Beneath Ceaseless Skies #27 by Yoon Ha Lee, Ian McHugh, Sara M. Harvey, Michael Anthony Ashley
Ads: Link
was with a dry mouth that he replied, “I was not aware—”
“The Maestro decided only within the hour. You will join the near-man compliment that supports our clan on the warpath. Be at the family villa at dawn. You are excused from your duties until then.”
She propped her chin against her indigo fist. Her flesh hand settled on the hilt of her hymn. Imre was dismissed.
He saluted her then started across the Piazza, his mood bleak. He knew the Baremescre only warred within their archipelago. They would sail from isle to isle, raiding the neighboring populations for slaves and wealth. But never did they invade other lands. Never did their eyes turn to expansion of any sort. It all seemed profitless.
“Peregrin!” Ariosa called, startling him. She’d not moved from her bench, but even from a distance Imre could see her smile.
“Yes, Theca....” he called back.
“The Voce will one day teach you this lesson, but I offer it to you now, as a gift. We are born to sing, peregrin. And we do not sail where we cannot sing .”
Imre felt no more enlightened, but he nodded like a boy learning his letters, then left the Piazza with the firm conviction to never again think a thought in Ariosa’s presence.
He followed the Falcis road along the crescent cliff side overlooking the sea. At its northernmost point rested a plateau known as the Verzi na Spina , or “great garden of bones.” At her crown was the resting place of the Baremescre clan chieftains. Their stone remains were laid in rows, faces to the sky, feet to the east, their hymns planted deep in the earth through the hard cages that once protected their hearts.
It was here that Naldo spent his days going mad. Daily, down the paths between the dead, the old man trod a tireless rhythm, bent and stooped under the sun, his eyes ever downward. He searched the bones for riddles he’d learned. Always the riddles, always the bones, always the black shard Ariosa had given him for enlightenment. He tucked it against his withered arm in its sling, close to his breast, and spoke to it from time to time.
The Baremescre had no music that wasn’t battle, but they claimed to hear the dead sing. A boneyard such as that upon the Verzi na Spina was the closest they had to theater. So this evening when Imre found Naldo among the bones, he and the Arbiter were not at all alone. Silici visitors strolled the open graves as other men might amble among street musicians, inclining an ear, swaying now and again, and wandering on.
Naldo’s cobbled babbling rattled sharply over the quiet. “ Kirei desu, ne ... Warum ? A mineral, young master, from the beginning. Il contenu la peau , the bones, the stone, the blood, the beginning... begyndelse ... kezdem sejteni ... alku, no !”
Naldo’s muttering rose and fell with the wind as Imre sat cross-legged upon a worn alley between two ancient Baremescre corpses. He laid his stone sword at his side and set to work carving his new puppet’s face, “uncovering a mystery” as Tayuya called the process, for no two were ever the same. This mystery was a brutish, ugly, and awkward buffoonery, with all the elegance of a child’s clay sculpture. There was a soul inside this hunk of wood, but he was becoming frustrated as all hells trying to find it. Baremescre shadows stretched around him, occasionally falling across his hands and ruining his light. But the shadows passed and Imre worked on, carving at the wood, looking for its true gaze.
He of course noticed Cantiléna. She’d long ago set aside her stealth when approaching him in what Eroico claimed was an effort at truce. She came and crouched near him, the slanted sun rays making copper fire of her hair, arm, and blade.
“The evening finds you hale,” he said to her in
“The Maestro decided only within the hour. You will join the near-man compliment that supports our clan on the warpath. Be at the family villa at dawn. You are excused from your duties until then.”
She propped her chin against her indigo fist. Her flesh hand settled on the hilt of her hymn. Imre was dismissed.
He saluted her then started across the Piazza, his mood bleak. He knew the Baremescre only warred within their archipelago. They would sail from isle to isle, raiding the neighboring populations for slaves and wealth. But never did they invade other lands. Never did their eyes turn to expansion of any sort. It all seemed profitless.
“Peregrin!” Ariosa called, startling him. She’d not moved from her bench, but even from a distance Imre could see her smile.
“Yes, Theca....” he called back.
“The Voce will one day teach you this lesson, but I offer it to you now, as a gift. We are born to sing, peregrin. And we do not sail where we cannot sing .”
Imre felt no more enlightened, but he nodded like a boy learning his letters, then left the Piazza with the firm conviction to never again think a thought in Ariosa’s presence.
He followed the Falcis road along the crescent cliff side overlooking the sea. At its northernmost point rested a plateau known as the Verzi na Spina , or “great garden of bones.” At her crown was the resting place of the Baremescre clan chieftains. Their stone remains were laid in rows, faces to the sky, feet to the east, their hymns planted deep in the earth through the hard cages that once protected their hearts.
It was here that Naldo spent his days going mad. Daily, down the paths between the dead, the old man trod a tireless rhythm, bent and stooped under the sun, his eyes ever downward. He searched the bones for riddles he’d learned. Always the riddles, always the bones, always the black shard Ariosa had given him for enlightenment. He tucked it against his withered arm in its sling, close to his breast, and spoke to it from time to time.
The Baremescre had no music that wasn’t battle, but they claimed to hear the dead sing. A boneyard such as that upon the Verzi na Spina was the closest they had to theater. So this evening when Imre found Naldo among the bones, he and the Arbiter were not at all alone. Silici visitors strolled the open graves as other men might amble among street musicians, inclining an ear, swaying now and again, and wandering on.
Naldo’s cobbled babbling rattled sharply over the quiet. “ Kirei desu, ne ... Warum ? A mineral, young master, from the beginning. Il contenu la peau , the bones, the stone, the blood, the beginning... begyndelse ... kezdem sejteni ... alku, no !”
Naldo’s muttering rose and fell with the wind as Imre sat cross-legged upon a worn alley between two ancient Baremescre corpses. He laid his stone sword at his side and set to work carving his new puppet’s face, “uncovering a mystery” as Tayuya called the process, for no two were ever the same. This mystery was a brutish, ugly, and awkward buffoonery, with all the elegance of a child’s clay sculpture. There was a soul inside this hunk of wood, but he was becoming frustrated as all hells trying to find it. Baremescre shadows stretched around him, occasionally falling across his hands and ruining his light. But the shadows passed and Imre worked on, carving at the wood, looking for its true gaze.
He of course noticed Cantiléna. She’d long ago set aside her stealth when approaching him in what Eroico claimed was an effort at truce. She came and crouched near him, the slanted sun rays making copper fire of her hair, arm, and blade.
“The evening finds you hale,” he said to her in
Similar Books
