He was golden.
His hair was such a color as she’d never seen. Her own red-brown was unusual enough in Weep where everyone had black hair, but his was the color of sunlight, long enough in the front and with just enough wave to make a curl you wanted to reach out and coax around your finger. Aside from the girl entwined with Tzara, he was the only one of the faranji who was young, though not so young as Sarai was herself. He was princely and broad-shouldered, and had nodded off propped up on cushions with a book open on his bare chest. Through the moths’ vision, Sarai saw that the cover was a picture of a spoonful of stars and creatures, but her attention was drawn to his face, which was every bit as fine an artwork as the room’s collection of marvels. There was such an elegance in the lines of it, such a perfect sculpt to every angle and curve that he was almost unreal. A museum piece.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t here to be enraptured by this stranger’s beauty, but to discover who he was, and what nature of threat he posed, and the same with the rest whose humbler looks presented less distraction. She looked at them all and they were just sleeping humans, so vulnerable with their slack mouths and their long pale toes poking out from under the covers. With few exceptions, they were very nearly ridiculous. It seemed impossible that they might be the death of her.
Enough. She wouldn’t learn anything about the Godslayer’s guests by looking at them. It was time to look in them.
In eleven rooms, where thirteen humans slept—ten men and three women, one of whom was not an outsider and thus not a subject—moths that were perched on the walls and bedposts bestirred themselves and took to the air, fluttering the little distance to land on flesh. None of the humans felt the featherlight feet of winged creatures alighting on their brows and cheekbones, much less the smooth intrusion of the Muse of Nightmares into their minds.
Invisible, incorporeal, insubstantial as a murmur, Sarai slipped into their dreams, and what she discovered there, in the hours that followed, proved that the strangers were far from ridiculous.
And would indeed be the death of her.
Azareen lived in a set of rooms above a bakery in Windfall—the district so named for the plums that fell on it from the trees of the gods. She walked up the back steps, from the courtyard where the bakery and adjacent tavern kept their waste bins. It stank, and there was that other smell, distinct to Windfall: ferment. Always, the plums were raining down, as though the trees were enchanted and would never die.
Azareen hated plums.
She put the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and went in. Two years’ worth of dust lay over everything. The blankets would be musty, the cupboards empty. Her mother or sisters would have kept the rooms fresh for her, but having them here would open the door to conversations she didn’t wish to have, such as why she still lived here, alone, when she might stay with any of them, or even marry, and have a family, before it was too late.
“I’m already married,” she would tell them, and what could they say to that? It was true in its way, even if her husband had released her from the promise she’d made eighteen years ago, when she was only a girl. Sixteen years old, and Eril-Fane had been all of seventeen. How beautiful he’d been. They’d been too young to marry, but it hadn’t stopped them. In the shadow of the Mesarthim, all time had seemed borrowed, and they just couldn’t wait.
Oh, the memories. They would surface from the wreckage, fast and sharp enough to impale her: of wanting him so much she didn’t know how she’d survive a night without him. And then, at last, not having to.
Their wedding night. How young and smooth they’d been, and eager and tireless and burning. Five nights. That was what they’d had: five nights, eighteen years ago. That was her marriage. And then . . . what came after.
Azareen dropped her pack on the floor and looked around. Small, stifling, and quiet, it made quite a change from the Elmuthaleth. She had a sitting room, a bedroom, and a small kitchen with a water closet. She’d stopped by her sister’s house to see her family after settling the faranji in at the guildhall, and she’d had some dinner there. She needed a bath, but that could wait until the morning. She went straight to her bed. Where, eighteen years ago, she had spent five eager, tireless, burning nights with her beautiful young husband before the gods stole him away.
The quiet closed in. Azareen imagined she could feel the shadow, the weight and press of the citadel overhead. It was the weight and press of everything that had happened in it—and everything that had never happened because of it.
She didn’t change her clothes, but just took off her boots and reached into her pack, into the little pocket she’d sewn into it to hold her most cherished possession.
It was a ring of tarnished silver. She put it on, as she did always and only at night, tucked her hands under her cheek, and waited for sleep to take her.
A mile or so away, down a street paved in lapis lazuli just like in a mean old monk’s childhood tales, in a house much less grand than the Merchants’ Guildhall and far cozier than Azareen’s rooms, Lazlo was just getting to bed. The sun would rise in an hour. He hadn’t meant to stay up all night, but how could he help it?
He was here.
“There’s only one way to celebrate the end of such a journey,” his hostess had told him when she greeted him at the Merchants’ Guildhall and whisked him away home with her. “And that is with food, a bath, and a bed, in the order of your preference.”
Suheyla was her name. Her hair was a cap of white, cropped short as a man’s, and her face was a perfect example of how someone can be beautiful without being beautiful. She shone with good nature and the same vitality that Eril-Fane radiated, but without the shadow that had grown over him as they drew nearer to Weep. There was gravity in her, but nothing grim or bleak. Her eyes were the same deep-set smiles as her son’s, with more extensive deltas of creases at the corners. She was short and vigorous, colorfully dressed in an embroidered tunic adorned with tassels and gathered in by a wide, patterned belt. Discs of hammered gold at her temples were connected by spans of fine chain across her brow. “You are most welcome here, young man,” she’d said with such heartfelt sincerity that Lazlo almost felt as if he’d come home.
Home—about which he knew as little as he did about mothers. Before today, he had never set foot in a home. As to having a preference, that was new, too. You take what you’re given and you’re grateful for it. Once that message is well and truly ingrained in you, it feels like vainglory to imagine one’s own likes and dislikes could matter to other people. “Whatever order makes the most sense,” he had replied, almost like a question.
“Sense be damned! You can eat in the bath if that’s what you wish. You’ve earned it.”
And Lazlo had never had a bath he’d had any desire to linger in, bathing in the monastery having been characterized by shivering in buckets of well water, and at the library by quick, lukewarm pull showers. Still, feeling deeply that his filth was an unforgivable imposition, he’d chosen to bathe first, and thus had he discovered, at the age of twenty, the incomparable pleasure of submergence in hot water.