Page 55 of The Mercy Makers
Her emotions pepper and spike, knocking their peaceful circle off-center.
Lyric glances down, concern obvious. “Iriset.”
Her name whispered, their hands together, this shiver in her loins.
Oh no, she thinks.
“What’s wrong?” Lyric asks. His thumbs brush hers.
Iriset flashes her gaze to his, then down again to his neck. His robe is open over a long shirt, and the shirt’s collar laced just to the hollow of his throat. She lies, “It surprises me to hear you speak of the Apostate Age. To take seriously anything written then.”
“History is something to learn from, not fear,” he says. “Even terrible history. Especially terrible history.”
“Surely not everything from that age was terrible.”
“People were people, some good and some bad, and some in between. But their ways were unnatural, against the will of Aharté. They allowed too much mutation and corruption. The laws were terrible. People are their laws. Their society.”
Iriset bites her lip, wanting to argue.
Lyric says, “You don’t like our laws.”
“Some of them,” she admits softly. “Some do not seem to serve people as well as they might.”
“The Little Cat—”
“I do not mean my father. He broke laws regardless of how they served the empire. I love him, I understand what he is. I want you to—” She stops, slipping her hands free of his grip.
The Vertex Seal lets his hands fall to his thighs. “No. Isidor the Little Cat is too dangerous. I’m sorry.”
Iriset lifts her knee over the bench and turns away. “He cannot hurt you. He never threatened the Holy Design. There are many other murderers and smugglers in the undermarket, giving plenty of miran what they want.”
“But none that so thoroughly promote apostasy.”
He means human architecture. He means Silk. Her fault, again.
“She is dead,” Iriset snaps quietly. She stares at the ruffled lilies.
“Paser mé Ferrin,” Lyric murmurs. “Her core unraveled and reworked by Aharté’s hand.”
Iriset cannot believe he knows Paser’s whole name. As if he cares. And prays for her, too!
“I did not kill her, Iriset. She was killed in prison, by someone paid to do it. Most likely by your father before she could reveal his secrets. I wanted her alive. I wanted her to recant and take the Glorious Vow.” Frustration tinges his words. “Better for the infamous Silk to forswear human architecture than die a martyr to it.”
She scoffs, but there’s little power behind it.
Lyric touches the tips of his fingers to her back, between her shoulder blades. Iriset presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, squeezes her eyes closed. He removes his touch and says, “Have you taken the Vow? Amaranth told me you were apprenticed with Silk and are talented enough to impress the palace architects.”
“I have not.” What she means isI will not.
“Do you believe in it? The mandate against human architecture is the most sacred of Aharté’s laws.”
Something in his voice makes her look at him. It’s too darkto read his expression well, but if she didn’t know better, Iriset might think Lyric méra Esmail His Glory is desperate for her to agree. Invested in her opinion.
The safe response isOf course.But after tonight the Days of Mercy begin, and knowing now her father can expect no pardon from Lyric, her plot with Bittor is the only way. This game is ending; she’ll never have a chance to speak with the Vertex Seal again, to affect his thinking. As much as she might like to.
Iriset bends to pick upThe Seven Hundred Declarations of Safiyah the Bloody. She offers it back to His Glory, gaze lowered. “She ascended because an assassin used architecture to murder her brother. But not human architecture. Any designer might use the forces as tools for good or evil. Might the same not be said of human architecture? There is good it can do.”
“Healing? I know the arguments, but Aharté cannot trust us with the temptation. I cannot risk my city or empire on wagering that people will choose good.”
