The Obsidian Heart

by Mark T. Barnes

  It had not occurred to him before how much a cold and empty place it was, littered with things rather than filled with life.

  “Your Majesty. You’ve returned early.” Wolfram’s voice was sepulchral as he ascended the sweeping stair. His eyes burned lupine and hungry through the tattered length of his fringe, his teeth a yellowed rip in the mat of his beard. The old witch limped in his callipers, ruined staff seeming to bend under his weight. Kimiya, ever in his orbit, stared at Corajidin with dark and troubled eyes as if the young woman were privy to sights she could not forget as much as she may wish to. Wolfram frowned at Corajidin. “You’re wounded.”

  Corajidin growled at his witch, crossing the Hearthall to climb the wide staircase that led to the suites, which held his offices, audience chambers, and a small, though opulent, dressing room, bedroom, and bathroom. He gave himself a perfunctory wash in an alabaster basin. Steam coiled across the surface of a large tub that had been cut into the rock nearby, fed by the natural heated springs of Star Crown. It was tempting to soak there, having his body servants scrub him with mineral salts and massage scented oils into his skin as Yashamin had so often done for him. Time, however, was pressing.

  Changed into fresh clothes, Corajidin headed for his office where his sons and some of his advisors waited. The Emissary entered not long after, followed by the frigid-faced Elonie, and Ikedion, the buck-toothed and obese Sea Witch with his long sideburns who reminded Corajidin of a walrus. He barely suppressed a tremor of fear at the memory of their illusory Aspects.

  The others waited while Corajidin settled himself, glancing briefly at the small pyramid of scrolls and the stack of reports on his desk. Yashamin’s Funerary Mask seemed to glow under ilhen light, the eyeholes dark and mysterious as her eyes had been in life.

  “I told you Mari would betray you, my love.” Her voice was soft as smoke in his ears. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining her hands on his shoulders. At the nape of his neck. Her lips pressed to his ears. “You extend your hand to that treacherous slut, when you should have demanded my killer be thrown to your feet!”

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out to touch the mask, the amber warm. “I promise it will be done.”

  “Avenge me my love.” Her voice buzzed against his earlobe. “Become the man of war your people need and take what is destined to be yours!”

  “Destined, not fated, to be mine.”

  “What will be yours, Your Majesty?” Wolfram asked. Corajidin looked up, unaware he had spoken aloud. The Emissary stared at Corajidin, eyes boring into his as if she were trying to read his mind. Corajidin jerked his head aside, suddenly afraid.

  “What we set out to achieve,” Corajidin said. He was brief in his recitation of Mariam’s betrayal. Curt in stopping Belamandris short when he tried to defend his sister and cast a more positive light on her actions. Kasraman chewed his lip as he listened; glance flicking between his brother and Corajidin.

  “So where is Vahineh if the Federationists don’t have her?” Kasraman asked.

  “It’s a ploy to buy them time, nothing more,” Nix said, rotating tinted glass balls on the palm of his hand, long fingers supple. He spun them so rapidly they almost blurred into a rainbow. Nix bobbed his head from side to side, hair swaying like a sagging reed thicket. “With every passing day they undermine Rahn-Corajidin’s authority. Too long have their barbs gone unanswered. The response needs to be simple, yet instructional.”

  Nix allowed the globes to spin out of his hands, smashing into brilliant fragments when they hit the floor.

  “I agree,” Corajidin said, showing no sign of displeasure at Nix’s liberties, his eyes transfixed on the rainbow-hued destruction on his floor. “I am going to be crowned Asrahn in three days time. I will make what I do now, legal later. There was a time the Avān paid for what they wanted in blood. Let us remind them.”

  “Father,” Belamandris said, “we’re not at war. Please be wary. Remember Amnon? It nearly undid us.”

  “Your near demise unman you, Widowmaker?” Nadir asked.

  Belamandris levelled a hard look at Nadir, his fingers curling loosely around Tragedy’s hilt in a smooth and oft-practiced gesture.

  “Nadir,” Corajidin growled, “I remind you, you are my adjutant. Keep a civil tongue in your head if you wish to keep either.”

  “My rahn, I apologise for any offence.” Nadir bowed low, face flushed. The man did not understand how close he had come his own swift demise.

  “I hear your warning, Belamandris,” Corajidin said. “But this is a different matter. We risked much in Amnon for great reward. We are about to reap that reward and more.”

  He sat at his desk and took a piece of parchment. The words were not long in coming, as this was something he had given more than passing thought to over past days. He signed it, then dusted it with sand from a golden shaker in the likeness of a stallion’s head. Kasraman whispered a word and a tiny fire spirit danced on the head of a candle. Corajidin pooled wax, then set black and red ribbons and a seal of red and black gold to his missive.

  Corajidin handed the writ to Belamandris. “Take this writ and ten squads of your best Anlūki—”

  “You want fifty of my Anlūki?” Belamandris asked, shocked.

  “No. I want your fifty best Anlūki. The rest can guard the qadir. Take the writ and go to Ajomandyan of the Näsiré. Kindly inform the Arbiter of the Change I am invoking ayo-kherife. Given there were enough witnesses at this morning’s debacle, including himself and his heirs, he is unlikely to question my rights.”

  “Then?” Belamandris asked quietly.

  “Then you will go to the Qadir Näsarat and make a caste-arrest of Rahn-Roshana fe Näsarat! They were Roshana’s assassins in Mari’s retinue and she will be held accountable. No Arbiter would ever deny me justice, when the perpetrator is so obvious.”

  “And when they resist?” Nix tapped the fingers of his hands together in a rapid tattoo.

  “Which they will,” Jhem added.

  “It is something I am rather counting on,” Corajidin said. He turned to Belamandris. “Kill whom you will to send a message, but I can not stress this enough: under no circumstances is Roshana to be counted amongst the dead! Do I make myself clear? I can not afford for her to Awaken another.”

  “Especially not Indris,” the Emissary said.

  “He declined it once,”—Kasraman countered—“why would he take it if offered again?”

  “Because he can see what’s happening in his country,” Wolfram said grimly. “The growing unrest, the strife brewing with the Iron League. He may already know about what has been happening at the Mahsojhin. This is a man the Sēq trained to either topple, or save, governments. And that’s only what we know of his overt work. Who knows what he did while covert?” He idly stroked Kimiya’s hair, the woman only barely flinching, before she leaned in to the contact.

  “Were Indris to weigh the threat of the witches return, or a war with the Iron League, against what he could do to prevent it as a rahn,” the Emissary nodded, “he’d allow himself to be Awakened. I know Indris better than any of you. Know what he’s capable of and why the Sēq have kept their eye on him. Indris being Awakened isn’t something you’ll ever want to deal with if he’s your enemy.”

  “Very well,” Belamandris bowed to his father. “But I’ll kill Indris if I see him and bring Mari home, should I find her. I’m sure I can talk sense into her. But I will not abandon sende. There’ll be no killing of civilians, or any other innocent.”

  The Emissary laughed and clapped her hands, then her laughter stopped, her smile turned cold and she pointed the fingers of her joined hands at Belamandris. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing? A killer with a conscience. And manners! But I’ve been through this with your father. Nothing is to happen to Indris. But if you do decide to cause a fuss, take a lot of people with you. Preferably ones you don’t mind losing.”

  “For the love of…” Corajidin said, voice dark with frustration. He gave Belamandris a
look that clearly said: Kill Indris if you have the chance, my son, and bring my daughter home where she belongs, away from the corrupting influences that steered her wrong. Corajidin then took Nix and Jhem in with a glance—their eyes were hard at the thought of causing mayhem. Their savagery would be a boon. “Jhem and Nix, you go with Belamandris. Once you have finished with the Näsarat, move on to the qadirs of the Sûn and the Bey. Kick over as many stones as you need to. Stamp on whatever scuttles out. Do whatever it takes to bring Roshana and my wife’s murderer to me.”

  Nadir and Ravenet stood together, talking quietly amongst themselves. Kimiya looked on, her body leaning towards them, expression longing, though the collar about her tanned throat and Wolfram’s broad palm on her shoulder kept her where she was. Corajidin was again reminded of Brede, Wolfram’s last apprentice. He wondered whether she too had been this way, before becoming Wolfram’s creature, heart and soul.

  Corajidin gestured for Nadir and Ravenet to come closer. He walked them to the door, leaning close as Ravenet opened it.

  “I need you both to find Mariam,” he whispered. “Bring her back. Do whatever you need to do, but bring her back alive and unharmed.”

  Brother and sister bowed, then slipped quietly from the room.

  “What of the rest of us?” Kasraman asked. He watched the warriors leave the room, his expression troubled.

  “We are going to remind the Sēq there is a new world on the way.”

  Corajidin led his small retinue from the qadir aboard a wind-skiff. With Kasraman, Wolfram, Elonie and Ikedion in train, Corajidin had little to fear. Or so he hoped. Though he may dislike the Sēq for their arrogant superiority, there was no denying they had gained their reputation for a reason. The streets were no doubt being watched and air travel was by far the most direct route to the heights of Īajen-mar and the long-abandoned Eliom Dei, also known as the Qadir am Amaranjin, named for the Mahj who had made it. Amaranjin. Son of Dionwē, the Näsarat who had sunk the Seethe beneath the Marble Sea, and first Mahj of the Awakened Empire.

  Kasraman sat comfortably at the helm, guiding the wind-skiff with sure hands out over the Caleph-Rahn on Star Crown, across wooded ravines and cool, damp gullies to the harsh cliffs and jagged rocks of World Blood Mountain. From the deck of the wind-skiff, Corajidin could see the tall smile of white marble pillars that was the Tyr-Jahavān, set into the mountainside. Stairs, bridges, paths, and streams crisscrossed the mountain. Giant waterwheels were silent at this distance. Aqueducts bright lines of white stone filled with rippling diamond streams.

  The Eliom Dei was built over almost one hundred vertical metres of the mountain, between Amenankher below and the Shalef-mar Ayet—the Temple Mount Shrine—above. Arabesqued reliefs were carved into the mountain face, smoothed and hardened by extreme heat so they shone like veined mirrors. Hundreds of windows and balconies faced outward, glass winking. Gardens hung. Water streamed from fountains to sculpted streams before turning to spume as it poured from the mouths of phoenixes: wings spread wide in intricate friezes now partially obscured by vines and small persistent trees.

  A long beak of stone, deceptively fragile-looking, jutted outward. It was topped by a ring wall; arches filled with crystal panels. Kasraman turned the wind-skiff into the stiff breeze, landing amidst the spark and sizzle of Tempest Wheels and Disentropy Spools. The skiff bobbed as it settled on its crab-leg landing gear.

  Wind howled through cracks in the ring wall. Clouds were brushstrokes of grey white, stretched thin and long. Grasses and flowering weeds grew between cracks in the stone. A long pathway, strait as a spear, led from the landing platform through a lush garden long gone to seed, all the way to the high keyhole doors of the Eliom Dei.

  Corajidin led the way as they walked silently towards the great doors, closed for centuries. Statues dedicated to long dead grandeur loomed larger than life amidst oak, pine, and cedar trees, their faces lost in silhouette against the bright vault of the sky. Apples lay rotting in the long grass. Wasps droned. Wolfram’s callipers creaked with every limping step, his staff striking the ground sharply. Flurries of thistledown tumbled in the wind. A giant mountain hart, several hynd, and their fawns stopped to watch. The hart raised its red furred face; ebony antlers sweeping as far as Corajidin could stretch his arms.

  Marble phoenixes flanked the path; time-dulled ilhen crystals grimy slivers in their eyes and mouths. Sandstone slabs were set between each phoenix. Corajidin counted hundreds of them as he passed, where loyal Feyassin would have stood night and day to protect their Mahj. It made his eyes burn with unshed tears to think how far his people had declined since the Insurrection. Once, an Avān rahn had ruled every nation in South-Eastern Īa. Corajidin’s ancestors had once governed the Atrean islands, blessed by the sun and kissed by sea salt and the cerulean depths of The Westron Divide. Now the power of the Awakened Empire was little more than legend.

  Tall pillars surmounted with the twelve-petalled lotus of the old empire flanked the round door. The door was carved to resemble the imperial lotus, with one petal for each of the original Great Houses of antiquity. Corajidin rested his hand against the doors and they opened, smoothly and silently. Inside, crystals ignited sending gelid fingers stretching across dust-covered walls, floor, and a ceiling so high as to beggar belief. Cobwebs fluttered in the sudden breeze like gossamer curtains.

  “I remember reading a story of this place,” Corajidin murmured. Somehow it seemed wrong to break the age-old silence. The visages of ancient people stared down from long glass panels, expressions obscured by grime. Rugs were brittle underfoot. There was a marked chill in their air.

  “Before the Empire, Avānweh had not even been a city. There was nothing save Amenankher, which had been built by Sedefke, Kemenchromis, Femensetri, and a few others as a place of study. After Dionwē created the Marble Sea with the help of the first Sēq Masters, he built Avānweh and made it his capital. It is why, even though we do not have an empire anymore, we still come to this city as our seat of government.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kasraman said. He craned his neck to look up at what could be seen of the intricately carved ceiling, set with ornate fretwork in what had once been rich enamels and precious metals.

  “Yes.” Corajidin wished he could summon the memories of those Ancestors who had walked these halls in their glory. He tried, yet received nothing more than shooting pains behind his eyes for his efforts. The Water of Life had left his system, taking its puissance with it.

  Corajidin led them up a long corridor, the ceiling set with panels of frosted quartz. Long veils of web were draped between pillars and statues. Crystal orb spiders; bodies translucent as glass and wider than a man’s hand, reared in warning. Wolfram gestured with his ruined staff and the entire web went up in flames. Elonie and Ikedion both whispered under their breath, hands making complex signs in the air. Within moments there came the plopping sound as hundreds of orb spiders fell from the ceiling above. Rats squealed and died. Cockroaches struggled on their backs, legs flailing.

  Elonie took in Corajidin’s surprised expression. “Crystal orb spiders are drawn to disentropy—though mostly they’re drawn to rifts between here and both the under and overworlds.”

  “The lady speaks true, Rahn-Corajidin,” Ikedion tittered, lips rubbery amidst his round cheeks and many chins. His opulent blue silk robe was pattered with sweat under the arms. Left crescents beneath his flabby breasts. “We should be cautious. This is a place of power across many worlds.”

  “Why are we here, Your Majesty?” Wolfram asked. The old witch leaned on his staff, breathing heavily. What little of his face could be seen behind his tangled fringe and wild beard was flushed. Corajidin rested his hand on the man’s shoulder, sympathetic to the physical ordeal the long walk had been for the witch’s ruined body. Yet he did not answer.

  Instead, he quietly led them along corridors and up stairs. Across bridges that arched over deep, dark chasms filled with nothing save the roar of water far below. Through natur
al caves that stretched upward to razor cuts of light in the distance, or downward to spiralling trails of coloured radiance, where paths led to unknown and abandoned vaults.

  After crossing a long bridge of what appeared to be spun serill—faceted black drake-fired glass—Corajidin led them to a tall door of mirror fragments. He looked at himself, broken and split, the doors revealing him in pieces yet never as a whole. There were two large porcelain handles, each shaped after the imperial lotus.

  Above the door was an inscription in the fluid High Avān script: Ishii qiel yaha rem. Dijar bah yaha vahin. Beware who you are. Respect what you want.

  His hand wavered for a moment. There was the faintest trembling. The merger of fear, desire, and anxiety. He looked at his shattered reflection in the broken-mirror door, slivers of his face, or eye, or chest showing him to be the broken man he was. There was a deep crack running down one eye. Another across his lips and a long split that severed his image above his hearts. Each time he blinked it seemed as if the mirror pieces had moved, showing him different images of himself. He spared a glance for the others, saw the looks of distress on their faces.

  Closing his eyes, Corajidin turned the handles and pushed the doors open.

  The throne room was a bell-shaped chamber of crudely faceted obsidian, with a dome made of thousands of tinted crystal panels in all the colours of the seasons. In its day it had been called the Obsidian Heart, a place where decisions were made that could be sharp and dark, rending the hearts and soul of the Mahj who made them. Like the spherical seats of the Tyr-Jahavān, it was a reminder that power was nothing to be envied. Keyhole alcoves lined the round wall, where Feyassin and Sēq Knights would once have guarded their Mahj. Tall, black-lacquered chairs were spaced in a semicircle around the wall, facing inward. In the centre, in a broad beam of honeyed light, squatted a giant tourmaline throne, like somebody had carved a huge faceted chair from a piece of the sea. The Canon Stone.