Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  Seeing they were all hungry for the promised revelations that had drawn them here, he said, ‘You each know what I want from you; now you want to see what I can do for you.’

  There had been hints, but nothing tangible. Alyssa licked her lips in anticipation.

  ‘Some of you have already encountered a new force on the tabula board of power: the Merozain Brotherhood. As you know, most magi can access three or four Studies strongly and a few more to a small extent; the rest are blind spots. The Merozains have discovered a unique skill: the ability to utilise every aspect of the gnosis, all sixteen Studies. This versatility of gnosis is an extraordinary advantage. Infuriatingly, magi of more than a few years’ experience are so ingrained with their affinities they are incapable of retraining – I know this, for I have wrung every drop of knowledge from a captured Merozain and yet have failed to master it myself.’

  Alyssa exclaimed, ‘Yes, Master, give us a weapon against the Merozains!’

  Naxius smiled. ‘That is indeed part of my purpose. If the nine of us are to change the world, we need something even these Merozains cannot stand against. I have found us that edge.’

  ‘Praise be,’ Ironhelm breathed.

  ‘During the Third Crusade,’ Naxius said, ‘I met a renegade Inquisitor who unlocked another path to power – he died, but I have enlarged on his work. And so: behold!’

  The old man raised his hands, cackling with delight as all about him, light and dark kindled into life. Like the rest, Alyssa invoked gnostic sight to see and understand the energies, and what they saw filled the room with gasps of appreciation: traces of Fire-, Earth-, Water- and Air-gnosis shimmered alongside the runes and markings of necromancy, wizardry and the other sixteen Studies, all circling the Master’s aura like stars in orbit.

  ‘But you said the Merozain way eluded you?’ Beak asked.

  ‘I found a superior way, and one which requires no training!’ Naxius announced. ‘Better yet, I can give it to you too: Ascendant-level gnosis – and beyond – in every facet of the gnosis.’

  Beyond Ascendant? Alyssa thought. There is no ‘beyond’. ‘How?’ she demanded.

  ‘Through the same means as I now have this power: daemonic possession.’

  As one, they recoiled: daemons were known, and surrendering your mind to one, allowing it to possess you, was invariably fatal. You lost everything, becoming nothing more than a vessel for that daemon. The sense of disappointment Alyssa felt was sickening.

  Is he possessed right now? she wondered. Is this a trap set by a daemon?

  ‘Wait, my friends.’ Naxius held up his hands. ‘Those wizards among you, examine my aura: am I possessed? The taint will be clear if I am: daemons can’t hide from gnostic sight.’

  Alyssa looked, but her affinity to wizardry was poor. The fat man, Felix, examined him, then admitted, ‘It’s as Master Naxius says: there’s no taint of possession. But how is this possible?’

  ‘The “how” will become clear momentarily,’ Naxius replied. ‘Let me tell you first of the other benefits: I have unlimited mental and physical stamina. I need not sleep or eat and drink. I can heal almost any wound – indeed, I suspect I may be immune to age itself.’ He gestured, and his age vanished, leaving a magnetically intense-looking man in his prime. ‘And no, I am not possessed – it is I possessing the daemon.’ They gasped at this extraordinary claim, but he went on, ‘I can show you how. Do you desire to learn the secret, to become as I am?’

  There was a pause as seven weighed up the risks against the gains, but for Alyssa, there was no question. Like Heartface, I will risk everything for love.

  7

  The Emir’s Nephew

  Crusades and Shihads

  Since the failed Third Crusade, we have heard of many clergy preaching a Shihad of retribution. We, the Merozain Bhaicara, strongly counsel the Sultan of Kesh not to support this call. However much pain has been inflicted upon you, revenge must not be sought. Peace has to start somewhere.

  MASTER PURAVAI, MEROZAIN BROTHERHOOD LETTER TO SULTAN SALIM KABARAKHI OF KESH, 933

  Halli’kut, Kesh, Antiopia

  Safar (Febreux) 935

  Family gatherings were wonderful, happy occasions, celebrations of kinship and love, or so Waqar Mubarak had been told. His family, however, was an ongoing feud, a morass of rivalries and jealousies.

  Waqar was newly twenty, his thick glossy black hair framing a face the desirable colour of pale coffee, clearly delineating rank in a society where dark skin betrayed a life spent in the hard sun. It also hinted at his part-Rondian ancestry, which was both stigma and blessing; Rondelmar was a hated enemy, but he was of the exalted mage-blood. He and his sister Jehana had never quite resolved that dilemma.

  The Mubarak family were currently arrayed on a lawn outside the family palace, overlooking Halli’kut, the greatest city of northern Kesh. Al-Qasr-Makhba – the Hawk’s Lair – had been the setting for centuries of Mubarak adultery, duels, incest and murder, as far back as stories were told. Not all those stories were ancient, though.

  ‘Look, it’s here!’ an excitable younger cousin shouted, and everyone peered up as a large windship swam into view. The dhou’s triangular sails were pale blue and bore the insignia of the Ordo Costruo, the multi-racial mage order. For decades the order had been pariahs in the East, but since the defeat of the Third Crusade, those of the mage-blood were now – cautiously – being openly welcomed into the fold.

  ‘How long has it been since you saw your mother?’ Waqar’s cousin Xoredh asked slyly. He had the Mubarak eyes, vivid green and penetrating as a cobra’s stare. He was older than Waqar and closely allied with Attam, the emir’s eldest son. They all bore the Mubarak stamp, though Attam was a muscular giant and Xoredh sly and smooth. They seldom missed an opportunity to belittle Waqar in the ongoing harbadab, the war of manners.

  ‘Early last year, when I graduated as a mage,’ Waqar replied calmly.

  ‘I’m amazed a Mubarak could stay loyal to the Ordo Costruo after all they’ve done,’ Xoredh murmured. ‘Sakita is a family disgrace – I’ve heard Emir Rashid say so on many occasions.’

  To belittle a relative offended the rules of harbadab, but one could repeat the words of the emir without breaking etiquette, so Waqar was forced to bite his tongue. Jehana scowled, and their older cousins smirked.

  The dhou swooped in, landing struts extending from the hull. Now that magi were less stigmatised in the East, the number of windcraft was growing rapidly – seeing them in the skies above no longer sent commoners scurrying for shelter.

  As the dhou touched ground, trumpets blared and Uncle Rashid stepped forward to greet his sister. He was tall and handsome, with piercing green eyes, and clad in all the finery of a great lord, but even dressed as a peasant he would have stood out. He had that undefinable quality that made the notion of demi-gods seem real.

  My uncle, Waqar mused: but to the rest of the world he is the Hero of the Crusade, the Victor of Shaliyah, and Saviour of the East. Oh, and Emir of Halli’kut, and Sardazam! Yes, First Advisor to Sultan Salim of Kesh himself!

  Waqar briefly squeezed his little sister’s hand, preparing himself for an awkward homecoming. Jehana flicked an errant strand of hair from her face, squinting for a first glimpse of their mother as the walkway was lowered. ‘There she is,’ she murmured eagerly as an erect woman clad in the pale blue of the Ordo Costruo descended from the windship.

  Both Sakita Mubarak and her younger brother Rashid had been born into the Ordo Costruo: three-quarter-bloods, both as Yurosi and magi. The siblings had been equally single-minded in their dedication to advancing themselves – until 904, and the First Crusade, when the Rondian Emperor marched his legions across the Leviathan Bridge, defying the Ordo Costruo to destroy their own creation and stop him. The Mubarak siblings felt distraught and betrayed – but while Sakita had eventually accepted the order’s decision to surrender control of the Bridge rather than destroy it, Rashid hadn’t. He began working in secret against both the order and th
e Crusaders, until the dawn of the Third Crusade, when he assassinated Antonin Meiros, head of the Ordo Costruo, captured most of the rest of the order’s magi and led the armies of Northern Kesh in battle, winning great victories and the esteem of all the East. Now his name outranked all but Salim . . . and for some, even the Great Sultan came second to the emir.

  Rashid had spirited his nephew and niece away when he openly broke with the order and raised them with his own family. He rarely allowed his elder sister to visit them.

  I hope they can keep from killing each other, Waqar thought. Beside him, Jehana was bouncing with impatience. His feelings for his mother were ambiguous, but Jehana saw her as an idealistic heroine.

  ‘Welcome to Halli’kut, Sister,’ Rashid called. ‘We rejoice at your coming!’

  ‘You do me too much honour, Brother,’ Sakita replied.

  Rashid lowered his voice. ‘I know, but it’s expected,’ he said drily. They kissed distantly, then Sakita greeted Rashid’s seven wives impatiently, ignored Attam and Xoredh entirely and hurried to Waqar.

  ‘My baby boy! Look at you!’ She kissed him, her watery eyes drinking him in.

  ‘Mother, I’m twenty,’ Waqar muttered, keenly aware of his cousins’ scrutiny. Her mother looked more Yurosi than ever, her hair cut short in a Western style that made her look out of place here.

  ‘You’re still my boy,’ she whispered. ‘Do they look after you? Do his sons bully you?’

  Of course, he could have answered. Instead he said, ‘I’m part of the family.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  Then she turned to Jehana, who flew to her mother’s embrace. ‘Mama, Mama!’ she sobbed, suddenly a child again. Jehana was sixteen, skinny and ungainly, all angles and big green eyes, currently awash in tears. ‘I’ve missed you so much!’ she wailed, followed by, ‘What have you done with your hair?’

  Waqar watched awkwardly. The harbadab demanded more restraint, more composure, and though he might miss the time when such demonstrative affection was permitted, it wasn’t appropriate any more. So he waited, more embarrassed than pleased, for the signal that they could all return to the shade for refreshment.

  The other young men here had parents to protect them; he and Jehana had grown up isolated, perpetually the victims. Rashid’s palace was a dangerous place where rote and ritual hid a quicksand of seething jealousy and colossal arrogance; any misstep in the elaborate game of harbadab could lead to ruin.

  A man who cannot control his temper cannot control others, the Kalistham taught. Rashid demanded mastery of word and blade from his male heirs. The rewards were manifold, but it was a knife-edge.

  I must survive and grow – for if I fall, who will protect Jehana?

  *

  Sakita and Waqar found a shaded cupola in the gardens to talk alone. The Crusaders had destroyed much of the palace, but thanks to the stalwart efforts of Rashid’s Earth-magi it was almost fully repaired, unlike the city below, which was still largely in ruins. A vast tent-city beyond the old walls had sprung up at the end of the Crusade, nearly five years ago; it still stretched for miles. Even fifteen hundred feet above the plains, the stench was scarcely bearable.

  ‘So, my son, does Rashid treat you well? Does he keep his promises?’ Sakita asked. Having dispensed with her ‘first impression’ finery, she looked older than he remembered, with flecks of grey about her temples. As magi aged slowly and had many ways of concealing their years, it said a lot about her priorities; she always had lived for her research. She’d been here just a day and already had a blazing argument with Rashid; their voices had carried through the closed doors of the emir’s private suite.

  No one else dares raise their voice to him, Waqar thought, a little proud, mostly worried.

  ‘All’s well,’ he lied. ‘I’ve learned to ride and fight, and the gnosis, of course. My affinities are Theurgy and Earth, and the tutors say I’m exceptional at mysticism, especially at detecting gnostic traces. I’ve made friends among the magi at the Elimadrasa – that’s what Rashid’s people are calling an Arcanum – and I am mastering the harbadab.’

  ‘No small challenge in such a place, I’m sure,’ Sakita acknowledged. ‘I am proud, my son: but tell me about the things that aren’t so good.’

  The things that aren’t so good . . . Where do I start? ‘Well, Attam can be unpleasant—’

  ‘He’s a mindless thug.’

  ‘And Xoredh takes Attam’s side—’

  ‘He’s leading that pig around by the nose, in other words.’

  Yes, Waqar thought, but daren’t say so. Words had a way of being heard, here. ‘But I’ve made good friends – Uncle likes us to form groups of trusted people to live and fight alongside.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ Sakita said dismissively. ‘Waqar, things are hard for you here, I know, with no father to take your side – and I’m not here.’

  He met her gaze. ‘If you were here, things would be worse. You’re not just estranged, Mother, you’re outcast. I’m amazed Rashid even agreed to see you.’

  Sakita’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have no illusions about my welcome here, but he still wants things of me. But I didn’t come to cause you and Jehana upset: I want you to come back with me and join the Ordo Costruo. They’ll admit you, because of me – and your father, of course.’

  The offer wasn’t a surprise; she’d made it before, but it still took him aback. He’d thought she’d given up on that campaign. But he was old enough now; it was his choice, not hers. ‘Mother, I don’t want to be a scholar. Rashid has promised me a place at court. There are things a nobleman must learn that only a royal court can teach.’

  ‘Fornication and fighting,’ Sakita sniffed. ‘Even Attam can manage those.’ She looked disgusted. ‘I knew this would happen, but I hoped you might have higher aspirations.’

  ‘Higher than being a noble in the court of the most illustrious man in history?’

  ‘Ai! Courtiers are ten a penny! The Ordo Costruo is a legacy of greatness!’

  A legacy of defeat while earning universal hatred, he nearly replied, but instead swallowed his words and said, ‘Mother, the Ordo Costruo wouldn’t let me near their precious Bridge, or anything important, not with my name.’

  ‘They would eventually, once you earned their trust—’

  ‘They still don’t fully trust you!’

  ‘I know people called Mubarak aren’t popular in the Domus Costruo – why else do you think I took Placide’s name?’

  Placide Gentroi might be his father, but Waqar couldn’t see himself as anything but a Mubarak. He barely remembered the man – he couldn’t begin to imagine what his mother had ever seen in an eccentric Rondian obsessed with clouds. He’d died of a bad heart while Waqar was still a child – the gnosis could do incredible things, but congenital defects were mysteries still. ‘Placide’s dead,’ he said bluntly, ‘and if the Ordo Costruo don’t know that you’re loyal to them by now, Mother, they’re blind.’

  ‘I see their point of view, and understand – after all, would I trust the sister of a powerful enemy? But I’m true to my oaths – unlike Rashid, who betrayed his.’ She took his hand. ‘Come back with me, dearest. We need new blood, and there’s so much we could teach you.’

  He looked over the battlements at the city shimmering in the heat haze below. Halli’kut looked like a kicked-in ant-hill swarming with workers. The stench of raw sewage and rotting garbage tainted the air, which was filled with swirling flocks of vultures and crows that descended the moment anything stopped moving. The brown sludgy river was filled with washerwomen, their pegged-out clothes vast acres of colour.

  ‘Rashid was quick enough to rebuild his own fortress,’ Sakita commented, ‘but his city still suffers. You should see Hebusalim, my son. Sultan Salim does his best, but outside a few fortunate places, children starve, often a few paces from an opulent palace like this.’

  ‘The Eastern magi are aiding the rebuilding,’ Waqar replied. ‘Rashid’s new mage order is working tirele
ssly!’

  ‘Al-Norushan?’ Sakita sneered. ‘What “New Dawn”? Jackals pretending to be squirrels! Salim might have ordered the Hadishah mage-assassins to reform and start rebuilding the East, but we all know they’re useless for anything except security and intimidation.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as you think,’ Waqar protested, wishing this awkward conversation would end. ‘It’s good to see you, Mother,’ he said, ‘but I wish to stay here.’

  ‘Your sister and I had this conversation earlier . . .’

  His whole world lurched. ‘But . . . Jehana’s only sixteen – she’s not yet completed her training at the Elimadrasa – you can’t take her away!’

  ‘I can and I am, and Rashid has agreed – probably because he sees her as just a scatty girl. And Jehana is eager to take up my offer, unlike my beloved son.’

  He put his head in his hands. Jehana kept him sane. Even his closest friends couldn’t make the world right the way she could. ‘You’re tearing our family apart.’

  ‘No, I’m pulling it back together. If you came, it’d be whole.’

  He tried to explain: that here, he could be a man: he could ride, shoot a dozen arrows and hit the target each time, fly windskiffs among the clouds, learn the sword. And since he’d turned eighteen, he was free to lie with the young women of the Scented Zenana – how could he give up all that for a quill and parchment amongst a mistrusting order of foreign magi?