Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

Klukesharna Held by Wokolinka of Lewinkob in the Henanolee Heart, in the island city Hennkensikee. Manifests as a small rod of black iron melted off a meteor, cooled in the shape of a clumsy key.

Massulit Held by the Geniod in the chamber of crystals sunk within the, white cliffs of the Lake Pikma ka Vyamm, the inland sea in the heart of the Jana Sarise. Manifests as a star sapphire the size of a man’s fist, the color of the sky at the zenith on a clear spring day.

Shaddalakh Held by Magus of Tok Kinsa in the holy city of the Rukka Nagh. Manifests as a spotted sand dollar made of porcelain.

I: Brann, The Drinker Of Souls

Jal Virri in the Myk-tat Tukery Brann and Settsimaksimin

In the tenth year of their habitation within the Tukery, they are restless.

The wide bed creaked as Brann rolled onto her side. Maksim muttered a few shapeless sounds without waking enough to know what he was protesting. She finished her turn and lay on her back, staring at a ceiling swimming in green-tinted light. The sun was barely above the horizon, shining directly in through the tight profusion of vines Maksim had coaxed across the windows. Given his choice he would come grudging out of bed sometime past noon and would have hung thick black curtains over the windows, but Brann needed a free flow of air and a feeling that the outside penetrated the room, that she wasn’t shut into something she couldn’t escape from. The vines were a compromise. She smiled at the shifting leaf-shadows; the light that came through in the very early morning was such a lovely green.

Maksim was sleeping soundly again now the nights were cooler and Brann was once more sharing the bed with him. Solid, meaty, comforting to sleep against once he settled down, he was a furnace that got hotter as the night went on, a blessing-in winter but impossible when the nights heated up. When the hot season arrived, Brann moved into the other bedroom and Maksim was once again tormented by the bad dreams that wracked his sleep when she wasn’t there to chase them off; he’d lived a long time and done things he refused to remember; he had reasons he considered adequate at the moment but they didn’t ease his mind when he looked back at them. During the day he pottered contentedly enough about Jal Virri, reading, working in the many gardens beside the sprites who tended the place, but when night came, he dreamed.

Braun and Maksim slept together for the comfort they took from each other, body touching body. They shared a deep affection. One might have called it love, if the word hadn’t so many resonances that had nothing to do with them. Maksim found his loves in Kukurul, young men who stayed a night or two, then left, others who loved him a longer time but also left.

Brann went through a short but difficult period during the first days they spent on Jal Virri; she wanted him, but had to recognize the futility of that particular passion. It was a brief agony, but an agony nonetheless, a scouring of her soul. His voice stirred her to the marrow of her bones, he was bigger than life, a passionate dominating complex man; she’d never met his equal anywhere anytime in all her long life. She shared his disdain for inherited privilege, his sardonic, sympathetic view of ordinary men; her mind marched with his, they enjoyed the same things, laughed at the same things, deplored the same things, were content to be quiet at the same time. Anything more, though, was simply not there. She too went prowling the night in Kukurul, though it was more distraction than passion she was seeking.

There was enough of a nip in the air to make her snuggle closer to Maksim. He grumbled in his sleep, but again he didn’t wake. She scratched at her thigh, worked her toes, flexed and unflexed her knees. It was impossible; how did he do it, sleep like that, on and on? She never could stay still once she was awake. Her mouth tasted foul, like something had died in it and was growing moss. Her bladder was overfull; if she moved she’d slosh. She pressed her thighs together; it didn’t help. That’s it, she thought. That’s all I need. She slid out of bed and scurried for the watercloset.

When she came back, Maksim had turned onto his stomach. He was snoring a little. His heavy braid had come undone and his long, coarse hair was spread like gray weeds over his shoulders; a strand of it had dropped across his face and was moving with his breath, tickling at his nose. She smiled tenderly at him and lifted the hair back, taking care not to wake him. Lazy old lion. She shaped the words with her lips but didn’t speak them. Big fat cat sleeping in the sun. She touched the tangled mass of hair. I’ll have a time combing, this out. Sorceror Prime tying granny knots, it’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. She patted a yawn, crossed to the vanity he’d bought for her in Kukurul a few years back.

The vanity was a low table of polished ebony with matching silver-mounted chests at both ends and a mage-made mirror, its glass smooth as silk and more faithful than she liked this autumn morning. Maybe it was the green light, but she looked ten years older than she had, last night. She leaned closer to the mirror, pushed her fingers hard along her cheekbones, tautening and lifting the skin. She sighed. Drinker of Souls. Not any more. I don’t have to feed my nurslings now. They’re free of me. She stepped back and kicked the hassock closer, sat down and began brushing at her hair. There was no reason now for the Drinker of Souls to walk the night streets and take life from predators preying on the weak. The changechildren could feed themselves; they weren’t even children any more. They came flying back once or twice a year to say hello and tell her the odd things they’d seen, but they never stayed long. Jal Virri is boring; Jay said that once. She paused, then finished the stroke. It’s true. I’m petrified with boredom. I’ve outlived my usefulness. There’s no point to my life.

She set the brush down and gazed into the mirror, examining her face with clinical objectivity, considering its planes and hollows as if she were planning a self-portrait. She hadn’t been a pretty child and she wasn’t pretty now. She frowned at her image. If I’d been someone else looking at me, I’d have said the woman has interesting bones and I’d like to paint her. Or I would have liked to paint her before she started to droop. Discontent. It did disgusting things to one’s face, made everything sag and put sour lines around the mouth and between the brows. Her breasts were firm and full, that was all right, but she had a small pot when she sat; she put her hands round it, lifted and pressed it in, then sighed and reached for the brush. It won’t be long before I have to pay someone to climb into bed with me. She pulled the bristles through the soft white strands. Old nag put out to pasture, no one wants her anymore.

She made a face at herself and laughed, but her eyes were sad and the laughter faded quickly. Might as well be dead.

She rubbed the back of her hand beneath her chin and felt the loosening muscle there. Death? Illusion. Give me one man’s lifeforce and I’m young again. Twenty-four/five, back where I was when Slya finished with me. No dying for me. Not even a real aging, only an endless going on and on. No rest for me. No lying down in the earth and letting slip the burden of life. How odd to realizewhat a blessing death was. Not a curse. Well… once the dying was finished with, anyway. Dying was the problem, not death. I wonder if they’d let me? She got to her feet, looked over her shoulder at Maksim. One massive arm had dropped off the bed; it hung down so the backs of his fingers trailed on the grass mat that covered the floor.