Thirteen: Expurgation

Ra pushed herself up from the cold floorboards, stiff and empty, her elbows shuddering with weakness. She lay on the floor of a rented room with no idea of the passage of time. Not too long, she supposed, or the tavern keeper would have come wanting his money and found this corpse of a woman on his floor. Deep furrows were gouged into the boards, and there were splinters beneath her nails. Perhaps she’d been trying to dig her way back into the grave.

She climbed to her feet and peeled off the dirty gown. As she lowered her arms with the cloth in a ball inside her fist, she saw her reflection. In the mirror over the washbasin, warped and fissured, stood a naked woman, disheveled lengths of black hair clinging to her breasts. The empty woman stared at her. Ra couldn’t place her with herself. She dropped the gown and threaded her fingers through the patch of hair between her legs, and with the other hand she covered one breast and squeezed it cruelly. Why had she bothered with this flesh? She might have been what Jak wished to be: truly unsexed.

What had driven her from peaceful oblivion to create this pointless shell? It took tremendous will to form the body from thought, an ardent desire for life. She couldn’t have had either of these, after…after. Had she come for revenge? Had she meant to punish Ahr for her sins? Ra pitched forward in the grip of nausea and swallowed bitter acid in her throat. She ought to eat, but that would only prolong things. She straightened again and looked into the marred reflection. The woman was starving. Let her. She spat at herself, and watched the spittle slip down the glass.

Ra conjured a simple garment in the style she’d seen on commoners upon her arrival. She chose black, a dress that covered her from head to toe, with long, straight sleeves that covered the backs of her hands, and a skirt with a high waist. She wore her boots; those would do. The sable cloak would not. It was an absurdity. Instead, she manufactured a light, hooded cloak of flax, again in black, and hid her Meerish hair beneath it. Between her head and the hood, she draped a thin scarf of translucent white to form the veil that would protect her face from curiosity and disguise her as a virgin—which, technically, she supposed, she was.

As she wound the cloth about her throat and drew the hood over her head, she looked once more in the mirror. The image stung her with the force of raw memory peeled back like skin torn from her flesh. The last face MeerRa had seen had worn such a veil, a veil that had fallen only as one more assault against him.

The Meerchild’s drawings were subdued. Nesre cursed himself for the foolishness of his outburst. It had damaged the child’s confidence at the worst possible moment. The child continued to draw as if compelled, though it watched him in fear when he came to collect them, but there were no specifics to the images it was now creating.

In the latest, MeerRa gazed at his own reflection, as if watching Nesre somehow through the dark glass of the scrying chamber. Nesre studied the image with its dark, piercing eyes. Like all Meer, he had a face that transcended the beauty of masculine or feminine. They would have made lovely concubines if not for the potent venom of their speech.

The details of the room in which the mirror hung were sparse but clearly Deltan. If nothing else, the prelate knew MeerRa was somewhere among them. It would only be a matter of time before he came to exact his revenge upon the templars who’d betrayed him. The trail from the wasteland had grown cold, without another word from the Meerhunter, Pike. It was time for Nesre to inform the Prelate of Rhyman.

On the street, she walked swiftly, following the scent that had driven her to In’La instead of Rhyman. One of them was here. One of her accursed breed survived here in hiding, and she would draw him out. The scent propelled her into the marketplace. She passed the red and yellow rows of fruit, brown hills of bread, blue waves of fish laid end to end on top of one another. None of this mattered. This was not what she hungered for. Among the awnings that advertised burnished pottery, clockwork gadgets, and ironworks, she found what she sought. An old woman sat on an overturned bin, a dirty pail in front of her. She raised her cataract-dulled eyes to Ra’s and lifted the bucket.

“Five bits for a lump,” she rasped. Her fingers were stained with the soot of her trade.

The smell of Meeric blood was on this woman, but she was withered and weak. Was this what had become of her arrogant race? She could hardly be a threat to anyone, but no matter. Ra would do what she’d come to do. She drew her hood tighter about her face and took a preparatory breath, but the old woman spoke first.

“Vetma ai MeerRa.”

Ra stopped short. It was the refrain of a petitioner: Bless me, oh MeerRa. In the post-Expurgation Delta, it was a threat. The Meer recognized her and had let her know it.

“How do you know me?”

But the old Meer simply rose with her pail and shuffled past her. Ra followed her through the rows of crabs and shellfish and out of the market. The Meer led her along the bustling street through a landscape of wire rims and peculiar fumes from the two-wheeled contraptions that were the rage here. Ra kept her eyes on the old one, afraid she would disappear into the clouds of smoke.

They came to an alley, where the woman paused at the basement grate of a darkened building and fished a key out of her pocket. She turned the lock with arthritic fingers, lifting the grate and climbing down into the well below. Ra pursued her with the same steady purpose, descending into the old woman’s cell.

The Meer set down her coal bucket and tottered to the stove, picking up a greasy kettle that had been warming over the embers of a cooling fire. “A warm drink is what’s called for.”

Ra made a swift move behind the crone and struck her. The woman stumbled into the stove with a cry of surprise, and Ra brought an arm across the Meer’s throat and crooked her elbow around it, intent on breaking the ancient neck. Unexpectedly, she met with resistance.

The old woman dislodged her and turned, and a previously unsteady hand struck Ra across the face with the force of a red-hot iron. Ra sprawled on the floor, limbs folding like broken sticks beneath her. Before she could recover, the Meer leapt on her with ferocity and slashed her face with nails like splintered glass. Ra cried out, unable to shove her off.

Blood sprayed across her vision, and Ra threw her arms over her head with a howl of terror. The sight of blood in her eyes—not the slow, dark seep of tears, but the bright red gush of injury—was the last vision of MeerRa’s battered mind on the steps of Temple Ra.

The old Meer dug her fingers into Ra’s lacerated cheeks and jerked, forcing Ra’s attention on her face. When Ra looked, however, it was no old woman, but a strong-shouldered, majestic creature no older than Ra with waves of bright mahogany hair that showered over them both. Ra felt she ought to know the face, but if she did, it was a memory so distant it had been lost in the fog of time, long before her flawed and ill-conceived renaissance. Something about the face instilled her with an instinctive terror that made her afraid her bladder might fail her.

“MeerRa!” The Meer pierced Ra’s bloodied vision with eyes as green as dragons and dark as her trade. “A thousand dead Meer cannot bring Nana back.” Ra’s breath caught on a sob. The Meer shook her, sending a bolt of pain through Ra’s skull. “You must abandon this. You cannot complete the Expurgation.”

Ra closed her eyes, trying to turn her head in the impossible grip. “There should be no more of us.”

“If you believed it,” said the Meer, “you would not have come. You left the solace of oblivion to retrieve your pain.”

“No. I returned as a coward.”

The Meer softened her grip. “You gathered your pain to you without mercy.” She stroked Ra’s hair beneath the fallen veil. “Poor monster in the mirror,” she said, and then kissed Ra savagely, searing her tongue between Ra’s teeth and drawing Ra’s tongue into her mouth as though she would drink the blood from Ra through it. The Meer released her after this curious violation and stood.

“Who are you?” Ra gasped, afraid of the answer.

The flawless face rippled with an unreadable expression. “I am Shiva.”

“MeerShiva. Meershivá.” The name became an oath upon her tongue. Ra averted her eyes as if Shiva’s might turn her to stone. She touched her fingers to the blood on her cheeks, stunned. Shiva’s power was legendary. Ra couldn’t understand why the Meer hadn’t simply broken her spine and dispensed with her, or spoken a word to sunder her without bothering to dirty her hands.

Ra shook her head. “Why do you live like this?”

Shiva gave her a dark smile. “You are not the only Meer who dines on guilt.”

Ra drew in her legs, one aching sharply, possibly broken, and rocked forward on her knees with a moan. “I am gorged on memory.”

“Rest here, MeerRa.” Shiva’s voice was soft and soothing. Before Ra could answer or protest, the room grew gray and distant, and she slept.

The Meerchild trembled at the images that came to it now, hissing in fear and alarm as it watched the events unfold in the darkness of the glass. There were two now, and the child felt the blood of the other as a wild, electric strain within its own that it hadn’t been aware of before. Instinctively, it shied from putting down the image of the other in the light and shadow of the marks from its charcoal stub.

It backed away from the parchment and retreated to the safety of its worn straw pallet. The Meeric flow was loud and crackling with energy, as if the dark glass into which the child peered would shatter and the minute slivers fly forth and blind it. The child had been content before, unaware of anything beyond itself except the simple drawings that came to it, which had satisfied the Master. Now images came to it that it dared not express. But the Master would still want his drawings.

The Meerchild rocked, humming to itself, the rushing, spring-rain sound of its habitual gesture with its fingers no longer comforting. Its skin prickled with danger. It whispered Ra’s name in awe, too afraid to say the other.

They’d come farther north this time than they’d ever been. The only thing farther was the icy sea. At least the weather was no more miserable here than in the western highlands; it was as good a place as any.

As always when they traveled, however, Ume had to assume the identity she’d been born with, for safety’s sake. Highwaymen were less likely to prey upon two men traveling together, and no one was looking for Cillian Rede. Cree tried to cheer her up by making a game of it—Ume wasn’t taking off an identity, she was putting one on, cross-dressing as male. Cillian Rede, said Cree, was Ume’s “drag” persona.

With the wardrobe Ume had been forced to leave behind at Mole Downs, the only dress she had now anyway was the sapphire silk, and after the dunking she’d taken, it was good for nothing but scrap. The first thing she intended to do when they settled was buy a bolt of cloth and get to work on a new gown. The bits of velvet that were salvageable could be ties and accents. If she could find a nice silvery gray moiré, the sapphire would be quite striking against it. The dress was already coming together in her head.

Cree climbed into their makeshift tent in the back of the cart after setting the traps for breakfast. “What are you scheming about?”

Ume grinned, smoothing the velvet silk over her lap. “Just a bit of dressmaking.”

“Well, as long as you’re in drag, I was thinking…” Cree had an odd expression, and Ume’s brow wrinkled, waiting for her to go on. “Perhaps…you could be my highwayman.”

“I could what?”

It was difficult to tell in the dim light from their fire, but Cree appeared to be blushing. “Just a—a game. To pass the time.”

Ume’s lip curled up in a sly smile. “I see. You want me to accost you and take advantage of you.” Cree was decidedly blushing. Ume set the dress aside and pushed Cree onto her back, looming over her. “And just how long have you been harboring this perverse little fantasy?”

Cree’s heart was beating faster as Ume held her down. “Just—since Mole Downs.”

Ume pressed herself against her, her erection grinding roughly between them. “And I suppose you’re a damsel in distress, all alone in this rickety cart.”

Cree swallowed while Ume ran her tongue over her throat. “No, not a damsel, exactly.” Her voice was rough with arousal. “A young man out on my own for the first time.”

Ume gave her a look of mock dismay. “Why, Mr. Silva!” She rose up on all fours and grabbed Cree’s short-cropped curls at the nape, forcing her onto her belly. Cree made a soft moan of highly aroused alarm. Ume yanked up on her hair. “Unbutton those pants and slide them down, boy.” She growled the words in Cree’s ear, and Cree swiftly obeyed. Ume pressed against the firm ass, her cock, still inside her own pants, straining against the fabric. “You do as I say, and I won’t hurt you,” Ume whispered roughly, working her way down her buttons against Cree’s skin. “Least, not more’n I have to.”

“Yes, sir!” Cree gasped. Her breathy sounds of convincing fear were incredibly arousing.

She put her lips against Cree’s ear. “You ever been done by a man before, boy?”

“No, sir,” Cree whimpered.

“Not even a cock in your mouth?” Cree let out an insensate moan in answer, and Ume rose up on her knees, straddling her, as she released an almost painfully hard erection from her open pants. “Roll over.” She grabbed Cree’s hair at the crown as Cree obeyed, and hauled her up to sitting.

Cree opened her mouth a bit too eagerly, but as Ume brought her forward, a sound outside the cart arrested them both—the distinct sound of footfall in the hard-packed snow.

“Shit,” Cree hissed.

Ume let go of her as they both scrambled to right their clothing. Heart pounding, she grasped in the pile of supplies in the corner for a mallet they’d salvaged from the mill, certain highwaymen had found them after all.

Cree, pants hastily buttoned, grabbed up the shotgun as the footsteps came closer, pointing it at the opening of their canvas tarp. “Who’s there?” she demanded in her deep contralto.

“Do not be alarmed.” The voice was female, and its owner stepped into view, a tall, willowy woman in a cloak of deep green, a length of fair hair spilling out of the hood.

“It’s you,” Cree gasped, lowering the shotgun.

“You?” Ume stared. “You, who?”

“This is the woman who treated my wound when I was stabbed.” Cree blinked as if she wasn’t sure she was awake, and certainly the scene had a dreamlike quality, so Ume could hardly blame her. “The Caretaker.”

The woman inclined her head and then turned and began walking away. “Come,” she called over her shoulder. “You court danger here.”

“Who in the name of the gods is the Caretaker?” Ume demanded, her fist still clutched tight around the hammer.

Cree was already climbing out of the cart, the shotgun lowered at her side. “I told you, she treated me. She gave me some kind of healing tincture and stitched me up, but I don’t remember how she got me off the street.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Ume bundled herself in her coat and scarf, tossing Cree’s hat at her as she grabbed her own knit cap.

“Because,” said Cree, with a touch of annoyance. “It sounded weird when I thought about telling you. I thought I’d dreamt it.”

“Well, how could she be all the way out here?” Ume hissed as they hurried over the snow to catch up to the woman. “Did she follow us?”

Cree shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out when we get where we’re going.”

“Which is?”

The woman ducked into a dense cluster of pine, the dark undersides of the branches blending with the shadows. Ume pulled back on Cree’s arm as she moved to follow. “This could be a trap.”

“If she meant us harm, it would have been just as easy to set upon us at the cart.” Cree ignored Ume’s anxious tugging and ducked under the damp branches, and Ume hurried after, afraid Cree would disappear into the darkness. As she lifted her head on the other side of the low-hanging branches, Ume stopped with a gasp. The trees—and the woods altogether—had dissolved like wet paint slipping down a canvas, and they stood in some kind of primitive stone lodge. She looked back, and there was only a hazy suggestion of a door behind her.

“What in the world? Where are we?”

The strange woman lowered her hood and gave her a cool, unnerving smile that didn’t quite touch her pale gray eyes, glinting in the light of a cozy fire. “You have come under the hill.”