Read Online A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds by Andrew Knighton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Knighton
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delicate fingers he ties the bandage. “You and Jong. Bey dropped out this morning. He had no gift for succinctness, and ran out of skin.”
I nod in understanding. Only the pristine skin of a scholar’s first work can go into the Imperial Library, to be preserved down eternity. Anything else would not last, even with the Library’s charms. Either my study of the heredity of peonies or Jong’s work on the feeding of roses will be this year’s entry to the botanical section.
I intend to ensure that it is mine.
*
My quill trembles over a scrap of paper. I look across my desk and see the beauty of the flower unfurling in the window, a reminder of why I must win – to preserve not just my name but all I have learned.
But I cannot get the words right. The wealth of details refuses to be condensed. The more I write, the more skin I must sacrifice. Though I tell myself over and over that I do not fear the pain of the flaying knife, still I shake at the thought of it.
The words will not come.
All my life I have worked for a place in the Imperial Library. What else could a scholar want if not to see their work endure? But perhaps I cannot do that. Jong has a gift for brevity. Having come this far, if he is finished before me the place will be his. I lack the time to shorten my words, or the skin to write them all down.
A tear runs down my face, and I wipe it away with my bandaged arm.
*
Both flayers are on duty today. With the end so close, they must make time for both Jong and I.
My eyes are closed, my whole face screwed up in pain. Still I can hear Jong’s grunts and whimpers. Knowing that he suffers too is not the reassurance I had hoped for. It only adds to my pain.
“We should stop,” one of the flayers says.
“No,” Jong whispers. “Keep going.”
“You have lost much blood.”
“Keep. Going.”
Jong’s screams are not enough to blot out my pain, but when he falls silent it brings me no peace. As the knife comes again, and the salt scent of blood fills my nostrils, I finally pass out.
*
Three days after the funeral I am well enough to attend Jong’s grave. I light incense and place a jar of peonies by the headstone. Already their pink petals are wilting.
“Your place in the Library is secure.” One of the flayers stands beside me, the woman who tended to Jong on that last day. The one under whose knife he died. “Your wisdom will endure forever.”
She sounds resigned. How many scholars’ graves has she stood by?
A petal falls from the peony onto Jong’s grave. I remember his face, and the incredible insights of his mind.
“Nothing endures forever.” I turn away.
*
After leaving the school, I find a place teaching botany in the provinces. One day the bandage slips from my arm, revealing the last chapter of my thesis still half-written on pale skin.
“Why do you have that?” one of my students asks.
“Because all things must pass,” I reply. “Now tell me, how will you ensure the hardiness of your peonies?”
Teeth and Tatoos
"You will be the greatest tattoo fairy that ever lived." The words echoed in Grindlespit's mind as she twinkled into the mortal world, teeth bared, hovering on hair-thin wings over the writer's bed. Those words had grated at her since the prophecy was first made, filling her belly with a feeling like barbed wire.
She loved her art, adored every second of biting patterns into the skin of sleeping humans. But being destined to be great felt like cheating. Worse, it felt like she had been cheated, robbed of the opportunity to become something on her own terms.
Pulling a pot of graveyard grey ink from her belt, she sank her needle thin teeth through its seal. As colour filled the tubes in her teeth she contemplated how best to execute this job. The writer had wished for some obscure superhero, and then left her shoulder exposed as she slept. A heroic stance near the top of the arm was the obvious use of the space, but
I nod in understanding. Only the pristine skin of a scholar’s first work can go into the Imperial Library, to be preserved down eternity. Anything else would not last, even with the Library’s charms. Either my study of the heredity of peonies or Jong’s work on the feeding of roses will be this year’s entry to the botanical section.
I intend to ensure that it is mine.
*
My quill trembles over a scrap of paper. I look across my desk and see the beauty of the flower unfurling in the window, a reminder of why I must win – to preserve not just my name but all I have learned.
But I cannot get the words right. The wealth of details refuses to be condensed. The more I write, the more skin I must sacrifice. Though I tell myself over and over that I do not fear the pain of the flaying knife, still I shake at the thought of it.
The words will not come.
All my life I have worked for a place in the Imperial Library. What else could a scholar want if not to see their work endure? But perhaps I cannot do that. Jong has a gift for brevity. Having come this far, if he is finished before me the place will be his. I lack the time to shorten my words, or the skin to write them all down.
A tear runs down my face, and I wipe it away with my bandaged arm.
*
Both flayers are on duty today. With the end so close, they must make time for both Jong and I.
My eyes are closed, my whole face screwed up in pain. Still I can hear Jong’s grunts and whimpers. Knowing that he suffers too is not the reassurance I had hoped for. It only adds to my pain.
“We should stop,” one of the flayers says.
“No,” Jong whispers. “Keep going.”
“You have lost much blood.”
“Keep. Going.”
Jong’s screams are not enough to blot out my pain, but when he falls silent it brings me no peace. As the knife comes again, and the salt scent of blood fills my nostrils, I finally pass out.
*
Three days after the funeral I am well enough to attend Jong’s grave. I light incense and place a jar of peonies by the headstone. Already their pink petals are wilting.
“Your place in the Library is secure.” One of the flayers stands beside me, the woman who tended to Jong on that last day. The one under whose knife he died. “Your wisdom will endure forever.”
She sounds resigned. How many scholars’ graves has she stood by?
A petal falls from the peony onto Jong’s grave. I remember his face, and the incredible insights of his mind.
“Nothing endures forever.” I turn away.
*
After leaving the school, I find a place teaching botany in the provinces. One day the bandage slips from my arm, revealing the last chapter of my thesis still half-written on pale skin.
“Why do you have that?” one of my students asks.
“Because all things must pass,” I reply. “Now tell me, how will you ensure the hardiness of your peonies?”
Teeth and Tatoos
"You will be the greatest tattoo fairy that ever lived." The words echoed in Grindlespit's mind as she twinkled into the mortal world, teeth bared, hovering on hair-thin wings over the writer's bed. Those words had grated at her since the prophecy was first made, filling her belly with a feeling like barbed wire.
She loved her art, adored every second of biting patterns into the skin of sleeping humans. But being destined to be great felt like cheating. Worse, it felt like she had been cheated, robbed of the opportunity to become something on her own terms.
Pulling a pot of graveyard grey ink from her belt, she sank her needle thin teeth through its seal. As colour filled the tubes in her teeth she contemplated how best to execute this job. The writer had wished for some obscure superhero, and then left her shoulder exposed as she slept. A heroic stance near the top of the arm was the obvious use of the space, but
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