“Not a great deal else to do while you’re holding me hostage.”
“Don’t start.” His former sahai glanced around the Manufactory at the other projects Indris had been working on. “Show me.”
Indris leaned against the anvil and gestured for her to help herself, knowing she would anyway. Femensetri closely inspected Indris’s other projects. A suit of serill scale armor that, save for the final etching of the last glyphs, was compete. A round shield likewise plated with serill scales and likewise enchanted. Indris had no doubt Femensetri noted the Maladhoring glyphs on his work and was grateful she did not ask who had done them. She probably suspected it was his own work and was saving him the trouble of lying when he denied it, or her the embarrassment of appearing to be foolish by believing him.
Femensetri picked up a long witchfire staff. The staff changed color from red, to blue, to purple as she moved it around. Radiant motes shone at the heart of the hexagonal blade. Her fingers ran across the tight, neat rows of Maladhoring glyphs that ran along its length, as well as those in High Avān, Seethe, and Hazhi’shi. The latter elicited a surprised grunt. She gave Indris a sideways glance yet kept her silence. There was also a new storm-pistol there with an eight-bolt chamber and a larger bore. Femensetri hefted it, aiming it at a random target.
“Heavy bastard, isn’t it?” she asked, putting it back on the table amid the neat rows of bolts Indris had forged for it. “Never was any good with the damned things.”
“After Amnon and Avānweh, I figure I needed a bigger gun.” Indris nodded to his handiwork. “That’ll do for now.”
“And these?” She pointed to a few fist-sized spheres.
“Mockingbirds,” Indris said. He took one of the spheres and twisted. The hemispheres shifted, and the device began to tick. Once the two halves reached their original position, the mockingbird emitted a loud metaphysical wail that reverberated on Indris’s Disentropic Stain. “It’s for traveling the Drear. Should keep the locals off my back until I get where I need to go.”
“I like those!” Femensetri said. “Looks like you’re getting ready for a trip. Typical of you that you made a Scholar’s Lantern, rather than a crook. You could be a Master by the end of the day if you—”
“I’ve more work to do, so if you’ve—”
“I don’t like the distance between us, Indris,” Femensetri said. “Since Avānweh we’ve not been as close as we once were.”
“And you’re surprised?”
She looked over her shoulder, the opal-hued eyes glowing in the light. “I trained you better.”
“We are where we are. Every time I believe I can rely on you, you teach me another lesson in futility. Knowing you is … instructional.”
“Get over it, boy!” Femensetri leaned on her crook, thrusting her chin at Indris. “People use people, the same way we use words, tools, or weapons. You were trained to lead, to rise above, to persevere and be victorious! And I made damned sure you did it better than anybody who had come before.”
“And what if I wanted more?” Indris’s voice was soft. “What if I wanted to be something … other than what you and others had planned for me?”
“Better?” she jibed.
“Different.”
“You don’t understand!” Femensetri shook her head. “You’re not like the others. Nothing like the others, then or now. Indris, we were promised somebody we could follow—” She cut herself short. Indris may have imagined it but it looked like her hands were trembling.
“Who promised?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Isn’t it always the way? We need your help if we’re going to save the rahns.”
“Right.” Indris let the word linger. “And that worked out so well the last time you asked for my help. I’d think you’ve all the help you needed right.”
“Not by half. You’re the only Sēq alive who’s been fully Awakened.”
“I wasn’t fully Awakened.”
“Close enough,” Femensetri countered. “Your insights may save Shrīan’s leaders.”
“Every Sēq has been Awakened,” Indris said. “It’s how we become scholars.”
“Yes, we’re all Awakened to some degree but it’s not the same as that with a rahn. We’ve not undergone the Communion Ritual, or Unity—”
“Nor did I.”
“But you’ve had the soul of an Awakened rahn virtually merge with you.” Femensetri’s face betrayed her wonder and irritation. “You know things we don’t. None of us have your experience!”
“No. You don’t.” Indris turned his attention to the Skylark. “Was there anything else?”
Femensetri’s knuckles were white where she throttled her crook. “We’re treating the rahns with doses of the Water of Life but it’s only a placebo.”
“You’ve seen this before.”
“Just come with me, Indris. Otherwise, important people who can make a difference to the future of Shrīan will die much sooner than is convenient. Including your cousin.”
Including my cousin. “Not the most compelling reason given our recent history, but I’ll come and see what might be done.”
The upper valley of Amarqa was a faceted, almost haphazard sculpture of crystal towers fused with carved rock faces. Ilhen lamps glowed behind stained-glass windows. Streams shone with crescents of moonlight, while snow-laden trees and shrubs bent their heads. Across the valley, a jagged crystal finger pointed into to the glittering sky, an obdurate shadow made darker for the stars about it. The Eibon Hoje, the Black Archives of the Sēq Masters. It was the place where the great secrets were kept: thoughts that had raised nations, words that had toppled thrones. Artifacts considered too dangerous for the world, the scribblings of insane oracles and doomsday prophets, and the inconvenient truths of history, all locked away from prying eyes. If the knowledge Indris sought on the lost mental disciplines was anywhere outside of the Pillars of Sand, it would be in the Black Archives.
The two scholars wound up a narrow stair, a jagged thing burned into the rocks, which passed both through and up the cliff face. Indris was glad for the brief respite in those moments when they were out of the pummeling wind. They passed through an ornate iron gate, the fretwork glimmering with ice crystals. A narrow bridge led to a set of backlit doors, where a squad of Iku stood guard. They hopped out of the way as Femensetri walked past them, one remaining to open the door for her.
The tower had no more than a half dozen rooms, guarded by Tau-se. Paneled glass lamps washed the Pashrean rugs with dusty light. Indris followed his former teacher into an oppressively warm suite, the heat slapping him in the face. Short pedestals filled with firestones were placed around the walls. The room had a peaked ceiling, painted with intricate arabesque designs in blue and gold, fiery phoenixes circling each other. Iron couches with overstuffed pillows and blankets surrounded a small table, littered with books, ink pots, brushes, and journals. A well-worn copy of The Manifold Duty, the second volume of the Zienni Doctrines, lay facedown beside a half-empty glass and an empty carafe. A four-stringed Ygranian cielé lay in an open case, parchments covered in sheet music stacked nearby.
Femensetri gave Pah-Näsarat fa Tajaddin a curt nod as they passed each other, she entering the bedchamber as he was leaving it. “Excuse me, but my sister is … Indris?” Taj stared at Indris. Indris had the best of his elder siblings’ features: handsome as Nehrun, but with the planes and angles of Rosha’s lithe strength. Above the plain coat and trousers in the blue and gold of his Great House, his over-robe was the voluminous plain gray of the Zienni ascetics, frayed at the collar and cuffs, and travel-stained around the hem. The hilt of a long-knife, shaped like a golden and sapphire phoenix head, poked from the folds. Taj’s pale brown eyes widened as he stared at his cousin. “You’re—”
“Not dead, no.” Indris smiled at Taj. He was surprised to find it felt genuine. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, far from it!” Taj c
ame forward and threw his arms around Indris, who clumsily returned the gesture. “I’m glad you’re here! Between Rosha’s illness and the friction at court, a friendly face is more than welcome. But we were told you were dead! Your friends looked for you for—”
“You know where Mari is?” The words tumbled out. “Shar? Ekko?”
“I know where they were. The Seethe woman—Shar—and Ekko came to Narsis a few weeks into the new year, demanding an appointment with Rosha. Poet Master Bensaharēn and I met with them, since Rosha refused. Your friends are persistent, Indris: They’d walked out of the Dead Flat, across half of Shrīan, and through Näsarat knows how many raiding parties to find you. When we told them … told them you were…”
“Dead?” Indris said flatly. He looked to the doorway where Femensetri now stood, her expression blithe. “You only knew what you were told, Taj. But where did they go?”
“They stayed in Narsis for a couple of weeks. I think they were looking for some of your old comrades from the Immortal Companions, so they could go looking for—”
“Mari.” Indris finished for him. He took a deep breath, hands shaking.
“And that’s a name you’d best forget, boy.” Femensetri gestured to the bedroom with a jerk of her chin. “Remember why I brought you here.”
“I’m not likely to forget the circumstances that brought me here,” Indris muttered. But he joined her regardless, pausing at the door. “Taj? Do you know whether they found anybody to help them?”
“Bensaharēn offered a few of his senior-year warrior-poets, but Rosha put an end to that. I heard that they managed to find a nahdi called Morne Hawkwood? Apparently he had a crew down from the Conflicted Cities, via Masripûr. No idea where they are now. Last word was they’d killed a couple of squads of Anlūki in Avānweh, before they traveled east.”
Indris nodded, but could hardly keep the smile from his face. Morne! He laughed, a short, cold bark. Femensetri scowled at him. “What’s so funny, boy?”
“Depends on who you are as to whether you’d find facing Morne Hawkwood funny or not.”
“Fascinating. Now get in here.”
Rosha was sitting in a plush chair, bundled in layers of clothing with a sheepskin rug over her lap. The rahn was reading, her face pale and drawn. She glanced up at Indris as he crossed the distance between them, her jaw dropping at the sight of him, the book slipping from her slack fingers.
Hayden and Omen might still be here, were it not for you. Mari … Indris’s face felt hard, and there was more than just a flicker of warmth behind his left eye as he damped down his jhi-reflex. What he saw was a sick rahn, the symptom of a failing nation. Or, more accurately, it was the other way around. What was it the Herald had said, when Rosha and the others arrived? Awakened rahns are irrelevant. Only the Mahj, and the mahjirahns, are relevant.
“Well?” Femensetri said as the cousins stared at each other.
“Well what?” Indris said.
“Don’t test me on this, boy! We need the Federationist rahns to oppose Corajidin!”
“Do you really?” Indris mused. “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be the first time the Sēq have stepped up to manipulate a nation, or courses of events. You could take the war to the witches right now.”
“And possibly lose!” Femensetri slammed her crook on the ground. Thunder crashed. The ilhen lamps flickered, as great storm clouds of shadow brewed around her, and lightning arced in her hair. “Now see to your cousin, like you were told.”
Indris came to Rosha’s side. She had not spoken a word since he had arrived, the fear in her apparent. He murmured, “I should put you down for what you’ve done—”
“Indris!” Femensetri snapped. “Open your mind to me, so we can—”
“That’s never going to happen.” Indris shook his head.
“Do it!”
His smile at Rosha was a thin thing. “Looks like you might be out of luck, cousin. From what I hear the best the Sēq can do for you is to make you comfortable while your body rots away in agony, and your mind starts to tear itself apart. Until then maybe they’ll find an answer.” He looked over his shoulder at Femensetri. “Or maybe they won’t.”
Indris walked toward the door, but Femensetri blocked his way with her crook. “And where do you think you’re off to?”
“I’m tired, and I’ve a lot of work to do.”
“Fix her. And the others.”
“I don’t know if I can, and I certainly won’t be doing anything with you in my head. The choice is yours, but it’s my way, or no way. And there’s a price to pay before I lift a finger to help her or the other rahns.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“As the civil war that’s brewing.”
“Then what?” she sneered. “What’s the price of patriotism this time?”
“Faruq yaha,” Indris swore as he stepped around Femensetri and walked out the door.
“Don’t turn your back on me, boy!” his old teacher thundered as she stamped after him. He felt the hairs on his head and arms rise from his skin in the static of her jhi-reflex. His eye began to burn, washing his vision in flame. Taj gave a strangled curse and bolted for Rosha’s room, closing the door behind him.
The two scholars faced each other: Femensetri’s form wreathed in turbulent shadows and flickering lightning; everything around Indris drying, browning, curling, and smoldering. Flames licked around his fingers.
“What’s happened to you?” Femensetri asked. Indris felt tendrils of her thought trying to grasp his mind, but they burned away before they could gain purchase. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“You happened to me!” he said. “The Sēq happened to me. The Spines happened to me. Sorochel happened to me. Anj … Mari … But it’s your lies and broken promises that happened to me most recently. Price of patriotism? Honesty would be a nice bloody start! You holding up your end of an agreement would also help.”
“You’d let your own cousin die? The Indris I trained would never turn his back on family. Love was part of your problem in the first place.”
“Perhaps some lessons have sunk in, neh? There’re only so many times you can abuse trust before it runs out. And you’ve run out, old teacher.”
“I could wring what I want out of you!”
“What?” Indris snorted. “How much success has that bought you so far? None! And it’ll continue to bring you none, because you, like I, have no Ancestor’s damned idea what happened to me, how to fix it, or even if it can be fixed!”
The two stared at each other, sparks flying, flames starting to spread, the air becoming stagnant. She could kill me. Indris felt the bubble of his newfound abilities swell in his head. Unbidden, plates and saucers began to rattle by themselves. Femensetri cast a surprised glance around the room. Within seconds, the furniture began to shake, and the ilhen lamps sang like fingertips around the lip of a wineglass. She stared at Indris, measuring, before she took a step back and shuttered her jhi-reflex. Indris maintained his for a second longer, trying to shut down the different parts of his mind that wanted to release pent-up frustration, anger … and sorrow.
Indris wrestled his mind and spirit back under control, until he was left trembling. He and Femensetri stared at each other across the short distance between them, the emptiness filled with words that, if said, could never be unsaid. It was Indris who stepped back, and Femensetri who broke the silence.
“What’s the price for your help?”
“Before I do anything to help you, or the Suret, I want access to the Black Archives.”
“How many different kinds of fool do you think I am?”
“Very few, truth be told. But that’s my price.”
“And who’s to say you won’t just piss off once you have what you’re after?”
“I suppose that this time around, you’ll need to trust me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“What would you change if I told you the inevitable was not?”
—from Counting the S
ands of Time, by Kobaqaru, Zienni Magnate to the Serpent Princes of Kaylish (490th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
Day 56 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Waves pounded, the foam slinking away from the jagged rocks that bucktoothed through the churn. Across the circling arms of the black stone breakwater that fenced off the bay, ships rocked on the rolling tide. The sky, a torn mantle of cloud in shades of backlit iron, lead, and pewter, smelled of rain, and worse weather besides.
Mari finished her drink in a single gulp, then slammed the bowl onto the balcony rail, where it dislodged a layer of rime. The warmth of the alcohol settled pleasantly in her belly.
“Dhoury, we can help each other.” Mari leaned forward and rested her hand on her cousin’s shoulder. She cursed quietly when he flinched. “If you can get me my weapons, I can get us away from here. You said it yourself—our grandmother hates you.”
“She hates you more.” He looked up at her miserably, his unhealthy pallor marbled by bruises. He rubbed his soft hands together, fingers working like thick sausages. “Mari, you’re a constant challenge to her authority. Nobody talks back to the Dowager-Asrahn, or Eladdin. You risk us all with your defiance.”
“I’ll take you with me, Dhoury. I promise. But unarmed I’ll be brought down and end up in the surgery, or worse. I’m no expert on the South, but I figure once winter sets in, there’re few ships of any kind willing to ply sea or air to get off this dump. Once the season turns, we’re stuck here.” She grabbed Dhoury’s chins and lifted his head, but he would not look at her. Mari slapped him in the face to get his attention. It was not a hard blow, but it startled him. Good! There was even a hint of anger there! Something I can fan into flame! “You wanted to survive? Then help me to help you.”
The doors to the balcony opened and two of the Dowager-Asrahn’s Savadai, the elite guard of Tamerlan, with their shark-leather armor and short tridents, gestured for Mari and Dhoury to come inside. As Dhoury scampered back indoors, partly under threat of the guards and no doubt partly for the warmth of the hearths inside, Mari clamped a hand on his shoulder. She leaned in and said so that only he could hear, “Time isn’t our friend. I can show you a better life than this.”
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