Page 68 of The Mercy Makers
Absolute shock slackens Lyric’s features, and then he frowns. “To what end?”
She swallows and covers her eyes with her fingers—the only respect she can offer without a mask. “I lost my mother when I was young, and it was very difficult. The criminal must have resigned himself to his own death, but it is not worthy of us, of the Vertex Seal, to force him to learn of his daughter’s death suddenly, or coldly. And with no comfort at all.”
Her mirané is too good, too sophisticated for Singix, but Lyric doesn’t seem to notice. Iriset wants to peek at him, to learn the path of his thoughts, but does not.
In a moment, his hands touch her wrists, lowering them from her eyes. “Mercy,” he says softly.
“Yes, it is your Days of Mercy. For her service, may I give this little mercy to him?”
“If you give me a promise in return,” Lyric says.
“Anything.” Iriset repeats his promise, despite the risk.
The Vertex Seal holds her hands. “When we are alone, for the rest of our lives, you will not hide your eyes from your husband.”
A reply sticks in her throat. She shivers and stares into the chips of moon-red and brown that make his eyes so perfectly mirané. Iriset nods, and Lyric leaves.
She remains standing in place even after the door closes, flushing, shivering, weak, and then near laughter. It’s unbelievable she’s survived so far. But she has. Spikes of adrenaline keep her on her feet as she stares after him, terrified and utterly triumphant.
Essentially
Iriset sleeps hard all night, awakening only when Anis mé Ario enters long after the sun has risen. She draws back the thin sheets and says, “Princess,” then helps a groggy Iriset into a diaphanous silk robe with so much skirt she might as well be fully dressed.
As Iriset bathes and relieves herself, Anis softly explains that Her Glory has sent her to attend Singix because of Singix’s request to be surrounded by mirané in the hours leading to her wedding. Her Ceres attendants are being treated to a vacation of sorts, and only the ambassador complained. Is there anything Singix would have Anis say to him in particular?
Iriset says in carefully accented mirané that Erxan should join her for a morning walk. She can’t avoid him forever, after all, and better to know right away if her craftmask and disguise will pass his inspection.
Anis dresses her in what Iriset points out—hoping she gets the underclothes correct, but as Iriset acts as if she knows what she’s doing, Anis has no reason to question her. The handmaiden’s face is painted in bright lines of gold, white, and sky blueacross her cheeks and temples, and when Iriset realizes the slight mussing under her eyes is evidence that Anis hastily mopped up tears, she turns away as if to conceal her own grief. In truth, it’s wonderment. Had yet another person liked her enough in so short a time to miss her? She puts her folded hands against her mouth and waves Anis away to collect herself.
It doesn’t matter. Her last old life is as over as surely as the one before it ended.
While brushing Iriset’s hair, Anis says, “Princess, Sidoné asked me to let you know the meeting you requested is being arranged for later this morning. Please—please give the Little Cat the condolences of all the handmaidens.”
Iriset stares at Anis, breathing through her mouth in gentle shock. “I—I shall.” But she says no more, at risk of putting anything undeserving into Singix’s mouth.
The handmaiden covers her eyes respectfully, and then the ambassador arrives, worried and sweating. He clasps Iriset’s hands and speaks in rapid Ceres.
In her careful mirané, hushed to at least partially disguise her voice, Iriset says, “I would like to honor Iriset mé Isidor by speaking only in mirané, Uncle.” The endearment she says in Ceres, knowing her pronunciation is good.
Erxan squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. When he opens them, they’re watery. “Ah, Princess,” he says, obliging her in mirané. “I am so upset at the loss of our little artist.”
“It was awful,” Iriset whispers, hugging herself for effect.
He touches her elbows gently. “There, child, you’ll be well. We won’t allow anyone to hurt you. Though…” He lowers his voice. “They’re saying the poison was meant for her, because of her father. That you were the target is merely thin rumor. I was apprised of the truth. Those responsible for the investigationneeded to freely inquire after motivations and any knowledge I might have.”
Iriset nods. She blows a shaky breath. He has no reason to suspect anything. “They spoke with me for a very long time yesterday. I am frightened. But I will do my duty.”
“We shall walk to the Star Steeple Garden and show these miran you are fit, and bold.” He offers his wrist to her for escort. First, she gestures for Anis’s help with her long cape.
As they walk along the seashell paths of the garden, Iriset remains quiet, and merely pretends delicacy if she needs to avoid any topic. She moves slowly, as if aching from the weight of duty. The culture of Ceres is her best ally in this deception, for its royal women are allowed to prioritize self-care and hide strong emotions from men. To claim they’re very well and calm, but also withdraw. (A mirané woman would be expected to rage and vow revenge, to be bold and decisive in her emotions, active in pursuit of justice, and to struggle with Silence. It’s exactly how Amaranth is behaving.)
During their constitutional, Erxan pauses twice to ask if she needs to return to her rooms, or to reconsider being tended to by her own servants. Iriset explains haltingly that she wishes to ready herself for her wedding in all the mirané ways. The ritual is tomorrow at noon, and today at midday she must begin the long process of physical and spiritual preparation. Iriset was briefed on what to expect, as Singix’s appointed translator and companion: ritual baths, vows to Silence, fasting, and purification. None of that should affect her delicate architecture, but the design egg… Even thinking of it recalls vivid sense memories of whispering a lecture to Singix Es Sun, seducing her a word at a time. And worse, Iriset doesn’t know actual details of the process of making it, or to what extent it might affect her crawling design or the layered craftmask.
When they’ve wandered a long enough path to be seen by plenty of miran and palace attendants, Iriset asks Erxan to escort her back to her rooms so that she can have a bite to eat before her appointment.
“I asked to speak with Iriset’s father, in her honor,” Iriset explains.
“Ah, Princess!” Erxan’s voice alone does well to convey how appalled he is. “He is a criminal.”
