Page 57 of Mistress of Bones
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER
“They’ve taken the younger Del Arroyo into custody,” Ambassador
Diagol de Mial, head of the Cienpuentes envoy from Sancia, announced in a somber
voice.
Nereida wanted to snort—with the older sister gone, was the chit still the younger , or simply the only remaining ?—but she couldn’t forget the sight of Isadora del Arroyo crumbling into dirt right in front of her eyes.
A person—flesh and bone one moment, nothing but soil the next.
Impossible. And yet, Nereida had witnessed stranger things than this in Cienpuentes.
She had witnessed her brother’s voice speaking someone else’s words.
Someone who lived for the kind of scheming that only the Cienpuentes court could do justice to.
Someone who thought of everyone else as puppets to play with.
Nereida went right to Sío’s quarters after learning that the Witch had taken over his body, but he’d had the mask on.
Sío wore the mask every time she’d tried to reach him.
Nereida even tried to grab the thing more than once, and the Witch had laughed because the mask would not come off no matter how hard she pulled.
She wrote letters and received no response.
She went to the Temple and swore under the Lord Nightmare that she’d make the Witch’s life a horrific dream unless she freed her brother.
Yet how could she follow through when the Witch never left Sío alone?
“What will happen to Del Arroyo?” another member of their group asked with obvious concern.
“I don’t know. It’s customary for there to be an investigation in cases of strange deaths. They have called for an emissary.”
The room gasped. Emissaries of the Lord Death—the god’s will made human flesh, here to drag you from your hiding place to face death.
And the reason Nereida was here.
“I have a favor to ask,” the Witch had said, and because Nereida knew firsthand that the Witch didn’t believe in favors, it had taken all her composure not to laugh. It wouldn’t do to laugh at the Witch. Not while she still wore Sío.
“I need you to go somewhere and look into something for me,” the Witch continued.
“Go there yourself.” Nereida had regretted the harsh words, but the Witch took them in stride.
“I would if I could. Alas! It needs to be you. You will go to Valanje with the court’s ambassador.”
“No.”
The Witch’s mouth—Sío’s mouth—formed a mockery of a smile. “I thought you loved your brother, but if I was mistaken…”
And so here she was, supposed to investigate all matters of death.
To somehow gain entry into the Order’s archives and see what they knew, what the Lord Death had taught them.
During the trip, Nereida had a lot of time to entertain theories about the Witch’s sudden interest in death.
Was she facing her own natural demise? After all, a witch who took over other people’s bodies had to originate somewhere, didn’t she?
If Nereida took her sweet time in Valanje, might not the Witch save her the effort of forcing her out of Sío by dying herself?
But, no, what if by dying the Witch could never abandon her brother, taking his body forever? The thought was unendurable.
Then Isadora del Arroyo had crumbled to dust in front of her, and her sister had begged to go back to Sancia, back to Isadora’s bones. The younger Del Arroyo had told Diagol that if he wanted to see Isadora again, he must help her get back to her bones.
Nereida had been raised in the northern countryside of Sancia, where strange tales abounded and superstition ran high.
Put a piece of Anchor over your front door to stop ungodly things from entering your home.
Spit three times near your well so it recognizes you and won’t try to drag you into its depths.
Place a doll of yourself under your bed so when the necromancer comes, he mistakes it for you.
The necromancer: a being who thrived on bones, who went from house to house, stealing them at night before they could be put to rest in the ossuaries. It was stuff of rumors, she’d thought, tales to make children behave.
Until Isadora had crumbled into dust and Azul del Arroyo had demanded to get to her bones.
All Nereida’s resentment, all the impotence that came with being just another one of the Witch’s tools, suddenly transformed into something new and bright and almost too powerful to hold in her heart: hope.
Hope that she might save her brother from the Witch’s clutches, thwart the Witch’s plans, and finally be able to sleep at night.
“I shall talk with Del Arroyo,” she said, shocking the room even further, “and give her the news about the emissary.”
And, Luck willing, Azul del Arroyo would be the answer to her hopes.
THE PRESENT
Azul dismounted the horse with the help of Sombra.
He had ridden behind her, one arm around her waist the whole way since she was still so weak.
Death had allowed her this personal time, as promised, but must not wish her to mysteriously disappear or fall off the horse and break her neck.
Azul was glad Sombra had no trouble transferring his allegiances from Enjul to the Lord Death, and perhaps even to her.
They had bonded, had they not, during that awful night—a faraway night that yet happened only a couple of days ago.
Nereida urged her, impatient, and Azul followed the woman over the slight rise of a hill until they were out of sight from her shadow and the horses. Here, about two hours away from Cienpuentes, the fields opened up, nearing harvest. Sancia, extending for leagues and leagues in front of them.
Azul knelt on a vibrant patch of tall grass and weeds, waiting expectantly.
But Nereida hesitated, unexpectedly reluctant. She stood, studying her boots intently. What a contrast with the person who had demanded to speak with Azul just an evening before.
It had been Nereida who led the blue tabards to her brother’s house, refused to answer Azul’s questions, and then tried to drag Azul out of her room.
Death had forbidden it—as far as Nereida knew, he was still Emissary Enjul—because Azul needed to rest. His source of power needed to regain her strength, Azul amended wryly to herself. And so, two days of rest.
Now Nereida looked like she wished Azul had rested for weeks. Her hands roved her waist and hips, as if making sure she had gotten out of Cienpuentes with her pockets and purse safe.
Then, coming to a decision, Nereida sneaked a hand under her waistcoat and closed the distance between them to hand Azul a tiny bundle of cloth.
Azul took it from her shaking hands. “Are you certain?”
Nereida’s eyes brightened, full of tears. “Yes.” She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to the morning sun. “Yes. The Lady Dream forgive me, but, yes, I am.”
So much sorrow, so much despair, so much hope in those words. Azul swallowed thickly and averted her gaze, concentrating on opening the small packet of cloth. A baby tooth lay inside.
“You kept this?” she asked in wonder.
“A family tradition,” Nereida said tersely.
Unease ran through Azul. “It’s not… it’s not yours, is it?”
“Gods, no!” exclaimed Nereida, taking a step back with disgust. “Ask no more. Do as you promised.”
“As promised,” Azul agreed. With the utmost care, she picked the tooth and pressed it into the ground.
Allowing instinct to take over, she opened what she now knew was the Eye of Life, and life itself re-formed under her palm.
Weeds shriveled around them; tall grass dried into drooping brown blades.
Nereida took another step away. The ground beneath her gave up its life for the body emerging under Azul’s care, and Azul was left with nothing but an ever-deepening ache that left no space for air or anything else.
She barely felt the slicing in her soul, for the loss there was still so overwhelming, what was another chunk missing?
Then a young girl of about twelve lay naked on the ground, big green eyes blinking in confusion, long midnight black hair tangling on the dry dirt.
Nereida gasped and rushed forward, helped the girl sit up, and draped a cloak over her shoulders. The girl’s hands fisted on Nereida’s waistcoat, her mouth opening and closing a few times before words made it out of her throat: “Who— Nina?”
More tears welled in Nereida’s eyes as she hugged the girl tightly. This time, they flowed down her cheeks.
“Edine.”