his gut.

  FOR A MOMENT, time slowed down – and then everything snapped forward.

  Día didn’t see what was happening behind her, and by the look of it, Weisei didn’t either. He’d surged ahead, hot on Winshin’s heels as she rushed for Halfwick – and too late to keep her from burying her knife in his belly.

  “Afvik, watch out!”

  Día felt Elim go rigid beside her, heard the surprised little ah as Halfwick took the hit – as Winshin twisted the knife in his gut, pivoted sharply around in a malicious parody of a waltzing twirl, and then rammed the hilt, sending Halfwick stumbling back into Weisei’s arms as she ripped the blade messily free.

  Weisei looked up at his sister with such a singular, murderous fury in his eyes that for that one instant, their faces were interchangeable.

  Then he caught sight of something behind her.

  “VICHI!”

  It was a scream that echoed beyond human pitch as the room held its breath – as Weisei understood that he’d made the wrong choice.

  He dropped Halfwick, leaving Winshin to fall on him like a wildcat on a wounded stag, knocking the Northman boy to the ground as she stabbed him over and over in a flashing, furious tempest of rage.

  And all the while Vuchak just stood there in the doorway, bright rills of blood pouring from his throat as he offered his wrists out – and Winshin’s handmaiden slashed them open.

  To Día’s ignorant eye, there was no malice in it. It looked like a precise, ritual cut, almost the natural answer to the traditional a’Krah gesture of respect whose meaning she had never thought to question.

  And if that was a fatal definition of respect, then what happened next was a cruel act of love. Penten had stepped down from the dais, calm amidst all the horror and commotion, and caught Weisei as he tried to rush forward. Her masculine arms held him effortlessly in place, her face sad but serene as he struggled uselessly in her grasp – as he reached out, one hand straining to close the gap separating him from his life’s companion.

  For his part, Vuchak seemed to understand that he had not been given permission to fall: he stood and stood, steadfast and faithful in spite of his own bubbling wet gasps, in spite of the blood making a crimson livery of his clothes, until at last his limbs lost their strength, and he dropped to his knees in a puddle of his own making.

  And still Weisei reached, his dark skin darkening further, his grasping fingers trembling as a mirror gash opened across his own throat, weeping a delicate red necklace as his face contorted with effort.

  Día knew that Marhuk’s children performed his work as mediators of life and death. She did not know how effective a mediator Weisei would be – especially here in daylight, ten fatal feet away from the object of his attention, with his holy cloak lying cast off behind him.

  Vuchak seemed to come to the same conclusion. He leaned forward in slow, graceful prostration, his arms slackening as he folded them across his middle, his forehead sinking gently down to rest on the cold stone floor, folding his body as neatly as a finished newspaper.

  And Weisei reached to his very limits, fingers sharpening into talons, the cords of his neck standing out iron-stiff, sweat beading over his furrowed brow as his companion’s body twitched, shuddered –

  – and sat back up.

  But there was no feeling left in those slack features, no humanity remaining as that empty face gazed up at Weisei, its eyes devoid of light or reason.

  “AIAH!” With a screaming, wordless cry, the accidental puppetmaster broke the spell. Vuchak’s body collapsed into an awkward heap, motionless save for the slowly spreading pool underneath. Weisei simply collapsed, weeping.

  Which left Día, holding fast to Elim’s arm as the two of them stood as far as possible from the carnage...

  Penten, her arms a loving buttress for Weisei’s first hysterical sobs...

  And Winshin, who had apparently, finally exhausted herself.

  She might have stabbed Halfwick fifty, a hundred, two hundred times. Now she straddled his body with arms red to the elbows, heaving, sweating, wearing a look of almost post-coital satisfaction.

  For a long minute, there was only Weisei’s broken weeping, and Winshin’s heavy breath.

  Día did not want to look at either of the two bodies on the floor – or anything else for that matter. Her nerves couldn’t bear one more shock or wonder or brutal sudden horror. She closed her eyes and leaned in at Elim’s side, one helpless bystander sheltering with another, and was grateful when the big man put his arm around her.

  Then that cold, familiar voice cut the air.

  “Are you quite finished?”

  Winshin leapt up and away like an electrocuted cat – leaving Sil Halfwick free to sit up and climb laboriously to his feet.

  He coughed and spat, the wet red result instantly lost upon the bloodied stones. But that was all. Even as Día watched, the single stray slash over his face closed, healed, and vanished, leaving him exactly as immaculate as before – albeit in considerably more ventilated clothing.

  To’taka stared down at him from the dais, regarding what must look like the ‘Starving’ God’s own chosen son with equal parts awe and mistrust. “... what you want?” he said in his rough Marín.

  Halfwick swallowed down a rattled demeanor and matched him, stare for stare. He pointed at Elim. “I want to leave with him. Whole. Alive. Now.”

  To’taka frowned, sniffing for treachery. “What else?”

  Halfwick faltered, and Día began to suspect that he’d been badly frightened. Certainly he was having
to improvise. “And I want... I want supplies, enough food for us to get back to S – to Island Town.”

  To’taka lifted his chin. “What else?”

  Halfwick thought for a long moment – long enough even for Weisei to pause and look up at him with hollow-eyed wonder, or perhaps expectation.

  If Halfwick noticed, he didn’t show it. He folded his arms. “And that’s all.”

  To’taka grunted. “We will see.” He beckoned Penten and Winshin to him, leaving their old warrior-guardians on silent watch as their seniors conferred. Weisei was left alone to drop to a stunned, graceless seat at Vuchak’s side.

  Día’s heart ached for him. She had understood none of the terrible shouting match that had preceded the great violence, nor what Vuchak could possibly have done to merit his execution. But she was confident of one thing: if anyone here had had a plan when they walked in, it had long since been snapped in half and stomped on.

  “... what’s he saying?”

  Elim’s voice was hoarse, almost whisper-soft. He had gone deathly pale, his face a mix of milk white and blanched brown, and his gaze stayed riveted on his partner, as if one careless blink would see him killed all over again. She hoped he wasn’t about to faint.

  “He’s asking for your life,” Día said, though perhaps ‘asking’ was too soft a term. “Do you want to sit down?”

  Elim’s answer was a vague shake of his head. She didn’t blame him: blood was running between the floor-stones like batter spreading out through a waffle iron, the air had grown thick with sweat and fear and fermented death, and the urge to run was overwhelming.

  It was almost a relief when Penten finally turned back to address them. “Well,” she said to Halfwick, her voice calm, yet colder than it had been before. “The gods have made themselves clear. Marhuk has spoken for your Appaloosa Elim,” and this with a bow to the Last Word above and behind her, “just as the Starving God has spoken for you. We acknowledge and honor these decisions. You are free to go, and we will provide for your leaving.”

  Día let out a breath that came from the bottoms of her feet – quietly, of course. She wouldn’t interrupt to translate, but gave Elim’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “However,” Penten continued, “It is now time for the a’Krah people to speak, and this is what we have to say. This is our home, our most sacred place, and we will give no shelter to the heralds of unwelcome gods. For now it is day: our time to sleep, and your time to leave. When night comes, it will be our time to rise, and we will not treat kindly any trespassers we find lingering here on the Mother of Mountains. Are these words clear to you?”

  That was good. That was better than they could have asked for. Día wadded the folds of her cassock at her sides, hoping that Halfwick would have the sense to be gracious.

  He answered with a bow – but this time in the Eadan style. “Yes, reverend elder,” he said. “We understand and thank you for your tolerance. We’ll leave at once.”

  That was probably supposed to be ‘forbearance’, but nevermind: Día took the cue and curtseyed, nudging Elim to likewise make some small gesture of respect. She couldn’t stomach the wrist-bow, after what had happened to Vuchak.

  The a’Krah received the courtesy as well as could be expected: Penten nodded, To’taka grunted, and Winshin stood quietly aside, sullen or perhaps just spent.

  “Then let’s make it so,” Penten said, after a moment’s aside. “Go away down this road, following it left to the edge of the city, to the place where the trees begin. Don’t stray or linger or speak with anyone on your way. Wait there, and we’ll see that you’re provided for.”

  But as Halfwick turned to obey, the kindest of the a’Krah continued, her tone switching from the voice of consensus to a more personal inquiry. “Please tell us, though, before you go... what is the reason for this? Why does the Starving God care for him?”

  Día could feel Elim flinch as he caught Penten’s nod. Sil looked back at his partner, and seemed to stifle an ugly thought. “He doesn’t,” he said. “I do.”

  Then he turned and went, beckoning Elim and Día to follow, and his expression was absolute business. “Come on,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the door. “Don’t speak, don’t touch me, and don’t do anything stupid until we’re outside.”

  Día chose to assume that that last wasn’t directed at her. But it was terribly hard to follow the other two in stepping around Vuchak’s body, and impossible not to notice the stunned, hollow expression on Weisei’s tear-stained face as he looked up – as Halfwick walked past without so much as a downward glance.

  Día should say something. She should keep going. She should help him somehow. She shouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize Elim’s freedom.

  In the end, the decision was made for her. As she reached the threshold, To’taka’s voice called out from behind, arresting her on the spot. “Not that one,” he said. “The ambassador, she stays here.”

  SHIT.

  Of course. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Sil turned, straining his anxiety and anger and the lingering memory of that god-awful knife through a mental sieve until he could reply in something approaching a sensible voice. “What do you mean?”

  This time it was Penten who replied, her tone as ambiguous as her sex. “She speaks for the First Man of Island Town, doesn’t she? And he is our ally, isn’t he? It would be foolish of us to waste this opportunity for a visit.”

  Horseshit. They’d been denied Elim and deprived of Sil, and now they were settling for the next best thing: sighting down the crosshairs at Día.

  To’taka might be reading his thoughts: his gaze drilled into Sil, daring him to object. “Unless we are not worth her time?”

  Shit, shit, shit. Sil racked his memory, but no: he had spoken only for himself and Elim. He hadn’t said anything about Día.

  “What is it?” Elim asked, right on form for choosing the absolute worst time to start belching ignorance. “What’s the matter?”

  “Shut up – let me think.”

  But in the time it took to say it, his time was up: Día curtseyed again, and her voice was as smooth as freshly-poured cement. “It would be my privilege.”

  Penten might have smiled. Or it might have been a trick of the light as Sil stood there on a sunlit doorstep, squinting back into the dim recesses of the charnel-house.

  “We are pleased by the gift of your time,” she said, and stepped down from the dais. “Come and let us make you comfortable.”

  Prison, then. They meant to make a prisoner of her: circumstances questionable, confinement indefinite, purpose unclear. “Día, d’you not want me to see if I can –”

  “I would be honored by your hospitality.” She didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

  And just like that, she’d made herself their hostage.

  “Right,” Sil said. “That’s that. Elim, come on – just the two of us for now.”

  “What?” Calvert’s mule brayed, looking back and forth between his two minders. “How come? Día, ain’t you coming?”

  “It’s all right,” she assured him, though the quaver in her voice gave that up for a lie. “You go on ahead. I’ll follow after you.”

  Which ought to be enough for a man holding a reprieve not even five minutes old... but one look at the furrowing of Elim’s dusty sweat-streaked brow said exactly how much that mattered to him now. “No,” he said, with a stubborn shake of his head. “No, I’m not going to leave you by yourself – not with them, not for any –”

  “Elim, MOVE ON,” Sil snapped, acutely aware of the fragility of their pardon. They were burning daylight and good will, and he would be god-damned if this balking fool was going to ruin a good deal again.

  “The hell I will!” Elim retorted, utterly indifferent to the fact that he was literally blocking the door. “She came all the way out here to get me, and I’m not going to –”

  “Elim, for God’s sake will you go away and let me do my job!”

  It wa
s a shrill, panicked demand, so surprising that both Sil and Elim stopped to stare at the source.

  Día stood inside, stiff-backed and press-mouthed and perhaps those were tears in her eyes, which she covered with a hasty dip of her head. “And – and please, when you get there, tell Fours where I am.”

  Sil couldn’t have said whether it was belated good sense, or simply that Elim hadn’t built up a tolerance for being shouted at by women. Regardless, Calvert’s mule surrendered with a half-turn and a nick-of-time duck to keep from being brained by the stone doorframe.

  Which left Sil with enough of a view to glance briefly back, just to assure himself that she really would be all right somehow... but by then the a’Krah were gathering around her, blocking his view, and there was no sensible course but to turn and get out of there, double-counting every one of his hard, ugly blessings.

  BY THE TIME Shea and U’ru finally made their slow, belabored way back through the black corridor, the faint sounds coming from up ahead had long since died away. There had been some great commotion up there, but the echo of the stone passage distorted everything to distant, senseless warbling.

  So all Shea had to go on was U’ru’s continuing elation: she had made peace with Marhuk, and had a new puppy to take care of, and both of the others were safe, unhurt – even if they were frightened and sad.

  “Sad about what?” Shea grunted, shifting Hakai’s arm higher up on her shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time. She didn’t blame Yashu-Diiwa for being afraid – he’d probably escaped the axe by the skin of his goose-pimpled ball-hairs – but Día had been fearless, positively euphoric when she’d run off earlier.

  It’s complicated, U’ru answered. In other words, she didn’t understand.

  Nor did it get any clearer when they finally emerged back out into the temple – or better to say, the slaughterhouse.