Page 126 of The Shape of Monsters
Eliri, meanwhile, steps up onto the wide wooden porch that runs along the length of the manor building. River leans against the wall with Roc, but pushes off to greet ans spouse. They merely brush their fingers togethers, keeping distance otherwise.
“A little earlier than planned to get the whole company together, but welcome, Moon-Eater,” Roc Aliel says, and even a blunt person like Iriset continues to be surprised by his boldness. But it’s admittedly appealing in a leader.
“Roc Aliel is so frequently here,” the Moon-Eater says, petting a hand down Maimeri’s chest while he turns a dangerous grin on Roc. He makes it sound likeheremeansin my way.
“This old cultist does try,” Roc says lightly.
The Moon-Eater lets go of his child and slinks up the porch steps. “But now Roc and Shade are on the same side?”
The door to the private dining room slides open and Lyric appears, still tying his black outer robe closed. Behind him, the warm firelight and everflame candles cast him in silhouette.
“Lyric Aharté,” the Moon-Eater greets.
Lyric steps out of the doorframe to allow the surgeon to pass. She nods sharply to River, then the Moon-Eater with a tight-lipped frown, and basically stomps away, radiating irritation. Lyric watches her go, face carefully blank, and then he sighs and looks down. “Iriset is correct,” he says.
Oh, it hurts.
“Iriset usually is,” the Moon-Eater says delightedly, though the humor falls away as he notes Lyric’s soft regret. “About what?” he demands.
“Especially aggressive apostatical cancer,” Lyric says, looking to Iriset. Then he half smiles. “Twisted through most of my internal organs, and partially consumed my lungs and stomach.”
Maimeri makes a soft sound and walks to Lyric, hopping onto the porch like az’s weightless. “That is still treatable,” az says quietly but firmly. Like it’s as simple as setting a broken bone.
“The surgeon did say there is an equally aggressive and invasive treatment, yes, involving extensive redesign and physical surgery,” Lyric agrees. “With an almost perfect survival rate.”
“But you told her to leave,” Iriset accuses, forgetting Old Sarenpet in a sudden flare of rage. That they have to destroy this science! Forbid it! That Lyric is so casual about his lungs and stomach. It’s so far along, much worse than her mother was when Iriset saved her.Almost perfect survival rate.
“There isn’t time.” Lyric shakes his head, still politely speaking in Sarenpet. “The summer solstice is barely three quads from now.”
Iriset stares at him, the impact of his statement stripping her rage away and leaving her panting like she’s raced across the Crystal Desert. “A deadline in more ways than one,” Lyric jokes, using the mirané word because that’s where the pun is.
Oh, she can’t even throw anything at him or shove him, he’s too far away andriddled with cancer. He knows, he knows how she feels and is joking about it like they’re arguing over translations of elaborate Ceres marriage poems.
“The unicorn I met liked my jokes,” Lyric says when nobody laughs.
Iriset makes a strangled sound at that—a unicorn!—but then—“You already knew, didn’t you? You aren’t surprised!” She charges closer, fingers curling as she can’t choose which part of him to grab. “How long have you known, Lyric?”
Enough guilt flinches across his face to give her an answer, except—“The sunderer,” the numen breathes right beside Iriset.
She cries out and jerks away from it. The numen’s diamond gaze burns at her. “The sunderer,” it repeats in that old, harsh voice from when they first met, “can heal you.”
It isn’t that Iriset forgot—she knows she can cure apostatical cancer, she’s done it, she’s bragged about it. In many ways it defined her for years; that successful apostasy gave her the drive and fire to become Silk. It’s that Iriset never considered sundering. She still doesn’t believe in it, not really, despite dreaming herself into Singix or saving herself from a knife to the throat and despite saving others.
Iriset faces the numen and it stares steadily, patiently, back at her, as if it’s watching the dawn, content to allow the colors to be, the shifting light to be, the sun to do what the sun always does and rise.
“What matters is this array, not Lyric,” Lyric says. “It must be at the eclipse. The moon will be where the moon needs to be, and this priest will make it that long.”
Iriset spins away from the numen.
The moon shines on them now, almost full, and Iriset feels Silence as she looks at Lyric, feels the design radiate out from the two of them. “You will,” she says, intending it forever.
Sex magic
Iriset insists on speaking with Lyric alone. He agrees, though she wasn’t actually giving him a choice.
They go to her guest room, and the moment the door closes, Lyric embraces her. It isn’t desperate the way she first hugged him this afternoon. No, it’s sweeter, his arms around her ribs, his nose in her hair breathing in and then sighing out with his whole body. “Iriset,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
She stretches her arms around his shoulders, cards fingers through his short hair, says nothing. She has so much to say, to yell about, but the priority is to get him to relax so she can do… her thing.
