Page 8 of Mistress of Bones
Enjul didn’t move. “Tell me about your gift,” he said, the last word catching on his tongue.
Azul shook her head. “I have no gifts.”
He looked away, and Azul’s knees almost buckled from the sudden lack of pressure.
“Maladies are the stuff of folktales,” he said. “The Order has many theories about them, of course, but they’re theoretical. Not one has ever been found. On our lands, that is.”
He thought her some monstrous creature from a children’s tale. Azul slipped around the chair and sat down. “I’m sorry your travel has been for naught, Emissary,” she answered in a steady voice—only the merest of trembles, which she hoped he wouldn’t notice, although she had a good idea that he would. “I am no malady.”
His gaze returned to her, and she stiffened. “Yet credible witnesses heard you ask to return to your sister’s bones.”
“Seeking prayer, nothing more.”
“Is that a Sancian custom? Praying to bones instead of the gods?” He focused on her earring. “I suppose it should come as no surprise, given what you do with Anchor.”
The censuring tone irked her, as did his focus on Isadora’s earring.Turning her head, she answered demurely, “Wearing Anchor is respecting the gods.”
“If you truly respected them, you’d leave their bones as they chose.”
Azul wanted to tell him the gods wouldn’t have left them out in the open, in the fields and the mountains, if they hadn’t wanted their creations to harvest them. But a Valanjian would never understand. “I want to pay respect to my sister’s memories. Since she had no time to make any here, I must go back to Sancia.”
His hands clenched, as if he wanted to strike her down. “There have been rumors about a malady resurfacing in Sancia. How lucky that the source has fallen into our hands.”
Azul bit her lip to control its trembling. She hadn’t done anything with her gift after bringing her sister back all those years earlier, although the temptation had been great. She had been too scared people might find out and think differently of Isadora—too scared Death might decide to take back what she had stolen.
Had someone finally realized what she had done back then?
“You’re mistaken,” she said. And then, gathering what defiance she could, “Do you call every grieving family member a malady?”
“‘Diagol,’” he quoted, “‘don’t you want to see my sister again? Help me get to her bones.’”
The room turned chilly. “Misguided words, Emissary Enjul, spoken in a moment of grief.”
He walked up to her and leaned down. Azul’s spine pressed against the back of the chair.
“Don’t you want to know why she crumbled? Aren’t you curious about why she lasted this long to then suddenly disappear? I could tell you.”
It was impossible to hide the widening of her eyes. It wasn’t just her lack of will? Her utter failure? Then she remembered—the why didn’t matter. She would bring Isadora back and they would never return to this land.
She lowered her gaze, fixed it on the way the fabric of his pantsbunched into graceful wrinkles where they crammed into his knee-high boots.
“There is no need to know, Emissary. It wasn’t my doing, and I wish to be allowed to return home.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Please.”
He considered her as someone might consider something equal parts morbid and fascinating. “Why?” he said in a deep, smooth voice, “I ask myself. Why would someone who has seen amost belovedone crumble to dust in front of their eyes request to see their bones elsewhere? How would they know their bones were not on the dock or fallen into the sea?”
Azul paled, blood gone so fast she felt faint at the enormity of her mistake. “W-words spoken in ha—”
Enjul straightened. “A malady’s creation cannot survive in the land of the Lord Death without his permission.”
It doesn’t feel right, going to Valanje—Isadora’s words. Isadora, who didn’t really believe in the gods. Azul’s insides churned. The emissary did not step back, did not appear to notice how close she was to losing her stomach on his boots. Or did not care.
“The god is here?” she forced herself to ask. It seemed an impossibility. Gods, they existed far away, didn’t they? If they existed at all beyond the Anchor that used to be their bones. Happy to take prayers and send nothing in return.
“He is the land; he’s in everything we consume. He has no body, but we carry him inside us. And I am his will.”
Fear ran a finger down her back. True terror, not the desperation of impotence or annoyance of having to wait. No, this permeated her bones, her flesh. It made her heart increase its tempo until it beat against her ribs, demanding to be released. She saw the truth of his words in the lack of inflection in his tone. This wasn’t an inquiry into Isadora’s cause of death—had never been.
This was a judgment on whether Azul should live.
