Rachel Caine - The Dead God, Dreaming

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2024-11-24 1 0 42.21KB 6 页 5.9玖币

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THE DEAD GOD, DREAMING

anoriginal short story by RachelCaine

"It is your time."

The whisper seemed to come from everywhere in the dim quiet haven of the tomb. The stones were

ancient, and sometimes they spoke to me, but never in so human a voice. I rose from the empty altar in

the empty room. The Dead God’s victories were painted in blacks and grays on the walls, stretching

away into darkness, and in the lamplight the figures seemed to move, to breathe,to die new deaths.

The Tomb of the Dead God had been my home for days, perhaps weeks, longer than any bride

before me who had been told to attend him. It was time, and past time, that the God should send for me.

At the end of the room, in the narrow doorway, stood a priestess of the Burning God. Shecame a

precise three steps closer, knelt and pressed her cheek to the floor. Her oiled black curls spilled like

snakes, and the rich smell of living skin seemed exotic and somehow disturbing in this place of the dead.

"Now?" I asked. I was afraid, in spite of my faith, and perhaps it showed. The Burning God’s

priestess sat back on her heels. She had painted her eyelids orange for the sunrise, her lips gold for

midday. A crimson sunset wandered over her bared breasts, and her skirt glittered with gold threads.

She was day, and I night; I wore gray skirts, black on my eyes and lips, gray powder on my skin. I was a

corpse that had not yet ceased to breathe, and yet I was the more beautiful, and she knew it. Only the

most beautiful were called to the Dead God’s bed.

"It is time," she repeated. "The priests await you with gifts."

Gifts.Captives, proud and angry, bursting with life. It was no wonder there was a flash of insolence

and jealousy in her eyes; the captives should have been given to the Burning God, and were his by right,

but the Dead God had precedence over all, even her lord.

And so, because I belonged to him, didI .

I retrieved my belongings from the altar. The black-feathered cloak had been my mother’s gift, and as

I settled it around my shoulders it fluttered restlessly, impatient to be gone. Beneath the cloak lay the

stone dagger I had been given on the morning I had been chosen, the Bride’s knife, my strength and my

gift. I carried it in my right hand and nodded to the Burning God priestess; she turned and led me out.

Narrow, twisting hallways, reaching for dusty silver light. My black-feather cloak whispered, and the

damp smells of stone and mold grew faint, replaced by the tang of metal, dust and dung, the smells of

Burning God and man, a half-forgotten life I’d left behind. The silver glow became brass, hurtfully bright

even through closed eyes, and as the first heat of day hugged my shoulders I paused and slowly, slowly

opened my eyes on the world.

The Burning God priestess glittered as she waited, arms folded, gaze steady. Beyond her, clay houses

shouldered each other on the amber dusty street, and the walls bloomed with painted signs and pictures,

some comical, some reverent. OnHarin theclayworker’s house, a blue dog with fierce red teeth snapped

at a fleeing robber who clutched gold in one hand. Next door, not to be outdone, oldAtawa the

goldworker had painted a majestic, fiery bird, beak clenched around what was clearly a blue puppy. The

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