Chapter 12
When humans build homes in mountain settings, they seek the lower places—meadows, glens, and dales. It’s as though, instinctively, they know that they do not belong there. Everything within them yearns to settle as far from the lofty heights as they can possibly manage. Even that very word, “settle,” suggests sinking, as though their full intent is to one day precipitate off of the mountain and drip down its sides, into the valleys below. To settle down.
The same was not true of the Djin. Were it not for their reverence for the Bloodcap, there would be Djin holdings even upon the very peak itself. Djin homes were not just on the Anvil—they were of the Anvil—every room, every chamber carved with a purpose from the mighty stone, and every shard removed was given its own purpose. There is no negative space in Djin architecture. Wherever one finds a gap or pocket of air that once held a volume of stone, the mass of that space has simply been transformed to some honorable other usage. The negative space of Abeni’s sleeping chamber was the positive space of Zimu’s table and chairs, and it formed many tools and furnishings as well.
Rather than select a convenient gap or chimney of rock in which to build, as most Djin did, when Kijamon had first set out to establish his now great House, he had not been satisfied to let the chance processes of wind, water, heat and cold choose his location for him. “Who is to say that this crack of rock or that overhang will be placed in the strongest light, or receive the greatest blessings of the wind?” he had often said. “And why must a Djin be content to live within stone that has been proven unsound by the very existence of those cracks? House Kijamon will grow where Kijamon chooses—not where the lime and the dew and the sun have chosen for him. House Kijamon will be strong, because it will be shaped from the very strongest stone of the Anvil, with the best light, the best wind and the best ore possible—because it will be in a place chosen by Kijamon for just such reasons.”
And Kijamon had made good those words. After earning his third golden bond ring as a young Djin, Kijamon had gone to his father and asked leave to establish his own House, as is the custom among the Djin. “I will be gone for one month,” he told his father. “And when I return, I will bear with me the seed of my new House, or I shall content myself to stay here within your House for the rest of my days, if you will still have me.”
His father consented, and gave Kijamon leave to seek out his new House across any and all portions of the Anvil not already inhabited or anointed in the Dragon’s name. And true to his word, on the 27th day after setting forth, Kijamon returned bearing a single perfect cube of granite, icy blue in complexion and one hand’s breadth wide in each direction. This he bore into his ancestral home and placed upon the mantle of the great fire hearth. “I plant this seed of my House in the bosom of your own,” he said to his father, formally. And then he strode out, never to return.
For five long years, Kijamon labored alone in his solitary domain, slowly working his way down into the shoulder of Methilien’s Anvil, but even here he was not satisfied with the practices of other Djin. Of the few before him who had chosen this more difficult path—of revealing Houses that lay hidden within solid stone—each had simply removed large blocks and set them aside, first creating the large voids and then partially refilling them with walls and shelters and stairways fashioned from those waiting blocks.
Not so Kijamon. Instead, each day, the young Djin built for himself some three or five objects that would be needed in his new House. A fork to eat with, a chair to sit upon, a chest to hold his garments. For each such object, Kijamon removed only enough stone from the Anvil to reveal the item he desired—nothing more—preserving the power and strength of his mountain home as he progressed. The walls that he left in his wake were like none ever seen before—rectangles and blocks, facets and ridges. No span of greater length than a long Djin stride had been left smooth, and the walls of his House sparkled in the light that reflected on the millions of facets left upon the stone. And in this manner, over those five intensive years, the young Djin slowly revealed his first great wonder—the Wind Forge.
Kijamon had chosen his location well. With the searing blues of its stone, shot through with veins of icy white, the great studio that would become the seat of House Kijamon gleamed in the sun-drenched days and radiated warmth and serenity back into the cool nights. Wedge-shaped, and hanging within a wider V-shaped notch that he carved around it, the Wind Forge was as its name declared—an altar to the wind, set into the uppermost ridge of the Anvil’s shoulder, just below the crimson stain of the Bloodcap itself. A perfect shrine to metalcraftery, for no fewer than four veins of precious metals laced its various walls and ensconcements, setting their colors afire in the brilliant mountain sunlight.
Winds that climbed the Anvil in their daily chases flowed into the empty notch below and raced upward, only to be channeled at the base of the dangling structure into the ducts and raceways that forced them into the heart of Kijamon’s forge, serving instead of the bellows that other metalcrafters were forced to rely upon.
But the Wind Forge was only the start, and below it, a thriving community took root, spreading downward into the mountain stone. As each year passed, new voids were cut, extending the original notch to make space for more windows and doorways to be carved into the descending faces of the V, and back from which hallways and chambers were dug from the stone. All of it was capped by the crowning jewel of the Wind Forge itself, suspended from the two great buttresses that Kijamon had left in place to support it.
Nor was Kijamon’s vision limited to architecture alone. As others came to see this marvel that he was wresting from the living rock, some felt a resonance with him and his teachings, and begged leave to join him. At first, these had been other artisans of stone and metal, but in time, interest widened, and before long, the city that was growing in the cleft around the Wind Forge became known for other kinds of craftery as well, and ultimately, for the crafting of artisans themselves. For is it not said that any can go to Wind Forge, but only artists come out?
So now, on this beautiful winter’s day, with the wind rising fresh and cold through the channels of its studios, and sunlight dancing from the jeweled faces of its stonework, Kijamon’s jeweled city was in its fullest splendor. Musicians wandered the soaring walkways and lingered in the salons, playing their instruments or singing for the joy of simply being. Painters drank boh-cho on glittering balconies and dreamed new visions to reveal. Sculptors and jewelers worked their metals and stones, both precious and lesser, fashioning beauty for the pleasure of others. All was harmony, tranquility and delight. Kijamon’s jeweled city hummed with the chorus of crafting.
Until the wonder-struck cry of a small child directed the gazes of the artists, musicians, the dancers and their patrons, up to where a missile of silver and granite was streaking toward them, inbound, from out of the dazzling clear blue sky.
* * *
“And still he sits, fawning like a kitten. Just look at him,” Shaleen said, glaring from their viewing balcony, down into the Hall of Flame. Zimu came to join his mother at the rail. Below them, Mabundi, King of the Djin, was leaning forward on the Anvil Seat, chatting happily with the Gnome Ambassador, while courtiers and attendants flitted about the room, fussing over tiny adjustments to things that needed no adjusting.
“He is King. It is his duty to hold court,” Zimu said, still not seeing what had sparked his mother’s ire.
“Two weeks he has been here, my son. Two weeks. Having only just returned, you cannot know what we hear from the other Houses. How restless they grow. When will he grace their Halls with the honor of his court? When will he hear the grievances and joys of their folk? None who think themselves great will travel to seek the King’s ear—not when each believes that Mabundi will come to them next when he leaves here. So they wait. But still he does not leave, and while he lingers, their grievances only multiply and fester.”
Zimu nodded his understanding. She was right. This was not good. A Djin Ki
ng was expected to be everywhere, constantly moving his court from one holding to another, giving each House access to his ear and counsel. It was not uncommon for court to linger at the larger holdings—Sunhome, The Warrens, and yes, even here at the Wind Forge. With so many Djin congregated in places such as these, it was sensible that the Court would linger to provide time for all to avail themselves of the King’s justice. But today the Hall was empty, as it had been for the three days before, save for the Gnomileshi Ambassador. Any who wished to seek Mabundi’s counsel had long since done so. Zimu could not recall the old King, Jallafa, ever having stayed with Kijamon for longer than four days. So for Mabundi to have been entrenched here for fourteen… It was no wonder the other Houses were muttering.
“Has Kijamon—?”
“Oh, your father takes no notice of such things. You know that. He says that the bond ring circling Mabundi’s brow still dazzles and has not yet born down with its full weight. If Mabundi wishes to drape himself with the glitter of our walls for a time, it is to be expected. Being new to the Anvil Seat, he must be allowed to enjoy such trappings, which he will tire of soon enough, and then he will surely take up the full burdens of his duty, as he has sworn to do.” Shaleen sighed. “Sometimes, your father can be such a fool.”
Zimu grinned. His mother and father loved each other fiercely, he knew, but it always tickled him just a little to see the sparks of that devotion, still hot and fiery after so many decades of marriage.
“And the Hall of Flame?” Zimu asked. It was customary for foreign delegations to be received in the more formal Hall of Wind. This should have been especially true for the Gnomileshi delegation, given the rumors of their recent aggressions.
Shaleen rolled her eyes. “Mabundi says he does not care for the… discomforts, of our Wind Hall. And since your father has not seen fit to remake them to royal liking, all court functions are being held in the Hall of Flame.”
“Truly?” Zimu asked. This was even more surprising than the over-long visit. For a King to reject the traditions of the Anvil Seat in favor of his own comforts… Such tidings did not put a shine on these early days of Mabundi’s reign. And they did not portend well for the days to come either.
“Can we not—?” But before Zimu could complete his question, his mother raised a hand, and turned to look at the window behind them.
“Whatever is that commotion?” she said. Through the window, they could hear shouts of wonder and excitement from outside.
Zimu watched his mother as she went to the window slot to look. “Oh my!” she said, and turned back, her own face suddenly wide with that same wonder. “What has that boy…?” But the thought trailed off as she hurried toward the stairway.
“Come, Zimu! Your little brother is about to upend our world. Again.”
Zimu moved to join her, but he could not hide his smile as he did. Abeni was home!
* * *
“Bulletman blows chunks! This is the only way to fly!”
Tayna held tightly to Abeni’s arm as the Wagon descended out of the air. They rocketed down past the red blur of the Bloodcap—the peak of the Anvil—with its bright red stone that some said was infused with the blood of Methilien himself. But if the Dragon was present, he showed no objection to their passing, and they plunged down past the red-gray slopes, toward a tiny chip cut into the shoulder of the mountain. As they got closer, and the chip grew bigger, Tayna had to shake her head to readjust her perspective. The chip wasn’t little at all—it was huge—and there were actually people in it. As they came closer still, she could make out graceful flying arches and delicate ramps of stone criss-crossing the face of the V-shaped city that had been set back into the mountain’s face. Closer still, as the Wagon slowed and dropped into the notch itself, she could see faces raised in wonder. On the rampways and on the balconies and from the jet-black rectangles of windows cut into the stone, curious Djin pointed up into the sky. At them.
All around her, the faceted walls of the city sparkled in blues and whites and glitters of silver, and it was all so bright that Tayna had to shield her eyes with her hand. Abeni pointed up to the massive wedge-shaped building that hung over the entire city like a brooding god, suspended there on two thick buttresses that joined it to the faces of carved stone on either side. “The Wind Forge!” he yelled into her ear, pausing briefly from the song that held them aloft. “Abeni’s home!” Then he lowered his hand to point down to the lowest part of the city, where the tip of its V-shape was blunted into a level plaza. “That is the Garden of Mothers,” he told her. “Abeni will take the Wagon there!” But there was something lacking in Abeni’s tone. She’d expected him to be happy, now that they were finally at the end of their journey, but even his song seemed to become more sombre as they descended toward their landing spot.
Others in the city seemed to have guessed where they were heading, because everyone she could see now seemed to be heading down toward that lower garden. And by the time Abeni had made a pass, giving clear warning of his intended landing place, and slowed the Wagon to a more stately speed, a crowd had begun to form on the plaza, although they stayed well back, leaving plenty of room in their midst for the Wagon’s enormous bulk to set down.
As soon as it had, Tayna hopped down off the runner and swiped quickly at the wild tangle of her hair, which had been blown into a frenzy by the rushing wind. Abeni stepped down beside her, but if he said anything, it was devoured by the murmur of voices from the crowd pressing in around them, full of questions and shouts of surprise and delight. Abeni did his best to answer the few who were close enough to hear, but he said nothing of Tayna’s role in the adventure. He didn’t even mention her, and allowed everyone to believe that she had simply been a passenger—a mere witness to his latest achievement. But Tayna was not offended. This was what they had decided during their short flight. Until they knew more about what was going on, she would be a nobody. Just a random girl tagging along for the ride of a lifetime. The less attention brought to her right now, the better. And Abeni seemed to be holding up his end of that plan just fine.
He pushed his way through the crowd, politely, but persistently, making his way toward the edge of the Garden. Tayna followed along behind him. It seemed that everyone here knew her big friend, calling out to him by name as he passed, or placing an earnest hand on his arm if they were close enough—everyone trying to engage him with their questions before he had the chance to slip by. But he excused himself repeatedly, keeping a grim expression on his face and begging their leave until later. There was much to tell, but not until he had paid his respects to Kijamon.
“Not the King?” somebody asked.
Abeni seemed surprised to learn that the King was still in residence, but he nodded. “Of course. Abeni will pay respects to Mabundi as well,” he said, and then he pressed forward once more.
The crowd thinned as they neared the edge of the plaza, fed only by a slender stream of latecomers trickling over from the Trail of Sky—the delicate lacework of stone walkways and arches that soared upward, connecting all the levels of the grand mountain city. But these latecomers did not know that it had been Abeni who had flown in, so they pushed past with little more than a wave of casual greeting before hurrying on to learn what the excitement was all about.
Abeni had just led her onto the lowest ramp when a familiar face emerged from the traffic coming toward them. “Zimu!” Tayna shouted, and she raced forward, throwing herself into a happy hug that only reached part way around the waist of Abeni’s older brother. “How did you get here so quickly? Where’s Sarqi? How did you get away from the sprites?”
“It is good to see the Little Fish once more,” Zimu said, smiling at her firehose of questions, even if he didn’t actually answer any. Then he turned to grip forearms with his brother, reaching past Tayna to do so. But Abeni took his brother’s offered arms only briefly. His eyes locked momentarily on a brown band of cloth tied around Zimu’s upper arm, and then he lowered his eyes again. His usual infectio
us smile was nowhere to be seen, and the grimness that had been growing in him for the last ten minutes was now almost palpable.
“Abeni! What is the matter with you?” An older Djin woman stepped out of Zimu’s considerable shadow and scolded Abeni with her eyes. “You dishonor your father’s House with such a greeting for your brother.” She could only be Abeni’s mother.
“The dishonor has already been done,” Abeni said.
Zimu placed a hand on the woman’s arm and she turned her face toward him. “Abeni has a duty of honor to complete,” he said, pointing to the band of iron that still encircled his younger brother’s arm. “He fears Kijamon will judge him harshly for his handling of it.”
“But he saved the Wagon!” Tayna said. “Wasn’t that what you were all bonded to—”
“No,” her big friend said, cutting her off with a chop of his hand. “Abeni did no saving. It was the Little Fish who did this. Abeni must now inform Kijamon of his dishonor.” And then he pushed his way past both his mother and his brother and trudged up the Trail of Sky, with his head hung low and gloom crowding around his shoulders. Tayna moved to run after him, but Zimu put a hand on her shoulder.
“He must attend to his honor alone.”
Tayna turned to look at him. “Alone?” Zimu nodded, and at his elbow, the older woman echoed his movement. There was concern on her face for a moment, as she watched Abeni climb the ramp and disappear around the first turn. But then she turned back, and her expression melted into a smile.
“So you must be the Little Fish,” she said. “Zimu has told us so much about you. Come. I am Shaleen. Mother to House Kijamon. We will speak of Abeni’s troubles at another time. For now, you will be a guest in my home.” Then she took Tayna by the arm and led her back up the ramp, with Zimu matching pace behind them.
Oath Keeper Page 17
