Page 93 of The Mercy Makers
She remembers, too, what she said to Amaranth that day in the Moon-Eater’s Temple, that every force is also love.
And then it’s over. The Days of Mercy end, and life in the empire returns to its structures.
Iriset is ready to put her designs into action.
The first morning of normal time, Lyric gets up early to drink his coffee and tend his adorable herb garden on their private balcony before dressing and putting on whatever mask he’ll wear for the day. Once Garnet arrives with his schedule, he’s off, and Iriset is alone.
It takes an appallingly long time to ready Singix Es Sun forleaving. As Iriset selects a silk square painted with ocean waves in undulating stripes of green, she idly mentions to Shahd that although she hasn’t worn masks yet, because in Ceres it was considered a sin to hide what was gifted to her by the demon of beauty, she thinks if she makes a mask herself, then no one need take on the burden for her. “Does that seem a thing the miran would approve of?” Iriset asks softly, affecting a bit of anxiety in her posture and voice.
Shahd hums, head tilted and smiling a little at Iriset’s Singix act, but she gamely says, “Mask making seems a very appropriate hobby, Your Glory.”
“I’ll look into it,” she agrees, and with that pin planted, she takes herself to find Amaranth with Shahd at her heels.
It is a bit strange that the Moon-Eater’s Mistress has no official office of her own, though previous Mistresses certainly have. Amaranth prefers to take meetings in a garden or the menagerie, or travel to the homes of those she’d like to persuade or investigate or intimidate. She’s likely to blow in and out like a summer storm, and uses that capricious reputation to overt advantage. The only predictable part of her day is awakening the Moon-Eater.
Today Amaranth is set up in the Bright Star Obelisk Garden, according to Shahd’s sources. On the way through the palace complex, Iriset keeps her chin up and her eyes ahead, for she is the wife of the Vertex Seal. It allows her to see the people who dart out of her way, the ones who pause to stare, and those who touch their eyes respectfully while others merely flick fingers to lashes almost dismissively. A pair of miran pause to bow, eyescovered, and Iriset hears one of them say, “—neglect my duties for that in my bed, too.” The other hushes her, and she snorts behind his hand. “Even if she understands, I’m sure she’s learning to love it.”
Iriset pauses, incensed at the insult to Singix, but before she can do more than draw an angry breath, she recalls that Singix would never respond to such words. She turns her pause into a little stumble and looks away.
Maybe it was a mistake to keep Lyric secluded, she thinks, chagrined, if it played into stereotypes the miran have assigned to the Ceres Remnants. But Shahd speeds up enough to walk at her elbow and the girl says fiercely, “By the end of the day I’ll make sure every Seal guard knows she was rude to their new consort.”
Rudeis certainly one way to put it, Iriset thinks sourly, but only murmurs her thanks.
“Your Glory,” calls an unfortunately familiar voice as they step out from under a peristyle walkway into the vivid summer sunlight.
It’s the leader of Beremé’s rival faction. Iriset wants to curse but instead smiles blandly. She has no idea if Singix has formally met him, but surely it won’t be strange if she knows the name of a prominent mirané prince. “Hehet méra Davith.”
“Introduce me to this stunning woman,” says Hehet’s companion, whose name Iriset already knows.
The lanky Hehet bows with a hand over his eyes, and the masculine-forward miran beside him does the same, but with more of a flourish.
“Your Glory, this is The First Dove Song at Dawn méra Curro,” Hehet says, “a gossip and idler. Dove, you were at the wedding feast, you know who this is.”
“Her Glory of the Beautiful Twilight,” Dove gushes. Clearly he was born in the same year as Lyric and Garnet. As the man stands, he lowers his eyelashes while sliding his gaze just to the side of Iriset’s cheek, on her ear perhaps, somehow achieving an affect that is both flirtatious and respectful.
Iriset looks directly at him, studying the planes of his face. Singix is a foreigner, after all, as so many want to remind her, so she might as well take advantage. His eyes are too small for his nose, but their vibrant color makes up for it, and his jaw and cheeks are balanced and sharp. “Do you sit on the council, The First Dove Song at Dawn?”
“I do, and mercy, Your Glory, just Dove.”
Sliding her eyes to Hehet, who boldly watches her back, Iriset asks Dove, “And did you argue for or against my marriage?”
Hehet’s eyes widen, and Dove laughs nervously. “My Silence,” he says. “For, Your Glory, I was in favor even before I heard of your beauty.”
“I was too forward in asking directly,” she immediately demurs.
“Her Glory can ask whatever she likes,” the idler promises.
Looking at Hehet again, she tilts her face consideringly. This is a good opportunity to fix another pin of her plan, so to speak. Slowly, as if carefully picking her words, she asks, “If you are a leader of the miran, and you a gossip, one of you must know more about the man who attacked the royal platform.”
Dove lights up. “Ah, yes, when you so bravely threw yourself between harm and our Vertex Seal! What a story that is, Your Glory.”
“Instinct,” she says, letting her gaze fall to the crushed white shells of the path.
“Proof, I might say, that your marriage is blessed by Aharté,” he agrees.
“Do we need proof?” Iriset frowns as prettily as possible.
Hehet puts a lazy hand on his hip. His forehead gleams with sweat, and the same already gathers under Iriset’s breasts thanks to the sweltering morning. Standing here under the sun is not good for anyone. Hehet says, “Proof is elusive in most arenas these days.”
