“What’s wrong with your eyes?” I ask.
“Do they bother you?”
“Yes,” I say, because Kor has taught me the futility of lying to any of Kherishdar’s Shames. And also, “No,” because… what else? I am an artist.
This Shame settles onto the stool facing me. I’ve known two priests of Shame now—three, if you count Kef, and I suppose I must though we aren’t well-acquainted. Tsevet, the first, was a wiry ascetic with hollows under his ribs, vibrating with passions, who frightened people with his zeal: appropriate for an empire that ‘lived more in its body,’ as his successor would later describe Kherishdar at that time in history. But Tsevet had been very little like Kor, who was short and (for an Ai-Naidari), thick, and whose mastery of others began with mastery over himself, and whose self-possession was the ultimate source of his authority, and his mystique. Kef, the third to inherit the stole, had been sinuous and athletic, with a voice that lulled people into opening themselves to the whip-crack of his commands. Like a siren, singing his seduction; or a parent singing a lullaby. He’d been passion all over again.
Amath, though, is like a ghost. Delicate. Frangible. White all over, with weirdling black eyes. His hands flutter over whatever’s near him, touching everything. It’s that, I think, that makes me recall Tsevet. That and the eyes. But unlike the first servant of Shame, it’s the vacuum of passion that makes Amath compelling. He is an empty space, waiting to be filled with confessions. To see him is to long to make him react… to do anything to make the quiet stop. He’s too uncanny for comfort.
His voice does not compel, the way Kef’s did. It’s just that hearing it is a relief, after existing in that vacuum. He is an excellent Shame. “It’s a birth defect. The muscles of my iris are stunted.”
“So you touch.”
“And listen. Mostly listen. We have better ears than you do.”
“Which you know,” I murmur.
“Because we still have congress with the aunera across the Gate?” He inclines his head. “Yes.”
“Is it only the eyes?”
“There are other things. They are minor, in comparison to what many are suffering. Many are suffering.”
“Is it that they need Correction?” I ask. “Or comfort?”
“Correction is comfort,” he says. “But no, I am not ordinarily involved in counseling the grieving and the ailing. But you should know, aunerai, that grief and sickness create disorder in society. In the smaller societies of the family, and one’s social connections, as well as in the society at large. When that disorder inspires wrong behavior, and that behavior cannot be addressed in the usual fashion…”
“Guilt,” I murmur. “Survivor’s guilt.”
“A great deal of that, yes.”
“Broken emethil,” I say. “With little chance of mending. I can’t imagine what that does to your people.”
“To say ‘broken emethil’ is to say ‘broken Ai-Naidar’. There is no difference. We are in a hard time, now. But the hard times will pass.” He cants his head, and that is a gesture he could have stolen from Tsevet. I wonder if Ai-Naidar believe in reincarnation. Or possession. “Will you regret your return to Kherishdar, scribe?”
“Yes,” I say. And, because I recognize a theme, “No.”
“Will you have to know which, before you begin that paisathi?”
I shake my head. “I am already on the road, Kherishdar’s Shame. And if I
were to cleave to one choice or the other, I would no longer be walking it. Some questions have more than one answer.”
“And if you deprive the question of any of them, it is no longer the same question?” He smiles. “They told me I would like you. I’m glad that they were right.”
Who, I wondered? Did it matter? If they were all here with me, in my heart and in my head, why would I think they wouldn’t be in him? Emethil. No wonder an entire generation was suffering. And I would have to go there, to learn… whatever it is I’m supposed to learn.
“I’m glad,” I say, “that this story isn’t yours.”
“No,” he said. “This Correction is administered by a different hand. Though I will be watching.” He smiles, the light dancing on his vast pupils. “Maybe they will one day call you Aunera’s Shame.”
“God,” I say. “I hope not.”
Or at least, I intend it to be relaxing. Hopefully it delivers.
4:22 minutes
Materials:
- Pen: Moonman Starry Glass dip pen, Mars: https://www.jetpens.com/Moonman-Starry-Sky-Glass-Dip-Pen-Mars/pd/31536
- Paper: Strathmore Writing Series 500, lined: https://www.jetpens.com/Strathmore-500-Series-Writing-Pad-8.5-x-11-Lined-50-Sheets/pd/15322
- Ink: Robert Oster, Rose Gilt Tynte: https://www.jetpens.com/Robert-Oster-Rose-Gilt-Tynte-Fountain-Pen-Ink-Shake-N-Shimmy-50-ml-Bottle/pd/25170
In which I talk about the paper, the paint, and the experience of oils versus gouache. Fun stuff, will do more.
Thank you Locals supporters! Your contribution to my art war chest here is what's powering these experiments and videos. For now I'm keeping them public but I may start doing some subscriber-only videos if you all are interested.💖
Thanks for your comments yesterday on the business post... all very provocative, in a good way. I'll try to respond to all of them today.
Some Alysha misc now, since I'm gearing up for the results of the Kickstarter!
Petrov is giving away coupon codes for every book in the Alysha series (and has some leftover coupons for Marda and the business book). You can pick those up here (and please do! The books are bought already, someone should use them!) https://twitter.com/PetrovNeutrino/status/1457344535843987461
Our own @JudasComplex sent along a sample of the Faith in the Service audiobook, which I've attached for your delight! I... haven't had a chance to listen to it. Don't ask me about my past week and a half or so. Putting it here will guarantee I get to it.
After hearing the amused comments during the livestream, I went ahead and added all the ship type illustrations I have inked from the 90s to the wiki. Glory in the rampant adorableness of their anthropomorphic stylings! See those ...
A little comedy today, at least in the link. Transcript follows.
Hi, all. Welcome to this episode of The Jaguar’s Heart.
A while back I was introduced to a comedy sketch about Cuban coffee by a Mexican comedian, Gabriel Iglesias. ( The sketch begins with him greeting all his fellow Latinos and then backing up to say ‘but we’re all different, aren’t we’ which is a segue into a demonstration of how different Hispanics speak Spanish.
It is hilarious. First, because I am a Spanish speaker and a linguistics hobbyist, and his portrayal of various accents resonated with my experiences in trying to make sense of them myself… Not always easy, since from culture to culture, slang and accent are often totally different (and sometimes grammar! Spaniards use a grammatical construct that has died out in many other Spanish-speaking countries, the plural “you.”)
I also loved it because the Cuban coffee part is real. I grew up with Cubans. I know how we are....
One of the most common things I hear (and say) right now is "the asymmetry is the story." Here's one about how none of us are innocent of the sins we hate in others.
Hi, all. Welcome to this week’s episode of The Jaguar’s Heart.
It’s been weeks since the Baen’s Bar incident and I’m still thinking about it... because the longer I do, the more I feel, overwhelmingly, that it’s obvious that the problem is deeper than “this forum was saying stuff that offended us.” We have to back up to the glaring fact that people on opposite sides no longer consider each other human. Nothing I say will matter because the people disagreeing with me don’t think I’m human. They have denied my humanity; they have not bothered to listen to my beliefs, or have fake-listened to them in that way that people do when they’re so ready to prove you wrong that they’re only using your speech to provide talking points for their own ideas.
We have forgotten how to listen.
Increasingly, we have also ...
Complete with homemade challah french toast (the challah is homemade). (Also the french toast.)
I guess if you weren't sure about buying a thing or leaving a review or telling a friend about a thing or taking the book quiz, there is no time like the present. Because it would be that, literally, a present. XD
Okay I'm loopy, I'm off to nap, I am so full. XD
I am home and recovering from a lovely Necronomicon 2025! Happily, this year was much busier than last, which got rained out by the hurricane three days prior. The scene in the halls was lively, and the panels actually had attendees! But it kept its cozy vibe, which meant I had plenty of time to do what I love best, which is talk to people.
This year I had both a writer’s alley table and art in the art show, and I volunteered for panels (and ended up on five of them!), so I was busy! Basically eight or nine hour days every day! By Saturday I was so hoarse I was putting honey in everything I was drinking. Never have I had more ample a demonstration that in my daily life I spend more time listening than talking than seeing how fast I ran out of voice when I had to talk.
My marketing thrust this year was getting people to take the quiz! I had a QR code and then I gave out colored dots that corresponded to the eight archetypes, and I had a leaderboard tracking what archetype was dominating. My biggest problems with this...
I'll be there Friday to Sunday in the writer's alley, selling books, stickers, and magnets... I'll also have art in the show and I'll be on... four? Five? Panels! I guess I'll see when I get my schedule! Regardless, look for the big Earthrise-themed banner. Website, if you want to check it out: https://necrofl.org/
Theme this year is cryptids and GOHs are Timothy Zahn and Seanan McGuire. Should be fun! Come say hi!
I was in a fine mood that evening, when I followed the scent of roasted meat to the cheldzan, the only building large enough for both clans to congregate… and even then, a handful of people had spilled from its entrance onto the road, where a second stewpot was sending delectable scents toward the lavender sky. I stopped beside it to receive a bowl and a flatbread scoop and wandered among the Jokka, listening to various conversations. A good half of the people there were eperu, which surprised me; somehow I thought of the third sex as the least populous. If I asked Winoña, would I discover that she’d counted all the sexes in the clans she’d met? I smiled.
The Jokka of Clan Edla recognized me, and wanted to talk—about injuries and sickness, yes, but also about recoveries and births—so the sky had set out stars before I finally made my way to the back of the cheldzan, where I found Daridil, Seper, and Koish in consultation. The lore-knower of Clan Edla, a spindly eperu named Dlona, made up the fourth in their discussion, and Winoña was listening behind the counter, wiping bowls.
“We are blessed here,” Daridil said. “Game is plentiful… the forest gives both fish and beasts, and water is for the taking. I once questioned the wisdom of staying, but the gods have made their will clear.”
“There’s enough for your clan,” Koish allowed. “I fear what would happen if we overburdened the area. The stories say that when we linger, we use up the sap of the land.”
“That won’t happen here,” Seper said. “We will be good stewards.”
“Do you even know what that will entail?” Koish said. “If you have too many mouths to feed….”
“Then, we find another way,” Daridil said.
“Probably by selling our excess members to clans who are failing,” Seper said briskly. “You know as well as we do, ke Koish, that many clans are hurting for labor and breeders. Particularly breeders. The nomadic ways are hard on us.”
Behind Koish, Dlona murmured, “Ke Seper has this right.”
Joining them, I said, “Are you trying to talk them into staying?” I smiled at Koish. “You know they have to make their argument.”
“They’re eloquent,” Koish said. “And if it were up to the clan, I’d probably have to move into that empty building tomorrow. But I have to do what’s right for them, whether it’s popular or not. And I’m not convinced. Although, I’ve heard something about a shrine?”
Daridil’s ears pricked. “Yes. To honor the gods and thank them for the gift of this place.”
“You can’t buy the favor of the gods,” Dlona said.
“Of course not,” Daridil said. “One honors the gods, one does not bribe them.”
“I like the idea.” Koish leaned over the counter and plunked his clay cup on it. “Give me a refill, ke anadi, and then Daridil and I will go talk. About fate and food, among other things.”
Winoña chuckled and filled the cup from a leather bag. “And so much useful discussion will be had after your… third, I believe? Cup of this?”
Koish snorted. “I brew my own spirits, ke Winoña. Your mild-tempered spirits will have to work harder to cloud my thoughts.” Raising his new serving, he gestured toward the door. “Daridil?”
“With you, ke emodo.”
Dlona watched them go with a long face, ears twitched backward. Then it sighed. “Do you have a spare cup, ke anadi? I think I may need it.”
“Trouble?” I asked.
The eperu eyed me, dour. “Everything under the sun and stars is trouble. It’s just a matter of how it arrives.”
Seper chuckled. “I’ll enjoy having you among us for the haul, Dlona.”
I looked from one to the other and canted my head. “It didn’t sound like Koish had made a decision.”
“Koish will make the right choice for the breeders, as he should,” Dlona said. “And the right choice is finding out if they do better here than abroad. And we know how they do abroad, so all that’s left is to discover how they do in one place. But I won’t take our wagon apart. In the case that we might need it.”
“I wouldn’t suggest anything else,” Seper said. “Let me take you to the new eperu. You’ll want to meet them. Then we can discuss the buildings, and our plans for the granary.”
Dlona’s eyes sharpened. “A granary, is it? Is that what the bricks are for?”
“Yes,” Seper said.
The other eperu grinned, showing blunted teeth. “Is it round?”
Seper laughed. “Yes, like in the stories. As you could probably tell me.” It canted its head. “You can tell me, can’t you? Nudet lost its lore-knower before it could pass on all that it knew to me….”
“We should write those things down from now on,” Winoña interrupted, earning stares from all of us. “We can,” she said. “We don’t need to be limited to tallies on knots, which makes sense for roving clans that can’t store anything permanently. We have space here to keep records. We should keep records.”
“On what, though?” Dlona asked, frowning… but not objecting. Thinking, from its expression.
“Leaves?” Seper said. “Bark, maybe?”
“The stories speak of clay tablets….” Dlona plucked at its braided arm ruffs, as if counting knots on a tally blanket. "They also speak of paper, but not how it was made.”
“Clay we have in plenty,” Seper said.
“We should make clay tablets, then,” Winoña said. “So that what happened to Nudet doesn’t happen again.”
Seper’s grin had a challenging air. “And will you have us carve you out a new cavern to keep these clay tablets in?”
“Why not?” Her chin rose. “I already have to keep records to run a cheldzan and a storeroom. Or haven’t you noticed me using paint on the walls for it?”
“I haven’t,” I said, startled.
Seper chuckled. “Have her show you, Kediil. Dlona, if you like? We’ll make the way easy for ke Koish.”
“By all means, introduce me. You’ve hired some new eperu since Clan Edla came through last.”
They departed, leaving me with a spinning head. “That is what it looks like, isn’t it? Koish doesn’t think he’s made a decision, but he has.” I thought of his concerns. “Or maybe he’s just saying what we want to hear?”
“I doubt it.”
Did he even know he’d changed his mind? I rubbed my brow. “Do things always happen that quickly?”
“When they do,” Winoña said, “it’s usually because the conditions favorable to those changes were already developing, unseen.” She threaded her fingers together and rested her chin on them, smiling up at me. “You have that look again, like I’ve said something you didn’t expect and you admire me for it.”
“And if I said… yes… would you be disappointed?”
She giggled. “No! I want you to look at me like that all the time! Come here behind the counter, I’ll teach you to serve drinks.”
“Is that hard?”
“No, which means we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy one another’s company.” She glanced past me at the people crowding her hall. “Look at them, Kediil. How often have you seen so many Jokka in one place?”
“Rarely,” I said. “It’s noisy and hot.”
“But alive,” she said. “It’s so good to see so much life in one place.”
I’d expected her to laugh. But this comment, stated with such fervor, made me look again, and see, for just a moment, through her eyes. The eyes that counted and saw fewer people too often. The eyes that looked now and saw vitality and promise and hope of some different, better future.
I longed for the wind on my cheeks and the horizon before my eyes. But how much of that longing had been shaped by my desire to escape the captivity designed for me by fate, or the gods, or my family… all of them?
I stepped behind the counter and bumped her hip until she moved over. “Teach me how to pour things.”
“Is this an excuse to let me teach you something you already know?”
“Yes?”
She laughed. “Well, if you love the sound of my voice that much….”
***
I did not have to seek out Koish; he found me behind the Nudet building, settling my rikka for the night. I straightened, tucking my loosened hair back behind my shoulders, and waited.
“Derra’s caught a child.”
He didn’t need to say anything else. I knew Derra, a fragile, easily tired anadi who longed for children and had only been able to bear one so far. If Derra had conceived, Clan Edla would stay where the risks to her pregnancy could be minimized. Two anadi pregnant and another with a toddler would make traveling difficult… and, coincidentally, give Koish and Edla status in the new settlement. Fruitfulness was admired, no matter where on Ke Bakil you traveled, and clans rich in breeding anadi were granted a deference that no other Jokkad could claim.
“Will you stay?” he asked. When I hesitated, he said, “Or come back to check on Derra through her pregnancy?” I could hear his smile in the dark. “You’ll know exactly where to find us.”
“Ke emodo…” I sighed. “Yes. I’ll check on her. I won’t promise to live here, but I’ll come back from time to time.”
“Thank you. I knew you would, just as I know you understand why I’ve changed my mind.”
“We all serve the breeders,” I said, as if I had scooped the words out of Mardin’s mouth.
“Yes. Good night to you, ke anadi.”
Melon shuffled toward the end of his stall to bump my shoulder with his muzzle, and I petted it idly, watching Koish’s body until I could neither see nor hear him.
Yes, I understood. And I feared that I had my own reasons to change my mind, because I was not ready for the future. Are we ever?
