The Devil's Garden by Jane Kindred Page A

undoing, Cree released her and stood. She led her to the bedroom, and Ume let her slide the dress over her stomach and chest as Cree pushed her back onto the bed.
    It was not Alya. It would never be Alya. But Cree was solid and warm as she climbed over her and pressed her clothed body to Ume’s naked flesh with her arms around her, holding her tight.
    “I’ll take care of you, Ume,” she whispered against her temple. “I promise. I love you.”
    Beneath Cree’s strong hands and warm mouth, her body began to remember it had once been the expression of the divine. Somewhere beneath the grief there was still life.
     
    Life in In’La, however, remained oppressive. The new government had a tight fist, and the public dissent that had handed it its power was no longer tolerated. Neither had its inequities died with Alya. Instead of petitions and offerings, there were levies and taxes—new names for the same system of favoritism. Laws of caste and sex were more strictly enforced, and neither Cree nor Ume felt safe to be themselves. A temple courtesan in Ume’s tradition was found murdered, her body thrown in the mud beyond the Garden for bearing the wrong fruit.
    There was nothing left for them in the stifling, perfumed air of the Delta.
     
    In the dark hours of an early-summer morning, Ume woke Cree after tossing most of the night. She kissed the cool slope of her nape until Cree flicked at her in irritation.
    Ume spoke against her shoulder. “Do you still think about being a farmer or a smith?”
    “A what?” Cree rolled over. “Go back to sleep, Ume.”
    “In the falend. You told me once you thought it was better there. A woman could be anything she pleases.”
    “The falend? ”
    “Do you think a woman could be a lady? Would I have to be a farmer?”
    Cree turned back toward her, finally awake. “You want to go to the falend? Truly go?”
    “Truly go,” said Ume. “We could have babies. I mean, you could have babies, but I’d do all the mothering. You could be what you like.”
    Cree laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that. But no, love, you wouldn’t have to be a farmer.” She took Ume’s fingers and kissed the tips. “How could I bear to callus these pretty hands?”
     
    Just after the solstice, as the winds began to blow from the south, they booked passage on a barge sailing upriver that would take them to Rhyman. Beyond the Delta, toward the desert and the falend beyond, they would travel on foot.
    They arrived at the dock before dawn, Cree handsome in a black brocade coat Ume had made for her, her dark hair covered in a new black cap with a buckram bill and a twist of silk cord across the front—the latest style in In’La. Ume wore a gown of deepest gold with the amber-beaded veil. They might have been bound for a formal affair. If there was trouble, and for more rugged travel once they left Rhyman, Ume could wear the clothes she’d packed for Cree. But ahead of them lay the falend and the promise of a free life.
    As they embarked, Ume knelt at the bank and murmured one last petition —“VetmaaiMeerAlya”— though his spirit was as lost as his body, denied the rite of fire.
    “I wouldn’t do that in Rhyman.” The dockhand took her hand to help her up the gangplank. His voice had a familiar timbre like an aural déjà vu. Ume met his eyes and gasped. They were an exceptional shade of deep cobalt blue.
    For a moment she was certain it was Azhra, following Cree’s custom and dressing as a man, but his vest was open, revealing a firm, flat chest. Yet he was the same height and size as Azhra, and his short hair the same sable shade. Did Azhra have a brother?
    He tipped his hat to Cree as she turned back to see what was keeping Ume, and Cree made the same half-strangled gasp of surprise. “Azhra?” She spoke the name before she saw it couldn’t be.
    As he drew the rope barricade between them, he leaned over the jute rail. “They say in the marketplace that the age of gods is past. That