The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [43]
She raised shaking hands, worshipping.
Her pets again went mad.
Ambassadors buzzed Pan Renik, lashing whenever they could at his exposed face and hands with their wire tails. Unable to defend himself (and knowing enough in his state of delirium not to even make an effort), the exile lay on his side, in his nest, moaning as he struggled to hold onto his rather limited senses. When he opened an eye, just a crack, wire tails caught at his skin and made him whimper.
One ambassador hovered a few centimetres before his face. Wings a blur of silver, it was there every time he looked, as if studying him, or maybe waiting. He peeked: still there. The tails beat at him. Never before had Pan Renik seen a single ambassador this close—usually only hordes of the messengers going about their business on high, or giving padres instructions from the sky.
Sap trickled his forehead.
If he had not known better, Pan Renik would have been certain that the ambassador was made of metal, for it shimmered, and reflected his marred face. But padres told the people that Anu and his countless minions were composed of polymers. Bio-engineered polymers that even—
Look what have you done.
For a second, Pan Renik thought the voice might be his own conscience; his conscience had spoken to him in the past, in various voices and from several sources, internal and external. But this voice was somehow different.
Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Everything was calibrated: her crash, her wounds. She was meant to remain alive.
The ambassador, he realized, addressed him: this voice was no conscience. But ambassadors only spoke to padres—and to Anu, of course. Yet what other explanation could there be?
Humbled, Pan Renik accepted the pain and asked, “What did I do? Why are you here?”
Small fissures and cracks in the little round face, but no mouth, no feature at all that could be considered a mouth. Several wings on the back end. Sharp, dangling legs. The size of his fist.
The ambassador did not respond.
Pan Renik struggled, without much success, to sit up.
Perhaps a dozen of Anu’s emissaries had gathered in the air about him, including the one facing him, the one that seemed to be communicating. Others worked on his limbs, slashing at them. His arms and legs were covered in growing welts. His face burned.
When the ambassador spoke again, it radiated a mild heat. This heat was, in its own way, like another wire, twisting in Pan Renik’s brain:
Anu is interested.
Each syllable stung as the ambassadors circled around, no doubt to get better shots, to strike at his forearms, his forehead, the bottoms of his poor feet.
He tried not to flinch. “Interested in me?”
Yes.
“How can that be? I’m the exile.”
She came up from the clouds.
“What?”
The one you attacked. She came up from under the clouds.
“That would be a miracle.”
Yes. A miracle. Exactly. A miracle, until you killed her. Now Anu is coming. He is far away, but he is coming here.
“Anu? For me?” Pan Renik saw now that the woman’s body was there still, in his nest. He touched the corpse with his toes. The metal also remained. He could not imagine how he could have been left alone with these treasures, or why.
Now the power was going to visit.
Nor could he imagine a way out of this situation.
Though Pan Renik knew he had not been unconscious for long, daylight had grown stronger since he had