Idol of Blood by Jane Kindred Page A

waited on the beach. He’d been here all day, transfixed by the beauty and power of the ocean. His Meeric visions had never shown him the Southern Sea. He’d known the Anamnesis flowed into it eventually, its destination from the moment it left the Great Northern Lake, and he’d had a vague idea of the size—and had felt the pull of tides, as the ebb and flow was the same as the source of the visions in his blood—but he hadn’t imagined its weight and magnificence. Each crashing wave on the shore seemed capable of swallowing up the earth, and yet it flowed softly out, receding with the gentle tug of the tides as if to assure him it meant him no harm.
    It was clear, however, that his Meerish friend would not be found by sitting and waiting. He rose reluctantly, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and then remembered it was the act of drawing that had opened the lines of communication between them. Perhaps he could create a drawing in the sand.
    Pearl knelt in the damp powder and closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the waves synchronize the rhythm of his breathing and the circulation of his blood. The comforting thrum of Ra’s beat within the flow came to him first as he surrendered himself to it. The path of her thoughts seemed to curl and wander like the lines of ink he’d made on Lord Minister Merit’s drawing, like tributaries of the Anamnesis meandering in their own convoluted paths to the sea. Shiva’s imprints upon the flow were there, also, but Pearl skittered past these whenever he felt them. They were prickly with warning, as though she was aware of his tuning in to her rhythm and meter, and didn’t appreciate it.
    There was another distant pulse, so faint he couldn’t make it out, but it was not the child. But that was all right. He knew he couldn’t initiate contact himself. He only needed to draw.
    Pearl opened his eyes and let his finger trace over the sand in front of him, letting his blood direct him. His finger rose and curved, and descended and curved again, turning once more upward. He’d drawn the heavy waxing moon. He moved his finger in a spiral within the large moon shape and made a series of concentric circles, drawing ever closer to the center, the lines thinner and tighter as he reached it. It was a very pleasant moon.
    Beneath it, he drew the waves, thick grooves at their tops representing the whitecaps as they toppled over on their way to the shore. In front of that, as he scooted back, he depicted the very medium in which he was drawing, smoothing his hand over the sand and pressing it down in spots so that it rose in others, pushing it gently into the foaming tide of sand waves above it. Then near the top of the waves beneath the moon, he added another, fainter moon, the light’s reflection on the distant surface of the ocean.
    Pearl sat back on his heels and observed his drawing. He liked it very much indeed. The true tide was coming closer with each crash against the shore, and the edges of the foamy water had begun to erode his first moon. Pearl didn’t mind if the ocean chose to collaborate with him on this project. It would take the drawing with it eventually, like it must with everything it touched, and his drawing would become part of the vast sea itself.
    Near the bottom, the lines of his beach within a beach began to move. The Meerchild was speaking. Pearl? Is that you?
    It’s me, wrote Pearl, excited and anxious. I’ve come to Soth Bessaht. I’ve come to set you free from your master. Can you guide me to where you are?
    There was a long pause before the swirls in the sand shifted again. I think so. You’re by the sea.
    Yes, Pearl agreed.
    I can hear the sea from here. The shifting sand erased and coalesced once more. And horses.
    Pearl glanced up, his gaze moving slowly along the shoreline. In the distance beyond the pier at the end of the point, he spotted a structure that had the look of a stable. He