The Sacred Band (52 page)

At least he could say he had not squealed at any point during the rapids. The same could not be said of the first time he saw the slick side of a scale-leech. He did not actually notice when it happened, for the writhing in the water all around the shells drew all his attention. Long, thick eel-like things slithered beneath them, bumping against the shell and almost tipping Dariel in. Their heads, when he saw one gnawing along the rim of the shell, were entirely mouth, teeth, and sucking lips that were instantly the most horrible sight Dariel ever recalled having seen.

The others jumped into motion. The rowers took up oars and went to work. Passengers stayed low. Harlen shouted for Dariel to draw the river knife sheathed on the wooden rowing frame. Dariel twisted one wrist painfully in the rigging ropes. He had no intention of falling into the water now. Clutching the weapon with his free hand, the prince snapped his head from side to side each time one of the creatures appeared. Awkwardly off balance because of the rhythmic surging of the rowing, he fought to see past Bashar and Cashen, who darted around him, barking madly. He stabbed several of the leeches. They squirmed away all the faster when cut.

“That’s … the only problem … with the shells,” Harlen said, panting hard as he pulled. “The scale leeches … remember how tasty … their old owners … were.”

When the creatures finally left off their thrashing, Harlen explained that they lived in territorial groups. They had only to row through their territory to gain a reprieve before they passed into another group’s region, and then the same again. Despite the real danger of them, after that first encounter it was his squeal that the group most focused on, not the creatures themselves. He was not at all sure he had made any alarmed sound at all, and would not accept Birké’s effeminate imitation as accurate, but it was no use protesting.

Nor could he get any traction out of pointing out that Tam and Anira both took unintentional underwater excursions. Nor that two shells flipped over during the voyage. Nor that one of the young men passed too close to a flowering plant that made him break out in hives that, with his wolfish shivith spots, made him look truly bizarre. Nor that a couple, unfortunate in the spot they chose for their clandestine lovemaking, sprouted full-body rashes caused by the weeds they had bedded down in. None of that carried the humor of the frightened squeal Dariel doubted had ever escaped him.

Through it all Dariel came to laugh more easily at himself, with others, at the bizarreness of the world, and with a joy of discovery that shoved aside the burden of responsibility every now and then. He knew even as the days passed that the things he saw along the river would be lasting memories in his mind ever after. And he knew that the time spent with that small company would, someday, be just as precious to him as his days at Palishdock and sailing the Outer Isles.

So he laughed his way down the Sheeven Lek to the coast. He kept it up right until the river split into myriad channels of its delta. They floated through water growing brackish, patrolled by armored crabs, and leaping with prawns. They landed at a point not far from where he had watched the soul vessel go up in flames. They pulled the shells well up the bank, and stripped down their supplies for overland travel, and flipped them over. They hiked into the undulating ridgeline of sand dunes that hid the ocean. Reaching one of the heights, Birké, who was in the lead, stopped and crouched down. He motioned that there was something to see. Dariel sprinted with the others. He dropped flat on the sand as the wind coming over the peak mussed his hair and smacked blood into his cheeks. He saw then what Birké had seen.

Out there past the breakers, which curled in long, massive waves, stretched a rough sea dotted with vessels. League brigs, fast clippers, several of the sleek soul vessels. There went his enemy. Against them, his war was about to resume.

Corinn stared. Eaters, she thought. That’s what they were. Flesh eaters. Little monsters with teeth ringed around a circular mouth. They had flown as fast as angry hornets when they attacked her, propelled on an inundation of song. A malignant spell cast from Nualo’s mouth to hers. They ate through Corinn’s flesh for as long as the curse that gave them life rang in the air. Several frantic moments in which they swarmed her lower face. Their chewing and writhing had been such a loud garble, frantic and horrible, that for those moments they were her entire world.

By the time she wrapped her face in her shawl to hide it from others in the Carmelia, the eaters had already completed their work. They died inside her flesh. There they remained. She could feel them. She ran her fingers over the segmented ridges of their bodies. They were part of her, dead husks that she could feel half submerged in her tissue, their corpses hued the same chestnut brown as her skin.

Staring at her reflection in her dressing table mirror, she could see them. She sat there, straight-backed on the stool, looking into the glass as she had a hundred thousand times before. The room was still. True silence. Empty. She had made everyone leave, even the servants who would normally have plastered themselves invisible and forgotten against the walls and behind drapes. She was alone. The long, thin sliver of a knife rested within arm’s reach on the dresser, but she only had eyes for the mirror.

What looked back at her this time was impossible to look at. And yet she did. If she could have screamed she would have. She would have given in to panic and ripped her fear into the world with shrieks. But she couldn’t. One thing she would never again be able to do was scream. The fact of it was more horrible still, enough so that she could only stare, stunned to a place on the other side of terror.

The eaters had not consumed her flesh. They had processed it. They had curdled its substance. They swallowed it in from one end and expelled it out the other, turning her flesh into a thick paste that congealed in such a manner that where her mouth had been there was no mouth. Tough, doughy-looking flesh covered her lips, making her lower face a stretch of mottled skin. All this in a few frantic seconds. And there it was.

She would never be able to eat or drink again. She knew this, but she also knew that it did not matter. She would not die from hunger or thirst. She could feel it. Hunger was something she would not face again. She would waste away, yes, but it would happen very slowly. The Santoth wanted her alive until they got what they wanted. It would be an unbearable wait.

She ran her fingers over her damaged flesh. There. That was it. She could not speak. She could not say a word of explanation to anyone. She could not even hide behind a veil and issue orders. She could not use the song. It was in her head, just as before. It hummed and thrummed and banged against the sides of consciousness, but she could do nothing about it. Without a mouth to speak it, all her knowledge was useless. It raged like a cyclone confined to the dimensions of her skull. Just like that, with one malignant spell, Nualo had trapped all her weapons inside her.

You are hideous, she thought. There was something freeing in acknowledging it. It was a proclamation she could almost wrap around herself and be encased within, her funereal shawl. It was a tempting notion. Silent death. Leaving all this. You are hideous, best to turn inward and cease to be. How could you have been so stupid? You stupid bitch. Stupid, ugly, fool of a—

“Don’t say those things.” Hanish appeared behind her. He stood at her shoulder, studying her reflection. Corinn’s eyes snapped to him. He was so close. Solid. Just there behind her, looking too much like a living man. “They’re not true.”

She felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. This ghost version of him had never touched her. She had thought he could not, but she felt the weight of his four fingers, his thumb moving in a circle. For a moment she was glad of him, didn’t hate him, didn’t want him gone. The moment did not last. What could he offer her that was more soothing than death?

Leave me
, she ordered.

“No, I won’t,” Hanish said.

Leave me
.

Hanish shook his head. “I can’t. Banish me if you can, but I don’t think you can do that. You are stuck with me. And I with you.”
Leave me
.

After a time, Hanish said, “Corinn, have you forgotten that you imagined this before? In your dreams you did. You knew this would happen. You just didn’t understand your own vision. Do you remember?”

She had not until he asked, and then she did. It came back as a set of images leering at her through a haze of forgotten dreams. For a time she had lived through the same nightmare over and over again. It began with Aliver returning to life. Just as she wanted. Just as she later sang him into reality. With joy at all the fine things this meant, she had dashed through the halls of the palace. That was how she came to find him, the figure with his back turned to her. All the joy vanished. The man turned …

“And it was I,” Hanish said.

Yes, it had been he. The same beautiful man, lean and golden haired, with his dreamer’s eyes. He had worn a black thalba, snug around the torso that she had so loved to wrap herself around. He wore the same now. But then, in the dream, his mouth had been sewn shut on her orders. Needle and dark thread through the lips she had kissed, pinching the soft tissue. She had placed a mass of jagged fishhooks in his mouth before sewing it shut, so that he would swallow them and be shredded from the inside.

“You wanted me to suffer. I remember it now. It’s your dream, but I remember it. And the worst part …” He stopped, pulling back from it.

The worst part
, Corinn acknowledged,
was that I changed my mind. I tried to run to you to undo it, but then you were not you. You were our son
.

“I became Aaden.” He smiled. “Dreams are frustrating devils, aren’t they?”

How could she have forgotten that? It was not even so long ago that this dream had tormented her. Just a few months back. Did she forget because she had set in motion the things that would make this version of that dream a reality? She had woken Aliver. And Aaden, he had slept and been awoken as well. And before all that, she had killed her lover’s Tunishnevre ancestors with blood from her palm, and then she had ordered him killed as well.

Corinn placed her hand over the dagger.

“No, not that,” Hanish said, reaching forward and pinning her hand down on top of the weapon. “You don’t get off as easily as that. You killed me, and I’m still here with you. Death is not the balm it seems right now. I swear it.”

What do you want? Are you here to gloat?

“No.”

To relish this?

“No.”

You want to humiliate me. Look at me, then! Stare. Get your eyes full of me and then leave!

“I’m here because I love you,” Hanish said. “No one has ever been more beautiful. This thing that was done to you does not change that. It just makes it even more obvious.”

Corinn yanked her hand from his grip. She spun around on him, blade out before her in threat, hating him, wanting to cut him down again, for real this time.

“You can’t cut me, Corinn,” Hanish said, so sadly it looked like he wished she could.

No, she thought, but I can do this … She lifted the knife and raked the blade across the mutated flesh that had been her mouth, screaming as she did so. Silently, inside her mind, she screamed. And cut.

Later. Some hour in the deep dark of the night, Corinn lay on the floor with her head in Hanish’s lap, her hand touching her mouth, hiding it. The knife was on the floor a little distance away, under the edge of her bed, where it had fallen when she did. Despite the force with which she cut, the blade had done nothing but slide across her skin. For a moment she thought she felt the dead worms writhe, but that was all. No searing pain. No bloody slit to yell through. No death. Nothing changed.

When she could not carve herself a new mouth, she had tried to turn the knife elsewhere, to cut her wrists or to find the artery in her neck or to sink the blade to the hilt in her abdomen. Hanish prevented each attempt. She fought against him, but he was stronger, faster. He toyed with her, even turning their whirling struggle into a playful Maseret, humming a tune that he kept time to, as if that dance of death had ever been performed to music. “What would a servant think if she saw Corinn at this crazy dance?” he asked. They would see only her, knife in hand, swirling in choreography they could not fathom.

That was before she gave up. She let the knife drop, and herself, and came to rest partially on the smooth, cool stones of her room, partially on the lap of her dead lover. Crying.

She wanted to move her head. The wetness from her tears pressed against her face, but so did the warmth of his skin. True, living warmth. She was sure of it, even though she doubted it each time she felt the pulse beat against her temple. Was that Hanish or herself? His life, or hers?

His voice measured the passing of time for her. He talked. She did not listen to everything he said. She faded in and out as other thoughts tried to carry her away. He kept on, and at some point she realized she had been listening to him talk his way through his life. That was good, to hear about him instead of her. He claimed to have loved his boyhood. It had been a time of such promise. His father and brothers alive, so much to do, what dreams they had. The future gleamed with righteous promise, everyone he loved intact around him. Back then, he had yet to come under the service of the Tunishnevre. “I was innocent, and hungry for war. I was a boy, like Aaden. That changed, though.”

He told of the time just before his manhood rites when he had danced a Maseret with Maeander. He was eleven, his brother just a little younger. It was the last time Hanish would ever perform the duel without it being to the death. They fought before the veterans in the Calathrock, a great honor accorded both of them, but mostly for him as his father’s firstborn and chosen. What he remembered about it was that he realized during the dance that Maeander was better than he—faster and stronger and more focused. He pressed Hanish to the edge of his ability and stopped there. He nicked Hanish’s nostril, yes, leaving a small scar for all the rest of his days, but he did not embarrass him, as he could have.