slurping down the sacred waters of her city’s goddess.
The Mouth found himself taken aback slightly. It was just water, of course, but he had expected her to show more regard for that which her people revered.
But her people lay dying outside. No goddess answered their prayers, just as no goddess had answered hers. She drank as though every drop would be the last to touch her lips, as though she need not fear for anyone else. She was alone, without a people, without a holy man, without a goddess.
The humane thing to do would be to free them all, he told himself, to lift their sins of memory and ease the anguished burdens heaped upon them by a silent deity. To free them, he would free Daga-Mer, and be free himself. His own pain would be gone, his own memories lost, as would hers. And without anything to remember, they would be free, there would be nothing left, they would be …
She looked up, panicked as he approached her. She backed away from the pool.
‘Get back!’ she hissed. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I was thirsty! The wells, they’re … the things were drinking from them. I needed water. I needed to survive.’
The Mouth paused before her. He extended a hand, palm bare of knife hilt.
‘Many people do.’
She stared at his hand suspiciously. He resisted the urge to pull it back, lest she see the faint webbing that had begun to grow between his fingers. He resisted the urge to turn to the pool and throw Mother’s Milk into it. They were there, the urges, the need to do them.
But he could not remember why he should leave her.
Kasla took his hand tentatively and he pulled her to her feet. She smiled at him. He did not smile back.
‘We both got here unseen,’ he said, turning towards the sundered doors of the temple. ‘We can help others get here, too, until the longfaces leave. There will be enough to drink.’
‘The waters are sacred. They would fear the wrath of Zamanthras.’
‘Zamanthras will do nothing.’
She followed him as he walked out the door into sheets of pouring rain and the impotent, smoking rage of fires extinguished.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked at last.
He paused before answering.
‘Hanth,’ he said. ‘My daughter’s name was Hanta.’
She grunted. Together, they continued into the city, searching the fallen for signs of life. Hanth stared at their chests, felt for their breath, for want of listening for groans and pleas. He could not hear anything anymore.
The heartbeat was thunder in his ears.
Forty-One
Togu stared from the shore. When he was smaller, at his father’s side, he recalled days of splendid sunsets, the sea transformed into a vast lake of glittering gold by the sun’s slow and steady descent. He had always been encouraged by such a view, seeing it as a glimpse into the future,
Those had been fine days.
But he had learned many things since the day his father died. Gold lost its lustre. Treasure could not be eaten. And the sun, he swore, had been progressively dimming its light just to spite him, so that he could never again look at the ocean without seeing the world in flames.
Fire, too, had once held a different meaning.
He glanced to the massive pyre burning only a few feet away and licked his eyes to keep them from drying out. Just last night, this fire was a beacon for revelry. His people had gathered about it, danced and sang and ate the gohmns that had come from it. Last night, he had stared into the fire and dared to smile a little.
Today, he could not bear to look at it any longer than a few deep, tired breaths.
He had lit it over two hours ago. Only now did he hear the steps of heavy feet upon the sand. By the time he had turned to face the sound, Yaike was already standing over him, arms crossed, his single eye fixed upon the diminutive lizardman.
‘You came,’ Togu muttered.
‘You lit the fire,’ Yaike replied, making a point to reply in their rasping, hissing tongue.
‘I did,’ Togu replied in kind, wincing. The language always felt so unnatural in his mouth since he had learned the human tongue. Perhaps that was the reason Yaike looked down on him with disdain now.
Or one of them, at least.
‘I was expecting Mahalar to come,’ Togu muttered, turning away.
‘Mahalar has concerns on Jaga.’
‘Shalake, then. Shalake used to come often.’
‘Shalake leads the defence of Jaga. Speak with me or speak to no one.’
‘I have spoken to no one for many years,’ Togu snapped back. ‘I have lit
‘The nights are long and dangerous,’ Yaike said. ‘The longfaces prowl above the waves; the demons stalk below. The numbers of the Shen are limited, our time even more so. We do not need to make excuses to anyone.’ He narrowed his eye. ‘Let alone those who harbour outsiders.’
Togu turned toward the sea again, away from his scowl.
‘The outsiders are dead.’
He felt Yaike’s stare upon him like an arrow in his shoulder. He always had. That the Shen had only one eye did not diminish the ferocity of his scowl; it merely sharpened it to a fine, wounding edge.
‘All of them,’ Togu added.
‘How did they die?’
‘Most of them drowned,’ Togu replied. ‘But you already knew that. You sank the ship they were on.’
‘You said “most”.’
‘One of them crawled back to shore. She was exhausted.’ He turned back to face the Shen, his expression severe. ‘I cut her throat.’
‘She …’ Yaike whispered.
‘Yes. She.’
He was not used to seeing Yaike grin. It was unnerving. Even more so when the Shen scratched the corner of his missing eye.
‘Died swiftly?’ Yaike asked.
‘Messily.’
‘Is that all, then?’ the Shen asked.
‘No,’ Togu replied. ‘The tome …’
Instantly, Yaike’s expression soured, grin slipping into a frown, frown vanishing into his tattooed green flesh.
‘You don’t need to know about it.’
‘It came to
‘There are no Owauku. There are no Gonwa. There are no Shen. There is only us and our oaths. Remember that, Togu, the next time you think such questions.’
‘Oaths?
‘Our oath has always been to watch the gate, to wait for Ulbecetonth to-’
