demanded.
âThe MeerShiva has spoken,â she said again, her voice trembling. âI would rather die at your hands than at hers, meneut, if you must destroy me. The MeerShiva has spoken. Her words cannot be taken back.â
Hraethe wrestled with fury and desolation. He knew too well what the delicate messenger said was true. Shiva had said he was to leave, and he would leave. A Meerâs words were irrefutable.
He returned to Soth Szofl,despondent. He was a fool. What, after all, had he expected? Sheâd said it herself: âYou are not here to play at domestic bliss.â Heâd come to give her his seed, and he had done so and more. Shiva had given of herself in so profound a manner in return that it still stunned him to know what heâd done. No agreement had been breached.
This logic, however, couldnât soothe the terrible hole in his core. The black worm of Shivaâs chilling talk of âMeercatchingâ, as it was known, began to fill the hole, and he nursed a dark obsession with the fate of Meer whoâd gone before him. His prior mistrust of his templars and servants became a raging paranoia, and he looked for assassins at every turn. His head felt sick, and he knew something had gone wrong within it, but the knowledge of his loss, the memory of the divine body melding with his, drove him in agony and fear toward this more welcome preoccupation.
He determined after a time that heâd divined the knowledge of a plot against him, conspired by every citizen of Szofl . They waited for him to sleep so they could take himâhe had a vision of a crushing blow to the skull and a body tumbled, twisted, on temple stepsâbut he wouldnât sleep. He would confound them.
In the end, he suffered a continual burning in his lungs, and the muscles around his eyes stung from keeping watch as though pins kept them open. Assassins came at him from every corner of the temple, lunging to overtake him, but somehow escaping from him before he could execute his vengeful defense. He locked himself in his tower and filled the small chamber with an inferno of divining flame, calling upon the quicksilver threads of life to sever before their time. He took them all. None could be trusted. He was gleeful with victory when he emerged.
A sickness had come over every one of his servants, and a dying messenger had come to cry alarm from the plague-ridden city. Hraethe found himself in the midst of the smell of death, his frenzied thoughts suddenly still. A silence stole over the temple that wasnât only in his brain. He left the messenger convulsing at the arch of the court and raced back up the steps to the height of the tower. Below, he could see all of Szofl, and all heâd wrought. A terrible pall lay over the lifeless city, an ugly fog that had threaded in from the coast. MeerHraethe saw no signs of life. There were only the dim sounds of the dying and a terrible stench.
Shiva , he thought desperately as he climbed to the top of the buttress. The beauty of her skin, her smell, her sound and taste tormented him despite the despicable distraction of the plague below. âI will never see you again,â he said to her, and was inconsolably sad. He let go of the latticed stone and found himself soaring into the devouring granite fog.
Twelve: Necromancy
âMeerHraethe,â said Shiva once more, his blood falling unheeded through her fingers. It was the same sheâd said from beneath her veil at the entrance of the temple with Ra the night before. Heâd heard âMeritâ, a name so like his other that it had seemed only an insignificant difference of inflection. âYou must sit down.â She took Merit by the arm, her touch sending an electric jolt through him, and led him through the temple to the dark Sapphire Room the staff had prepared for her, which she hadnât used. He couldnât speak, could only follow her and weep this cataract of blood.
She
âThe MeerShiva has spoken,â she said again, her voice trembling. âI would rather die at your hands than at hers, meneut, if you must destroy me. The MeerShiva has spoken. Her words cannot be taken back.â
Hraethe wrestled with fury and desolation. He knew too well what the delicate messenger said was true. Shiva had said he was to leave, and he would leave. A Meerâs words were irrefutable.
He returned to Soth Szofl,despondent. He was a fool. What, after all, had he expected? Sheâd said it herself: âYou are not here to play at domestic bliss.â Heâd come to give her his seed, and he had done so and more. Shiva had given of herself in so profound a manner in return that it still stunned him to know what heâd done. No agreement had been breached.
This logic, however, couldnât soothe the terrible hole in his core. The black worm of Shivaâs chilling talk of âMeercatchingâ, as it was known, began to fill the hole, and he nursed a dark obsession with the fate of Meer whoâd gone before him. His prior mistrust of his templars and servants became a raging paranoia, and he looked for assassins at every turn. His head felt sick, and he knew something had gone wrong within it, but the knowledge of his loss, the memory of the divine body melding with his, drove him in agony and fear toward this more welcome preoccupation.
He determined after a time that heâd divined the knowledge of a plot against him, conspired by every citizen of Szofl . They waited for him to sleep so they could take himâhe had a vision of a crushing blow to the skull and a body tumbled, twisted, on temple stepsâbut he wouldnât sleep. He would confound them.
In the end, he suffered a continual burning in his lungs, and the muscles around his eyes stung from keeping watch as though pins kept them open. Assassins came at him from every corner of the temple, lunging to overtake him, but somehow escaping from him before he could execute his vengeful defense. He locked himself in his tower and filled the small chamber with an inferno of divining flame, calling upon the quicksilver threads of life to sever before their time. He took them all. None could be trusted. He was gleeful with victory when he emerged.
A sickness had come over every one of his servants, and a dying messenger had come to cry alarm from the plague-ridden city. Hraethe found himself in the midst of the smell of death, his frenzied thoughts suddenly still. A silence stole over the temple that wasnât only in his brain. He left the messenger convulsing at the arch of the court and raced back up the steps to the height of the tower. Below, he could see all of Szofl, and all heâd wrought. A terrible pall lay over the lifeless city, an ugly fog that had threaded in from the coast. MeerHraethe saw no signs of life. There were only the dim sounds of the dying and a terrible stench.
Shiva , he thought desperately as he climbed to the top of the buttress. The beauty of her skin, her smell, her sound and taste tormented him despite the despicable distraction of the plague below. âI will never see you again,â he said to her, and was inconsolably sad. He let go of the latticed stone and found himself soaring into the devouring granite fog.
Twelve: Necromancy
âMeerHraethe,â said Shiva once more, his blood falling unheeded through her fingers. It was the same sheâd said from beneath her veil at the entrance of the temple with Ra the night before. Heâd heard âMeritâ, a name so like his other that it had seemed only an insignificant difference of inflection. âYou must sit down.â She took Merit by the arm, her touch sending an electric jolt through him, and led him through the temple to the dark Sapphire Room the staff had prepared for her, which she hadnât used. He couldnât speak, could only follow her and weep this cataract of blood.
She
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