That day, the first time she kissed Bittor, had been the fifth anniversary of her mother’s funeral. An anniversary that will come around again in eighteen days.
Beremé says, “Perhaps, General Bey, we should revisit the option of a force-quake at the next meeting of princes. Though it could disrupt travel and trade throughout Moonshadow City, it might be good for the miran, merchants, and small kings to feel personally how disruptive such civil rebellion is to the empire. If it hurts the Holy Design, it hurts all of us.”
The small king married to Nielle, Sian méra Sayar, throws up his hands but before he can argue, Hehet méra Davith raises his voice to suggest Beremé is merely joking, in a rather disdainful tone.
“It might convince some of the populace to turn them in,” says Iumeri Selk from beside Sidoné.
General Bey snorts. “He isn’t hurting anyone, or inciting any riots, and so it is difficult to coerce cooperation.”
Iriset struggles to keep the bitter smile from her lips as she remembers General Bey’s methods of coercion.
Lyric says, “I have confidence in my generals, as should the princes. Together, we will settle this in the most balanced means.”
His statement forces a slight silence, and then Diaa of Moonshadow asks Lapis if she’s considering taking any husband, which distracts everyone into a different sort of arguing.
But not Iriset. She has a deadline now.
Alone in their chambers that night, Lyric catches Iriset’s hand and tugs her toward him. His jaw is tight with tension and he studies her. They’re washed of paint and the sweat of the day, oiled and robed in loose linen, ready to relax into bed.
“Lyric?” she murmurs.
“You were upset at the banquet tonight.” He says it as an invitation to confide.
Iriset lowers her gaze, thinking fast, and leans her forehead against his jaw. “Do you really believe this graffiti rebellion is related to me? To the poison?”
“To the—no, not at all, sweetheart.” Lyric touches his fingers to her chin, lifting her face. “Though if they are linking Iriset’s likeness to themselves through their art, perhaps this Bittor méra Tesmose is angered that she died under our care. That may be why he initially attacked.”
“When he tried to kill you,” she whispers.
“And you stepped between us,” Lyric whispers back. “Perhaps you are one of his targets now.”
“It’s only art,” she assures.
Lyric huffs softly, with humor.
Iriset goes in for the kill. “It seems there is always rebellion brewing in the Holy City.”
Lyric’s smile falls away. “Always?”
With a little shrug, she walks around the bed to hold a handto a little skull siren perched on the scales of the alliraptor bed. It followed them up from the aviary downstairs. Though it cocks its head, she has no seed, and so it merely ruffles its crest and hops along the alliraptor’s back. “Since I arrived, there has always been something, and treated casually enough it seems to be common.”
“There are criminals everywhere,” he says dismissively. “Even those nearest to us.”
Swallowing, Iriset says, “But—this is rebellion. Not crimes like murders and thievery. The cult of Singers when I arrived, and this new rebellion, are a different sort of crime, are they not?”
He nods reluctantly. “Crimes against the empire, against She Who Loves Silence, not against individual people. State crimes, I suppose they might be called. But, Singix, some people chafe at laws, at community itself—they will never be satisfied with what is necessary to govern such a vast state, with such different folk within.”
“It is the nature of the empire, then? It requires rebellion, for balance?” Iriset can barely keep her voice gentle, so near to herself, to whatshewould say if she were here. She likes being herself with him so much. Too much. She wants to tear into him—tellhimhe has only eighteen days left of her.Better make the most of it, Lyric. You’ll never have the likes of me again.
Lyric opens his mouth, then stops. He sits upon the edge of the bed and puts his elbows on his knees, cupping his chin in his hands. As Iriset watches, his gaze seems to unfocus, as if he thinks so deeply his vision blurs. “It is the nature of Silence in our mortal, flawed grip,” he says finally. His shoulders heave in a sigh. “Balance requires some specific acts, specific placement of regulation, both literally—physically, like theforce-steeples—and spiritually. The empire was built on these acts and regulations, and if they are not maintained, the entire structure will collapse.”
“What if the structure is weak in places? Or rotten in its very center?”
The Vertex Seal glances sharply at her. “What are you thinking, Singix?”
She shakes her head quickly, coming around to sit beside him. She isnotIriset, his royal arguer.Not yet.“I apologize. I meant nothing critical of you, but I am worried for you.” Iriset touches the side of his leg. “Is that not my prerogative now? To worry about my husband?”
It mollifies him. He covers her hand. “The center of the empire is strong, and good, because at the center is pure Aharté, and Silence. Human beings are not pure, and in our time the miran and my ancestor Vertex Seals may have pushed too hard in one place, or in one direction, marring balance, causing harm to the structure, allowing weakness to take hold. And others latch on to those places. Extremism, some of the laws of assimilation, the occasional corruption of small kings—those such things open the doors to apostasy and rebellion. But it is the extremism, corruption, and outdated laws that should be changed, cleaned out, for the rest of the body to survive.”
