Chapter 9 #3
Though River has never considered the Moon-Eater to be an actual god, an has always treated him as such—not only for the sake of politics, but for the slight strain of fear River experiences now and again when the Moon-Eater does the smaller bits of his magic.
Not the shape-shifting, impressive as that is.
No, it is the tiny moments: a grin with too many teeth, eyes with more than a single pupil, an echo of words behind his words—those such things that send a chill down River’s spine, reminding an that whatever the Moon-Eater is, he is not human, nor chimera. And therefore impossible to know.
Now, when Iriset’s wife Lyric Aharté walks gracefully into the room at the Moon-Eater’s side, River must swallow back a gasp like a gut-punch.
For all the Moon-Eater’s sinuous power and occasional bluster, it is true that no people wear the red-rock color of his skin, nor the shards of blood-brick in the eyes.
To see a human so designed, elegant and quiet in bearing but with the compelling gravity of a commander, takes River’s breath away.
An will pretend to be entirely unaffected, of course.
Fortunately, an already reclines, and can set down the empty wine bowl to instead light the tip of the nearest leaf roll cigarette by dipping it into the everflame channel inset into the table.
River brings it to ans lips for a long drag.
An pulls the glow of fire as close as an can, then takes another breath of it, this time drinking in the actual smoke.
As River exhales, it filters through ans closed teeth as vivid pink smoke.
“Irsu, darling,” the Moon-Eater says, stalking into the room, “a turn please.”
River slithers to ans feet and holds out the cigarette obediently, as the other three turn together.
Iriset immediately comes to Lyric’s side.
Lyric’s surprised look is obvious even to River, and she lets Iriset touch her cheek.
The sunderer’s brows quirk up in question, but as far as Irsu can tell, Lyric doesn’t know how to respond.
She—he? az?—looks exhausted and disoriented.
Lyric tied the pleated skirt she’s wearing in the style that most locals would use to indicate femininity, but given that Lyric fell from the sky and is more similar to the Moon-Eater than the citizens of the crater city, perhaps it means nothing. River might have to plainly ask.
“Come, come,” the Moon-Eater says, pink smoke sliding through his teeth. “Let this god introduce all, and then there will be toasting and food.”
Iriset slides her hand down to Lyric’s hand and squeezes it, just as Eliri arrives to stand beside River. She does not take ans hand, occupied as it is with the returned cigarette, but brushes her shoulder to ans and glances up. She murmurs, “Are you well?”
(See, there is an informal version of Old Sarenpet—though River thinks of it simply as Sarenpet—with exactly two personal pronouns. They can be translated as you and a universal they.)
River nods.
The center of the grand water room is sunken into the floor, three circular stairs leading to vibrant blue and green tiles shaped like curving waves.
At the base of the stairs a channel runs around the circumference, full of water and tiny little living fish.
Cushions are set around a round table, in the center of which is a long channel, this one flickering with pretty blue everflames.
So much of the Moon-Eater’s fortress is an affectation of the Moon-Eater’s interest in the faraway sea.
They seat themselves. The Moon-Eater with Iriset beside him, then Lyric, and around the curve of the oval River, then Eliri, and finally Never.
Because they are beside each other, River leans toward Lyric Aharté.
With ans most languorous voice, an asks, “The style of this skirt emphasizes feminine aspects. Is that accurate for Lyric Aharté?”
Lyric’s face barely moves while digesting the question, glancing down at the skirt. “Unintentional, but acceptable. Such a thing does not matter except for being categorized, yes?”
“Yes, though category is communication,” River suggests, pitching ans tone to sound a little dismissive. “If one wishes accurate communication, accurate category is necessary as well.”
“Perhaps.” Lyric nods, looking chagrined. “This one must learn to tie it like a man.” His red-rock skin continues to disconcert River, and the brightness of his Moon-Eater eyes. Or perhaps River is merely disappointed this stranger settles for being a man.
“Such concern for such uselessness,” Never says with a curled lip.
“Words are useful,” Iriset says, though her arguing seems to be based on instinct rather than conviction, for she continues tracking her gaze on Lyric.
The Moon-Eater laughs and says, “Never hates to be called him.” It’s the masculine Sarian designation.
“And Shade has never moved past a simple boy six centuries ago,” Never responds in a soft murmur.
It is interesting to River that despite both being shape-shifters and maybe-gods, as well as old friends, the most apparent thing between Never and the Moon-Eater is friction. Perhaps it will be useful somehow.
Cups of various shapes wait at every place setting, each with its own liquid designation.
The Moon-Eater holds up two bottles, one slender-necked and glass, the other a teapot with a shallow, wide belly.
“Cactus wine or herb tea? Both?” The Moon-Eater pours both for himself, then passes the bottles down.
“Lyric Aharté knows Never, who refuses to give this fairy another name, and Lyric has met Eliri the Dedicated, this fairy’s Adept Hand.
Irsu River is Eliri’s spouse, though if a ceremony was held, this god was not invited.
” The Moon-Eater pouts dramatically, and Eliri sets the bottle on the table with a firm clank.
River ignores the attempt at melodrama. The ceremony was long before the Moon-Eater knew Eliri’s name.
Never raises its cup of wine. “To old friends,” it says in its soft, sibilant way.
“Old friends,” the Moon-Eater repeats, and sips.
“To new friends,” River says once everyone has partaken. This is one of the best teas to be found in the Moon-Eater’s fortress: bold and sharp, perfectly steeped and warm. But the liquor is even better.
“Shade really wants to know more about this thing knotted between husband and wife,” the Moon-Eater says idly, chin propped on one hand.
As Iriset describes the intricacies of what she calls a marriage knot, from seed to ritual to effects, a short parade of attendants move silently in with dishes and new place settings and a few extra lights they toss up to quiver in a dripping chandelier net.
Though River is only barely interested in the design details, an notes that while Iriset speaks clinically, Lyric Aharté avoids her gaze as if he dislikes it.
River must wonder what the tension between them is, if they share this marriage knot but not the same feelings regarding it.
An always expects meals with the Moon-Eater to be strange and fraught, but this one has barely begun and already it is obvious that these newcomers are messy.
River cannot wait to speak with Eliri alone.
And an will need to discover if Chimera fortress has already staked any claims.
Might as well stake one or two of ans own.
Lyric Aharté is a good place to start. River catches his eye and offers a subtle wink before choosing strips of charred meat for ans plate, scoops of vivid yellow rice, and a few thinly sliced vegetables paired with equally delicate slices of raw riverfish.
River offers Lyric a small bowl of dark sauce.
“River put the chili oil in it already, if Lyric likes spice.”
“Thanks given.”
“This spouse is very well acquainted with how such shoptalk meals can go, Lyric Aharté, so perhaps entertaining each other is in order,” River suggests. Lyric blinks, clearly caught up in the changing color of River’s eyes as they shift in a slow wave across the iris.
River flutters ans lashes. “This king’s eyes are beautiful, River knows, but don’t the colors get boring after a while?” It’s flirtatious, as well as guarded and maybe actually a little bit bored.
Lyric shifts in his seat in a way River reads as either embarrassed or slight attraction.
“Human architecture,” Lyric manages. He tears his gaze to the long, thin feathers in River’s hair, the boldest of which are the long primary feathers, mostly emerald green with hints of yellow.
Perhaps not embarrassed or turned on, but scandalized?
“Lyric speaks that phrase with such difficulty,” the Moon-Eater cuts in, then places a piece of fish in his mouth.
“Where this priest comes from,” Lyric says, and the Moon-Eater rolls his eyes for some reason, “it is forbidden.”
River leans back in surprise. So, an notes, does Eliri. “Forbidden?” River asks as Eliri says, “All of it? Why?”
“It’s dangerous,” Lyric answers quickly.
River says, “There must be a line, of course. Uncrossable, to hold people back from their worst impulses. So long as the practitioners support the arc of justice, experiment and effort matter.”
“What person decides what is just? What is progress?” Lyric asks. River meets his bright red-brown eyes, startled, but finds an answering compassion there, as if Lyric agrees with River but only seeks to clarify why.
“The person with the most power, of course,” River answers. “And so, despite intentions of justice and good, it always leads to violence.”
Iriset makes a noise like a laugh caught in her teeth.
The Moon-Eater shrugs. “This god has the most power in the crater city, wouldn’t River agree? And yet this god cannot be blamed for the Renovation War.”
“Perhaps for not intervening sooner,” River says fearlessly.
“That is not why Irsu River is forever dissatisfied with the Moon-Eater.” The Moon-Eater looks at Eliri, who is watching her food. River does not answer except to touch Eliri’s leg under the table.
Uncomfortable silence sticks to all of them. Lyric Aharté watches River as if he understands something he cannot possibly understand. Iriset bluntly asks, “Why is River forever dissatisfied with the Moon-Eater?”
Eliri covers River’s hand on her thigh. She does not wish an to speak the truth, River can tell. And she’s barely eating. River answers, “This lowly small king would never claim a lack of satisfaction.”
“Where Lyric and Iriset come from,” Never says slickly, eyes on Lyric, “it is no god who decides what is just, what is merciful.”
“It is judged on the basis of Aharté’s Holy Design,” Lyric says.
“But judged by the Vertex Seal,” Never spits.
Iriset Sunderer slaps her hand on the edge of the table. “It doesn’t matter now,” she insists with a strange emphasis, glaring at the Moon-Eater’s old friend.
But River wonders. An wonders why these people are together, when they clearly are not all old friends. An wonders what a vertex seal is, and what a sunderer is, and why the Moon-Eater is laughing suddenly while nobody else seems to get the joke.
Then Eliri asks, “What is Aharté’s Holy Design?” and River wonders most of all if an will ever be able to keep her safe.