The two men ranged back and forth, meeting form for form and style for style. Some of the combatants stopped to watch, mesmerised by the display of skill. Belam fought as a man at the height of his youth and power. A man who was passionate, his stance and cut changes showing wit and sensitivity. His execution of Swallow’s Wing almost made Mari’s hearts ache for the beauty of it—even as she caved in the chest of a pirate who tried to bludgeon her.
Omen duelled like a teacher seeing the world outside his academy for the first time. He took the theory of swordcraft to the point a living person could not go to for fear of their flesh. The Wraith Knight bore stingless cuts that did not bleed, across his limbs, torso, and face.
Mari felt a blow on her back and stumbled forward, breath driven from her lungs. Memories of Avānweh crashed in as she saw a roundhead arrow—a resign ball on a shaft, used to incapacitate, not kill—roll past her toe.
She turned to see Nadir putting another roundhead arrow to the string. Cowardly bastard! There were other archers stepping to his side, similarly armed, and Tahj-Shaheh smiling like a cat as she looked on.
Belam forced Omen away from Vahineh and the young woman became hysterical. Jhem slid like an oil slick from the shadow of a statue, taking the squirming young woman in his arms. She shrieked for help, eyes wide with terror.
We need you to take care of her, no matter what. Can you do that for us?
At Vahineh’s cries, Omen turned his back on Belam.
The Wraith Knight reached out to grasp Jhem’s throat, and squeezed. Jhem released Vahineh, even as Omen moved forward to grip Jhem’s sword hand. There came a dull snap as Omen broke Jhem’s wrist.
Belam hacked into Omen’s ceramic torso. Omen stepped forward, still crushing the life from Jhem. He tried to parry Belam and lost his limb for the trouble. His ceramic arm and sword clattered to the ground. Omen threw Jhem towards the pit, the Blacksnake scrabbling at the edge to avoid going over. The Wraith Knight turned and stood over Vahineh, using his one good arm to defend her.
“No!” Mari croaked as more soldiers surrounded Omen, hacking his body until it was latticed with deep cuts.
More roundhead arrows struck Mari. One hit her thigh, dropping her to her knees. She looked around, dazed, seeing the end of those people she had come to call her friends.
Indris’s friends.
I’ve killed you all, she thought. She tried to muster the thoughts to form a Lament for them, but each time a phrase formed, it was pounded from her mind by another blunt arrow. Warriors approached her warily, clubs ready, circling like jackals around a wounded lion.
Hayden had slung his rifle and flailed with his broadsword. His skin was ashen, face slack. There was a lot of blood on his buckskins, much of which Mari thought was his own. Hayden ran an Anlūki through, his sword getting stuck. Another of the Anlūki stepped in and cut Hayden from shoulder to hip. The old drover’s buckskins opening like a split fruit, bright and pulpy. He fell face first to the ground and neither moved, nor made a sound.
Shar screamed, reaching for her fallen friend.
Ekko pounded the Anlūki who had struck Hayden to the ground, then grabbed Shar in one massive arm. He looked at Mari, sizing up his chances of rescuing her, too. But she shook her head, and gestured for him to flee. The indomitable Tau-se stood there a moment as his enemies formed ranks. Eyes wide, tail slashing with his agitation even as Shar struggled and screamed and reached for Hayden, Ekko gave a deafening roar and pounced through a gap in the enemy lines, down the stairs, and out of sight.
Shar yelled all the while for him to let her go, until her voice faded in the din.
Mari looked across to Hayden, who lay where he fell, eyes wide, mouth working slowly. She felt a tingling in her nose and a heat in her eyes as the tears started to form—of loss, of frustration, and of guilt.
I’m so sorry.
Mari got to one knee. An arrow struck her ribs, her arm. One struck her cheek and she heard the bone crack. Pain flashed through her body, then she felt nothing as her nerves overloaded. On faltering legs she stumbled toward Hayden, though she was distracted by Belam’s triumphant shout.
Her brother reached in to Omen’s torso and tore free the gleaming jade and gold Wraith Jar. Omen’s shattered body stopped moving. Belam held Omen’s Wraith Jar close, examining it, face lit by the play of brilliant light from within.
Then with an expression of disgust he hurled it at the ground, smashing it to pieces. There was a brilliant flash of gelid light, gone as quickly as it came. The soldiers cheered, then heaved Omen’s ruined form into the pit.
Reeling, shocked and empty, Mari barely had the time to turn as Nadir, contempt in his eyes, shot her in the chest.
She struck her head on the stone as she fell backward.
And welcome darkness took her in its arms and rocked her away.
“ONE CAN ONLY TRUST THE PEOPLE ONE IS INDEBTED TO, FOR THEY ARE THE ONES IN WHOSE BEST INTERESTS IT IS THAT YOU SUCCEED.”
—Sayf-Rayz of the Maladhi, Master of Assassins to Erebus fa Basyrandin (471st Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 358 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
Corajidin returned to the Qadir Erebus with Nima and his Anlūki, there to marshal what forces he may in his public defence of the city. As he marched the long, sombre corridors of the qadir he felt the first twinges of fear and a strange sense of isolation. There was none of Belamandris’s comforting, golden, beautiful presence. No Wolfram either, tall, gaunt, and so seemingly frail in his callipers, yet tough as an old oak blasted and blasted by lightning until the dark core remained. Kasraman, too, was absent.
The two witches were out there in the streets of Avānweh, fighting to secure the future of the Great House of Erebus as the eminent family of the Avān. But unlike his Ancestors, Corajidin would not allow himself to fall. No matter the price. He had come so far, and sacrificed so much of what he believed in, that everything he did now had the purity of new beginnings. True, the day would come when Corajidin would be planted in ashes—his body rendered to the nothing sende demanded so his spirit was not, should not be, conflicted between this world and the next—and Kasraman would rise in his place.
Kasraman, the son his father, Basyrandin, had chosen as Corajidin’s heir. Kasraman, the one to rule a new and stronger Shrīan, capable of retaking the world. Not that Kasraman’s presence brought much comfort these days. Memories of what he had seen of Kasraman’s Aspect knotted his guts with trepidation. The halcyon days of the witches had ended with the Scholar Wars, much as it had for the Sēq—though they still clung to their existence with the desperation of those to whom an end was near. The truly great mystics, barring a few exceptions, were the pitiful few who remained. Those who had learned during the high watermark of their arcane science, not as newer generations had done by scrabbling through recovered books of other people’s wisdom, with minimal understanding and less subtlety. But what was Kasraman? The Mahsojhin witches had no fear of Corajidin, that much he knew. Yet they saw something in Kasraman that weakened them at the knees. What, exactly, had he fathered?
There had been the usual japes when his first child had been born. Had Corajidin actually fathered him at all? Kasraman bore no resemblance to Corajidin, taking almost entirely after his mother’s dark line. There were stories of wild storms and Nomads walking from the frigid southern ocean, witches soaring through scudding clouds, the night Kasraman had been born. Yet the contemplative, courteous child had grown to be the same in adulthood. He had believed the stories of Kasraman being the vessel for darker forces as nothing more than a rumour started by the enemies of the Great House of Erebus.
But now Kasraman’s Aspect lent some truth to those fears.
Corajidin paused for a moment, halfway across the Hearthall. Ilhen lamps burned behind horse-heads of ruby crystal. The carved limestone columns, stalactites and stalagmites glowed a faint pink in their light. The air was gently scented with vanilla and orchid, two of Yashamin’s favou
rite scents. The walls sparked with the shapes of gold-plated skulls, generations of enemies kept around for mockery and memory. He looked up to see Ariskander’s gilded skull grinning down. You think you will have the last laugh, my enemy of enemies. Though I do not have your soul in a box, it is you, for all your noble blood as the Great House of the Phoenix, who hangs on my wall.
“My rahn?” Nima asked, concerned. “Uncle? Are you well?”
“Pardon?” Corajidin snapped out of his reverie. His nephew stood waiting a few paces ahead. Corajidin smiled. Nima was a much better man than Farouk in all respects. A relative who could almost be trusted, and who had not yet proven to be a disappointment. He resembled Belamandris, to a degree, though brazen rather than golden, a man made of lesser materials who worked hard to shine as bright. “All is well, Nima. Come, help me with my armour. It has been a long while since I have been a warrior-rahn, like my forebears.”
Corajidin strode to his chambers, Nima a pace behind. The two men entered Corajidin’s private armoury, where the various suits of armour he had worn, from childhood to adulthood, were arrayed on mannequins of red and yellow gold. A vast array of weapons were laid upon glittering jewelled racks. Everything in the room shone to a high gleam under ilhen light, unwavering and perfect, without a hint of shadow anywhere.
For I have gathered enough shadows in my life, without them clinging to my lethal instruments. He slid a finger along the elegant curves of his first amenesqa. It was a weapon he had shown little skill with, yet the Petal Empire antique of the Great House of Bey was coveted by others, so it meant something to Corajidin. It was not alone, at rest with a dozen others, all equally valuable because it had once been precious to somebody else.
“I’ll take the crimson silk gambeson and trousers,” Corajidin said, pointing to the items as he named them, “the black suede hauberk with the golden laces and the gold-chased black scale hauberk.”
“And your weapon, my rahn?”
“Ah, there is only one real choice for me, nephew.” Corajidin took a baroque watered-steel shamshir from its case, furnished in gold and rubies, beautiful and deadly. “Not as hard to use as an amenesqa, this is the weapon of the common people, yet made for a leader of them.”
Nima bathed Corajidin with hot water, rubbing a blend of myrrh and aloe vera into his skin with a silk cloth. Then he helped Corajidin into his armour, which was much heavier than Corajidin remembered. Nima took the time to fit it properly, adjusting the laces, straps, and buckles as Corajidin checked his range of movement. There were times when the light shone from Nima’s blond hair, and Corajidin was reminded of Belamandris, who had done this for his father on many occasions. Corajidin smiled and rested his hands on Nima’s head, pretending he was the son he loved above all other people, except for—
“Me, my heart of hearts,” Yashamin’s voice tickled his nerves. Eyes closed, he felt her breath across his ear, which sent tremors through his chest. Corajidin opened his eyes, yet could not see her anywhere. He took a stuttering breath in disappointment.
“Is that too tight, my rahn?” Nima asked, concerned.
“No. You have done well.”
“You are the great Golden Stallion, my husband.” It sounded like Yashamin knelt before him. He imagined he felt her hands on his thighs. “Soon, you will trample your enemies beneath your hooves. Soon, all things will be in your grasp. Perhaps even me.”
Corajidin’s breath caught in his throat. He looked down to where Nima was fastening the thick leather weapon belt over Corajidin’s sash. “Never mind, Nima. I can finish this. Gather the Anlūki and four squads of the Horse Guard, and meet me in the courtyard in thirty minutes. Also, send a message to Feyd of the Jiharim. Tell him to come to Avānweh with as many of his Jihari as he can bring.”
Nima bowed, then hurried away.
“Finally! We are alone,” Corajidin sighed.
“You’re never alone, Jidi,” she said against his chest. He could hear her and feel her, but not see her. “It’s the light, my love. I love the light, but it loves not me.”
Corajidin hastily shrouded the ilhen lamps. As the room darkened to that of a late afternoon overcast, Yashamin’s gauzy form materialised like a sculpture of jade and black smoke. She was naked, her long hair as dark as night, beads of jade as pale as milk around her throat, wrists, and ankles. This was how he loved her best—how she had loved herself best.
He tried to embrace her, but her form boiled around him like smoke. Tears of frustration and loss formed at the corners of his eyes, hastily wiped away.
“We stand on the brink, my love,” he said to her. “Everything we planned for, fought for, bled for—”
“Died for…”
“Is about to come to fruition. I will be crowned Asrahn and join the august ranks of the Ancestors who have come before me. No longer will I need to fear the shame of disappointing them.”
“And I’ll be with you, Jidi.” She paused, then drifted away on a boiling cushion of fragmented light, like dust in the breeze. “But it won’t be as it should’ve been.”
“If I could bring you back—” he choked, realising he meant what he said. He stepped back, aghast. What was he saying?”
“What are you saying?” It was as if she could read his mind! “It is our souls that speak, Jidi. You can not lie to the dead.”
There were so many things he had believed in over the years. A construct of morality, such as it was, and principles, such as they were, which had guided him since childhood. Over the years he learned the flexibility of necessity, allowing many of his tenets to bend to the breaking point, while justifying them for his greater personal good and the good of his House. But since his illness and the virtual walking death he had endured, principle had become a luxury he could afford less and less.
The Emissary had given him a sharp education in the fragility of principle when he had succumbed to her and Wolfram’s advice. He had trafficked with Nomads. Kept his son from finishing his sacred journey to the Well of Souls. Murdered, extorted, and lied. And what of freeing the witches from Mahsojhin? The litany of his transgressions was long, yet still he walked and in two days time would be rewarded for his relentless pursuit of power. Everything he had done, he had done for the glory of his House, and his Ancestors in their turn had been witches, scholars, rahns, Asrahns, and even Mahjs! And traitors. And heretics. The road of the Erebus had been long, with as many hills and mountains as there had been valleys. History was written by the victors. Rules and laws were made by those who dared face the uncertainty of change with a keen eye and unshaking resolve. Such people took what they wanted, and asked neither forgiveness, nor permission.
So how was bringing back his murdered wife any worse than what he—or others like him—had already done? How was it worse than what he was yet prepared to do?
“It is not, my love,” Yasha melted into him, firing his nerves as she had always known how to do. His body trembled in response. He was brought to the brink of release, before she passed through him and out the other side. He turned to face her, hungry for her caress. “You know what you need to do, Jidi.”
“I do.”
“Yes! A thousand times, a million times, yes! Everything will be well when we’re together again.”
“It will, my Yashamin.”
“Now drink your medicine, Jidi. You need to be stronger tonight than you’ve ever been before.”
Corajidin and his soldiery made a grand spectacle as they rode through the streets of Avānweh. It would have been better if there were Iphyri in their number, as the powerful horsemen always made an impression. But the Assembly was a time of peace and there was no way he could justify the deadly shock-troops as his personal guard. Besides, the Anlūki were deadly enough and the Second Company of the Erebus Horse Guard were seasoned veterans all.
He spared a glance for his warriors and his spirits lifted. By now the witches and liches would be in place, facing the worst of the danger represented by the daemon elementals. He hope
d somebody had gotten to Nix and stopped the unstable little man from releasing more.
The small army clattered into a large empty forum, dominated by four towering statues standing back-to-back, Scholar’s Crooks with their sharp hooks looming over all below. Bird droppings stained the carved folds in the dark stone and along the arms, mixed with centuries of wear by the rain. Waiting for them were Kasraman, Wolfram, Kimi, and Nix.
“Father,” Kasraman bowed formally. When he looked up his smile warmed the glacial blue of his eyes.
“News?”
“Mostly good. We lost all but one of the witches sent on the Skywolf. Igrael reports that Belamandris has secured Vahineh and Mari.”
“What about the Federationist rahns?”
“They escaped into the desert, but he’s sent soldiers after them.” Kasraman chuckled to himself. “I’m assuming it was Mari’s idea, but they made a run for the Näq Yetesh, no doubt to neutralise the witches. All but one of the witches we sent with Belam was killed when they crossed into the Dead Flat and speared into the sand. A painful end, one would think.”
“It’s not bloody funny,” Wolfram growled through his beard. His sinewy hand tightened on Kimiya’s arm and she winced.
“It’s a little funny,” Kasraman insisted, his expression unreadable as he looked at Kimiya. He turned to his father. “Belam confirmed the deaths of the Wraith Knight, Sassomon-Omen, and the Human rifleman, Hayden Goode.”
“And Indris?”
“He wasn’t there. Apparently he’s with the Sēq.”
Corajidin’s jaw clenched in fury. The man was slipperier than a greased snake! What did it take to kill one man, for the love of Erebus? He strangled his reins until the anger passed.
“And my sister is badly battered, but well.” Kasraman added into the silence. “In case you were—”
“Thank you, Kasraman,” Corajidin said, cutting off that line of thought. “And how fares our fight against invaders?”
The Obsidian Heart Page 41
