The Habitation of the Blessed - Catherynne M. Valente [114]
John looked dubious. He had said little since the Fountain, though every day he had grown stronger and his old wounds lighter. It was only that he rarely slept, and I knew he struggled still with himself, with his God, and I, I wanted nothing of any of that fight.
The bone trumpets blared and the noon sun illuminated the barrel, placed just so to catch the light. Fortunatus began, from his prodigious memory, to call the names of every soul in Pentexore, all of whom, when assembled, filled the broad Pavilion in the center of Nural, and some hung out from balconies and windows and high towers, to come down when they heard their names. But there were not so many even then that this seemed onerous, to pack us all in one place.
I remember it in flashes, as I remember my first Abir. How Grisalba drew a silver bead striped with diamond and sard, and hooted with delight for it gave her two husbands and a wife, and a silversmith’s bench besides. Hadulph drew obsidian flecked with white, and went north to become a tender of the lavender fields, with a crow for a wife—and I laughed, but there was pain in my heart, too, for though they would not manage mating, they would be wed, and he had not drawn me. I remember all of it, how Astolfo looked at me, hollow and hurt, as he walked up and drew his clear crystal, with no flaws at all, and knew he would be a hermit, a holy man without wife or child, and through the ink stains on his face, I saw him weeping and the shame in me was heavy, so heavy, for I had left him, and I could not undo it.
And of course I remember it. There is no forgetting in me. Fortunatus, with only a small quaver, called John forward—of Constantinople, adopted gryphon and foundling. And a great cheer went up, for he was new family then. He smiled bashfully, uncertain, and he looked beautiful in that moment, innocent, young. He spun the barrel strongly, three times round, and thrust his arm within. When he drew it out again he held his fist closed for a long moment, his eyes closed, head tilted toward the sun. His jaw worked; the bells tinkled lazily, and we all held our breath, to see who the stranger would become.
He opened his hand. On his palm sat a bead of lapis, and in it a red smear of carnelian, but also a speck of emerald. He would have a wife. He would have a child.
He would be king.
Silent shock reverberated through the throng. So many mouths hanging open, so many hearts suddenly uncertain. Would the Abir steer us wrong? Was he such the son of luck that he would rule in his first lifetime?
It was my name Fortunatus called next. In a daze I floated to the platform and spun the barrel, all joy sapped for me—I did not even notice it spin. My mind tripped and jangled—what sort of king would John be? I would not become a Christian, I would not. I reached through the dark door of the vessel and felt within, groping, the warm trickle of pebbles sliding over my hand. I chose one, and I swear it was a true Abir, I did not know, I only took a stone which seemed warm and big, no different than when I chose Astolfo, when I chose my scribe-life.
I withdrew my hand. I knew, even without opening it. I cracked my fingers, and there lay a diamond, a deep red flaw within it like a drop