“Charming. What are you going to do?”
“Sever her from her Awakening.” Femensetri’s tone was resigned. “We’ve ten days before Corajidin assumes office. We need another ally in the Teshri and I don’t trust Martūm to butter my bread. If we can’t find one of Vahineh’s distant relatives, we’ll have to elevate another Family to the royal-caste. If that comes to pass it would mean the end of the Great House of Selassin, and a chance for Corajidin to get another Imperialist in the Upper House of the Teshri.”
Politically it was a difficult decision to make. There was a list of candidates from the Hundred Families who had been waiting centuries for their opportunity. The Sēq would examine each candidate, approving those who passed the tests… while striking candidates who failed from the lists forever, since failure at the Communion Font meant a painful death after protracted madness. It was not an end to be wished on anybody.
“You know how Corajidin will react if you try and appoint a rahn without his approval,” Indris said.
“Badly,” Femensetri shrugged. “I’m more concerned about how the Sēq will react. Our noninterference is still informal, but that won’t last. There’s not a great deal of time in which to help Vahineh before any such action is expressly forbidden. Even I have to take orders sometimes. There are a growing number of my peers who would relish a return to the days of Empire.”
“Corajidin hates the Sēq. It will be the end of the Order’s autonomy in Shrīan.”
“Except for those who’d appease the cunning old bastard.”
“Except for those,” Indris echoed.
Lightning flooded the Sky Room with a moment’s harsh glare. Seconds later came the snarl of thunder. Rain hammered down, a steady hiss that caused a small layer of wet haze to dance on the jagged balcony. The wind whipped some of the rain inside. Femensetri stared at it, lips curved into an appreciative smile. Was a time when she, the Stormbringer, and her twin Kemenchromis, the Skybreaker, had been known to call cyclones and tornadoes to destroy armies. As two of the First Bloods, they had been at Näsarat fa Dionwē’s side when he sank the Seethe High Court and their entire country beneath the Marble Sea. Those were the ancient times, when every Great House had a Sēq Master as rajir. Indris wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have the benefit of a colossal, immortal mind and perspective at one’s command. He frowned. Commanding a Sēq Master was about as likely as politely asking the moon not to set. The Sēq did not serve an Asrahn, nor did they deign to do anything not in their own best interests, or the interests of their long game.
As if sensing his thoughts, she levelled her opal-gaze on him.
“I’ll need your help to do this Severance,” she said.
“What?”
“I’ll need your—”
“I heard you the first time.” Indris shook his head, stunned. “You’ve Sēq Masters who can help you with this. People who’ve done a Severance before. I doubt there’s anything I could do other than get in your way.”
“You I trust,” Femensetri said flatly. “The others? Not so much. Besides, the presence of a lich in the city has my colleagues on edge even more than usual. The Sēq who took Chepherundi op Kumeri into custody never reported seeing you there. Do tell me how you managed to hide yourself from Sēq Knight Majors and two Masters.”
“Where was I again?”
“Sherde!” Femensetri gave him a withering stare. “I’m so glad you managed not to get yourself killed.
“Always happy to oblige with not dying.”
Femensetri stalked off, muttering to herself. Indris allowed himself a small, if short lived smile, but then thought more on his old teacher’s words. A lich was not something he had expected to find when they had gone to discover what the Exiles were doing. Only those who had lost touch with some of the Avān’s oldest beliefs would traffic with the walking dead, or those who served them. Such were the type to deal with criminals like the Soul Traders, unscrupulous merchants—sometimes Nomads themselves—who traded immortal souls and sometimes even living flesh for the transient satisfaction of fortune and to appease their own desires.
But the presence of a lich spoke to a dark intent. Nobody dealt with such beings unless they had a powerful message to send. From what they had seen, the Maladhi-sûk could have housed hundreds of people; warriors, assassins, witches, or rogue scholars. Even Exiled sayfs, returned to Avānweh in secret. For all the Ancestors knew, liches and other foul things could have been lurking, like horrors under the bed, in the corridors of the sûk for weeks, if not months or years.
How much damage could the people who would deal with liches do, if they could act in total secrecy?
“Deep thoughts?” Mari’s voice broke through the fog of his self-recrimination as she came to stand by him.
“Me?” Indris forced a smile. “Not likely. How’s Nazarafine? You’ve been hovering over her just a lot.”
“How do you think she is?” Mari murmured. But even as she said that, she smiled at him, slow and lazy. “Are you feeling abandoned, my poor man?”
“Is there anything to feel abandoned about?”
Mari leaned against the wall next to him. Her hand reached out amongst the shadows between them to grasp his. She felt warm. He rested his head against hers, relishing the strength of her. Thoughts of walking along the wide galleried streets of Masripur, or viewing the alabaster facades of Carcisa where they overlooked the clouded waters of the Marble Sea, seemed aged on the vine.
“Indris,” her voice was as urgent as the way she gripped his hand. “I’ve not accepted the offer. I’ve been thinking about what you asked me and am more tempted than you know, but—”
“Mari.” He had witnessed on many occasions how the world conspired. “You need to do what you need to do. Believe me, if anybody understands the call of duty, it’s me.”
“You’re not angry?” Her wide eyes, such a vivid and beautiful blue between long blonde lashes and the faint shadows of their orbits, held his.
“I’m not happy,” he admitted. “But I’m not angry.”
“I understand.” He loved the way she rubbed the back of his hand with her thumbs. Her fingers entwined with his, strong and supple. “Can we talk about it later? Tonight? Just the two of us?”
He leaned in to kiss her, her lips parting beneath his. Indris raised his hands to run his fingers through her hair as their mouths lingered just moments from each other. It was all the answer he was able to give before the sound of shattering glass echoed across the Sky Room.
“Mari!” a drunken male voice shouted. There came laughter from several people on the other side of the room. People’s heads turned towards the ruckus. Then towards Mari. “Mari! I know you’re here. It’s time you came home.”
“Erebus’s withered balls!” Mari swore. “What’s he doing here?”
“Friend of yours?” Indris asked. He placed his bowl of wine on a nearby shelf, next to an ancient scratched helmet and pair of goggles, light splintering from a crack in one of the lenses like a rainbow trapped in glass. The Feyassin closed ranks around Nazarafine. Other guests backed away. Peripherally Indris saw Ekko rise to his feet, a mountain of fur and muscle. Shar glided forward, seemingly lighter than air. Hayden smoothed his moustache as he stood, hand on the hilt of his broad-bladed hunting knife. Only Omen remained motionless, although in the silence Indris could hear the basso tones of Omen’s voice, talking to what appeared to be the empty air.
Mari moved towards the new arrivals, Indris in her wake. He gestured subtly for his friends to stay where they were.
A wide space surrounded the newcomers. All were in expensive silks, standing amid shattered glass and a growing pool of spilled sunberry wine. A man and two women, siblings by their look, wore the floor-length, hooded over-coat of the elite-caste. The others wore the knee-length coat of the warrior-caste. All of them armed with sheathed long-knives. Their clothing was all in shades of black and red, sleeves marked with the black stallion of the Erebus.
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Mari addressed the silk-clad newcomer, “Nadir, you’re not welcome here.”
Nadir looked Indris up and down. “Is this the man you’ve dishonoured yourself with?” His speech was slurred.
Mari grabbed Nadir by the wrist and dragged him onto the balcony. The rain had paused, though the clouds still blossomed with lightning. Thunder rumbled close by, vibrating on the skin and rattling glass.
“You’re pretty,” said the younger of the two women to Indris. Her pupils were huge, her large eyes blackened by kohl, lashes long and dark. There was a hunger in her gaze that made Indris uncomfortable. He felt a faint stirring of disentropy as if somebody had dipped a finger in the ahm.
“He’s a Näsarat and a Sēq, little sister,” the older of the two spat. “Father won’t forgive you if you bring it home.”
The younger woman pouted then turned her heavy-lidded gaze to the other people in the room. The older woman gripped the sheaths of the long-knives in her sash, revealing an intricate floral tattoo on the back of her hands with skulls for flowers.
Indris heard Mari shout. Nadir responded in kind. Indris interposed himself when the sisters and their companions sought to move further into the room. Within heartbeats Shar and Ekko were in his shadow. He spared a glance for Mari and saw her gesturing angrily at Nadir.
Their argument rose in volume, the embarrassing residue of what was clearly a past romance. People in the Sky Room looked askance at Indris, who fervently wished himself elsewhere. Mari’s swearing reached fever pitch. Neva’s expression was one of surprised approval. With people’s attention diverted, Ziaire ushered Nazarafine, drooling Vahineh, and nervous Martūm out via a different door. The Feyassin followed.
Then Nadir, clearly frustrated and close to tears, tried to grab Mari. Mari shrugged his hands off and backed away.
Omen pounded across the marble floor, his ceramic feet almost chiming in his speed. Hayden was not far behind, his hands outstretched. With one arm Omen drew Mari to the side, away from the balcony ledge. With the other, he struck Nadir a vicious blow to the side of the head. The man reeled. Took a dazed step towards the edge. Then another. He teetered.
The two sisters screamed. The elder of the two drew one of her knives and threw in one fluid motion. Indris felt the ahm stir as the younger sister began weaving disentropy.
Omen grabbed Nadir by the coat and held the man over the yawning emptiness. Looking down, Nadir shrieked in terror.
The thrown knife struck Hayden high in the chest. The old man reeled and fell to his knees. Blood welled through his clothes as he clutched the weapon that pierced him.
Indris slapped the younger sister’s Disentropic Stain with his own, forcing her to stop what she was doing. The pretty young thing gasped in shock.
“Sassomon-Omen, remember where you are!” Ekko roared. He had one massive furred hand curled around the hilt of his khopesh and he strode forward, bristling with violence. “If you cause so much as—”
“Not now Ekko,” Shar snapped. She glided forward on light feet, her hands loose at her sides. “Now, Omen, there’s no need to go making a mess of this nice young man. He’s a friend of Mari’s isn’t that right?”
Hayden scrabbled back, gasping, a dark stain spreading on his hunting shirt. Ekko pounced to his side and picked the old drover up in a sweeping motion, as if he weighed no more than a child.
Indris could feel the tension crackle in the room. It squealed in his head, a scraping, shrieking wall of noise interspersed with feelings of anger, of desperation, of incredible pain, and… murder! A bubble expanded in his brain, swelling against his skull. Bypassing his Disentropic Stain, it expanded until all he sensed was the single-minded intent to kill from somebody in the Sky Room.
“Stop!” Indris’s voice boomed across the room, a wall of sound that brought stillness in its wake, compelling all who heard it to freeze in place. Indris looked about, to see Femensetri staring at him in surprise.
And on the balcony, Omen stood as everybody watched, holding the writhing Nadir over the precipice with a hand incapable of feeling Nadir’s blows, once more still and silent as a statue.
“THE TRUTH OF POWER IS THAT IT EXISTS WHERE YOU BELIEVE IT EXISTS”
—Miandharmin, Nilvedic Scholar to the Ivory Court of Tanis, Fourth Siandarthan Dynasty (169th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 351 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
“Your father knows who killed his wife, Mari,” Nadir had slurred. “He has people hunting her even now. It’s only a matter of time before he finds her and kills her and those who helped her.”
Only a matter of time. The knowledge of Yashamin’s murderer would be a thorn in Corajidin’s hoof. Her father would neither rest, nor hesitate in claiming blood for blood.
Mari had stayed behind to argue with Nadir on the wind-battered ledge of the Sky Room. He insistent, she obstinate. It had always been like this between them. But this time they had not reconciled their differences in passion’s heady embrace like they would in old times, as much as she could see Nadir wanted it. And try as she might, Nadir had refused to reveal the source of his information, though there was a hollowness in his gaze that spoke to something that frightened him deeply.
“Your father is sick, Mari. He needs you—he needs his family with him.”
Now her boots splashed water as she sprinted across the High Weir, a series of weirs and parks that formed a long pedestrian walkway across Skyspear, World Blood, and Star Crown mountains. The watery path was rarely used in the cooler months and almost never in the rain, yet it was the fastest route to the Qadir Sûn. Flash floods had been known to sweep people from the High Weir, sending them careening into rivers or over ledges into pools and small cataracts. While most of the time it was not a fatal slip, there were exceptions. She was thankful for the lanterns on their stone plinths to light her way. From time to time she cast her glance skyward to see lightning backlight the clouds. Thunder boomed at the impassive snow-capped heads of the mountains, like angry children shouting at three somnolent elders at peace in their chairs.
She spared a glance down the mountainside, to the terrace below her and the bright ponds cast by the lanterns along the road. Buildings were soft-edged from this height, tiled and domed rooves slick with rain. There they were! Indris and his friends were sprinting along the lower road in an effort to find Nazarafine and her escort. Nadir and his sisters were being held by Neva and Yago on behalf of the Arbiter of the Change. They would be released, though not in time to cause any more trouble tonight. Mari doubted her father would be so rash as to assault Nazarafine directly. The Exiles on the other hand might do anything to curry favour with their new master.
Something glittered coldly up ahead. Mari leaped a balustrade. Sprang from rock to rock. Jumped over a small watercourse. She drew her Sûnblade as her booted feet pounded the road.
She sprinted to where a number of bodies lay in puddles by the roadside. Their mortal wounds were deep and precise. Blood swirled in shallow water, dark as ink. None of the dead were known to her. The air was filled with the hissing of rain. It sheeted the road ahead, forming a blurred grey-white curtain between the stencil shadows of buildings and the empty blackness of the terrace edge. Mari took a shield from one of the dead, its circular rim badly dented, then continued on her course.
The world became small. A thing of details, rather than broad strokes. Her eyes were focussed on the play of shadows in the rain. Looking for the telltale sign of reflections from the metal of sword, knife, and shield. She listened for the clash and clamour of steel on steel. The screams of the wounded through the driving rain. Cries for help. She spared a glance behind her and saw Ekko’s mighty frame powering closer, beside the unlikely teetering gait of Omen. The others followed closely behind, even the shorter figure of Hayden, who had come despite his wounds.
With friends such as these, Mari doubted there was little she could not do. She had fought beside skilled people, brave people, and luck
y people. Yet Indris and his friends were all of this and more. They believed in what they did, their fights were for causes with real consequences they could see and understand. If Roshana and the others were smart, they would give Indris anything he wanted to convince him to stay. She wondered whether his cousin or the others understood him at all. Her stomach sank at the thought of him being anywhere without her. Or him being with anybody else.
Mari continued along the road towards the Qadir Sûn. The world about her had been reduced to wet monochrome streaks in the night, the red stone of Star Crown turned grey in the uncertain light. She sped under the intricate bronze and marble arch of the Water Garden; a series of reflecting pools with white lotus blossoms scattered on their surface, fine gravel paths, pagodas, carved wooden benches, willow trees, and manicured stands of bamboo and flowering bushes. There was the sweet perfume of lotus blossoms, as well as mountain rose and teak oil. Ahead of her she made out the frenetic dance she knew to be combat: the elegant art of a few warrior-poets; the brutal workmanship of many more bravos; one lithe figure and another more rotund in Ziaire and Nazarafine.
On silent feet she changed her sprint to a loping run, springing from one foot to the next. Her Sûnblade was held low, almost dragging behind her; the shield rim curving just beneath her eyes, made bright and sharp in the lamplight.
As she drew close she synchronised her steps and breathing with the beating of her hearts.
Mind, body, and spirit as one, Mari ignited the Sûnblade as she fell upon her enemies.
Mari stood poised in White Wave Crashes, one of the stances of the Water Dance. Calf-deep in a reflective pond, blood dripped into the water from the recurved edge of her sword, itself an extension of her arm. The blade shone white gold, reflected in blood-stained ripples on the water. The lush white petals of lotus flowers glowed in its light. Steam coiled from the blade as raindrops stuttered and bounced on the hot metal. Her shield was held above her head, rain drumming on it, trickling off its ruined edge. Water trembled on her eyelashes, bright with refracted rainbows. Her sodden clothing stuck to her skin.
The Obsidian Heart Page 18
