Grim (18 page)
Authors: Anna Waggener
Now Shawn frowned, and Rebecca beside him. Megan just stared at Jegud with her guiltless child eyes.
“What kind of a question is that?” Shawn asked.
“A pretty straightforward one, I thought. How much do you really care to see her?”
“She's our mother,” Rebecca said with disbelief. “Of course we want to see her.”
“Then why are you lying to me?” Jegud asked. “I'm the only one who can help you except Death himself. Tell me who's been here.”
“
We've
been here,” Shawn insisted. “The three of us. And, once, Jeremiah. That's all.”
“That's
all
?”
“I just told you so, didn't I?”
“So it would seem. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No,” Megan said. “Because â”
Shawn cupped a hand beneath her chin. “Because Laza gave us some supplies before we set out,” he finished. “But water would be good, I guess.”
“Water,” Jegud repeated.
“Yeah.”
He gave them one last long look, waiting for them to break down and offer him the truth. “All right, then,” he said at last. His skin blurred, as if they were watching him through a camera lens slipping out of focus, and then he dissolved into a white mist that fanned out and faded into thin air.
Megan tipped her head back to look into Shawn's face.
“We're really bad liars, aren't we?”
He grinned and ruffled her hair.
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”
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“Ah.” South looked up from her reading, a finger still pinned to the last word. “Jeremiah, king's son. I nearly had you, there at the last. You would do well to choose a more careful listener when you next forfeit your ears. But how come you now without my brother's blood?”
Jeremiah opened the side of his black coat to reveal Kala, perched lightly on his wrist.
“I come with hers,” he said.
“A gift to keep you unforgotten,” said South. “But that was many years ago. Tell me, has she done as bidden?”
“She has. My family can never forget me,” Jeremiah said, “because they can never ignore her place on the crest.”
South ran her tongue over her teeth. “Then what do you seek from water that you cannot find in her?”
“I need to know â” Jeremiah hesitated. “I need to know the truth.”
“Mm.”
“They say that you can see everything,” he said. “They say that you know how the world ends.”
“It ends with me,” South said. “Just as yours will end with you.” Her eyes grew sad as she studied him through the half-light. “Poor whipping boy,” she murmured. “You've inherited much, haven't you? Your father's curse as well as your mother's. But I can promise, for what it's worth, that your battle is nearly over.”
At that, Jeremiah felt the trembling of hope. “And do I win? Tell me; in the end, do I win?”
“My dear child,” she said. “You, I fear, have gambled all without ever learning the only rule that matters.”
“And what rule is that?”
South yawned and went back to her reading. “No one ever wins.”
The room trembled, and from the door came the awful groan of rock breaking rock.
South closed her book with an irritated grunt and pushed herself to her feet.
“I must go,” she said. “And so must you, Jeremiah, king's son. I leave you with a warning â you have a brother with a curse upon his head.”
“Which brother?”
“The one who found the Furies' nest.”
“The Furies? Then they do exist?”
“You would question that, Jeremiah?” South asked, amused. “You who have spent a lifetime giving them sacrifice?”
“But why? I don't understand.”
She paused at the door, one gleaming hand pressed against the wall. “When everything is dark,” she told him, “the sisters still see all.”
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Simon let Jegud in, and said that the rest of the household was upstairs with Martha.
The prince walked up to the southern wing and along the hall to the first bedroom. A jet of light spilled through the open door and onto the carpet. He knocked on the wall.
“Jeremiah?”
“Yes? Jegud!” Jeremiah crossed the room and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Isn't she beautiful?”
Jegud looked at Erika, who sat on a low stool near the wardrobe.
She wore a dress of black brocade, gathered at the waist and spread in heavy skirts around her feet. Diamonds, likely borrowed, glittered in her hair and all down her neck.
But despite glowing in the lamplight, Erika's face looked far from happy.
“Quite,” Jegud said, and then, deciding that would not do, he cast around for something else. “You look lovely, Erika.”
“She's stunning,” Jeremiah said. Jegud glanced at him and wondered what his brother's tone brought back to him. There was pride there, and physical pain, and a hint of something darker.
Jegud looked back at Erika and forced a smile. “They will love you,” he agreed. “All of them.”
Color rushed into Erika's cheeks as she smiled and dropped her lashes. Jegud decided that all women, human or seraph, were endearingly vain.
Jeremiah squeezed his brother's shoulder.
It's nearly like a thank-you
, Jegud thought, and when Jeremiah smiled, this time he seemed to have recovered. “And you aren't bad yourself, Jegud,” he said. “You'll make a very smart couple. In fact, you may both fall madly for each other and leave me without an escape. What will I do then, Brother?”
“You underestimate our sincerity,” Jegud replied. “May I have a word with you before we go?”
“Certainly.”
They went down the hall to where the stair lamps splattered gold across the floor and walls. Jegud ran his heel along the line where light met shadow and rolled the brim of his hat between his fingers. Jeremiah folded his own hands behind his back and waited patiently for his brother to compose himself.
At last, Jegud stopped his fidgeting and looked his little brother in the eye. “Her children are all liars,” he said flatly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I went out there, and I asked if anyone else had spoken to them since you did, and they told me no. They were lying through their teeth, Jeremy. Every one of them.”
“Every tooth or every child?”
Jegud let his arms drop to his sides. “I'm not trying to humor you,” he said. “For once in your life, please just try and pay attention. Do you honestly not realize how serious this could be? I think that Michael may be trying to win them.”
“He could hardly do that after letting the hounds snap at their heels.”
“Uriel, then,” Jegud said. “Or Selaph. I don't know, and I'm not saying that I do, but you need to consider the consequences of this. Those children could do more damage to us than Erika ever could, and you're drunk on your own self-importance if you won't hear me out. Think: If we tried to bring three living children into Limbo, and they died on the streets â I can't even begin to imagine the fallout of that. You would be worse than exiled, Jeremy. You would be worse than dead, even.”
“Jeremiah?”
Both men spun around at the voice. Erika peered around her bedroom door with a silk fan in one hand and a mask in the other.
“Please,” Jegud said. “Allow me.” He hurried down the hall and took the black glazed porcelain from her.
“Actually, I was just going to ask whether or not you were ready.”
“I am, yes,” he said, helping her to tie on the mask anyway. “Shall we be off, then?”
“I guess.”
“Don't be nervous, Erika,” he said, smoothing the ribbon over the waves of her hair. “Doesn't every child want to be a princess?”
“I suppose,” she said, playing with the swivel of her fan, “but I'm not a child anymore.”
He took her hand and draped it over his arm. “I know,” he said. “None of us are. And it's true that this is looking like Russian roulette, but there is a bright side.”
“And what's that?”
“The gun isn't loaded. Not yet, anyway.”
“Cupid is ruining my plans already,” Jeremiah said from the end of the hall. “You aren't even alone and the confirmed bachelor is losing his principles. Perhaps the chaperone needs a chaperone?”
“If you can find a ticket, then you are certainly invited,” Jegud said, turning on his heel.
“And that is precisely where I may surprise you.”
“Oh?”
“I'll leave it at that.”
Jegud smiled at his brother. “Afraid of looking the fool when you're still here at midnight?”
“You know me far too well.”
The three of them walked together to the door and out to where the gate stood open to the road. With Erika safely in the waiting carriage, Jeremiah caught his brother by the sleeve.
“Don't tell her anything,” he whispered. “Please.”
“About the children?”
“About anything. I don't want her to worry through the entire ball.”
“For what end? You can't think that she'll actually enjoy herself?”
Jeremiah said nothing.
“Have you told her,” Jegud went on, “anything about Father?”
“I thought that she would find out soon enough.”
“Jeremiah â”
“He's not a bad man, Jegud. She would be lucky.”
“
You
would be lucky, you mean. She's doing this for your sake.”
Jeremiah felt his jaw tense. “She's doing this for her children.”
Jegud shook his head. “We
will
be talking about this later,” he said.
“Have it your way.”
“It's healthier than yours.” Jegud opened the door again and swung into the empty seat.
Jeremiah nodded to the driver and heard the familiar slap of a whip against a horse's flank. It reminded him of early mornings from when he was young and still in favor, and of the procession that his family had made on their way to the common for daily blessings.
He watched the black carriage roll on down the street, pulled by its matching hackney horses, and then disappear into the closeness of the night. When they had gone, Jeremiah turned to his house, hands still clasped behind his back, and nudged the gate shut with the toe of his polished leather shoe.
“The Brigham, sir?” Simon asked without being prompted.
Jeremiah started, a little surprised by his voice in the dark. “Yes, Simon,” he said. “Thank you.”
“With the gray Arabian, sir?”
“Precisely the one.” Jeremiah hurried up the front steps and closed the door behind him.
The public common was a large, round building at the heart of the city, made entirely of white marble. Every morning, lines gathered in the arched hallway that circled it, and would wait for guards to let them enter. Then they would walk in file to the main floor, their way marked by high, polished walls, before dispersing, a little disoriented, to find their way to empty seats. The common had no roof, and, as the sun rose higher, shadows threw themselves over the benches, draped like expensive gray silk.
The royal box perched across from the entrance, its footing level with the tops of the highest steps. A wall had been built from the floor to the edge of that gallery, so that no one but the royal family would sit behind the king while services were in session.
It was early yet.
The king waited in the royal box, watching the common fill. He saw the seraphim glide to the western half, holding their clothing close about them. He saw, in the east, the souls of men pressed close together. They covered their faces and did not look up from their laps, where their hands were tucked like seashells. A few of them thumbed rosary beads. The king smiled.
Rules did not call for the seraphim to be segregated from the men, but a split was obvious. The entrance hall served as a line between the two groups, and neither moved to sit near the other half. The king found it sad that even here, at the very edge, they were so divided.
His sons were beside him, drowsy and solemn in the dawning morning. Jeremiah had nodded off, his cheek on Michael's shoulder, his curls nestled sweetly against his brother's neck.
Today the king would tell them about their mother. Tell them why she had not come. Tell them why she had locked herself in her chambers with heavy trunks, as if she were readying for a long trip. Today he would send Jeremiah away and strike his mother's name from the crypt. He would win back his wife's love, and stop her from leaving. He would make her break the promises she had spat last night, out of anger and out of pain. Today he would mend things, as he should have done long ago.
In the east, the sun crept higher.
The crowd fell silent as the king got to his feet and descended the shallow staircase. His footsteps echoed against the marble.
When he reached the main floor, he stood behind the stone podium, his back to the wall and to the royal box. His sons would be watching. He had taught them not to be afraid.
A knife lay on the podium. Its long, thin blade fit into a bone handle that looked creamy in the morning blush. Rites of passage were cut into the bone, the symbols dove gray with shadow. This was why the Middle Kingdom needed its throne. Souls could not be judged until they felt themselves prepared, and it was a seraph's job to allow them their last rites. The king had been raised as he now raised his sons â to be the hand that cut away sin and left these souls as untouched as the day they were created. To be the hand that finally saved them from their bodily pain and poverty, as soon as they were ready to leave those bodies behind.
A woman came forward, from the east, taking slow, hesitant steps. The king waited patiently. He had seen her before, watching and praying, while she tried to make up her mind. She went to the altar bed and lay down, closing her eyes as she did. Her long hair fanned out around her face and draped over the edges of the altar. She kept her eyes shut tight. Her hands lay empty at her sides, free of her beads.
The king took the knife from the podium and walked over to her side. He studied the woman, noting the bruises on her neck. She had been pretty, once. She was still young.
He lifted the knife above his head and felt the power twist through his body like a jolt of electricity, familiar. He would save her. He would set her free.
The blade flashed down in a clean arc and split through her chest. She didn't scream. She didn't even open her eyes.
Her soul seeped out, its edges honey colored. He waited, wanting to make sure that he was right. The first was always the hardest to tell. He could feel the air sway as the seraphim to his left leaned forward and the souls to his right pulled away.
He opened his lips and felt the soul drift closer. It slid into his mouth and down his throat, tingling like warm cider.
The guards came to take the woman's shell away.
The king watched them leave, and waited for the next.