“Hello, Amonindris,” the mirror said with leaden melancholy.
“Hello, mirror,” Indris replied whimsically.
“Is it pleasant, seeing the man you are?” the mirror asked.
“You’re an omen, a little hint with feet of clay, of what may be, not what is.”
“I’m exactly what is, Amonindris. I’m the truth, without embellishment or deception. I’m he who hides his face from the world, gnawing on the old bones of ambition and fear in the dark hours of the night, where I hope those I love will neither see, nor hear.”
“Indeed. You’re a truth I hold dear. If I forget you, I forget what sits there in the muck and mire of my soul.”
The image in the mirror smiled his snaggle-toothed smile, gums gray with disease. “There’s no escape, Amonindris, from what you carry inside you.”
“Maybe. Only time will tell.”
“You’ve no desire to contest with me? To struggle and perhaps be victorious, to shed what you hate most about yourself? You know it is a fight you will need to win one day.”
Or to lose? To become the dark thing he despised? Such had been the fate of greater, wiser people than himself. “There’ll come another time when you and I will meet, of that I’ve no doubt. But it’s not today.”
Through force of will Indris pushed his mind forward, into the soul-destroying rot of the Drear. The mirror showed a sky of sorts, with ground after a fashion, fused by a horizon of roiling murk, like a dust storm. The geometries were wrong, with everything curved or twisted into what his mind told him were impossible shapes. The light was diffuse, shining from facets in the firmament. He forged through the clinging black weeds. Around him the trees were little more than silhouettes, paper cutouts set against a harsh monochrome sky. Beneath him the world was a shallow marsh, the waters littered with the sleeping faces of those who had lost themselves in the Drear to hopelessness and fear.
Images, of places and people, blurred. Indris clung to a calm acceptance that, yes, while he was not a perfect man, he was more than the extreme truth the mirror would have him be. Voices called out to him, beckoning, pleading, or promising. He remained steadfast, mantled in the love he knew from family and friends, the joy of his fondest memories and the quiet of a resolute soul. He looked neither left nor right, neither up nor down. He saw only the task ahead of him.
It took less than a minute before the mists in the mirror peeled away. Indris saw a makeshift camp amid older construction. A score of feathered-fabric tents, surrounded by earthworks and quickly reinforced stone walls.
At the center of the camp was a command tent of muted yellow-brown, laced together with black leather. Banners embroidered with Far-ad-din’s crest of multicolored wings thrust into the ground, snapping in a fierce breeze Indris could not feel.
Standing outside the tent was a tall, slender, seemingly ageless man. His ascetic’s face was porcelain smooth and fair under waist-length plumage of pale yellow streaked with crimson. His eyes were amethyst, as pale as the last hint of color on the horizon on a summer’s eve. He wore a flowing robe of gold-and-white silk under a serill cuirass and hauberk. The sockets of his eyes were dappled with scutes the same dark blue as his lips. His ears were pale, hardened to lengths of horn that swept back from his head. Another Seethe, a teenager, sat on a folding chair, polishing a large, round shield.
“Hello, Far-ad-din,” Indris said clearly.
“Indris?” The Seethe’s face showed his surprise.
“Where are you?”
“The ruins of Mnemon. I have heard from my sources all is not well in my city. Where are you?”
“Outside the ruins of Fiandahariat.” Indris explained what he knew of Corajidin’s actions. Far-ad-din drew in a shuddering breath. Indris could see the muscles of Far-ad-din’s jaw where they clenched and unclenched.
“We need you in Amnon,” Indris said quietly. “We must provide an alternative to Corajidin’s plans for Shrīan. I fear what the country may become without strong people to oppose him. He needs to be stopped.”
“Stopped?” Far-ad-din turned to look elsewhere, though at what Indris could not tell. “What was once See-an-way is now sunk beneath the waters because the Avān wanted my people stopped. You may not know, but there was a city there all of glass. Nobody carried weapons there. We called it Arem-yr-Juel, the Valley of the Lilies. Lotus flowers of every color grew there, and people would come to simply sit in the breeze and smell the perfume.”
“I—”
“Yet my people do not resent yours, our errant children made in columns of spinning quartz and light. Perhaps, had we known how much anger there would be in your hearts, we might have done otherwise. But we did not, and that is the way of things.”
Far-ad-din’s skin and eyes dulled, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. They remained so for a few moments before he burned once more with the inner radiance Indris knew so well.
“What do you intend for Corajidin?” Far-ad-din murmured. He looked down at the white hawk on his shield where it gleamed in the light. The old glass shield was scratched in places.
“That’s not for me to decide. Let loftier heads than mine debate his fate.”
“If we lose, there will be nothing left here of my Great House,” Far-ad-din mused, a smile tugging at his dark lips. “Not what my forefathers envisioned. Nor yours, I would expect.”
“Yet a risk we must take.”
“Is it?” Far-ad-din closed his eyes for a moment, his expression peaceful. He seemed to be enjoying the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. “I have lost much already. My son, my daughter—”
“You know I—”
“I do not lay the blame for Anj-el-din’s plight at your feet, even though you do. I felt nothing but joy when the two of you chose each other. You are a better man than you know, Amonindris. But why should I risk what little remains, for a nation which will never understand me or mine? I think the time has come for my people to seek our futures elsewhere. Shrīan was never the place we hoped it to be, nor will it be while men such as Corajidin hold sway. No, I will not return to Amnon so the Teshri can try again to have me stopped.”
“Please—”
“It has been centuries since I visited the Sky Realm of the Din-ma. Among the floating islands carried on the Soulwinds of the equator is a home I have a longing to see. My mate waits for me there, as do my other daughters and sons. It is well past time I showed them the honor they deserve. Your obligation to me is done, my friend. Trust yourself to seek your own path. We may meet again one day, under happier skies.”
“I’m sorry about Anj-el-din. If I could change—”
“We are both sorry for what became of my daughter. Yet what is, is. Best you forget her, Amonindris, for there is no returning from what she…Forgive yourself, Amonindris, as I have never had the need to. You have done nothing wrong to me or mine. Be well.”
“And you.”
With that Far-ad-din rose from his chair and went inside his tent.
Indris closed his eyes and blanked his mind to sever the connection with Far-ad-din. He snapped back into his consciousness with a sickening lurch.
Indris opened his eyes to see Shar, leaning against the mirror with studied nonchalance. Indris was so exhausted he needed both hands to prize himself from the chair. Shar supported him, his weight seemingly no real challenge to her wiry strength.
“Will he come back?” Shar asked as they walked back to the others.
He shook his head. “I don’t blame him. I’d probably do the same.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Indris bowed his head with fatigue. His felt like his skull was filled to bursting. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see the image of himself in the mirror.
Shar’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Are you well?”
“The Sēq teach many things. They taught me how to laugh. They taught me the value of love. Of anger. Of compassion and passion. They taught me terror, how to use it, how to survive it,
how to embrace it and make it part of me. Yet there was a maxim I didn’t truly understand until now.”
“Which is?”
“‘Let there be no place a Sēq will fear to tread.’” His smile felt brittle. “It’s a metaphor I didn’t fully comprehend until I looked at the paths of my own soul. While it is a place I don’t exactly fear to tread, it is a place I often wish could be other than it is.”
They made themselves as comfortable as they could. Throughout the night, parties of Fenlings prowled past the villa where it was hidden behind its Discretion Charm. Once in a while, one of them would look in their direction, sniff the air, before being nudged by one of its brethren to move on.
It was slightly before dawn when Hayden roused Indris and the others. The companions carefully trod the old, half-obscured streets that led to the ancient city. Pale yellow-brown stones soon gave way to evenly set gray and white. The stones about them went from granite blocks to the smooth black octagonal stones typical of the Time Masters. From time to time they would pause to listen or to allow either a Fenling or Avān squad to march past. As the light of morning pooled on the eastern horizon amid a clutter of lazy, yellow-tinted cloud, they found themselves in sight of Fiandahariat.
Ekko sidled forward as the others crouched behind a high stone wall. An Avān patrol seemed to expect to see nothing, so they talked more loudly than prudence would have dictated. For Indris and his friends, it had given them time to find a place to hide until the patrol could meander by. The giant Tau-se’s face bore its usual enigmatic expression, though his whiskers twitched in agitation.
“We are being followed, Amonindris,” Ekko rumbled softly.
“By?”
“I know not,” Ekko said, troubled. “They have masked their scent and move on quiet feet around us.”
Shar frowned as she looked in the direction they had come. “Ekko’s right. We’ve company coming. A lot of it. Armored, too. And close by.”
They had no friends in the Rōmarq. Hayden started to grumble as he spun the cylinder of his storm-rifle. He silently worked the lever, made sure the canister in the stock was filled with air. There were less than a score of bolts left. The others drew their weapons. Changeling sighed with relief.
The four of them found places among the gardenias where they could fight with their backs to the wall. They waited, breaths shallow, as the muscles bunched under their skin.
Clouds parted before the sun, a curtain opening to shine light on the patchwork of dun and brown and green, of blue-and-black stone, that was the Rōmarq.
A shadow passed. Large, hulking, it prowled on silent feet with but the faintest rattle of armor. More massive shapes, barely seen through the flowers and leaves of the gardenias, moved past in near silence. Indris wondered whether they had come this far only to ultimately fail.
Indris counted ten of the shapes.
He leaped. Changeling crooned. He swung a vicious strike, which he pulled. Changeling shaved air, flicking to the left of her intended target.
“Sweet Ancestors!” Indris breathed, as he stared into the eyes of an armored Tau-se warrior. He looked to see his other companions had likewise paused in their attacks before anybody had been harmed.
Ekko slung his khopesh from his belt. The Tau-se followed suit. Another of the lion-men, his fur such a dark brown as to be near black, stepped forward.
“Glad you could make it,” he said laconically to Ekko, his voice deep. “We wondered whether you had gotten lost, Ekko.”
“Thank you, Mauntro,” Ekko replied. “I see you followed orders to stay alive.”
Mauntro shrugged, then removed his helm to scratch at his sweat-damp mane. Fortune coins in silver and bronze tumbled free where they were fixed into his long braids. He eyed Indris and his companions with some curiosity. His glance came back to rest on Indris. “Seems you brought an army with you.”
“And you lost one. Makes us even.”
“Not so, my friend.” Mauntro grinned, revealing glistening fangs. He raised his fist, then opened the fingers twice in quick succession. All around them, Tau-se appeared from behind broken walls and pillars, slipped from the cover of trees and bushes. Indris counted almost fifty of the legendary warriors. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of them.
“Not so indeed…” Indris breathed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“We cling to our illusions because they are kinder than the reality we know surrounds us, yet wish did not.”—from The Mirrors in the Mind, by Rahn-Sûn fa Neyaid, 318th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Day 324 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Mari groaned with relief as Farzhi, the masseur, worked the kinks from her muscles. Her hands ached somewhat from a long practice session, the skin of her forefingers and thumbs slightly redder where the sharkskin hilt of her practice sword had rubbed.
Farzhi rubbed Mari’s skin with a warm towel scented with lavender oil. She lay with her face buried in the pillow for a moment, her thoughts hazy. She could hear him potter about her room. The clink of oil bottles. The rustle as he gathered his towels and the lengths of damp cloth he had used to clean and treat her skin. The clack of wooden boxed containing the unguents he used to soothe her muscles.
It was with some regret Mari slid from the couch to slip back into her tunic and kilt. She took a small purse from a porcelain bowl on a nearby table and handed it to the smiling masseur.
Farzhi handed Mari a sealed letter. Mari looked at the wiry little man for a few moments before she opened it.
It was from Vahineh.
Mari’s sense of bliss faded as rapidly as she read.
It was later in the afternoon when Mari opened the door to her chambers to find her father standing there. She stopped in her tracks. He stared at her blankly, his eyes somewhat glazed. The skin of his neck looked abraded, as if he had been scratching at it. There were angry red lesions on the backs of his hands.
“Father?” She reached out to take him by the elbow. “You’re not well!”
It took a handful of heartbeats for him to respond. He gestured vaguely to her weapon bag slung across her shoulders, though his eyes seemed not to track where he pointed. “Are you going somewhere?”
You need to rest. Where’s Yasha or Wolfram?”
“There are those who seek to do us harm, Mariam,” he murmured. The reek of stale sweat was on his clothes, the sugar sweet of lotus milk on his breath. “Now is not a good time for you—”
She gestured at the Anlūki standing behind her father. “Why did you bring him here?”
“What the Asrahn-Elect orders, we obey.” The Anlūki shrugged with equanimity.
“Take him back to his chambers, please.”
“What?” her father looked at her through narrowed eyes. “No! I am well enough, Mariam.”
“I’ve an appointment—”
“With that filthy Näsarat!” her father snarled. He raised his hand to her, as he had done when she was a child. “Have you not shamed me enough?”
“What are you talking about?” Mari took her father’s hand and brought it down. “I’ve somebody who wants to contract me to be her weapons master.”
He looked at her blearily. There was a fine line of saliva on his lips, bubbles glistening. He touched her cheek with a trembling hand. “A teacher? But you said you wanted to help your House in its great endeavor. You asked to work more closely with me? Don’t you remember? I talked to you…”
“No, you didn’t.” Mari pointed down the corridor in the direction of Belam’s rooms. “It’s good enough for my brother to be part of whatever it is you’re doing, but not me.”
Corajidin eyed the guards in the corridor. He stepped aside so Mari could walk past him, then fell into step beside her, gesturing for his Anlūki to keep their distance. Daughter and father walked slowly in an uncomfortable silence. Mari caught her father watching her from the corner of her eye. Truth be told, Mari was glad he had not revealed all his plans. She was certa
in there were things she truly did not want to know about her father, compromises he had made that she would never agree with.
“Where are you going?” Corajidin asked again as they strolled down the stairs toward the reception area of the apartments. Mari looked at him, surprised he had forgotten so soon. She would need to speak to Wolfram about his medicines. How could her father master the country if he could not master his own memories? He paused on the stairs as they entered the foyer. He pointed. “Who is that?”
Mari followed her father’s gesture. Surrounded by four Anlūki, a cowed-looking young woman stood in the foyer. She carried a shamshir in the sash around her waist, the scabbard’s lacquer cracked in places. In disguise, Vahineh had hennaed and tied her shorter hair into a high ponytail as was the custom of those warriors-errant who dwelled in the marshlands. The pigment she had used on her skin had made it much darker than Vahineh’s usual light olive. By her side was a slender man, face ruddy and seamed like dried mud, wiry hair streaked with white. The hem of his long kilt was stained, and his grubby feet were encased in straw sandals. Qamran, the Knight-Colonel of the Feyassin, likewise disguised.
“The woman is my new student. Bahale is a cousin of the Family Bey,” Mari lied. “Her companion is one of her retainers. Bahale was recommended to me as a woman who, though poor, shows promise. I believe she’s thinking of going to Masripur, to join one of the nahdi companies there.”
“Mariam, while I applaud you wanting to do something of your own, teaching is so—” Her father grimaced with distaste.
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