Page 73 of The Shape of Monsters
“Some of the schools taught that sort of foundation, the kind of structural support that might allow designers to exist in such a way, inventing techniques and applications. But draconian regulations kept genius at bay. And I did not grow up in a design school,” she adds with a wrinkled nose. Not quite disdain, because she knows she’d have loved being in design school. “But it’s also why my ideas are so great.”
Eliri smiles, a rare smile that pinches at the corners of her eyes. “Rogue.”
“Criminal,” Iriset whispers, half hiding her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Perhaps that is why Iriset is a sunderer. Iriset was never taught limitations.”
Reminded suddenly of her father, and the little bobcat she gave wings that he murdered, she shakes her head. “Different limitations,” she allows. What would the Little Cat think of her new eye, she wonders? Not much until it proved useful beyond beauty. And Bittor—Iriset swallows, because their bone structure had been so similar, their coloring and height, everything except their eyes pointed at relation. Maybe if not for the inherited chimeric design, Bittor’s eyes would have been sandglass brown, too. Now, both of them with inhuman eyes, chimeric, apostatical eyes, they’d have been even more alike.
They continue through the five-tower cluster that surrounds the Moon-Eater’s court, to the shortest of the towers. The lower level is open to the elements on all sides, lifted up by eight twisting pillars. In the center a spiral staircase leads up, guarded by a familiar tall woman with short horns at her temples, spiky white hair, brown skin, and inset jewels along her cheekbones and jaw. Not guarded by: She’s waiting for Amado.
But Iriset is intrigued by the alcoves carved into the eight pillars holding up the tower. The alcoves are tiled with gilded blue and lit with tiny sconces that burn short red flames and smell of floral incense. Within are statues exquisitely carved from a pale wood. All are of a figure that is half human, half tree, in different seasons of the year. Some trees blossom, others grow tiny leaves, tiny fruits, or are lush and fat with greenery. Some leaves turn ruby red and ochre, and they drop, leaves held in the air, caught mid-fall.
They make her think of Never, though she’s unsure why. She hasn’t seen Never in several days.
Just then, the Chimera small king strides down the spiral stairs. He opens his mouth to speak to his companion but sees Eliri and Iriset, and his bright eyes are narrowed with displeasure. “Adept Hand,” he calls. “Sunderer. Chimera hopes the sunderer’s work goes well enough to turn toward the crater array sooner than anticipated?”
Eliri lowers her eyes, content, it seems, to pass silently.
Iriset, always ready to fight, does her best to lock her gaze on him, especially the opal. “Very well.”
He falters under her glare, but only for a breath. “That is remarkable. Does it see?”
“Perfectly,” she lies.
“And what does it see?” he asks in the passively curious voice of a master politician.
“Magic.”
“Did Iriset carve out Iriset’s own eye for Lyric Aharté in order to create this power?”
“Iriset carved out Iriset’s own eye because the defense necklace Amado the Reconciler gave to Lyric did not protect Lyric,” she says, leaning closer, narrowing her eyes, hoping there is a dangerous gleam to the opal. “But it was useful when this designer pulled it apart to make its wires into forceps and its threads into a design cage.”
For a moment, Amado only watches her, then he inclines his head as if acknowledging something. If they were in her own time, Iriset is certain she’d have a better handle on this whole situation. “In that case,” he says, “this Chimera will send over the maps and information the sunderer requested, then set a broader meeting for all to present discoveries. Moving faster will shut up some of the less enthusiastic voices. Those who have decided Iriset Sunderer and Lyric Aharté might end the emergency by being removed from the equation,” he says delicately, but with equal threat.
Iriset grimaces.
“Helica is placing the temporary shield dome in four days, despite difficulties with the infrastructure teams across fortresses. Perhaps Iriset Sunderer might take up the cause of charging the Moon-Eater to encourage recalcitrant participants.”
“This designer is merely a designer,” Iriset says. She really hates politics, much preferring someone to explain them to her and then explain exactly what role they need her to play.
“That isn’t the impression Iriset gave at the crater shrine,” Amado says.
With a grin, Iriset waves Eliri ahead, and Amado snorts. He snaps his long sleeves as he leaves them, but something about it reads to Iriset as amusement—and satisfaction.
The library of the Moon-Eater is truly filled with art. At least three stories are hollowed out, creating a tall column of light emphasized by mirrors, glass walkways, everflames, and delicate, spooling staircases and rolling ladders made of the finest wrought iron and crystal. There are shelves of books open to illustrated pages: islands and breaking waves, deep sea gardens that must be pure imagination, surely, so bright are their colors and so strange the creatures inhabiting them. There are towers of potted plants, the pottery itself works of art, burned black ceramics and cloisonné, wood worked into statues of monsters and fairies with vines falling from their chests and flowers in their hands. And the silk, oh, Iriset touches the silk hangings. Some are decorated with dripping ink mountains and finely painted runes. Others are dyed into rainbows of coral and sunset horizons. The floor is mosaicked so finely it seems like a painting, too, and Iriset steps over individual blades of grass and wildflowers so delicate they might be blowing in a real wind. She imagines she can smell the sun-warmed wheat and fluttering petals.
Instead of finding the Moon-Eater, Iriset only sees a handful of small blue birds darting around the domed ceiling.
“Oh,” says Eliri.
The birds suddenly stop flying to hover, and then three drop to perch on a long bench, while two flit to the open window. The remaining four merge together into a slightly larger blue bird that flies toward Iriset, and when she startles back, it lands in her hair anyway.
All the birds laugh. They sound like him.
More so than when he was a giant sea snake, almost more than when he flew her across the crater, this impresses Iriset.
“Moon-Eater,” she says breathlessly as he laughs. She shakes her head, but his little bird claws prick at her scalp. “I’m still healing,” she chides with absolute dishonesty. He flaps long primary feathers over her face until she smiles.
