The Forbidden City

by Deborah A. Wolf

  “I did not know.”

  “There is much you do not know.” Her mother’s voice was warm. “But there is much you do know, Sulema, and much you can discern on your own. You have cunning, and skill, and tenacity, and these are powerful weapons.”

  “Tenacity.” She snorted. “You mean I am a churra-headed brat.”

  “Even so.” The dreaming form flickered. “Much like your mother, I fear.”

  “If I am not to follow your path, and if I cannot find my way to open this one,” she said, indicating the portrait, “what way is left to me?”

  “Follow your heart, Sulema.” Her mother’s dreaming form began to fade.

  “I am not sure I trust my heart.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Her mother was a mist, a shadow. “I always have.”

  When she was certain her mother was gone, Sulema regained her feet and stood for a long moment before walking over to the painting. When she reached out she could feel the oil paints beneath her fingers, cool and thick and solid. Almost it seemed that if she closed her eyes she could push her way into the portrait and wish herself free. For a moment she stood poised between worlds, and it seemed as if a hot wind teased at her braids.

  Sulema, it whispered in the voice of Mattu. Sulema.

  She pulled back. Once more she stood in the darkened hallways of Atukos, staring at the portrait of a princess.

  “I will escape,” she promised the princess, “I will be free, but I will do it on my own terms.”

  She turned and strode away, back straight, face proud, the very portrait of a warrior.

  FORTY

  This prey is beyond you, Kithren.

  Hafsa Azeina smiled to herself. So many words of wisdom were meant to keep people from doing just what she was doing. Casting her fishing net at a dragon. Biting off more than she could chew. Letting her head grow too big for her braids.

  Hunting the Huntress.

  Abruptly Hafsa Azeina realized that she had crushed the goose’s quill in her fist, and with a grimace she released the broken thing. Fletching while angry was never a good idea. On the other hand, if she waited until she was not angry, these arrows would never be finished.

  Well I know it, sweetling, she answered. Do you think to dissuade me? She shook her head, half wishing Khurra’an would urge her to cease this folly, half wishing she were wise enough to heed his warning. I do what must be done, nothing more.

  Well I know it, he replied, his mind’s voice dry and rough with affection. None so wise as I am would seek to dissuade you from leaping to your death, Kithren. It was merely an observation. He closed his eyes and stretched out full length upon her hearth. She had lit the fire for him, though sweat beaded on her brow in the early summer heat, and tickled down between her shoulder blades.

  She would do more for him if she could, but Khurra’an had refused the small pig she had requested, and goat’s milk, and even the bits of cheese that used to make him pounce and purr like a ridiculous kitten. He would drink a little water, reluctantly, but nothing more since his fateful hunt.

  Yet here she was, preparing for a fateful hunt of her own. At least he had stood half a chance against the blue goat, which was more than she could say about this madness.

  There is no fool like two old fools, he agreed, and she could hear his thoughts grow languid as he drifted into a state of half-sleep.

  Is this what we have come to, then? she wondered, quietly so as not to disturb his rest. Two old fools stretched out before the fire, dreaming of the days when we could bring down our own kills?

  Khurra’an cracked one eye half open. You still have a bit of blood around your mouth, sweetling. From that last kill you dreamt up.

  She laughed a little at that, and surreptitiously wiped her mouth on the hem of her tunic. The move to Atualon had slowed, but not stopped, the assassination attempts against her daughter. The Dragon King’s heir was an inconvenience that much of the world would prefer to see removed. Just this morning she had caught the dreaming soul of a foreign wizard who had thought to stalk her daughter through the Shehannam.

  You should have known better, Hafsa Azeina had told her at the end, than to cast your fishing net at a dragon. Now the woman’s fingers lay nestled in a box full of beetles, and would make a fine rattle once they were defleshed. The sinew from the wizard’s feet was soaking in a shallow wooden bowl and would be used to bind this fletching to Hafsa Azeina’s arrows—arrows that would sing through the air toward the dreamshifter’s quarry.

  Will it be enough, then? Khurra’an flicked one ear.

  Enough? She frowned. Will what be enough?

  When you have fashioned this rattle, will it be enough? Or will you not rest until you have fashioned enough instruments to play the world a merry tune, and send every soul dancing down the Lonely Road?

  I did not know these kills bothered you. Why have you said nothing before now?

  I have said nothing because it does not bother me. Khurra’an rolled onto his back with a grunt and let his legs fall open, exposing more of himself than anyone would ever wish to see. We vash’ai do not drag our dead along with us, save those bits we choose to eat. You will need to be fast, Kithren, quicker than you have ever been, if you wish to survive the coming hunt. These things you have made will serve only to slow you down. He twitched his tail, twice, and fell more deeply into sleep.

  Hafsa Azeina watched his rib cage rise and fall, rise and fall. Khurra’an was right. Khurra’an was always right. What had she ever done to deserve such a wise friend?

  Nothing. It was the whisper of a laughing thought. I am saving you for a snack, later.

  With a sigh, Hafsa Azeina released another crushed quill from her fist, and set the work aside. I know better than to perform a delicate task with a hand full of anger, she reminded herself. I should know better, as well, than to face my greatest fear with a heart full of death. She closed her eyes, the better to meditate upon the question.

  What have I ever done to deserve such a wise friend? Khurra’an mocked, gently. Gently.

  Nothing, she replied. I am saving you for a rug, later.

  * * *

  It is a fine day, she thought, on which to shed my soul of its burdens.

  The weather was not particularly lovely. A cold fog obscured the best parts of her view, lapped at her ankles, and made the dragonglass steps slippery. Neither was it the most spectacular time of year, as the early blossoms of spring had fallen away, and the later blossoms of summer had not yet begun to bud. It was an ordinary morning, and somehow more special because of it. How many times had she risen on a morning such as this, unspectacular, unremarked, heartsick and soul-sick after a night of blood and hunting?

  Too many to count, she thought. She took a deep breath, cool mist laced with dragonmint and sweet thyme. Khurra’an shadowed her footsteps as he had for the greater part of her life, though his steps dragged now so that she could hear his claws scraping against the stone, and his breathing was ragged and labored. When was the last time they had done something like this, together, that was… good? When had they last gone fishing, or hunting for the simple joy of the chase? When had they last stopped to take in a beautiful morning, foggy or no?

  She could not remember. Too long to remember, she thought. She promised them both, wordlessly, that when this ordeal was behind them—if they survived it—she would do better. Was there more to life than death and pain? She owed them both the chance to find out.

  This is a step… along the right path, Khurra’an said. The thought was slow, and sleepy, and warm. Too long have you turned your face toward the sun… only to curse Akari. We used to have fun together, you and I.

  We will again, she promised him. When this is over.

  He nudged her gently in reply, and she nearly fell to her death.

  They reached the peak of Atukos just past midsun, after Akari’s jealous gaze had burned away the last tatters of mist. The lake was beautiful. Hafsa Azeina had grown up running wild on the beaches of the Sev
en Isles, had outrun a red sandstorm on a good war mare, had risen alive and victorious after a hopeless battle, and still the silvery still not-waters of the dragon’s lake were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  Standing for a moment poised on the balls of her feet at the edge of the waking world, she then followed the path down to the deadly mere. There on the black sand beach she unrolled the burden she had carried so far. It had dragged at her, had made her steps leaden and filled her mind with darkness.

  Basta’s Lyre, hideous and beautiful, strung with the gut of a golden-tongued assassin. A flute made from the slender leg bone of beautiful, treacherous Nurati. A hand-drum fashioned from the hide of… what had her name been? She had pretended to be a merchant.

  Ah, yes, Ullah, that bitch. Flutes, drums, rattles of every size, half a shattered skull, and finally the finger-bones and sinew newly harvested and not yet fashioned into anything. So many, she thought sadly, and so many more lost somewhere in the sands of time. It is no wonder I cannot sleep at night.

  It is no wonder it takes you so long to pack, Khurra’an offered. He let his mouth hang open in a cat’s grin. You should have simply taken their ears, like your heroes of old.

  Hush, you, she responded, giving his ear a scratch when he half-fell, half-lay upon the ground at her feet. Thank you for coming all this way with me.

  Thank you, he replied, eyes hooded and full of mystery, for coming so far with me, Kithren, It has been… very interesting.

  Hafsa Azeina picked up an old rain-rattle made from a hollowed-out femur and filled with teeth. It was the first instrument she had made in the Dreaming Lands, back when she was young and tenderhearted and still wept after every kill. She remembered the man from whom she had harvested the materials, remembered how he had gloated over the fine price she and her daughter would fetch him. She remembered how he had died, choking to death on his own severed tongue. The rattle, as she turned it over and over in her hands, made an ugly noise.

  Noisy in death as in life, Khurra’an snorted. Be rid of it, Kithren, Free yourself at last.

  Yes, she thought. Yes, at last. She turned and, with a movement fluid and sure, threw the rattle as far as she could. It clattered through the air, end over end, chattering a final goodbye, and sank without so much as a ripple beneath the silvery waters of the dragon’s lake.

  “Goodbye,” she said aloud, “I am sorry.” She found, to her great surprise, that it was true.

  One by one the instruments followed, rattling and howling and whistling through the air to fall in a macabre rain into the not-water waters of the not-lake lake. Her instruments of death slid one by one from the world of men. Where they went after, she did not know.

  Nor did she care.

  As each fell without splash or ripple into the placid mere, each reminder of her true nature was as a burden lifted from her bloodstained soul, her long-shadowed heart. Finally, when she had lifted and thrown so many of the fell things that both arms ached, Hafsa Azeina was left with two instruments, nearest and dearest and most painful of all. She held the leg-bone flute, running her fingers up and down its length, and thought about the woman from whom she had taken this bone. With a spattering of unexpected tears she recalled the woman’s ready laugh and sharp wit, her delight in books and children, and her love of her son Ismai, who loved Hafsa Azeina’s own daughter.

  What will become of the boy? she wondered, surprising herself. She had never allowed herself to think much about the lives her prey had left behind. To Hafsa Azeina they were enemies to be killed, but to others they were mothers and fathers, friends and lovers.

  Considering this for a long moment, she poked at the thought as one might poke at a sore tooth, to see whether it still hurt. And found, much to her surprise and vast relief, that it did.

  This is all well and good, Khurra’an noted, but she was our enemy. You did what needed to be done, and no more. It is time to let go, Kithren.

  Hafsa Azeina closed her eyes in gratitude sharp as pain, and when she opened them again it seemed to her that Khurra’an lay bathed in a puddle of light, so brightly did he glow to her eyes.

  You are right, she agreed, cocking her arm back as far as she could.

  I am always right, he purred, even as the leg bone flew up, up, up, paused midair and let out a long shriek. Then down, down it plunged, until it disappeared silently beneath the lake’s bright surface.

  Without allowing herself to pause, Hafsa Azeina seized Basta’s Lyre in both hands. She refused to weep over this one, refused to let his golden voice caress her to guilty tears, refused to let the memories of a golden summer torment her with guilt.

  Time for you to leave me at last, you lying bastard, she thought, and she let him fly. Basta’s Lyre sailed gracefully though the air, crying a long farewell, and at last it, too, was swallowed whole into the dragon’s dreaming.

  It is done, she thought. It is good.

  Then she collapsed upon the beach, buried her face in Khurra’an’s raggedy mane, and wept like a child.

  * * *

  Hafsa Azeina woke to a sky as dark and deep and inky-soft as a newly dyed touar. The boldest stars were already out, and the new moons hung round and ripe as white plums, daring her to pluck them.

  “You should not have let me sleep so long,” she chided, pushing herself away from the wall of fur, spitting out Khurra’an’s mane as she sat up. “Wyvernus will have the whole of Atualon in an uproar, trying to find us.” Stealing away from her chambers undetected had been easy enough—she had been ducking guards all her life—but slipping back in undetected was likely to be a problem, after so many hours.

  You needed this, he replied quietly. As did I. It has been a good road, Kithren. He sounded… odd.

  It has indeed been a good road, she agreed with a smile. She shook herself free of sleep-shadows, pushed her short new wizard-locks away from her face, and reached out to touch Khurra’an’s shoulder. We should—

  He was cold.

  No, her heart cried, as she grabbed handfuls of mane and dragged herself over to him. The flesh beneath her hands had cooled, and the scent of death mingled with his cat-musk. No, she cried again, and No, trying to make it real. But Khurra’an was gone. Her heart’s companion had begun the journey down the Lonely Road without her. He had gone away and left her all alone.

  Hafsa Azeina wailed. It was a heartsick, hopeless sound. She pulled the great, shaggy head into her lap, hugging his beloved face, stroking back his whiskers. By the light of the moons she washed his face with her tears, over and over again, howling her grief until she was sick with it.

  Until she was mad with it.

  FORTY-ONE

  Ismai woke from fitful dreams to the smell of smoke, to people screaming, and to the feel of Ruh’ayya’s panic tearing through his mind like a trapped thing.

  Fire! Fire! Kithren, wake!

  He fought his way free of sleep and confusion, kicked out of the blankets that had wound round him like serpents, and half stumbled from his tent, holding his shamsi in one hand and rubbing sand from his eyes with the other. He slept with his tent flap facing the Dibris—they all did, as the slavers’ raids came closer to Aish Kalumm every night. The night lay soft and dark over the river, and stars winked lazily as they floated across the night sky.

  Not stars, he realized. Heart heavy with dread, he turned toward the City of Mothers, and froze as if he had been turned to salt.

  Aish Kalumm was on fire.

  Flames pressed into the sky like a thousand thousand hands raised in mourning, and sparks rose to float upon the gentle breeze. A wall of screams and wails rolled over Ismai, a wave of despair.

  □ Ware, Kithren! □ Ware!

  Ruh’ayya burst from the dark, eyes wide, ears flat against her head. She would fight a lionsnake for him, his brave one, and had faced the wrath of her dreadful sire to run by Ismai’s side, but she was ever terrified of fire.

  There was a roar like a dragon as a building collapsed.

  “
Beit Usqut!” Ismai cried, voice thick with horror. Thoughts chased one another through his mind. Run to Aish Kalumm? No, too far. There would be nothing but ash and bone by the time he got there. Run to the pastures, get Ehuani, ride to Aish Kalumm? A better plan, he thought reluctantly. Clothes? No time, no time. He hiked his nightrobe up about his waist, turned to run, and tripped over Ruh’ayya.

  “Za fik!” he shouted, arms pinwheeling, nearly stabbing himself in the foot as he tried to right himself. “Get out of the way! We need to help. We need to get help! Maybe the Mah’zula will—”

  Kithren. The panic in Ruh’ayya’s voice had changed into something soft, low, and deadly. Kithren, no. Look you to the stone caves of your people. Look.

  Ismai turned again, he looked again, and this time his heart burned to ashes.

  People had emerged from the flames and were walking toward him—every person in Aish Kalumm, it seemed to him then—toward him, toward the river. Backlit as they were by the flames, they looked like daemons being driven forth from the pits of Jehannim. Even from such a distance Ismai could hear the wails of women, of children.

  What of the elderly? he wondered, and felt like sicking up. What of the ill? Were the warriors able to save them, any of them? Perhaps the Mah’zula…

  Look, Ruh’ayya urged. Her eyes were huge and filled with flame. Stupid human—look! See!

  Ismai opened his mind to what his eyes had been trying to tell him. Behind his people rode a line of horsewomen, hair stiffened into manes, swords ready at their sides. The song of their war cries reached his ears, the drums of hoofbeats. A thousand warriors from the old stories, a thousand again, rank upon rank of them driving the people toward the river, toward safety.

  Toward him.

  “The Mah’zula!” he shouted, excitement rising. “They are saving our people! Praise Atu, they—”

  Kithren, hissed Ruh’ayya. No.

  Even as Ismai watched, one tiny figure broke away from the crowd and ran for the cover of darkness. Ismai was too far away to see whether the fleeing figure was a man or a woman, young or old. Even as he watched, mouth hanging open, a shout frozen halfway up his throat, three of the Mah’zula broke formation and rode the person down. There was a brief struggle, a flash of swords tiny in the firelight, and the three riders returned alone.