Page 87 of The Shape of Monsters
Orish had said, “This is my Holy Design, my place in it.”
That, Garnet agreed with, and he admired the resolution of his predecessor just enough to ask to accompany him in the end. Lyric had agreed, if Orish did not mind, but had held Garnet’s hand and said, “This is not something I would want.”
“It won’t come to that,” Garnet said, not because he believed it, but because part of his duty was working to make sure Lyric didn’t have to think about dying.
Honestly, Garnet has always believed it would come to that, if Garnet didn’t die in the active preservation of Lyric’s life. And it has. Ithas. But he’s not permitted.
There is nobody to accompany Garnet now.
The door to the Vertex Seal’s suite opens to Garnet’s inner design, and he strides in, expecting to find the fake in the bathroom or still in bed or something, despite the fact that the fake is not a lazy person who hides from what must be done.
It’s disconcerting to find Lyric seated at the small table in the main room, picking at cheese, while the Architect of the Seal paints long stripes of pink, white, red, black, colors of mourning, down his left temple and cheek.
The fake startles, which Lyric did not do, and it bends the perfect line of Menna’s brush. She clicks her tongue, involuntary, probably, and says nothing. Garnet says, “Finish and go,” because he’s never liked Menna and even if he did, now is not the time he’s feeling kind or friendly or charitable.
He stands there, not quite glaring at the fake, who sits with ans knees pulled up and ans hands cupping them. The expression an wears is too vulnerable for Lyric. Even when they were kids Lyric never looked so soft. Lyric was a master of hiding feelings he wasn’t supposed to have by the time he was ten. Garnet never thought it was good, exactly, but the opposite is a problem.
When Menna goes, she tries to wish Lyric peace and balance on such a trying day, but Garnet exerts his only privilege and grabs her arm to shove her out. Then he and the fake are alone and he snaps, “Straighten your shoulders and wipe all expression off your face. Even if you cannot be Lyric, you must be impenetrable.”
The fake jerks upright, tension making ans shoulders and neck too rigid, lacking the casual strength and power Lyric carried. Even when he was upset, even when he was ruined, Lyric appeared serene. Garnet could always tell, but he doesn’t think others could.
“Sorry,” the fake murmurs, and Garnet grinds his teeth to keepfrom lashing out again. It isn’t the fake’s fault—it’s even less ans fault than Garnet’s. This is one more casualty to Amaranth’s manipulations, her disregard for the people she uses.
“When do we need to be at the Hall of Princes?” the fake asks, voice all wrong but holding ans chin up in a decent approximation of Lyric’s posture.
“As soon as possible. I apologize for my lateness. It—”
The fake is shaking ans head, denying, but also someone is pounding on the door with urgency, and Garnet waves the fake Lyric back toward the arched stairway as he unsheathes his long force-knife. He holds it with the blunt edge against his forearm, ready to slice up and cleave a throat in two.
Garnet flings open the door and Amaranth is there, others crowded behind her. She thrusts an unrolled scroll into his face. “Garnet! Look!” she says, and shoves it at his chest, barging past him. Garnet catches it one-handed, his long knife up and glinting in the morning light. Anis is there, red streaked across the bridge of her nose, and behind her Sidoné Rask—what—and the mirané prince Hehet méra Davith.
“Be careful with that document,” Hehet says in his usual soft voice, almost disdainful, or just distant. Garnet has never paid more attention to the mirané prince than necessary, because Hehet has avoided direct interaction with the Vertex Seal all these years. Garnet assumed there was a long game, but without more immediate threats he kept Hehet’s issues and existence on a back burner. It is not a good sign he’s here now.
Garnet lets Hehet in, but holds his arm out to block Sidoné Rask. The small king of Sharp-Shin wears a silver mask and is dressed out in layers of dark pink and armored sleeves and skirt woven with the intricately carved hardwood beads used for money in the Bow. Garnet has always liked the gentle clacking such clothes make, like a lowripple of a deep river. Part of him is glad Sidoné was able to escape the palace of the Vertex Seal, even if it required the murder of her entire family, so that she can be who her blood intended. Not locked into the body-twin role. But he misses her sometimes. “Why is Sidoné here?” Garnet asks Amaranth, holding Sidoné’s dark mirané gaze.
“She was in the temple with me!” Amaranth calls. “It doesn’t matter. Read that fucking letter.”
Garnet notes the panicky resonance in Amaranth’s voice, but tells Sidoné, “Go.”
She balks. “I know something is wrong, Garnet.”
“And you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“I want to know what it is,” she insists, hand on his wrist. She nudges at it without real strength. A question, not a demand.
And Garnet knows Sidoné cares for Amaranth. She was Amaranth’s body-twin for three years, when they were all babies, just kids with too-long limbs and breaking voices and an idea that the future could be incredible if the four of them were impenetrable. Then Sidoné was torn away to rule Sharp-Shin, because nobody else was alive to do it. And Anis entered the palace, and they were a different four. He wonders what that night would have been like if it had been himself, Lyric, Amaranth, Sidoné, and Singix. If he would feel more or less betrayed if it was Sidoné who had let him believe Singix was harmless, was good, was changing Lyric with love.
There’s no way to know.
Garnet says, “It isn’t your destiny to be part of this.”
Sidoné’s lips part, and she looks past him toward Amaranth, but Her Glory is out on the balcony, picking withered leaves off Lyric’s herbs. That won’t go well, Garnet thinks, and gives Sidoné one more pointed look before closing the door in her face. “Amaranth, don’t ruin the sage.”
She whirls around. “Did you read the fucking letter?”
Garnet forgot it was pressed against his chest and slips a glance at Hehet, who is staring at the fake with a tension around his eyes like heknows. Like he hates an. Garnet doesn’t need to protect the fake with his life, but he moves between an and Hehet anyway. His broad muscles are good for this without needing to say a word.
He takes the letter and smooths it out, and nearly drops it because he knows this writing. It’s Lyric’s hand, Lyric’s concise, gentle characters, but faded with time. The first line reads,
