“No more than any of us, at least.”
“Iriset—”
“Go on, I’m sorry I interrupted.” Iriset raises her hand and casually taps her forefinger and thumb to her eyelids.
For the rest of our lives, you will not hide your eyes from your husband, Lyric thinks. He asked that of Singix Es Sun the day before they married. A favor in return for a favor. Only it was Iriset mé Isidor wearing her face. Iriset mé Isidor whose favor was to speak with her own condemned father. Silly of Lyric to imagine they could ever have married as themselves.
Lyric doesn’t want to talk to her anymore.
But he promised Setka. Settling his hands on his knees and his gaze on the edge of the table, he says, “Setka is interested in Silence, in pursuing it. She’s not falling apart, or weak, or any of the things that might mean her inner design is disintegrating, or—or whatever it is that happens to chimeras. Whatever made her maker decide he was finished with her. But she is in pain in places, her teeth I think, and her tail certainly. Will you go with me in the morning to see her, and help her if you can?”
There’s no response. Lyric stares at the grains in the polished wood and strains to listen. Iriset might not even be breathing. She’s certainly not eating. Or laughing. Finally he looks up.
Iriset stares at him with an expression he can’t read. Intense, yes, but not angry or shocked. Not desirous by any means. There is nothing soft about it.
“What?” he demands gently.
Slowly she shakes her head. “I thought I heard you ask if I would perform human architecture.”
He clenches his jaw. Breathes. Says as flatly as he can, “If it will help her pain.”
“What thefuck, Lyric!” Iriset explodes. She jumps to her feet and spins around.
With hard-earned control, he picks up his cup of water and drinks it to wet the dryness in his mouth. “I am aware of the irony,” he murmurs.
“Ha!” Iriset whirls back. “Ha!” she says again. She’s making enough noise they’ll have company soon. “How quickly you shuck your morality when there’s no more small kings or sisters or priests judging you!”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, eyes shutting of their own accord. His stomach is upset again.
“Oh?” Iriset says seductively, stomping back down into the recessed floor beside him. There’s a slam, and the entire table rattles.
Startled, he looks at her fist, clenched against the table, then up at her face. She’s so close to him he involuntarily leans away.
“Just kill her,” Iriset snarls. “If she’s a flawed chimera, if she’s not suitable to live, doesn’t meet the exacting laws of Aharté’s Holy Design, put her out of her misery.”
“She is none of those things,” Lyric says with a calmness like death. “She is in pain because of human architecture, because of apostasy that sees no limits, no consequences to the apostate, only to the girl who was given no choice in the matter.”
“None of us choose to be born,” Iriset scoffs.
“I asked her.” Lyric feels the ferocity of his anger rearing up finally. “She does not want to be healed or changed, but she is in pain. Why won’t you help her? Only because I’m the one asking?”
“I didn’t say I won’t help her.” Iriset moves around to her seat andplops down. She pours more wine, but only sloshes it carefully in the cup, watching the surface, lost in thought.
“What was done to create Setka shouldn’t have been done. What is the purpose of this kind of design?” Lyric asks. “But it was done, and she is alive, and deserves to be… comfortable.”
“Sure, Lyric. But… why do you think I wanted—want—to be able to design whatever I like? Human architecture, apostasy? Why do you think I crave it?” She sounds conversational now, but Lyric knows there’s a trick. A purpose to her phrasing.
He says, “Because you can.” Simple enough. “You can, and so you push boundaries. Pride, arrogance, curiosity.”
Half her mouth hitches into a smile. “I won’t pretend I’m not all those things. But I originally dug into human design only because of my mother. I wanted to cure apostatical cancer, and I did, and I wish I could have saved others. Why shouldn’t I be able to share it? Take away that kind of pain for anyone, like you want me to help Setka?”
“Maybe you should,” he admits. “But that isn’t all you did, all you wanted to do. You went too far, and how much further would you be willing—eager—to go if you had no constraints?”
Iriset sighs. “I always wanted to fly,” she says softly. “If I could give myself wings, I might, despite risks. If I could design a web, a silk thread of force with the right tensile strength and lift, maybe I could float at least, like little baby spiders. Not because I think people would be better if we could fly, or justice would be served. I want to fly because it sounds awesome.”
The distant smile she wears is lovely. He’s seen her smile like this with both faces, now.
She continues, “Maybe Setka’s designer wanted to design a body to survive the desert, or to breathe underwater—do alliraptors breathe underwater? No, it’s air, I think, but… anyway, he was exploring the biological attributes of the alliraptors and trying to join human andalliraptor traits for something useful, or at least incredible. Maybe it was for pleasure—there are a lot of reasons to explore such things, the limitations of life and humanity. You said your chimera doesn’t hate herself, hate how she is, it’s only the pain, right?”
