The Herald plucked two buttons from Indris’s over-robe, then dropped them in the jug of water. He held up the glass jug and swirled it around, faint rainbows glimmering, the buttons circling on invisible currents. The water continued to eddy for a few moments before becoming still. The buttons fell to the bottom in gentle curves, tapping the jug on their way down, landing in different places. “We can see a stream, or we can see that from a remove, all things happen at the same time. From that remove we see the direction of all things at all times. The water moves when agitated, but does not escape the container. Though the buttons entered the container together, and followed their own paths to their destination, we saw it all from our vantage.”
“That’s observation without the need to extrapolate anything.”
“What then if I placed my fingers in the water and diverted one, or both, of the buttons? Or removed one and replaced it with something different?”
Indris nodded. “Then you would need to understand the variables in a constantly changing and often erratic universe, delivering infinite variation.” But who sees time this way?
“It does not matter who, Indris,” the Herald said. Indris’s eyebrows shot up at having the thoughts plucked from his head. “It only matters that there are those that can, and do. There are those that observe and extrapolate, and they know when to take action to ensure the bouncing stone does not become an avalanche before it is ready to do so.”
“My journey to the Spines caused you to reveal yourself, didn’t it?” Indris moved to stand in front of the vault with his name on it. “Ojin-mar said you arrived unannounced to work with the Suret, guiding them. Would I be correct in saying you arrived eight years ago—about the same time I arrived on the Spines?”
“Yes. And just as we Heralds arrived to guide those we were chosen to work with, so, too, were others delivered to the hands of those who would oppose us. I am only one of a number of Heralds, just as the Emissary that advises Corajidin is only one of her kind, also.”
“What is an Emissary, and why does one advise Corajidin?”
“For the same reason I, and those like me, support those who will one day need to gather for the greatest conflict of the age: because you were made, were sent, to the Spines too early, and learned what you did ahead of time.”
Indris felt his face flush, and his head felt light. What have I done? Maybe it’s better off I don’t know! He looked past his nameplate on the vault at the pattern of the Maladhoring glyphs that dripped like rivulets through the tinted serill, changed from moment to moment, became gibberish.
See beneath the surface, Indris commanded himself.
He looked deeper, his eyes slightly unfocused so he could see the words behind the words, then words behind those words.
The tiered mess of Maladhoring glyphs became ordered questions. They ranged in complexity and topic from the theories of arcane formulae, to history, to advanced calculations for disentropy and entropy. The deeper he looked, the more questions were revealed, each more complex than the ones before. It was a Reason Lock.
Over the next several hours, Indris answered the questions as best he could. When he announced an answer in Maladhoring, the question shimmered, then solidified in the glass. Some became the spokes of a wheel. Others curved like parts of a tumbler. Each answered question etched the lock mechanism in the serill door. The Herald remained quiet and attentive. Indris did not ask him the answers to any questions: As the Herald had said, what value is there in knowledge given, when wisdom comes from the learning?
On several occasions, Indris had to leave the vault to find his answers in ancient volumes of lore. It became apparent that some of the questions were Master-level knowledge, if not higher. There were some topics with which Indris was completely unfamiliar. Each volume he opened, and each passage he read, helped further his understanding of the Esoteric Doctrines.
Eyes burning with fatigue, Indris grimaced at the vault door. It was not long until dawn, and there were few questions left: one on the nature of matter, transformation, and shape-shifting, another few on arcane engineering principles in different mediums, two on the histories of the Time Masters and the rise and subsequent disappearance of their Haiyt Empire, one on methods of translocation he had never heard of before … and one on Awakening he did not even begin to understand.
“Am I ready for this?” Indris asked the air, forgetting in his musings that the Herald was there.
“If you can open the door, there is no doubt you are ready.”
“And if not?”
The Herald shrugged, cloak rustling against this frame. “You will not open the door.”
“Helpful.”
“You are quite welcome.”
Indris shook his head as he trudged to the only place where there was anything of note on Awakening. It was a secluded part of the archive set aside for the works of scholars considered too dangerous to be part of orthodox canon. Most forbidden of these were the volumes of Yattoweh the Apostate.
Among his works—from the time he had been Sedefke’s most gifted student as well as the Arch-Scholar and Grand Master Magnate of the Sēq Order—were those that formed the foundations of learning for the earliest scholars of Isenandar. The Pillars of Sand was where Yattoweh had taught many hundreds of students before his Fall, then dragged some of the best and brightest with him in his descent into the Drear. Though he had traveled the darker paths of learning, his early work was considered brilliant, and it rivaled that of Sedefke himself. Yattoweh was the only other person reputed to have properly understood how Awakening worked. Indris had seen similar things in Jiom, Atrea, and Manté, where scholars, artificers, and witches had tried to understand and bring life back to the ancient relics of the Starborn. Some still worked, thousands of years after the Humans had descended on Īa, but once they failed there were none who could fix them.
The energy of Indris’s Awakening, coiled through and about the energy centers of his body, shifted in something he suspected was anticipation.
On a small witchfire pedestal, its white leather covers turned ivory with age, were the eight volumes of Yattoweh’s greatest literary work: The Foundations. Penned in the Pillars of Sand, The Foundations was part Yattoweh’s journal, part text and part challenge, confounding most of those who read it. Indris, however, was only interested in one part of the book only.
Flicking through the ancient writings, Indris found what he was after at the middle of volume one. He centered his mind, tracked the lines of precise calligraphy that were faded on the page, and opened his consciousness like a flower to absorb the work of one of the greatest minds in history.
The reading was difficult, as much allegory and metaphor as information. Indris was forced to read, then reread, whole sections where they cross-referenced each other. The Foundations was a literal title, for without comprehension of the early chapters, those that came after were useless. As the hours passed, Indris began to understand the fundamental changes Awakening made to a person, the way it rerouted the flow of energy not only in the body, but in the interchanges between physical, mental, and spiritual states. He tapped his finger on a brightly colored picture of a person with arms and legs outstretched, where a serpent was depicted as coiling about the spine. It passed through the five physical energy vortices, then upward to the vortex of the mind, and out through the vortex of the soul, where it connected with the vast consciousness outside the body.
There was one passage Indris read twice, then a third time, to ensure he understood it correctly:
Awakening is an unnatural state for us at our current level of awareness of whom, and what, we are. Put simply, neither our bodies, nor minds, nor souls, are capable of sustaining the kind of energy that they channel once Awakened.
To be Awakened is the beginning of a long road into eventual self-destruction, and madness. Regular doses of the Water of Life can mitigate these effects, as can the sparing use of the abilities Awakening bestows. Even so, the entropic effects of Awak
ening are considerable over time. We need to find better ways to attune with such vast powers. But until we interbreed with races such as the Inoqua, the Rōm, or others of the Elemental Masters—or create a generation of superior beings as part of a great Feigning—any Avān not properly schooled in the Esoteric Doctrines is doomed to suffer effects such as ahm-stroke, or mindstorms, and advanced entropic decay…
He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, followed by a rising anger that made him almost throw the precious book against the wall.
Faruqen Suret! All along they knew that Awakening was a death sentence, and yet still they did it! What else haven’t they told us?
Indris slumped, dazed. Angry and betrayed, Yattoweh’s revelations in his lap. While what he had read of the book had not given the answers to the question to open the vault, it had enlightened him in a different sense. Indris’s muscles protesting, he stretched, and groaned as his joints popped. He carefully placed the book back on the stand.
At the top of the well of knowledge, the Genealogy Tree shimmered, flickers of light among smears of darkness. Like fact, among truth, among lies.
Indris spent the morning at the Manufactory. But that morning the heat and fatigue bested him, as did his hurt at the findings in Yattoweh’s ancient texts. Weary, he curled asleep on the warm tiles in front of the forges.
It was almost high sun, the first Hour of the Spider, when Indris made his way to the Black Quill. Mug of tea cradled on his belly, he sat slouched in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire. The din in the tavern was refreshing, far better than the stilted silence of the study chambers and libraries. Behind him a handful of Sēq novices were performing an impromptu concert.
The noise and bustle of the Black Quill filled the silence he had come to despise: the silence that reminded him of his missing friends. Worse, he heard Mari’s voice or imagined she was sitting with him, or lying in bed, breathing gently. But it was always the wind, laden with secrets for those who knew how to listen, none of which could help him overcome the emptiness he felt.
The Black Quill exorcised his loneliness, packed to the rafters as the inn was with townsfolk, students, and scholars rubbing elbows. Avān, Humans, and Seethe, with a smattering of Iku and a few of the red-haired Katsé, the fox-people who ranged the nearby wooded valleys. Crowded as the Quill was, Indris was more aware of the distance around him: empty tables nearby, chairs moved to overcrowd cluttered tables farther away.
Indris went to take a sip from his tea and scowled when he saw he had already finished it. He raised himself in his seat to gesture toward one of the servers as Ojin-mar slipped nimbly through the crowd, a laden tray in his hands.
“Here you go.” The Sēq Executioner placed a tray of meats, fried flatbread, and dips on the table. There was a cast-iron pot of tea and a small bottle of honey. Indris moved his journal, brush, and inkpot to make way for the bounty, and smiled his thanks as Ojin-mar perched himself on the only other chair that remained near Indris’s table. With nimble fingers Ojin-mar wrapped himself a small parcel of food and popped it into his mouth.
“What news?” Indris asked around a mouthful.
“Corajidin has requested all the rahns and sayfs to attend the Winter Court in Avānweh,” Ojin-mar said as he chewed. He poured tea for them both. “He’s speaking of reconciliation between the factions, as well as a more unified approach to how he’ll govern Shrīan. He’s even invited all the foreign ambassadors, though they had fled the country before the throne had warmed under Corajidin’s rump.”
“He’s up to something. I’ve grave doubts it’ll work out well for anybody.”
Ojin-mar’s smile was wry. “Really? We’d not noticed. Half of his army is camped just outside Fandra. Siamak’s eldest boy, Harish, and their Poet Master, Indera, arrived in Amarqa this morning by wind-galley to plan the defense. All the heirs of the rahns arrived overnight—those that weren’t here already. As well as their advisers.”
“Corajidin wants what’s in the Rōmarq,” Indris muttered. Watch the Sēq once more become the facilitators of the nation’s future. When they left Shrīan’s leaders, the panicked leaders came to them. “We stopped him once, and even as Asrahn he needs permission from Siamak to enter Bey Prefecture, but he’ll forge on regardless. There’ll be violence, of that you can be sure.”
Indris sipped his tea, feeling eyes on him from around the common room. When he glanced up, people hurriedly looked away. Ojin-mar noticed and gave a rueful laugh.
“What?” Indris asked sourly.
“You scare the wits out of people, Indris. The legendary Dragon-Eyed Indris, returned to the Order!” Ojin-mar’s eyes were wide with mocking wonderment. “The only man to have traveled to the Hazhi-shok and returned—”
“I’m not the only one to have come back from the Spines. Cennoväl the Dragonlord has done it. Anj has done it. But the Hazhi-shok? The Dragon’s Teeth? Really, is that what people are calling them now? Bit dramatic, neh?”
“Ha! Dragons aren’t dramatic? Nobody here has seen one, other than you.”
“Not that I remember.”
“And let’s not forget you also survived the slave pits of Sorochel. There’s also what you did at Amnon, the stories of how you were Awakened, then refused it. And let’s not forget Changeling.” Ojin-mar went on as if Indris had not spoken, or as if he had not noticed Indris’s angry expression at talk of his confiscated mind blade. The mention of Sorochel made Indris’s stomach lurch in remembered fear. He sipped his tea to calm himself while Ojin-mar continued. “And to think we’d live to see the day when such a giant walked among us!”
Indris snorted. “I know all about me—”
“Do you?”
“Well, no, I suppose not. I know a lot about me, how’s that? And I’d rather talk about what we’re going to do next with the rahns. I’ll be leaving Amarqa-in-the-Snows in the next few days. I’ve been here too long as it is, and there are things that need my attention.”
Ojin-mar rested his elbows on the table. “Indris, we can’t just let you go. There are too many things we don’t know—”
“And let’s face it: You’ll continue not to know them!” Indris could not keep the exasperation from his voice. “You’ve no idea what was done to me or how to undo it. But I can do some real good out there, if you’ll let me.”
“Can you heal the rahns?”
“No,” Indris replied honestly. Ojin-mar scowled. “Don’t reproach me for something you can’t do yourselves. But I do know—as well as you do—why the rahns are dying.”
The executioner narrowed his eyes, all veneer of affability gone. The man who sat there, ahm scarred and fingers missing, was hard and intractable as any member of the Suret could be. Ojin-mar said, “I’d choose my next words very carefully were I you, General Indris. Almost as if my life depended on it.”
“Threats? Really? How dull. Is it because you don’t want the truth known”—Indris lowered his voice—“or because you were actually unaware that the moment the Sēq stopped giving the rahns regular doses of the Water of Life, their Awakening would begin to unravel, poisoning body, mind, and soul? How did the Sēq do it, over all those centuries?”
Ojin-mar did not so much as bat an eye. “Our agents in each Great House dosed the rahns with the Water in their food and wine. How did you—?”
“That’s not the point.” Indris then looked Ojin-mar in the eye. “The Sēq did the same thing to Corajidin, didn’t they? He became inconvenient, so the Suret elected to murder him by inaction. But the other rahns were hurt purely out of spite. Is it any wonder I don’t want to come back to the Order if this is what the shepherds of the people do to their flock?”
“Be realistic, Indris!” Ojin-mar slumped in his chair. “Shepherds. We’ve not had a flock since the Scholar Wars. People forget what the Order has done for them—”
“Because you hide under mountains, or in valleys, and don’t involve yourselves other than to bluster and threaten!” Indris’s shoulders bowed with
disappointment. “The Sēq were a marvel … once. They were the light that shone in the darkness, banishing ignorance, bringing hope, and illuminating the way to the future. But now? You’d kill our leaders because you had your feelings hurt.”
“Watch your mouth, General,” Ojin-mar warned.
“A bitter truth stings a little, doesn’t it? But I don’t care why you did what you did, and I know it wasn’t one person’s decision. Treating the rahns with the Water of Life won’t be enough. But you already know that. The damage from withdrawal can’t be undone. We need something more potent, an extract of fluid from the ahmtesh itself, but even that won’t work forever. They’ll need more and more over time until they can’t drink enough to sustain their own lives. The only options are to Sever them, or to find a way to re-Awaken them again and to reestablish their connection with Īa.”
“Would the Communion Ritual help?”
“It’s no better than drinking the Waters. It’s Severance, re-Awakening … or death.”
“Can you re-Awaken them?”
Indris felt a weight settle across his shoulders.
“I can’t, but I can try to learn how.”
Anj was waiting for Indris in his chambers. She had divested herself of her over-robe and cassock, and wore only her vest, breeches, and high boots. She had untied her quills so they formed a wild storm-colored mass around her head. Her skin flickered with the radiance of her desire, and light smoldered in her sapphire eyes. A bowl of wine was cradled in her hand: black lotus from the smell of it, pungent and faintly narcotic.
“Come in and make yourself comfortable,” Indris said, gesturing to the door. “Oh, wait, you already did.”
“I’m your wife.” Anj reclined on the couch, legs sprawled, invitation clear. “We should be living together, not in separate chambers across the vale from each other.”
The Pillars of Sand Page 14
