Page 74 of The Mercy Makers
They’re seated then at a low table before the throne, upon firm pillows that can support them for hours. Today, for thissingle day, the Vertex Seal and his wife are displayed for any to see. Ironic, Iriset is well aware.
The cavernous Hall of Princes, striped black and white, with its vaulted double dome directly overhead, fills with noise and color as the miran pour in, extravagantly draped in colorful robes and masks of wire, gold, flowers, and even pure force-lines, or crystal.
Iriset quickly loses track of the finery and who wears what. She sips her fennel liquor and holds her husband’s hand, allowing him to do most of the speaking, and she wonders what Bittor would have worn to her wedding, or her father, and she looks for Raia mér Omorose, who had been her friend, but she can’t find an. Perhaps an wasn’t invited to Singix’s wedding—or more likely an is holding some of the elaborate designs around the hall for either security or decoration. Diaa of Moonshadow, Iriset’s new mother-in-law, sweeps around as if she’s the host, mostly ignoring her son and his wife on their wedding day. Nielle mé Dari is here with her small king husband, wearing a truly appalling mask of what must be intended as an ode to the Ceres virtues based on the seven separate colors and chunky style. Iriset wishes she could tease the former handmaiden.
The food is delicious, brought out in small bites and shallow cups for quick swallowing. One course is nothing but perfumes—some effervescent as hot alcohol—another course is salad entirely made of flowers crystallized with specially designed honey. They crunch and break delicately over the tongue, sweet and hardly there.
So much energy and light swirl around her, plowing the air for her attention, that it’s difficult for Iriset to look at anyone directly until they are close enough to kill her. Someone wanted Singix dead and here she is, alive and well and almostentirely married. She attempts to note who is standoffish, but most everyone fawns over the Vertex Seal today, though one or two shoot Iriset a glare, probably just jealousy. She remembers them anyway. Iriset knows the Seal guards are hunting, too, and Garnet and Sidoné and very likely people Iriset has never even heard of scour the hall for weapons and tricks. She can only perch on her pillow and pretend nothing bothers her, she isn’t afraid, she doesn’t wonder if every mask conceals an enemy, she knows she isn’t a vivid target, of course not.
Iriset is remarkably good at pretending.
Except one moment, in the middle of it all, she feels a shiver at the nape of her neck and glances behind her.
The numen stares at her, its face half hidden behind the nearby throne. Its ruby-pink eye studies her knowingly, and once she stares back, it lifts a hairless brow, then smiles and gestures as if drinking.
It knows. Somehow, it knows.
Iriset holds its gaze. With the null collar around its withered neck, it can’t reach through design to reveal her. It might speak, though, or scream, and if it finds the right words, she’s finished.
The numen does nothing.
Lyric caresses her knuckle and she glances back at him. His gaze slides past her to it, and before he can speak, she asks, “Is it hungry? Does it eat?”
“You are kind, Singix,” he answers, with a slight censure.
She picks up her small cup of liquor and stands. Many notice, some going quiet as if expecting her to speak. But Iriset moves to the numen and offers it the drink.
The smile falls off its face as it accepts, lifting the cup in salute, and drinks every drop before setting the cup onto the edge of the step where it’s chained.
Iriset leaves it there and returns to her husband’s side. She wants to ask him about the creature, why he lets it suffer so, but suspects his answer will be irritating, and she doesn’t wish to put shadows between them already.
Lyric is the one who softly says, “I am sorry about Erxan. You have had such a trying few days.”
She nods. “Did they discover what happened?”
“Heart attack,” Lyric says, “though he seemed so healthy.”
Iriset glances at her cup to hide the relief and guilt she’s unsure she can hide. (The Ceres party has already approached and done their best to wish the couple well, and Iriset let herself cry then, and say she would pray for his ghost. And after that, she said she belonged now to the empire.)
Before the sun sets, Lyric stands.
At his signal, designers dim the lights, except for a pink-silver moon of wire and force that floats over Lyric, pouring soft light around him. He says, “Mirané princes, friends, allies, you have our thanks, and that of the Vertex Seal, for witnessing the binding of myself to my wife. This is the first day of my happiness, our future, and the seed of an alliance between us and the Ceres Remnants. These are the Days of Mercy, and as you have sought mercy from the Vertex Seal, I ask you in return for the mercy of your good wishes, your hopes, and your accordance with Silence. Tomorrow is the Crowning Sun, and you are all invited to the ritual that shifts the angle of days from rising to falling. When you see me again, I will be re-formed by the will of Aharté into a new man.”
Lyric looks down at Iriset, holding his hand to her. She takes it and lifts herself to her feet beside him. He twines their fingers together and faces the assembly again. “A joyful, strong, resilient, and complete new man.”
For a moment Iriset lets herself believe what he says: that their marriage will make him better.
They retire, followed only by Amaranth, Sidoné, Garnet, and Beremé. Lyric doesn’t release her hand, and Iriset clings to him. Direct to his private rooms he leads her, up and up one of the palace towers, and at the door he pauses.
“Thank you,” he says to their entourage. “We will manage. Unless…” He glances a question at Iriset, who lowers her head and shakes it.
Garnet steps forward and puts his hand on Lyric’s neck, a thumb against his jaw. “Brother,” he murmurs.
Lyric smiles. “Always.”
Amaranth mirrors Garnet’s gesture, only puts her hand on Iriset’s neck. “Sister,” she says softly—wickedly. But Lyric’s hand tightens encouragingly around hers, and Iriset smiles for the Moon-Eater’s Mistress.
Then Beremé, with a coyote’s sharp smile, offers them a long white scarf of silk. Near a hundred jewels are sewn into it, in every possible color. “For your pillow,” she says. “Each prince of the mirané council contributed a precious gem, attached by their own hand.”
