The Corpse-Washer's Liturgy

About this book

Seven years ago, Imara spoke for a god. As the Tongue of Auveth, she channeled the river's voice into law, war, and harvest — until one utterance sent the city guard into the refugee quarter of Salkett and nine hundred people died. The river went silent that night. So did she. Now forty-one, Imara washes the dead in Verathne's temple district, packing her ruined faith with routine: linen, oil, canal-water, hands that never shake. Then the stone sleep comes. Its victims petrify from the feet upward, conscious inside their calcifying flesh, living statues crowding markets and doorways. Priests call it punishment. Physicians call it plague. Imara recognizes it as the inverted shape of a prophecy she swallowed and never spoke. A grieving candlemaker is waiting at her door with his wife's washing-fee, paid early. He will not leave.