Page 44 of The Shape of Monsters
Lyric turns away. “We don’t need to readdress this. We were not meant to be married, partners, anything. It was politics and blackmail, yes, I understand.”
“Lyric—”
“You want me to dig, Iriset?” he demands, suddenly furious again. “Amaranth made you marry me, butyousaid you loved me.Youtalked to me, encouraged me, pretended to be mine, that we were, ah sweet Silence, Iriset—you’re the one who made me feel loved. Made me believe I deserved you. Deserved to be happy. And then used that to undermine my life, my family, my empire. That’s what I truly deserved, isn’t it.” He stops, reins himself in with a long breath through open teeth. Calmer he says, “I can accept that. I know what I’ve been made to be, what I’ve embraced and chosen, and maybe you are every bit the vengeful, glorious retribution you tried to make yourself.” Lyric backs up, turns to grip the door of the wardrobe just for something to squeeze. “But here, even with all that swept away, how can I look at you without remembering? How can I let myself be vulnerable enough to touch, to love, to hate, to—to feel anything, when the vehicle of my devastation is looking at me the way you look at me?”
Iriset’s lips part, and she takes a startled step backward.
“I can’t build something new with you,” Lyric confesses. “Our foundation is eaten through. But you do belong here. You have a wild, breathing Moon-Eater, a god of apostasy. Whatever you choose to do with him, with this place and its power. It’s in your hands now. So remake the world, Iriset. I know you can.” He ends on a whisper. His chest is so tight, he wishes he’d eaten so he could throw up. But he has to say this. He has to believe it, to trust the Holy Design. How can he do anything but cling to Aharté’s will? Even if what he wants is for this apostate to remake the worldfor him, for their future. He can’t just make her do it. He can’t make her do anything.
In absolute quiet, they stand there. Iriset apparently has nothing to say, and Lyric tries not to say any more. Tries not to spit out the bile churning in his gut—it’s all for himself anyway.
Finally, he starts pulling the rest of the clothes on. Iriset moves closer and helps, finding the armhole and the right ties for his waist. She keeps her eyes down, gentle like Singix, and he wonders how much of that was an act. He doesn’t think the sex was a lie, so maybe this sort of care wasn’t, either. Is this how Iriset treats things that matter to her? Her most precious designs. He thought she was pregnant only a quad ago, and imagined her holding a child, longed for it, secretly wished they could be anywhere but the palace of the Vertex Seal, because he meant it all those years ago when he told his uncle he hated the thought of subjecting his child to his own childhood. No matter how loved he’d been. Lyric never would abandon his throne, his family, the mirané people and all the rest of the empire. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t dream about it.
Iriset adjusts the collar of the robe and sorts through the options until she finds a sheer vest that hangs past his knees. It’s pale gray, shimmering with iridescent embroidery. “There,” she says. “This dress makes you look soft. And your eyes vibrant.”
It would be nice to be soft, soft and luscious like Amaranth, made for loving, not this hardened tool his father forged. Maybe here, like Iriset suggested, he can remake himself in Aharté’s image a little bit. He’s already using her name. A calm, just goddess. Made to love. Nobody outside of the priesthood ever sees the love in Silence, but Lyric always knew it was there. It’s part of Aharté’s name.
In his prolonged quiet, they finish getting dressed. Iriset tells him to sit on the stool and he closes his eyes, and she paints lines against his lashes and something small and swirling on his freckled cheek. She puts a little color on his bottom lip and tells him to smear it around. He does, looking up at her, and Iriset touches his jaw verylightly, inspecting him. “Good,” she says, then paints her own face very lightly and they take turns with each other’s hair. Lyric isn’t quite ready to ask her to teach him how she knots hers, instead twisting pieces of it into a triplet of buns. He adds a small decorative comb inlaid with turquoise, and when he’s satisfied with its placement he looks up and catches her watching him in the mirror. Her expression is solemn.
Lyric lifts his brows in question.
Iriset takes his hands. “I have to tell you something.”
His stomach drops. “All right.”
“Last night the Moon-Eater told me about the Night of Chimeras. The whole city celebrates, and it’s the closest to a religious festival they have. They make bonfires everywhere, and everyone dresses up like chimeras—some probably have design masks and more for it. It’s the only time they wear masks here,” she says with an amused tone that fades quickly. “Children go around and knock on doors and ask for design trash and special candy. They take the design trash home to their bonfires, or gather at communal fires, and at the end of the night, in honor of the red god they sacrifice it all. Burn it. Their masks, unfinished designs, broken and used-up design palettes or tools, anything so long as they were meaningful at one time. And actual chimeras, Lyric. The unwanted ones, the failures—”
“Stop,” he says, cutting across the air with his hand. “Stop. No.” Lyric walks away, across to their bedroom and directly out onto the balcony. He can’t feel his fingers and rubs his forefingers and thumbs together: numbness, a slight tingling.
“I’m sorry, Lyric,” she calls gently.
“You can’t mean they’re going to kill Setka,” he tells the morning sky. “She’s a child. She’s fine—there’s nothing wrong with her except some pain in her broken tail, and she’s not unwanted. She’sfineandwants to learn balance, or to be a gardener. Her father was going to take her apart and then the Moon-Eater let her stay here, let her—why would he do that only to sacrifice her like this? Just because she’s a chimera? Someone else made that choice, someone else should pay the price. She’s innocent.”
As soon as he says it, Lyric stops. Stops speaking, stops breathing.
Silence hits him then. A great moment of clarity. It snaps into place, coalescing around him in sharp fractals. The pattern, the Holy Design of it all, the world and sky and time and his heart and his past and his future.
Lyric sees it, and then it’s gone, only a fading sunspot against the blue sky and rolling gardens and stream of water arcing up past the trees like a rainbow before splashing down down down again.
He knows why the Moon-Eater made this festival. And it’sbecausesometimes it affects the innocent. This is how to control something uncontrollable. Create a narrative that gives chaos the illusion of design. Let apostasy run rampant because once a year it gets reined in. This is the only law of design the Moon-Eater enforces, Lyric would wager his life.
And it works because sometimes the festival is a release valve, sometimes it’s catharsis, but it always has to hurt. He knows, because he’s done the same. What else are the Days of Mercy?
Lyric sinks to his knees at the balcony threshold. Is it hypocritical of him to want to save Setka? He certainly can’t ask Iriset. He knows what she’ll say, and that she’ll be correct.
But for the first time Lyric son of Esmail, the last Vertex Seal, truly wonders if there might be another way to rule. A different balancing scale that is just as effective but does not knowingly allow innocents to come to harm. Surely. Surely.
“Iriset.” Her name has always felt good in his mouth. Sharp and direct.
“I’m here,” she says, sounding like she’s eating.
Using the doorframe, Lyric hauls himself up and joins her where she’s picking at breakfast he hadn’t even noticed was there. He makes himself pluck a piece of green melon and eat it, though the juice breaks over his tongue too much like lies and he can barely swallow it. Iriset meanwhile has eaten half the fish and nearly a bowl of the rice pudding. “Did you ever think I would grant mercy to your father when you asked?”
Iriset’s hand slowly lowers, plunking the full spoon back into the bowl. She looks at him incredulously. “What?”
“You asked. I remember. Before the rest of it, Singix and the Silk rebels, that must have been the reason you entered the palace. Agreed to be Amaranth’s handmaiden. To free your father, either by plot or begging mercy.”
She drags her bottom lip between her teeth. “I had to hope. Despite evidence to the contrary.”
