Page 8 of The Shape of Monsters
The numen strides forward and grabs the Moon-Eater by the hair,pulling his head back. The Moon-Eater’s long red neck bends easily, too long, inhuman. And he smiles, flicks out a tongue that’s just as too-long. Nausea ripples up Lyric’s throat.
In his lap, Iriset stirs. He jerks his attention to her as a tiny groan parts her lips. Lyric tenderly brushes hair off her sticky forehead. Everything around him is monstrous and confusing, but she’s here. One thing he knows, even if he never knew her at all.
The healer—Alis—clicks her tongue and Lyric looks to the physician’s work. Golden threads of force are visible in a dome with four curving corner wings, like a strange roof. From each wing, lines of force plunge into Iriset’s body. At the points, there is redness and tiny droplets of blood. “What…?” he asks.
“The pagoda array is building down into the wound to the deepest point, and will leave force-mesh in place to assist the body in healing well,” the physician says. “The work already done to stop bleeding and close the wound was crude but effective. This patient will survive with rest.”
Then Alis uses her scissor stylus to pinch the four wings of the array up into something Lyric can only imagine as a dumpling. She twists it closed with a quick flourish and the force array sinks into Iriset until the dumpling cap rests against her skin. “Array will remain, fading when its work is done. Two, three days.”
Lyric nods, too overwhelmed to speak. He bends close over Iriset, tucking his nose to her tangled hair.
“Lyric Aharté,” says the Moon-Eater in mirané, having ended his disorienting flirtation with the numen, who crouches with too many knobby knees and arms a distance away.
“Moon-Eater,” Lyric says more mildly than he thought possible. Despite the Moon-Eater’s assurances he wants Lyric alive, that could change at any moment. This creature reeks of capriciousness.
Right now the Moon-Eater’s smile is almost affectionate. “Youneed rest, and your little sunderer wife is still knitting back together. In a few days I will meet you again.”
“Shade!” the numen protests.
“I want to know what she can do, and what he is made of,” the Moon-Eater says teasingly. Then his voice hardens. “And you have not been here. This is my city, Never. Mine. If you would like to challenge that, do so. If you would like to leave,again, do so.”
There is a tension in the air, a force unlike any Lyric is familiar with, and he wishes he was not here, was not feeling it.
“Shade,” the numen hisses softly.
“Yes. You and I have much to discuss. Let them rest. Eliri.”
Eliri kneels. “Go with Eliri, Lyric Aharté. Will find a place for Lyric and Lyric’s wife.”
“Iriset,” he says.
“Iriset,” Eliri says quietly.
“Thank you,” he says in mirané, because he doesn’t know those words in Old Sarenpet.
“It is ‘thanks given between friends,’” the Moon-Eater says in Old Sarenpet. He’s smiling again in his youthful form, and the numen has wrapped itself around him from behind, arms tight about his waist and chin tucked over the Moon-Eater’s shoulder. The Moon-Eater reaches up to pet its face and neck tenderly.
Lyric repeats the phrase of thanks to Eliri. She only nods. In all this time she has barely expressed anything but quiet surprise and a little curiosity. But she helps him stand with Iriset in his arms, her hand on his elbow.
“Take care of her,” the numen croons.
Lyric studies it for a moment, and then nods slowly, having come to no conclusions.
He goes with Eliri, weariness darkening his vision. He only wants to fall onto his face, to sleep, too. Let Garnet strip him down, put acup of water in his hand. He wants to hold Singix—no, his wife is not Singix. Iriset.
He hasn’t slept since his mother died, since he chased Singix and discovered she’d been dead for quads, since he killed the rebel—the first time he’s ever killed by his own hand. Lyric hasn’t slept and it’s all too much.
Eliri leads him to a room and points to a bed on a swaying platform. He sets Iriset carefully onto the pillows and falls down beside her.
Familiar
Lyric wakes with his face smooshed against Iriset’s hip, neck at an unfortunate angle, and one arm draped over her thighs. She smells like sweat and blood and he sits up with a deep frown.
However long he passed out, nobody touched them. He’s torn between thanks and offense. It takes effort to peel his mouth open, and several tries to wet his tongue. He feels like a desert grew inside his lungs as he slept.
Rolling off the bed, Lyric’s feet clomp against the floor, still encased in boots.
The room itself is plain blue-washed walls, with a honeycomb ceiling of blue-green. The large bed sways as he stands. Its corners are attached by thick silver wires to metal beams, and the platform drifts only a handspan over the tiled floor. The tiles are dark blue, like the dome of the Moon-Eater’s Temple back home, and climb up the inner wall. Humor floats in the back of Lyric’s mind at the similarity. Then suddenly Lyric can hardly breathe.
