Mistress of Bones by Maria Z. Medina - XXI. Azul, Not Forgotten

XXI
AZUL, NOT FORGOTTEN

Two days had passed since the exhibition. Two days spent playing games with those around her.
With Nereida, games of cards. With Sergado, games of waiting for ossuary entry. With Enjul, games of sneaking into each other’s rooms to rile the other.
The emissary had searched Azul’s room right after the exhibition, and Azul had used his absence the following day to search for his mask. What would be more fitting than using its bone to raise an army of spies? Instead, all she had found were sketches tucked away on a table. Sketches made with paper and ink meant for letters. Sketches of plants and birds and bone masks meant for a rounder face—something a youth might wear, or a woman—forming pleasing patterns instead of a broken, scary visage.
The art gave her pause. She would never have expected such a zealot to do anything that wasn’t related to his god, and she wondered what else he might keep hidden away, secret from the world. A love for plays? A penchant for collecting pretty stones?
A lover?
No, it didn’t fit him, Azul decided, and if the unpleasant twisting in her gut lessened at the thought, who would know?
She had followed him the next day, wanting to bother him as much as he was bothering her. He had led her through a web of streets filled with high-end artisan shops and houses, and Azul, well aware of her shadow, had been careful to keep her expression blank while allowing her attention to snag on a few random passersby for a little too long. Let the emissary and her shadow spend their evening figuring out if she had singled them out because they might be the other necromancer’s victims, or because she had taken a liking to their shirtsleeves.
It was a dangerous game, but Azul couldn’t stop herself from trying to prod him. Virel Enjul exuded arrogance, so sure in his power, so certain she’d eventually acquiesce and help him find this other necromancer. But Azul wouldn’t truly help unless she risked meeting Death—it was the only thing that kept her within Isadora’s reach.
Isadora. She was failing her sister. Four days had passed since arriving at Cienpuentes, and they felt like a year. No news from the dean. No news from her brother. No way to know whom else to ask without arousing suspicion.
She hadn’t seen the masked stranger from the exhibition again, although she had half expected to, since he had been so interested in her brother. Asking about his identity would take her nowhere: young, dark haired, average looks, wearing a mask. She had snorted at the thought. Welcome to Cienpuentes, would’ve been the answer. No, no point in waiting for him, as much as she could use someone completely unrelated to her family, her captor, or Nereida.
And on the fifth day, finally an opportunity to find more allies without Enjul or his shadow being present: an invitation from Sergado to a private gathering with his circle of friends. He was tired of her long face, he had told her.
In the afternoon, they got into her brother’s open carriage—more of a cart with plush leather seats—leaving Nereida and Enjul behind. But not Azul’s shadow, elegant on his saddle a few paces behind the carriage.
Azul settled on her seat, arranging her skirts. She had chosen these and a short waistcoat instead of her usual breeches because they had appeared, along with some other clothes, in her room by her brother’s grace. Today she aimed to please.
“Brother,” she asked as the cart advanced through the cobbled streets, “where is your personal guard?” Lina del Valle had one, and even Azul did in the form of the shadow riding right behind them. She looked around once again, and found no one except the young man sitting by the driver.
“I don’t have one.”
She was surprised. “But you’re a marquess now. You must take care.”
Sergado smiled. “I haven’t gotten around to hiring someone. One of the footmen will suffice for now. Who would dare attack me out in the open?”
Azul eyed the footman’s back and wondered about that. The exhibition had proved there were plenty of people in Cienpuentes with more than passable skill at sword fighting, and who could say no to a good amount of coin?
The carriage moved on, and Azul returned her attention to her brother.
“Tell me more about your friends. You said these gatherings can be large.”
“Well, I must collect as many friends as I can. It’s the only way to survive here and not die of boredom,” Sergado said dryly. “As for my closest friends, you will meet them soon enough. No point in spoiling the surprise, is there?”
Azul scrunched her nose, eliciting a laugh out of him. “Brother,” she said, “will any of your friends be able to help us gain entry into the ossuary?”
He dismissed her question with a slight shake of his head. “Don’t worry about these matters today, Sister. I am working on it. Enjoy the afternoon, make connections. Things will look better soon, I promise you.”
And with that, the carriage stopped and he hopped out, then turned to help her down. She accepted his help, missing her breeches something fierce, and wondered if wearing the skirts in her aim to please had made a difference at all—he appeared no more concerned about the ossuary than he did the last time she had asked. Did he consider it a mere whim?
Entering his friend’s house, she let her gaze explore the inside avidly: the beautiful patterns of the floor tiles, the abundance of tall vases and potted plants, the framed paintings.
The high ceilings with golden moldings helped alleviate the oppression of the entrance hall, and so did the wide stairs curving into the second floor. There, a hallway free of potted plants led them to a series of three interconnected rooms. No space for a patio in this long house.
A miscellaneous assortment of people filled the rooms, chatting in small groups or sitting on the settees and chairs strewn around. Refreshments and food had been set on tall tables, while more potted plants made their home in corners, their leaves long and impossibly green.
Azul found herself enthralled by the contrast between the muted shades of the walls and the garish colors of the guests’ clothing—not at all like the gatherings in Agunción.
This was a gathering meant to offer a haven of friendship, and Azul’s worries softened as her brother introduced her to name after name: artists, scientists, writers, socialites, from her age to over forty. She was surprised to see that even in this more intimate setting, some of her brother’s friends wore masks. Cienpuentes certainly loved her masks.
What was it about them Nereida hated so much? She had tried to fish the secret out of her during one of their card games, but Nereida excelled at not speaking when there was nothing she wished to say.
Perhaps, Azul thought, the woman had simply grown to hate them during her life in the court.
“Azul.” Her brother tugged her elbow. “Allow me to introduce you to my closest friend.”
She was introduced to a young man slightly taller than her and with a friendly face—Isile Manzar. Simply Isile, he told her, for they were all friends there.
“Do you remember the painting that caught your attention in my room?” her brother asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“I do.”
“Well, here’s the artist.” Sergado clapped his friend’s shoulder.
Azul’s surprise did not escape their attention.
“You are shocked,” her brother said with relish.
“I thought it an old master’s painting,” confessed Azul, “not a young painter’s.”
“Thank you,” Isile said. “But I’m afraid I’m not sure which painting Sergado is speaking of.”
Azul waited for Sergado to clarify, but he was already walking away, leaving her with this new stranger. The best friend and the sister—a connection Sergado was obviously eager to make happen.
“The painting of a subject’s back,” Azul said, “with the flesh stripped down to the bone.”
Isile swallowed. “That’s ah…”
“What was your inspiration?” she asked. “I have never seen a painting like that before.” What in that kind of painting drew the interest of someone like this, young and fresh and far from death? Her breath caught and she fought not to step away. Could this be the other necromancer? As a close friend of her brother, he might have access to the type of places where an ambassador’s second-in-command would be.
But, no, she corrected herself, allowing her lungs to work again. What would he gain by killing Zenjiel and bringing him back to life? He already had a protector in her brother. Why would he need the other bodies she had seen at the exhibition, the ones proving Zenjiel hadn’t been an isolated incident?
“I’m sorry, Sirese Del Arroyo,” Isile said. “That piece wasn’t meant for public viewing. It must have shocked you, yes?”
“At first, but it’s so beautifully done.”
He bowed. “Thank you, again. As for my inspiration, well, you can blame that on Norel.”
“Who?”
Isile fixed his stare on her, then grinned. “Yes, of course, you’re new in town. Come, let me introduce you to one of our more nefarious members,” he said with good humor. He led the way across the room into the next. The conversations there were livelier, louder. Fights of ideas, Azul thought as she caught errant phrases.
“Norel!” Isile exclaimed, making himself heard above the noise. A strong voice. Isile was surprisingly sturdy.
A man turned from a group and smiled widely. He was older than Isile and Sergado by several years, maturity starting to line his eyes and touch his temples.
“Isile,” he returned in an eager voice. “I haven’t seen you in a while. And who might this be?”
Isile made the introductions, and Azul found her hand gripped between Norel’s big ones.
“Ah, the famous sister! You are all De Gracia has been talking about for the last fortnight. I’ve been dying out of curiosity to finally meet you.”
Azul wasn’t sure what to think. “I’m sorry, you must be somewhat disappointed, then.”
“Nonsense. Look at you, so pretty, so prim, worthy of every expectation!”
“I … uh … thank you, sirese.”
“You’re scaring her,” Isile admonished. “Norel here has made it his life’s work to study humanity at its most basic level.”
Azul frowned at the turn of phrase. “You study morality?”
Norel chuckled. “Not quite, child, although I do believe there is a strong connection between what we do with our bodies and how we evolve inside.”
Azul’s expression cleared. “Oh, you study the body. Like a doctor?”
“A doctor who isn’t interested in healing,” he agreed. “I simply study the connections. I leave the healing to others.” He looked at Isile. “You are usually not so eager to introduce me to newcomers. What brought this change?”
“She was curious about the inspiration for that painting I did for De Gracia. The one of the man’s back.”
“Ah, you’re blaming me again for turning you into bloody business.”
Isile tut-tutted, amused. “You know you are.”
Norel’s heavy hand landed on Isile’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. Azul winced in sympathy.
“You might be right, but I refuse to accept full responsibility,” Norel answered jovially. Focusing again on Azul, he said, “It was my idea, indeed, to bring an artist with me to the mortuary.”
“The mortuary?” Azul asked, suddenly keen.
“Yes! It’s imperative to keep a good record of the different shapes of muscle and bone. What we are underneath our skin”—he drew a circle over his chest with his finger—“is our foundation. Knowing how it forms, how it grows, will teach us how we affect it and how, in turn, it affects us.”
This gave Azul pause. “You believe we have a choice on how our bodies work? You think we can redo our foundations?”
“Of course. Bone is hard, but it grows as we do. It re-forms after it breaks, doesn’t it? Bones have no thoughts of their own; they must follow our mind. By changing how we think, may we not change how our bodies respond?”
Azul was speechless. He sounded so sure, and what did she know about bones? Only the instinct calling her to bring their owners back to life. By following her instinct, was she … tainting these animals? Isadora? Making them as she wished them to be instead of how they ought to be? But there had been no change in Isadora’s personality, nothing odd to indicate she wasn’t fully herself. Had there?
“Are you a member of the College, then?” she asked, because Norel was all hope as he waited to see how she took his theories, and Isile looked worried she might run screaming, and she wanted to ignore these new doubts suddenly crowding her mind and her heart.
“Gods, no,” Norel said. “I despise their methods. Keeping all their findings for themselves. No. This is why I take Isile with me. We need an artist to keep good records, not badly done sketches by people unused to drawing.”
“Why the mortuary, though?” Azul asked. “Couldn’t you visit the ossuary and record the bones there?”
“Ah,” Isile said, “now we’re done for.”
“The ossuary?” Norel scoffed. “The ossuary is useless.”
“But wouldn’t such a collection of bones be great for your studies?”
“The truth of humanity resides in what’s left behind right at death, Sirese Del Arroyo. What use do I have of old decomposing bones?”
“Decomposing?” she asked, baffled. “Bones don’t decompose.”
“Ah, but they do!”
Isile leaned toward her and whispered theatrically, “Beware, sirese, the topic is a difficult one.”
“Bah,” Norel said dismissively. “The topic is not difficult, it’s people’s minds that refuse to bend.”
“Explain, please,” Azul said. With all haste. She didn’t like the newfound dread squeezing her chest.
Norel stepped closer, making a tight triangle out of the three of them and turning them into cohorts, conspirators. “I have concluded, my dear girl, that bones eventually decompose just as flesh does. It is our insistence in using animals and liquids to strip the bodies to the bones that blinds us to the fact that bones, like muscles and skin, fade too. The flesh returns to the soil, and the bones—our essence—return to our gods.”
“But how do our bones return to the gods, when the gods are said to be the Anchor chains?”
“Prepare yourself,” Isile warned.
“Be silent, Manzar, or go draw something,” Norel said, irritated.
“I must stay and make sure you don’t corrupt Del Arroyo’s mind,” he answered amiably.
“Here is the thing, Sirese Del Arroyo.” Norel became eager again. “I don’t believe Anchor is the gods’ bones.”
Azul’s eyes widened. “You don’t?”
“What kind of god would allow the desecration of their body in such a way?” he asked. His eyes followed Azul’s fingers as she touched her earring. “Why would they allow themselves to be mined and sold and traded? Allow their essence to be turned into pretty pieces of glamour?”
Azul was at a loss for words. What a most reasonable point he made. She felt unclean by acknowledging it. It was one thing to believe the gods were no longer around, another to doubt their very bones. Wearing Anchor—well, that was a way to honor the gods, wasn’t it? A way to have their protection at all times, in case they weren’t completely gone. If the gods hadn’t wanted their bones broken down and used, they would’ve made them unbreakable, wouldn’t they?
“What about animal bones?” she asked. “Those last very long—forever?”
“Animals are animals, a single step above flora. We are human—our bodies are infused with souls, not simply instinct. We are completely different species.”
“Then bones, our bones, how long do you believe them to last? Before they … decompose?” With sudden clarity, Azul realized this would explain how they managed to keep so many bones in Cienpuentes’s ossuary.
Norel’s face lit up. “An excellent question. You are, indeed, De Gracia’s sister. I theorize it should only take about five to ten years to see the first signs of decay, depending on the strength of the person’s essence and how attuned they are to the gods. Then at least another twenty or twenty-five years for significant loss of mass.”
“And how do you measure this attuning? Do you mean to say those who don’t believe take longer to decay?” Azul asked with sharp hope.
“Belief is irrelevant in this case.”
“How can it be? Wouldn’t the person’s essence resist being joined to something they didn’t believe in?”
“Ah, but see here, belief is simply a turn of the rational mind. A thought. Essence, however, is tied to our impulses, our morality. Neither the gods nor your essence care about what your mind believes. It doesn’t matter if you think the gods don’t exist—they care only about the burden of your actions. What do gods care if you have utter faith in them but then go on to commit heinous acts? The gods don’t need you to believe in them. They exist beyond our rational mind.”
“So, a wrongdoer’s essence is tainted? It needs more time to be diluted into something the gods can accept as opposed to someone who lived a good, moral life?”
“Just so!” exclaimed Norel.
Azul did not share his delight. Isadora hadn’t had faith in the gods, but her actions, her morality, had always been well intentioned. According to Norel’s theories, this virtue would make her bones disappear faster.
“You are looking pale, Azul,” interrupted Isile. “Would you like to sit?”
“No, thank you. But maybe something to drink?”
“Of course,” said Norel, now worried. “Let me fetch you a glass.”
Azul gave him an encouraging smile and used the time it took him to bring her a drink to compose her thoughts. Time, the eternal enemy. There she’d been, chatting and socializing, assuming it was simply a question of days to get to her sister’s bones.
But what if she had been running late all this while? If Norel were correct and bones started disappearing in five years, would there be anything left of Isadora by now?
Norel handed her a glass of golden liquor. She sipped it cautiously, her fingers shaking, cold sweat gathering on her nape.
She’d renew her search for the emissary’s mask as soon as she returned to her brother’s home. She could disguise herself as an emissary and gain entrance to the ossuary. Her Valanjian wasn’t so bad as it used to be, and who was to say one had to have a full iris ring to become a servant of the Lord Death? Those in charge here, all the way in Cienpuentes, wouldn’t know any better.
“Your coloring is better, I’m glad to see,” said Norel. “Have I offended you? Forgive me,” he added ruefully. “My friends keep reminding me that my theories are too shocking and a tad hard to swallow. But I assure you, I have spent years studying human flesh and bones.”
Azul smiled, a sad, wan excuse of an upward curve that made the two men worry. “I’m not shocked. Surprised, to be sure, but I appreciate your taking the time to explain your theories to me.”
“Of course, of course,” Norel said.
“But for now,” Isile suggested, “let us have some food and drink and talk of less philosophical things, yes? Norel, go find us some seats.”
Norel turned at once and cut through the groups of people.
“I apologize,” Isile said. “Norel can be too much when he gets enamored of his theories.”
“There is no need to—” Azul became aware of a servant politely waiting by their side. “Yes?”
The servant gave them a small bow of his head. “Sirese Del Arroyo?”
“Indeed.”
“There is a woman asking to speak with you. She is not a guest, so we put her in one of the other parlors.”
Could it be Nereida? Azul’s heart began its loud drumming again. There was only one reason Nereida would risk being recognized: access to the ossuary.
With a mere whisper of a goodbye, she returned the glass and followed the servant outside the lively rooms, down the hallway into a smaller parlor. The door closed, and at first, she thought the room empty.
Then someone stepped behind her and placed a cloth against her mouth and nose.
And she thought no more.