Page 26 of The Shape of Monsters
(See, there is an informal version of Old Sarenpet—though River thinks of it simply as Sarenpet—with exactly two personal pronouns. They can be translated asyouand a universalthey.)
River nods.
The center of the grand water room is sunken into the floor, three circular stairs leading to vibrant blue and green tiles shaped like curving waves. At the base of the stairs a channel runs around the circumference, full of water and tiny little living fish. Cushions are set around a round table, in the center of which is a long channel, this one flickering with pretty blue everflames. So much of the Moon-Eater’s fortress is an affectation of the Moon-Eater’s interest in the faraway sea.
They seat themselves. The Moon-Eater with Iriset beside him, then Lyric, and around the curve of the oval River, then Eliri, andfinally Never. Because they are beside each other, River leans toward Lyric Aharté. With ans most languorous voice, an asks, “The style of this skirt emphasizes feminine aspects. Is that accurate for Lyric Aharté?”
Lyric’s face barely moves while digesting the question, glancing down at the skirt. “Unintentional, but acceptable. Such a thing does not matter except for being categorized, yes?”
“Yes, though category is communication,” River suggests, pitching ans tone to sound a little dismissive. “If one wishes accurate communication, accurate category is necessary as well.”
“Perhaps.” Lyric nods, looking chagrined. “This one must learn to tie it like a man.” His red-rock skin continues to disconcert River, and the brightness of his Moon-Eater eyes. Or perhaps River is merely disappointed this stranger settles for being a man.
“Such concern for such uselessness,” Never says with a curled lip.
“Words are useful,” Iriset says, though her arguing seems to be based on instinct rather than conviction, for she continues tracking her gaze on Lyric.
The Moon-Eater laughs and says, “Never hates to be calledhim.” It’s the masculine Sarian designation.
“And Shade has never moved past a simple boy six centuries ago,” Never responds in a soft murmur.
It is interesting to River that despite both being shape-shifters and maybe-gods, as well as old friends, the most apparent thing between Never and the Moon-Eater is friction. Perhaps it will be useful somehow.
Cups of various shapes wait at every place setting, each with its own liquid designation. The Moon-Eater holds up two bottles, one slender-necked and glass, the other a teapot with a shallow, wide belly. “Cactus wine or herb tea? Both?” The Moon-Eater pours both for himself, then passes the bottles down. “Lyric Aharté knows Never,who refuses to give this fairy another name, and Lyric has met Eliri the Dedicated, this fairy’s Adept Hand. Irsu River is Eliri’s spouse, though if a ceremony was held, this god was not invited.” The Moon-Eater pouts dramatically, and Eliri sets the bottle on the table with a firm clank. River ignores the attempt at melodrama. The ceremony was long before the Moon-Eater knew Eliri’s name.
Never raises its cup of wine. “To old friends,” it says in its soft, sibilant way.
“Old friends,” the Moon-Eater repeats, and sips.
“To new friends,” River says once everyone has partaken. This is one of the best teas to be found in the Moon-Eater’s fortress: bold and sharp, perfectly steeped and warm. But the liquor is even better.
“Shade really wants to know more about this thing knotted between husband and wife,” the Moon-Eater says idly, chin propped on one hand.
As Iriset describes the intricacies of what she calls a marriage knot, from seed to ritual to effects, a short parade of attendants move silently in with dishes and new place settings and a few extra lights they toss up to quiver in a dripping chandelier net. Though River is only barely interested in the design details, an notes that while Iriset speaks clinically, Lyric Aharté avoids her gaze as if he dislikes it. River must wonder what the tension between them is, if they share this marriage knot but not the same feelings regarding it. An always expects meals with the Moon-Eater to be strange and fraught, but this one has barely begun and already it is obvious that these newcomers are messy. River cannot wait to speak with Eliri alone. And an will need to discover if Chimera fortress has already staked any claims.
Might as well stake one or two of ans own. Lyric Aharté is a good place to start. River catches his eye and offers a subtle wink before choosing strips of charred meat for ans plate, scoops of vivid yellow rice, and a few thinly sliced vegetables paired with equally delicateslices of raw riverfish. River offers Lyric a small bowl of dark sauce. “River put the chili oil in it already, if Lyric likes spice.”
“Thanks given.”
“This spouse is very well acquainted with how such shoptalk meals can go, Lyric Aharté, so perhaps entertaining each other is in order,” River suggests. Lyric blinks, clearly caught up in the changing color of River’s eyes as they shift in a slow wave across the iris.
River flutters ans lashes. “This king’s eyes are beautiful, River knows, but don’t the colors get boring after a while?” It’s flirtatious, as well as guarded and maybe actually a little bit bored.
Lyric shifts in his seat in a way River reads as either embarrassed or slight attraction. “Human architecture,” Lyric manages. He tears his gaze to the long, thin feathers in River’s hair, the boldest of which are the long primary feathers, mostly emerald green with hints of yellow. Perhaps not embarrassed or turned on, but scandalized?
“Lyric speaks that phrase with such difficulty,” the Moon-Eater cuts in, then places a piece of fish in his mouth.
“Where this priest comes from,” Lyric says, and the Moon-Eater rolls his eyes for some reason, “it is forbidden.”
River leans back in surprise. So, an notes, does Eliri. “Forbidden?” River asks as Eliri says, “All of it? Why?”
“It’s dangerous,” Lyric answers quickly.
River says, “There must be a line, of course. Uncrossable, to hold people back from their worst impulses. So long as the practitioners support the arc of justice, experiment and effort matter.”
“What person decides what is just? What is progress?” Lyric asks. River meets his bright red-brown eyes, startled, but finds an answering compassion there, as if Lyric agrees with River but only seeks to clarify why.
“The person with the most power, of course,” River answers. “And so, despite intentions of justice and good, it always leads to violence.”
