The Death of All Things

by Faith Hunter

  Dalria paused beside the muniment room door and knocked firmly. “Master Jerban! Come with me!”

  She strode into the magnificent entrance hall and yanked the bell pull that would summon the servants. She flung open the door to the reception room, to reveal Mistress Jerban surprised into an inelegant gape.

  “What is it?” Keresh, over by the window, was equally startled.

  “Wait there,” Dalria ordered.

  “My lady?” Harbon appeared from the corridor leading to the kitchens, Mistress Zante hard on his heels.

  “Wait there,” Dalria repeated.

  She climbed the broad sweep of the staircase but did not turn towards the library on the left, or to the withdrawing room on the right. Instead she climbed onto the marble balustrade overlooking the hallway’s tiled floor. She swung herself around so that her feet dangled over the perilous drop.

  “My lady, what are you doing?” Mistress Zante was horrified.

  “Where are you?” Dalria called out. “Show yourself!”

  Master Jerban appeared in shirtsleeves, clutching a sheaf of paper. “What’s going on?”

  He saw his wife’s trembling hand pointing and looked up. Seeing Dalria on that perilous perch, he was lost for words.

  “Show yourself,” Dalria shouted, “or do I have to do more?”

  Her words echoed back from the unyielding marble and tile. Everyone else was dumbstruck.

  “Very well,” Dalria said grimly.

  She got gingerly onto her knees. First she set one foot beneath her, and then the other. Gathering all her courage, she rose to stand on the balustrade. She swallowed hard and stared straight ahead. Perhaps it would have been wiser to remove her shoes before trying this. The marble felt treacherously slick beneath her leather soles. She didn’t dare look down though.

  Stretching out her hands should improve her balance. She tried, only to find that didn’t help. If anything she felt more unsteady. Cold dread clutched at her heart. Dalria stood, frozen. This folly would be the death of her. If she moved a muscle, even to try to get down, she would surely fall.

  The hound appeared. It seized her skirts in its mouth and hauled her away from the drop. Dalria screamed as she fell backwards: for one heart-stopping moment, she had thought she was toppling forwards. The carpet did little to soften her landing. Her elbow hurt so fiercely that she feared she’d broken her arm.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Don’t you understand? They had to see you.”

  The great black dog showed no sign of paying any heed. It stood over her, its baying deafening. When it heard footsteps running up the stairs, it whirled around, defiant with shoulders hunched and hackles bristling, barking at the intrusion.

  “It’s all right.” Dalria managed to sit up, wincing as she realized how badly she’d bruised her tailbone. “Now, all of you, tell me that you can see him.”

  “I can.” The young man, Keresh was looking warily at the great beast.

  “But you couldn’t see him before,” Dalria said swiftly. “Not until everyone else could just now.”

  “Get back.” Jerban tried to put himself between the snarling dog and the young man. “It may attack.”

  “Where did it come from?” His wife stood at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed. She recoiled with a yelp as the angry hound snapped at her. In the next breath, it vanished and she gasped. “Where did the creature go?”

  “Madam.” Harbon took a step forward, quivering with indignation. “That was the Hound of Harles. I saw it on the night this winter past when the old Margrave died, and so many years ago when My Lady Dalria’s parents and brother were lost. I will go on oath before any priest or priestess whom you may summon.”

  “As will I!” Mistress Zante narrowed her eyes at the silk-clad woman.

  “It has gone because as the rightful margravine, I am no longer in mortal danger. The hound need no longer alert you.”

  Despite all her aches and pains, Dalria grinned. “So you believe me now?”

  Keresh turned to Jerban. “I have no claim here. You will withdraw my name from all proceedings before the Justiciary.”

  “I only—” The lawyer protested.

  “Enough.” Dalria managed to get to her feet without wincing too visibly. She was gratified to see everyone fall silent.

  Let them try denying what they had seen. If they did, she’d apply to the Justiciary herself, to have their testimony sworn before the Sun Goddess’s servants and the Moon God’s too, for good measure.

  “Mistress Zante, please ensure our guests have everything they need for their night’s stay. They will be leaving first thing in the morning. Now, if you will excuse me,” Dalria nodded graciously, “I have estate matters to address.”

  She turned around and walked away, towards the lesser stair that led up to her own bedchamber. She forced herself not to limp. At least with her back towards them, she could support her injured arm with her other hand unseen. She only hoped she could keep this up until the following day.

  The great black hound padded along beside her, expressing his displeasure at all this upset with gruff whuffing and head shakes.

  * * *

  The following morning, Mistress Zante startled Dalria awake with a peremptory rattle of the curtain rings. “Good day to you, my lady.”

  “What—?” Dalria sat up in bed and instantly regretted it. Then she saw how bright the sky was. “How late have I slept?”

  “Late enough, and you needed the rest after yesterday’s dramatics.” Loyal servant she might be but Mistress Zante narrowed her eyes in rebuke nevertheless. “Master Jerban and his wife have already set off home.”

  “So soon?” Dalria felt guiltily relieved that she need not face them over morning pastries. She had intended to, truly, especially after ducking out of dinner the night before to avoid any further arguments the lawyer or his wife might have mustered. “What did they say, when you told them I had gone to bed early with a headache?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think any of them said two words beyond ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as we served them.” Brisk, Mistress Zante began tidying the bedchamber.

  Dalria watched her bustling about. There was no hint that the woman could see the great black dog sprawled across the end of her bed.

  Satisfied for the moment at least, Mistress Zante turned to her. “Now, do you want your breakfast on a tray?”

  “I’ll take it in the south parlor, if you please. But there’s no hurry. I want some air before I eat.” Some air and some time to think how to write a conciliatory letter to the lawyer. The estate still needed his services and Jerban didn’t deserve to have his reputation smeared by scandalmongers sniffing for gossip if rumors of a breach between them spread.

  Dalria got cautiously out of bed and was relieved to find her bruises and stiffness were less than she initially feared.

  The hound raised his head and looked at her, expectant. Did that mean she was forgiven? She fervently hoped so.

  The dog was waiting by the door when she emerged from her dressing room. Taking the back stairs, Dalria cut through the castle’s older courtyards to reach the family’s burial ground. As she rounded the small shrine, she halted, startled. “Oh!”

  Keresh was studying her parents’ graves, beyond the fresh earth that marked her grandfather’s burial. He was as taken aback as she was. “Forgive me,” he said hastily, “I’ll go.”

  “No, wait.” Dalria was outraged, though not at the young man’s presence. “They left you here? Master Jerban brought you all this way and wouldn’t even give you a seat back in his coach?”

  “He would have. I didn’t want it.” Keresh broke off, as though he’d said more than he intended.

  Dalria wasn’t going to let him get away with that. “Why not?”

  “I have nothing to go back for.” Keresh’s casual shrug was unconvincing. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued, resolute. “I’ll find work easily enough. I can turn my hand to most things.”


  Dalria couldn’t think what to say. At her side, the great hound stiffened, nose questing towards Keresh. Dalria braced herself for his barking, but instead the black dog whined and walked over to lie down between the scars of those twin graves in the grass.

  Oblivious, Keresh continued to contemplate her parents’ headstones. “I never sought to take what wasn’t mine. I only came here because Master Jerban was so certain. Truly, I have no idea who my family might be. I just wondered if this was where I might belong. But now we know the answer to that.”

  “I’m sorry.” Dalria winced, and not only because of her bruises.

  “Is he here?” Keresh looked at her. “The hound?”

  “He is.” Dalria gestured towards the graves. The dog’s long black tail wagged. “Just there, in front of you.”

  “I’ll leave.” Keresh stepped hastily backwards.

  “No, wait. I know none of this is your fault.”

  “That never saved an apprentice from a beating.” His attempt at levity fell flat. “Tell me one thing though. How can you stand it? How can you live with Death sniffing at your heels every day?”

  “That’s not how it is.” Dalria looked at the great hound, who was rolling onto his back, broad shaggy paws waving absurdly in the air. She smiled fondly.

  “Crag hounds are guard dogs, and so is he. He will be my lifelong guardian and my guide. He’s been my comfort ever since my parents died. I saw him in a dream of their boat as it sank in that awful storm. I saw him dragging their bodies to the riverbank, so they could be found and brought home to be buried. I saw him diving, searching, frantic to find my lost brother. Then I woke to hear him howling, broken-hearted. He appeared to the whole household that night, standing in the center of the inner courtyard. For a few moments at least.” Dalria drew a steadying breath to banish those painful memories.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Keresh assured her with a shiver. “Not after yesterday.”

  How could she make him understand? “Believe me; I have nothing to fear from him. I know that when my end comes, the hound will shepherd me to whatever lies beyond this life. I know that as he guards my heirs and descendants, my legacy will be remembered, just as I honor and remember my ancestors whom he’s walked with in generations past.”

  “Yet you were ready to throw your life away?” Keresh challenged. “Risking your neck yesterday?”

  Did she owe him an explanation? Dalria decided it could do no harm.

  “I couldn’t think how to convince Master Jerban until I remembered the very first time I saw the hound. That was before my parents died, when my brother was sick with mulberry fever. But he recovered, and yesterday, I realized that must mean the heir need not always die for others to see the hound. They just have to be in mortal danger. So I decided to see if I could make him show himself.” She couldn’t help a shudder at the dizzying memory. “And yes, it was a reckless thing to do.”

  She looked up to see the spring sunshine gilding the castle’s ancient stonework. “Every man, woman, and child walks with death every single day. From the first moment when a baby draws breath, the sands in their life’s hourglass are running downwards. Those in my bloodline can see death as their companion, that’s the only difference. Believe me, it’s a gift. It’s how we know sooner than most that the key to living your life to the fullest is understanding and accepting that it will end. Then you can make the most of every day in the meantime, for yourself and for others.”

  “You truly believe that?” He was torn between disbelief and curiosity.

  “I do,” she assured him.

  He looked around at the mighty castle walls rising on all sides. “Perhaps that’s easier done in comfort than cold and wet on Eridanse’s streets.”

  Dalria could see he didn’t mean to insult her. She also saw the great hound sit up, floppy ears pricked. She could tell that he approved of this young man.

  “Why don’t you stay here and find out?” she suggested.

  “What?” Keresh was taken aback.

  “If you can turn your hand to most things, there’s always work to be done, in the castle or in the town. Besides, Master Jerban wasn’t wholly wrong. You saw those portraits for yourself. You surely have Reole blood in your veins and however it may have got there, that means you do have ties to this place.”

  As she saw tentative hope in his eyes, she offered Keresh an open hand. “You may not be my brother, but perhaps we can be friends?”

  THRICE REMEMBERED

  A. Merc Rustad

  The first thing he remembers: cold water, silted and salty. Weeds in his mouth, a clay bank under his hands. Crocodiles. Yes, he knows the crocodiles, and that the great beasts should have eaten him.

  The second: a knife against his spine. Blade pressed into skin as he retches water and his body convulses. Blood on his throat, an invitation for flies.

  The third: a chain around his neck, colder than the river. Metal links smeared in blood.

  All else has fled, for the chain steals all memories. Only these three pieces remain, gifts of iron and teeth.

  * * *

  Slaves don’t speak.

  Slaves obey.

  Slaves owe nothing to who they were before.

  The masters tell him this as he stands on the churned bank, watching the crocodiles twist and snap in blood-frothed waters. A river, but it isn’t cold. The body thrown to the beasts—what is a body?—should have been his. He almost remembers why, until the chain sucks away the thoughts in each link.

  Zuaar is what they call him, the masters in jewel-toned suits with golden skin. He looks no different than them, except he is dressed only in chains. The name means dirt, they say. Because he is dirt.

  Odd how his skin feels like fire.

  * * *

  “What do you remember?” the slave keeper asks every night.

  “Nothing,” he says. It is true every night until it’s not.

  He knows the way out of the compound, drawn by instinct, through the barred window slats, across the roof and down to the canal. To the river. It shines black and silver-blue in the night. Deceptive and still as a crocodile’s eye.

  Raaushar, the crocodiles whisper. Fire.

  Not dirt.

  But water turns dirt into mud, and fire turns mud into brick, and bricks seal the fire in kilns. Makes it a slave.

  When he returns to the compound, the chain bites deeper into his skin. But one link is weak. The memory seeps back into him, an ember from the kiln ashes.

  * * *

  By day, Zuaar serves crystalline wine and fish stuffed with honeyed olives. He waits on the masters who sit on high daises under silk shades, while acrobats and flutists entertain. Lesser slaves wield dragon-feather fans and shy away from his gaze. Men and women with bright bracelets and rings in their ears and lips watch him the way they watch the crocodiles.

  “This is dangerous,” the court whispers, and the masters—no, the first master, the god-king himself—dismiss the rumors. The king smites those with wagging tongues.

  “There is no danger. It is chained.”

  Soon the court watches him as if he is a scorpion with its tail severed and its pincers crushed.

  There are nights the courtiers want him in their beds, and he obeys. They are empty vessels and they give him no satisfaction. The chain tries to swallow what he sees, but there is still a weak link.

  On a night like all the rest, the queen summons him. Sandalwood incense fills the room; a breeze off the river lifts the sheer curtains around her bed. Her eyes are dark-lashed and brilliant as fire.

  His breath stops. This is passion. He remembers.

  “Come,” says the queen. “Speak with me.”

  He is silent.

  “Do you remember, Belruuvaw?” she asks, threading beads along a silken thread. She creates a bracelet, or perhaps a collar, with smoke-dark glass that mirrors her eyes.

  He does not.

  “My husband the god-king is wrong,” she says. He ignores he
r blasphemy. “Do not forget I opposed him in this.”

  On another night, she weaves the beaded collar about his ankle, the glass like the river’s kiss on his flesh. She never takes him into her bed.

  There are days the court wants him whipped and tormented for their pleasure.

  The pain: he remembers blood. So much blood, the river became fat and red. The whip: he recalls what it was to hold it in his hand. Perhaps that is why his palms are so callused.

  The god-king watches him, unblinking like a dragonfly. Zuaar remembers what fear looks like in another’s eyes.

  * * *

  First: the sun is less bright every day. The astrologers wail and their prayers are empty. He thinks them fools.

  Second: the god-king does not sleep. His advisors whisper in his ear, but he hears nothing. The god-king only watches the chains.

  Third: the crocodiles starve, for there are no bodies thrown into the river.

  When Zuaar watches them, they weep. He cannot ease their hunger or their grief.

  * * *

  The queen lies sick under the fading sun. She no longer speaks with him, nights he sated himself on the timbre of her voice, the caress of her words against his skin. He yearns for her. He waits, but she does not summon him, until one night she does.

  “Belruuvaw,” she says.

  He savors being in her presence, even faded. The chain eats at his knowledge, yet through the weakened link he knows she reminds him of someone he once loved.

  “We must ease her suffering,” the doctors say.

  Zuaar kneels at her side as the doctors give her asp venom in honeyed date wine. She reaches out, her hand empty against his forehead. Her reed-hollow voice dims as she whispers: “Remember, Belruuvaw.”