“Your house,” the White Nightingale murmured, glancing at the carriage. “Of course.” Eyes sharpening, she leaned across her saddle and whispered, “When all this is over? What do you mean?”
Jian regretted saying even that much. “Oh, you know,” he said, “my time as the emperor’s general. Surely he cannot mean for me to remain in the Forbidden City forever.” His eyes told her a different story, however, a deeper truth.
When all this is ours, he thought fiercely, and our two lands made one.
Giella smiled a sharp smile, a raptor’s smile—her mother’s smile. Satisfied, she leaned back into her saddle and nodded.
“Of course,” she agreed. “I look forward to it.”
They arrived on foot at the Gate of the Iron Fist as the sun was setting—a fitting omen, Jian thought with a grim smile. The city was smaller and less grand than his memory had made it, the Wall of Swords more tawdry than impressive, the waters of the moat clogged with offal. He stared up at the faces of the two giant warriors and frowned.
“Do they look different to you?” he asked Tsali’gei.
“No, why?” She looked up from the small, fussing bundle she held clutched to her breast, and frowned. “They are stone. How can they be different?”
Jian averted his gaze from the monumental warriors, lest his interest draw scrutiny. “Never mind,” he told her. “My memory must be playing tricks on me. You have seen them every day, after all, while for me it has been years.”
“I still do not understand how it is that years pass in the Twilight Lands, while here it has only been a few months since you left. I suppose I should be grateful that you remembered us at all—ow!” She yelped, turning her attention back to the babe. “He bit me! Little beast! I do not look forward to his first teeth.”
Her delighted face was the most beautiful thing Jian had ever seen, and the music of her laugh sweeter than the most ancient of poems.
“Remember you?” he said under his breath, too softly for even Tsali’gei’s sharp ears to catch. “Not a day went by that I did not mourn you, my love. Not a day went by that I did not burn to avenge your death. I returned to your grave, only to find you alive and well. What would I not do to keep you so?”
They passed through the gates beneath the stone giants. His memory was true; they had changed. The golden one stood with his arm upraised in victory. The red giant, however, though he still knelt bareheaded upon the grass, no longer had tears upon his face, and his eyes were fixed upon the face of his enemy. The fallen warrior bided his time, Jian knew, waiting for the moment to rise up and strike the other down.
As he walked down the Path of Righteousness, Jian trod again upon the skulls of the fallen, and found that it no longer bothered him. They had had their chance, after all, the defeated ones. Their attempts to challenge Daeshen Tiachu, the White Bull of Khanbul, had left only swords and skulls to crumble into dust.
It is my time now, he told the restless spirits who resided there. I am Tsun-ju Jian de Allyr, son of Tsun-ju Tiungpei and Allyr de Devranallenai. I will succeed where you have failed. He glanced back, and in the light of the dying day it seemed as if the red stone giant peered at him… and smiled.
SEVENTEEN
Counselors were wise and learned—every child in Quarabala was taught this. Warriors were brave and strong. Illindrists were elevated, all-seeing, and queens—
Queens were infallible.
The line of Kentakuyan had been sent to Sajani Earth Dragon as a dream and breathed to life through her by the First Woman, Zula Din, she who was the huntress, the trickster, the lover, and the mother all at once. Skin dark as the night sky between stars, she was so closely bound to the web that it was not uncommon for the children, especially girl children, to be born with eyes of Pelang. Eyes which could see the world as it was, as it had been, as it might yet be. No girl born with the cursed gift could ever be queen, of course—to bind heavens and earth in such a manner was to invite the dragon’s waking. It was a mark of Illindra’s favor, nevertheless.
These things were set in the bones of the people, these truths, these songs and stories of knowing. Deeper than words engraved in rock—for rock could be shattered—this knowledge had been a truth known to Maika before she learned to speak her own name.
Counselors were wise.
Warriors were strong.
Queens were infallible.
Why, then, had her counselors not known this would happen? Why had her warriors not been able to stop the murder of her people? Why—
Why—
Why have I failed my people?
Maika sat upon the dusty ground that served as her throne now, paying little mind to the words swirling about her head like storm dust, or the sad travelers’ fare that had been set forth to tempt her appetite. How could she eat, when Amalua could not? How might she enjoy even the thin comforts of manna water and dried meat, when children— her children, her responsibility, her failure—lay dead and bloating among the sung bones of heroes?
The pain was beyond understanding.
Why have I failed my people?
“We have no hope now of reaching the greenlands if we all journey together,” Counselorwoman Lehaila said. Her face was properly grave, her words measured as she tried yet again to condemn Maika’s people to death. “With the loss of Su’umara, we have left to us no more than three shadowmancers and six apprentices, one of whom is little more than a child. With rest, these shadowmancers would be able to protect a few of us against the heat of the Seared Lands just long enough for us to make it to the Jehannim, if we move with extreme haste.
“We must carry only that which we need,” she continued, “and—though it grieves my heart to say it—leave behind those who cannot hope to keep the pace. Perhaps, once we reach the cool green lands, we might send back help.”
That elicited a cry of outrage from many of those assembled.
Many—but not all. Maika was shocked and disheartened to note that too many of the Quarabalese were willing to listen to Lehaila’s cold words.
“Perhaps the Araids will see fit to grant us mercy, rather than the long, slow death of a reaver’s venom,” Akamaia said in a voice that was nearly a shout. “You say your heart is grieved, but would you so easily abandon our elders, our children? Would you so easily abandon me, old friend? You say, ‘once we reach the cool green lands,’ but by ‘we’ you mean ‘I.’”
Counselorwoman Lehaila stiffened her spine, face darkening with embarrassment, and she could not meet Akamaia’s eyes.
“If we are to save any small part of Quarabala,” she protested, “sacrifices will need to be made—”
“Oh, but we will be making those sacrifices, will we not? Not you. What are you willing to sacrifice, Counselorwoman? One of your husbands? A daughter, perhaps? Surely Puanale is too young to—”
“Enough.” Maika slapped her hands on the dusty ground and stood. Had her hands been bigger, or her legs longer, it might have felt more impressive, but it was all she had to work with.
“Your Magnificence—” Lehaila began.
“Mana’ule o ka enna i ka pau,” Maika intoned with power, channeling her impotent fury into the words. “Paleha ia’u, e pau ia’u! I am finished listening to your traitorous words, all of them. We will not abandon the least of my people to these foul sorcerers or their spider-masters. We will not, not as long as I am queen, not as long as I breathe. By the ancestors, by the blood in my veins, I swear it!”
The stone around them rang with the sincerity of her words, and the counselors fell silent. For a common woman to swear upon the ancestors was sacrosanct. For a queen—
“I am finished,” Maika said, controlling her breath as Aasah himself had taught her, so that the words were calm and even. A storm of fire and shadows raged in her soul, but she was a queen—curse the ancestors for it—and the least she could do was pretend to be infallible. “Return to your duties. Tend my people. Tend them as carefully as you would your own families. We will leave
here together, or we will die here together.”
Turning on her heel Maika left them to stare after her. Her heart fluttered like a caged beast, eyes burned with tears that she could not, would not shed.
Ancestors hear me, she prayed, and the words seared into her very bones. Help me find a way to save my people, and I will pay any price you ask. Any price at all.
From the halls of her ancestors, buried deep in the shadows of memories in her blood, she imagined that she heard a reply:
If you wish to find the way, child, a cold, dark voice whispered, you must first learn to see.
EIGHTEEN
The world of the living had long ago shunned and forgotten Kal ne Mur. He wore the body of a young man clothed in the ancient armor of a dead king. The dead were his only companions, and his mouth full of dust.
“War is what we do,” he had told Ibna, and this was true. There would always be war, and those too foolish to cease fighting. When all roads lead to war, he thought, stepping out onto the burning sands of the Zeera, one might as well go down fighting. His horde of ungrateful dead had lost their taste for war—ehuani, perhaps he had as well— but when the heart has gone to char and grave ash, its song is easily silenced.
He sang as he walked, though it pained his borrowed burnt lungs and cracked lips. This voice was still so ill-fit, the throat untrained. A song of fire and poetry, of life and lust, of blood and mead. The dead came shuffling behind him, drawn by his song and their foolish vows. The sad truth was that they had nothing better to do than wage war and kill and die.
And die.
And die.
Ismai, whose body this was, would have set Ibna free from his vows that he might create beautiful things. Yet such a kindness might doom them all, and so Kal ne Mur bound his undying legions with the song of ages past. With his ka he found them, with his sa he bound them, with atulfah he bade them obey.
Those who had sworn to him in life came as women and men, warriors and wardens, soldiers and runners. As they drew near to their king, they grew ever more lifelike in appearance and manner so that if one did not look too closely—especially at the eyes—they might be mistaken for living people, though curiously dressed.
Those who had not sworn to him in life answered to him in death, as well, and theirs was a less perfect union. They came to him as a penitent comes to punishment, groaning in pain and fear as their souls were dragged back from the Lonely Road and stuffed into bodies that had long forgotten them. Milk-dead eyes glowed a sullen red, in those faces as had eyes at all. In the others, empty sockets blazed like the fires of Yosh, and bones whispered together of vengeance in the thin night air. Kal ne Mur gazed upon the dead without regret or pity and urged Ismai within to do the same.
We are one, he told the boy whose life he had stolen. Your body is too damaged to live without my power, and I cannot be free without this living flesh. It will be easier for us to do what must be done if we work together. In truth, the boy might still cast him out of the body they now shared, to the detriment of them both. See, I have brought you an old friend to be a comfort in these dark times…
The boy’s eyes caught sight of her, staggering among the throngs of wailing dead, and his spirit thrashed so that it was nearly wrenched from the Lich King’s grasp.
“Ehuani,” he gasped, and it hurt everywhere. “Ehuani.”
She came to him, his beloved, his beauty in truth, stumbling and struggling and blind. Her eyes had been pecked out, her face was shrunken tight against her skull, and her hide burned away in patches where the snake-priestess’s venom had struck. Her left shoulder was stained red with the blood that Hadid had spilt to free him.
Hadid died to free me, Ismai thought, and Ehuani died to bring me here. Pain swelled his heart; it overflowed and watered the gardens of hatred, of anger and fury. Now it is the Mah’zula’s turn to die.
In this we are agreed, Kal ne Mur whispered from the dark wells of his heart. They have slain your family, your friends— they have slain your very world. Indeed, they have slain you, for would you not die, were I to do as you wish and depart this body? Is this not enough? Will you not join me now and repay those who have wronged you, a hundred times over?
The flames of hatred leapt in Ismai’s heart, fanned by the Lich King’s bloodlust, and then fell away to ash. He had never been a killer. Leave me alone, he thought miserably. He reached out to touch Ehuani’s shoulder, the dull gray hide which had once shone like molten silver and pulsed with life. She stood still at his touch, dead and still and uncaring, and all the emptiness of nothing pooled in her eyes.
If I leave you, you die, the Lich King said.
So I die. There are worse things than death.
There are better things than death, too, young warden. The chance to save a friend… Jasin yet lives, does he not? And Hannei? And… Sulema?
Sulema.
Ismai shook his head. “They are beyond my help,” he said aloud, “certainly beyond my reach.”
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps they have all perished, in which case there is the sweetest fruit of all. When the tree of life has withered and all hope is lost, there is yet one black fruit of which you may eat, and that is… kishah.
Vengeance.
Kishah, Ismai thought, tasting that ancient and fell word for the first time. Kishah. It was a bitter conceit, and yet Ismai realized he had never tasted anything sweeter.
What say you, beautiful youth? Will you cast me out and die, or will you take up my sword and use it to strike down our enemies?
Kishah.
The dead turned their incurious faces toward him as if they, too, awaited his decision. A stray breeze played through Ehuani’s lank and knotted mane, stirring it—though not to life. Never again to life.
“My beauty,” he said to her, and his voice broke. “My beauty in truth. My friend. My friend.” He pressed his face into her cold and stinking neck, wishing that he had eyes left that could cry, for surely she had been worth a river of tears. He pressed the flat of the Lich King’s sword against her shoulder—he had drawn it, unthinking. And yet—
“Yes,” he said, and his whole being flooded with relief as he let go his reluctance to do harm. It was right, it was good. He pressed a kiss into Ehuani’s mane and turned his head to press another against the heartless steel. Sharp as pain the blade was, after all these years, and by this he knew that the pain of loss would never dull.
“Yes,” he said again, and “yes” a third time, as the Lich King rose within him, filling him like blood, like sweet water, like passion. Ehuani quickened beneath his hands, for she had in her way been sworn to him. Her dull silver hide turned to right shadow, to soot, to obsidian; she shone like a star without a heart. She tossed her head, eyes glowing a dull red as she struck the sand with a sharp hoof, impatient to be off.
Ismai took a half-step back and the song of atulfah caught in his throat at the sight of her. She was sleek as a dream, deep-chested as the west wind, and her eyes were stars, cold and distant and bright. Her hide shone like water over black rocks, save her left shoulder upon which Hadid had died, and which was stained a deep and abiding red. So beautiful, his Ehuani—
“No,” he said to her. “No. There is no beauty in truth, only in death. I name you Mutaani.”
Mutaani reared at the sound of her name, screaming, and the dead flinched back.
“Yes, my lovely girl,” the Lich King said to his dark mare. “Let us ride, let us ride now to the land of our enemies, these false Mah’zula, and bend them to our will.” He leapt onto her back and laughed as she reared again. “To the pridelands!” he shouted to his fell host, sheathing his sword and digging heels into Mutaani’s sides. “To vengeance!”
From ten thousand throats came a cry, hungry and despairing.
“VENGEANCE!”
They flowed across the desert beneath the cold eyes of the moon, as a shadow within a shadow within a dream.
The wind was born of an undead king, and it had a name.
&
nbsp; Kishah.
NINETEEN
“Ai, lovely girl!” she said. “Ai, my bright love.”
Sulema stood at Atemi’s shoulder, one arm draped across her mare’s withers. As she had since she was a gangly child of eleven, she pressed her nose against her horse’s neck and dried unwanted tears in the coarse mane. Atemi made silly faces, twisting her soft nose this way and that, exposing her gums, and generally giving lie to the dignified nature of asil horses.
Finally letting go, Sulema inspected her mare. Atemi’s hooves needed trimming by someone who knew what to do with the bottom half of a horse. She needed to lose weight, and some goat-assed outlander had chopped her forelock short.
The important thing, however, was that they were together again. Atemi had forgiven her for taking them so far from home and showed little sign that she was bothered at all by their recent adventures. It was more than Sulema could say of herself. Her shoulder ached, itching and burning, and her ears rang with the constant presence of the dragon’s song. She had been trained to hear the song, but not to control it, and she could not shut it out of her head.
Her heart hurt, as well, and with this reunion her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. In a short space of time she had gained and lost a father, lost her mother, and watched friends die. Because of her. All because of her. She had never asked for this thing, but there was no escaping the truth that if she had never abandoned her people for Atualon, lives that had been shattered would still be whole.
Her world would still be whole.
Sulema worked her hand into a pouch tied at her waist until her fingers found and tightened on the rose-rock sandstone globe. When she was not holding the globe, it seemed to her that it might be lost. When she was holding it, she was plagued with fear of dropping the thing. She drew the globe forth and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. If changes in the world showed as physical changes in the stone, as Ka Atu had taught her, how could she be sure that damage to the stone would not likewise influence the world? She had no father to ask and would not care to find out by destroying some far-off country with her clumsiness. She had ruined enough lives already.
The Seared Lands Page 15
