The Obsidian Heart

by Mark T. Barnes

  Reeling from the amount of disentropy that whirled and crashed about him, almost drunk with its assault, he shambled away along a dusty goat track in an effort to distance himself from the strife behind him.

  “WE ARE NOT FREE BECAUSE WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE. WE ARE FREE WHEN WE DO NOT HAVE TO.”

  —From Principles of Thought, fourth volume of the Zienni Doctrines

  DAY 350 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION

  Mari had fought a running battle with the warriors who had spilled out of the Maladhi sword school in pursuit of her friends. It had been a case of run, stand, fight, and run. Bodies were left littering the ground in Mari’s, Shar’s, Ekko’s, and Omen’s wake. Between waves of pursuit they had decided to split up, making sure to lead nobody back to the Iron Dog.

  Having evaded pursuit, Mari admitted to herself there was too much at stake to remain silent. Rather than head to the Iron Dog she raced to the Qadir Sûn. It had not taken overly long to relay her story to Nazarafine and the other Federationists there, though each word felt like throwing stones into a seemingly bottomless pit.

  Nazarafine drew in a deep breath before releasing it slowly as she stared at Femensetri, Roshana, Ziaire, and Siamak. Through a set of partially open filigree doors, Mari watched Vahineh where she rocked and twisted on a low couch. Vahineh’s dissolute cousin Martūm sat by her, turning his face slyly from time to time to see what was happening in the other room. The man had every appearance of caring for his sickly cousin, though knowing his reputation, Mari doubted the truth of his motivations. Becoming the Rahn-Selassin would solve many of his problems, while financing his mistakes. There were rumours the man’s debts had been paid off, and certainly the glimmer of precious metals on his fingers and around his wrists and neck spoke to recent and newfound wealth. But who was his benefactor?

  There were two others in the room. One was a solid, aquiline man whose hair was swept back like two glossy white wings. His skin was tanned, his eyes a piercing hazel flecked with light brown. He sat leaning on a gryphon-headed walking stick, youthful hands and face belying his almost two centuries of life. Sayf-Ajomandyan of the Näsiré—Ajo, as Indris called him—was the one they called the Sky Lord, ancestral governor of Avānweh. His granddaughter and heir, Neva, was with him. A statuesque woman with cropped mahogany hair, she shared her grandfather’s fine features, though was less hawk-like, more beautiful in her intensity. The woman, of an age with Mari, was the commander of Avānweh’s Sky Knights. She stood at her ease in a short armoured coat of leather and metal bands, her breeches covered by worn leather leggings affixed to a thick weapon belt. Neva and Mari shared a long, appraising look at each other.

  It had taken the combined arguments of the others to stop Femensetri from returning to the Sēq Chapterhouse to mount an attack on Corajidin and the Imperialists. The Stormbringer’s mindstone had blazed with a black corona, the witchfire crescent of her Scholar’s Crook burning so hot it caused the air to steam around it. Cooler heads had prevailed though for how much longer was anybody’s guess.

  “And you left Indris there?” Roshana’s voice was sharp as a sword edge. “You should’ve stayed with him!”

  “He wanted me to—”

  “Curse what he wanted you to do!” Roshana thundered. She glanced sideways at Ajo and Neva, who blushed as she looked down. “I’ve plans for my cousin that are useless if he’s dead.”

  “Roshana, enough.” Ziaire held up a slender hand for silence. “You wanted Mari to stay with Indris and fight a lich? What could she have done?”

  “What could anybody have done?” Siamak asked reasonably. He smiled gently at Mari, gesturing for her to take a seat. “We had a lich once in the Rōmarq, when I was but a boy. My parents sent almost a full company of our warriors to root it out and destroy it. One hundred brave warriors and not one of them came back.”

  “I remember,” Femensetri muttered. “It killed a Sēq Knight and badly wounded the Sēq Master we sent after it.”

  “Then Indris…” Mari felt a void opening in her chest. She remembered the taste of his lips. The quirk of the smile she had taken as his promise to return to her.

  “Is a different coloured dragon altogether,” Femensetri said quietly. Mari felt her spirits rise somewhat. If anybody knew what Indris was capable of, it was the one who had trained him.

  The scholar continued. “Thank you for bringing us this intelligence, Mari. We learned of the lich when our sentinels went to contain it. But now we know that on top of witches and Nomads, they’re smuggling and arming a fighting force. What numbers do you think the Imperialists have at their disposal?”

  “And how many witches?” Roshana added, scowling. “That Corajidin allowed them into—”

  “There’s no proof my father knew his allies would bring witches with them into Shrīan!”

  Roshana snorted with derision. “Your father knew well enough what he was doing.”

  “Your father has opened doors that were best left closed.” Ajo’s voice was sad but firm. “He wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t think the other Imperialists would support him. His son Pah-Kasraman and Nadir of the Maladhi were seen breaking into the Rahnbathra last night, amongst the other chaos. The Antiquities-Marshall is still trying to compile a list of what has been stolen.”

  “More troubling are the witches,” Neva said. Even her voice is lovely, Mari thought. Low and throaty. The gryphon-rider asked the question Mari also wanted an answer to. “Scholar-Marshall, do the witches pose a threat to us and your Order?”

  Femensetri leaned back in her chair, legs akimbo. She scratched at her chin for a moment in thought, eyes distant. Mari wondered at the cavalcade of wonders and horrors, victories, defeats, and disappointments Femensetri had seen in her millennia of life. How often had she seen the same mistakes played out to the same result?

  “The Crown, the State, and the Sēq are at risk,” she said flatly. “We always have been. Understand that when you talk about the scholars, there are three different Orders, each with their own internal sects and secret societies. We rarely, if ever, work together. Even during the Scholar Wars it was only the Sēq who fought the covens. I doubt the covens will forget that. The Zienni and the Nilvedic use Reductionist Canon, specialists in certain fields of the Esoteric Doctrines, none of which are particularly militant. Their presence is small in Shrīan. We Sēq practice a Holistic Canon fusing disciplines of body, mind, and soul. That said even the Sēq don’t study all the Esoterics. Put simply, there’s too much to know.

  “But this is a difficult time, which some see as being filled with opportunity. There are many in my Order who believe we should be exerting more influence over the government. Others, like myself, believe we should be working more closely with the Crown and the State. Faction fighting has neutered us for decades. Our numbers are few and I doubt we’d act as a cohesive Order unless we all saw we were under threat. Even then, it may be too late.”

  “What about the Guilds of the fringe sciences,” Ajo asked, “such as the Alchemists, Artificers, and such?”

  “They’ve their own concerns.” Femensetri spat derisively into her empty tea cup. At least Mari hoped it was empty. “They care more for money and the vulgar trappings of their possessions, than they do about the society that has mostly ignored them for centuries.”

  “But if the Imperialists—not the Humans—are bringing witches and Nomads into Shrīan,” Ziaire said, “then surely that would be enough for you to join ranks? I’ve received reports from the Primes of the House of Pearl in Ygran, Tanis, and Kaylish all saying the witches seem to be preoccupied with some new agenda.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Femensetri muttered. “There’s only one way to know. I’ll return to the Sēq Chapterhouse and confer with my fellow Masters.”

  So saying Femensetri rose from her chair and stalked from the room.

  “I, too, find I’m needed elsewhere,” Roshana said stiffly as she headed for the door. Her gaze raked Mari,
who bristled. The warrior clenched her fists, knuckles turning white, willing the woman’s head to explode for her interference in her and Indris’s relationship. Roshana didn’t seem to take notice. “It seems Corajidin won’t scruple to fly in the face of our traditions. The man is virtually a heretic. It’s time I used the means at my disposal to respond in kind before his reach grows overlong.”

  “You have your Jahirojin.” Ziaire’s tone was barely civil. “What else do you want?”

  “You need to ask?” Roshana paused, one hand on the door with its many panels of frosted glass. She cocked an eyebrow at Ziaire. “And here I thought the Primes of the House of Pearl knew all the secrets of the world?” She opened the door and started through.

  Mari drew in a deep breath rather than say something she would regret. For she and Indris to continue seeing each other, she would need to have something less than Roshana’s contempt. She flicked a glance across to Neva, then looked away when the woman met her gaze. Damn Roshana! Mari would excuse herself soon and head to the Iron Dog. She needed to know Indris had returned safely.

  After Roshana had left the room, Mari took a seat next to Ziaire.

  “What have I done to offend Roshana so much?” Mari asked softly.

  “Her concerns are different now.” Ziaire draped her arm across Mari’s shoulder. Mari could smell the amber on Ziaire’s skin. Henna and jojoba in her hair. “I think she sees you and thinks only of the hatred she bears for your Great House. The Näsarat and the Erebus have been at odds for millennia. You’re also in the way of her plans. A renewed alliance between the Näsarat and the Näsaré is important to her. Sorry love, but don’t think one battle—or you sharing Indris’s bed—is going to change any of that. Ever.”

  Mari winced at the flatness in Ziaire’s voice. Though her friend’s expression was kind, her eyes were calculating. She wondered how much Ziaire knew about Roshana’s plans. How much and for how long? It was said every secret in the world eventually crossed a pillow at some point. The Primes of the House of Pearl were perfectly situated to hear them all. Mari planned to speak less and listen more when around the painfully desirable woman at her side.

  That said, she was piqued at the courtesan, so Mari shrugged Ziaire’s arm from her shoulder. She poured herself a glass of tea. What she wanted was coffee: strong and black, with a hint of whiskey. Or honey mead. She raised the silver tea pot in Nazarafine’s direction, though the other woman shook her head. The others likewise declined. Mari cradled her glass, hot against her fingertips and palm, the aromatic tea bitter against her tongue.

  Ajo and Neva were discussing with Siamak and Nazarafine how they could best use the Sky Knights and the kherife in Avānweh to maintain the peace. Neva also suggested to Nazarafine the use of some of the Näsaré wind-skiffs and wind-galleys, a more subtle exit from Avānweh in the event of dire circumstances. She would personally command the Sky Knights to escort them away should the need arise. Mari admitted sourly to herself she actually liked Neva, as much as she did not want to.

  They continued planning until Nazarafine asked whether she could have a few moments alone with Mari. Mari looked up, surprised and cautious as the others quietly left the room.

  “Mari,” Nazarafine began, “how has your father managed to survive this long? Surely he must be near the end of his strength. The Communion Ritual tonight will likely kill him. It is hard enough on a rahn in full command of their faculties. Your father risks his life by continuing his pursuit of the Asrahn’s crown. Why does he not just—”

  “Die?” Mari prompted coldly. People confused her estrangement from her father for hatred of him. “I told my father to escape, you know. Back in Amnon. I had to give him the chance for redemption.”

  “And now we all have to live with it,” the other woman replied with barely disguised bitterness. “Your and Indris’s mercy to your father may be our undoing. But I was going to say why doesn’t he abdicate in favour of Kasraman.”

  “Everybody deserves the chance to redeem themselves.” Mari was surprised at the conviction in her tone. “We’re all, in one way or another, the architects of the folly we now find ourselves in.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the room like a pall. Nazarafine polished the amber buttons of her coat with her thumb, a frown creasing her brow. Mari maintained the distance between them, allowing the wordless gulf the time it needed to fill. The room darkened as clouds passed in front of the sun. The temperature dropped. The breeze through the window brought with it the smell of rain. When the metallic brightness of the sun returned, Nazarafine blinked owlishly. Her frown disappeared, no doubt in resolution to whatever conflict she had wrestled with. She reached for a small golden bell on the table beside her and rang it, the sound as bright as it was brittle.

  Several minutes passed, during which the two women exchanged mindless and uncommitted pleasantries. Mari’s eyes lingered on the door. Sende demanded she stay in the presence of her social and political superior. Too often Mari had acted on whim and known her reputation would save her. She was no stranger to scandal. Her eccentricities had made her popular. Oh, did you hear about Mari? people would say. Or, Is it true that she…? Unfortunately, the woman she shared the room with was not only the rahn of a Great House, come tomorrow she could be Asrahn of the nation. If there was ever a time to demonstrate restraint it was now.

  So she was still there when a tall, solid man entered the room. His blond hair was so short it resembled more a scattering of sand atop his scalp, pale against tanned skin. His green eyes were angular, set in deep orbits. He wore a knee-length coat, fastened with buckles from throat to knee. His hands were massive, burn-scarred, knotted with muscle and corded with ropey blue veins. He carried a long wooden box with brass fittings and the sun crest of the Great House of Sûn emblazoned on the lid. The man dropped to his knees in obeisance before his mistress.

  Nazarafine touched the man on the shoulder, who rose to his feet. His eyes never strayed from the box in his hands.

  Nazarafine looked at Mari. “I understand you lost something at the battle for the Tyr-Jahavān,” she said, smiling, cheeks once more ruddy with her usual good humour.

  Many things, Mari was tempted to reply, yet overcame the petty impulse. “Yes, I did. My armour was destroyed beyond any ability to repair. As were my weapons.”

  “You had an amenesqa from the Petal Empire? Your personal weapon, rather than your Feyassin’s blade?”

  “It once belonged to Sayf-Mariamejeh of the Tyran-Amir,” Mari nodded. “It was lost when Ekko rescued me on the stairs. No doubt somebody saw it for what it was and decided, given my chances of survival were slim, to keep a memento.”

  Nazarafine stood. With a gesture she invited Mari closer, then rested her hand on the box. Mari felt lightheaded. Had they found her weapon? There were few Petal or Awakened Empire weapons left unclaimed. Of the original thousand Awakened Empire amenesqa given the Feyassin, Mari knew there were less than six hundred accounted for. Each death had sometimes been a loss of history, as well as life.

  “Though we couldn’t find your old weapon, it was within my power to arrange a replacement for you. Though it is not the same, I sincerely hope you’ll use it with pride and honour.” Nazarafine took Mari’s hands and gently placed her fingers on the clasps. When she spoke again her voice was a whisper. “This is the weapon of a hero of her people. One to be used in the defence of her Asrahn.”

  With cautious hands Mari thumbed open the cold metal clasps. In the moment between heartbeats—the moment the Poet Masters of The Lament had told her to release herself to the certainty of death and purity of action—she opened the box.

  And almost forgot to breath.

  Nuances struck her in the moment. The way the light wavered. The length of Nazarafine’s eyelashes, a sooty brushstroke across the moist umber of her irises. The distant thrum of traffic on the street below as it merged with the roaring of her blood. The weight of her sword belt across her hips. The slight breeze that ran
through the hair at the nape of her neck. The scent of sandalwood and the gathering storm.

  Then came twin thuds in her chest, so heavy she thought her body had rocked with them. Heartbeats of exquisite strength. A singular moment. At rest on a bed of crushed silk was an amenesqa, styled after the longer blades of the Petal Empire. It was almost a hand span longer than the blades of the Awakened Empire, which were in turn longer than the single curved modern shamshir—what those with no romance in their hearts simply called swords. As if such a word could ever give meaning to something so elegant, so fit for its purpose. Her fingertips traced the delicate arabesqued designs on the kirion scabbard. Light coaxed near-invisible moire patterns of red and blue from the depths of the black metal. A golden sun was etched into the scabbard, as well as into the sharkskin binding the hilt and in the amber of the pommel. A seahorse was etched there as well, ruby red on silver blue. The colours of her mother’s Family Dahrain. As Mari drew a mere hand span of the weapon she marvelled at the flare of brilliant golden jade light that burned there. Mari looked up at Nazarafine in wonder.

  “A Sûnblade!” she gasped in awe.

  “We make few of these now,” Nazarafine said gently, “and they’re only ever given as gifts to those who’ve risked all for the greater good. Was a time during the Awakened Empire when hundreds of warrior-poets, each an Exalted Name sworn to the Mahj, carried these. Yet sadly, those days of honour and glory are behind us. This sword will never dull, never tarnish, and never break. It will serve you for so long as you need, then go back to the ash when you do. A Sûnblade is literally a weapon for life.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Mari felt the heat of unshed tears. “How can I repay your faith in me?”

  “Say yes, Mari. Stay in Avānweh to help us rebuild. Help me. Keep me alive. Become the Knight-Colonel of my Feyassin.”

  Mari sat in silence, her Sûnblade cradled in the curve of her arm like a child. The box felt warm, as if the blade were indeed made from a sliver of sunlight.