Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [222]
“I have a religion to run. Worshipers to entertain—”
“You think they’ll complain if we give them a new godling? Ah, Saris, think of it! What kind of a child would the gods of beauty and ecstasy produce? I shiver just to imagine the possibilities.”
She looked at him in amazement. “Is that a proposition?”
He chuckled. “I guess it is.”
“You don’t even know what reproduction entails, for us.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I think that figuring it out could be a lot of fun.” He winked at her. “Reproduction usually is.”
“That’s your aspect, not mine.”
“Ah, Saris!” He caught up her hand in his; through the veil of fine flesh he could feel the throb of living energy, the true substance of the Iezu. “ ‘Aspect’ is just preference, not a prison. Don’t you see that? We’re the children of living creatures, with the capacity to be just as versatile as our parents. Why not give it a try?”
“I don’t see you reaching outside your aspect in this experience.”
With a soft laugh he let loose her hand, and struck at his chest as though marking the entrance point of an arrow. “Touché.”
A sudden commotion among the guests drew their attention. Someone was proposing a toast, it seemed, raising a glass of perfect wine to catch the sunlight, in dedication to the newlyweds. Others joined in, and the fine wine was sipped and savored. A hundred souls resonating in perfect unison, relishing the moment: a symphony of pleasure. Karril leaned against the tree in contentment, drinking it in as a toast of his own, and shut his eyes as the waves of human enjoyment washed over him.
She watched him for a moment, observing his reaction, and then a faint smile softened her expression. She relaxed a bit and leaned against the tree beside him, watching the guests as they feasted.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised.
Forty-four
The shop was in a quiet part of town, and despite the fame it had quickly earned since opening—or one could say, the notoriety—its facade was modest and unassuming. HUNT SHOPPE, the sign said, its type-face and proportion suggesting a modest business. There was a display of fishing rods in one corner of the window, bows and crossbows in the other. In the center a finely tanned skin served as backdrop for all the accoutrements of the hunter’s art: compasses and maps, backpacks and canteens, and a selection of heavy-bladed knives guaranteed (so the sign read) to gut with a simple twist of the wrist, and skin with the ease of slicing butter.
The man looked in the window a long, long while, and wondered about why he had come here. He’d never cared for the sport much in general, and the thought of gutting a living animal—or at least one very recently dead—made his stomach turn. For a moment he almost turned back and went home. Then he remembered how lonely it was there, how empty the spacious house was without the sound of other voices. And he drew himself up and pushed open the heavy wooden door, bracing for what was inside.
The shop’s interior was larger than he would have guessed, and every inch of it was filled with hunting apparati. There were other customers there, half a dozen of them, and he watched for a moment while a man hefted a brass-butted springbolt to his shoulder, testing its balance. Another bent the length of a fishing rod in a wide U-shape and harrumphed that yes, it would probably do.
Once more, he almost turned and left. Almost.
“Can I help you?”
The clerk was a young man, about his own height and build. Nondescript, just as he was. For a moment he hesitated. “Riven Forrest?” It couldn’t be him, could it? Surely a man capable of helping him would be more ... more ... well, more something.
To his relief the clerk nodded toward a door at one side of the shop. “Probably in the office. Just go on through, you’ll find him.”
The door led to another room, smaller than the first, less crowded. There were paintings in this room and other forms of art as well, all depicting objects of the hunt. Skerrels, nudeer, lynkesets ... some were wandering through their