The newly Awakened rahn of the Great House of Selassin drew her sword.
Light blossomed in the room as the breeze gusted through the curtains, more strongly than before. Yasha frowned prettily, a pampered queen protesting the very workings of the world. She looked up.
Vahi’s and Yasha’s eyes met. The Erebus rahn yelled for her guards.
Qamran ran to secure the doors to the chamber as Vahi dashed forward, hoping to catch Yasha by surprise. Her beautiful features contorting in a snarl, Yasha drew a long pin from her hair. Hurled it with deadly accuracy. The pin struck Vahi at the base of her throat.
The pain was staggering. Vahi stumbled, her momentum carrying her forward. Yasha’s fist struck Vahi in the stomach. Vahi plucked the long pin from her throat. Felt the blood ooze down her chest. Yasha rained down blows on Vahi’s face and shoulders, her hands like hammers.
Consciousness threatened to abandon Vahi. Stunned, she let Sadra’s teachings take over. Her body reacted mechanically, yet react it did. Soon she found she was blocking Yasha’s assault. With her composure returned, Vahi wounded the lovely queen with dozens of cuts, until finally Yasha stood swaying, breath rasping, her translucent robe and dark complexion rent.
Vahineh raised her sword.
“This isn’t the end of it, you shoe-faced cow,” Yasha muttered.
Vahi cut her throat. Yasha fell to her knees, blood flowing through her clutching fingers to stain the mosaic floor and rugs at her knees.
Vahi turned her back, then walked to the secret door. She called to Qamran, who joined her within moments, the sound of blows loud against the doors he had barred, and the two of them quickly closed the secret door behind them.
She smiled. There was still a little time to find Thufan and tell him what had happened to his son.
Mari and the others had agreed to meet at the townhouse Ariskander had lived in prior to the Battle of Amber Lake. The house was located on a quiet street in the Golden Four, four large blocks of expensive townhouses and villas near the base of Zephyr Hill. Barely any noise filtered through the windows. The air was almost scent-free, other than the old, faint tang of lotus incense that had seeped over the years into paint, fabric, and wood.
“Mari, it was unwise to leave Vahineh in her current state.” Ziaire crossed her legs, adjusted the folds of her kilt. Her sandals were crusted with pearls. “She’s the Rahn-Selassin now and a valuable ally!”
“Where’s Vahineh now?” Femensetri picked at the ink that crusted her fingernails. She flicked tiny crescent moons of hardened shadow onto the otherwise clean floor.
“Resting, protected by the Feyassin,” Qamran replied.
“You say Corajidin plans to return this evening?” Kembe rumbled, a veritable mountain of muscle and fur. “A short time to prepare.”
“The Näsarat Phoenix Army left for Narsis this morning,” Rosha added. “Along with the sayfs of all the families allied to my House. There are still two hundred veterans of my Whitehorse Cataphracts here, as well as the remaining hundred of the Lion Guard sworn to defend the blood royal. It’ll have to be enough.”
“Narseh’s been spoken to.” Femensetri rose from her chair in a creak of old leather. She poured herself a cup of tea from a silver urn, did not bother to ask the others if they wanted anything. The Scholar Marshal leaned against the wall, tea cradled in her long-fingered hands. “The Knight-Marshal has been informed of our intent to exercise a Jahirojin against the Great House of Erebus. Narseh doesn’t like it but will abide provided we follow all the forms. She won’t interfere.”
“I’ve a contingent of my warriors, marshaled from the Rōmarq.” Siamak shrugged his wide shoulders in a ripple of brassy scale-mail. “They’re not many, given how much territory they patrol. Still, they’re deadly fighters and were loyal to Far-ad-din’s vision for Amnon. They’ve no love for the Asrahn-Elect.”
“I also have my children from the Taumarq,” Kembe rumbled. “Of course I cannot act in an official capacity, though as nahdi in the employ of the Great House of Näsarat…”
“Stormbringer?” Rosha turned her gaze upon the black-cassocked scholar.
“I’ve had the contracts written up.” Femensetri tapped a sheaf of papers on the desk with a chipped fingernail. “They only need to be signed. Kembe, your people will be in Roshana’s service until this business is concluded.”
“Thank you for your help, Kembe.” Rosha nodded her head by way of a bow.
“We want to avoid bloodshed as much as we can,” Mari urged. “I know the temperament of the forces serving my father. Without decisive leadership they’ll not commit to a battle. It’s Belamandris’s Anlūki, whatever nahdi my father has in his employ, and the Iphyri we need concern ourselves with. Perhaps some fifteen hundred warriors in all.”
Kembe dismissed the danger with a wave of his hand. Mari shook her head at the casual bravado of the High Patriarch.
“The Feyassin will hold the Tyr-Jahavān until the Speaker has addressed the Teshri,” Qamran confirmed. “Our enemies will want to take and hold the parliament building as soon as they know what’s happening. Hopefully the Teshri will have made a decision prior to Corajidin returning to Amnon. If not, it’ll be hard work for us. Even with Kembe’s Tau-se, our forces number slightly more than five hundred.”
“Remember this isn’t about fighting a war.” Femensetri tossed the dregs of her tea out the window. “We only need isolate Corajidin and have the Teshri agree to remove him from power. Ziaire?”
“Corajidin still has most of the Teshri’s vote,” the woman replied. “My friend Guita of the Family Parje-Sin has cordially invited most of Corajidin’s supporters, as well as others, to a revel at her estate on the banks of the Anqorat. The great majority of them left Amnon last night by pleasure-ship and will be out of communication for days. While we couldn’t remove all of Corajidin’s allies, many have been accounted for.”
“To think we are manipulating the Teshri the same way Corajidin did,” Nazarafine said mournfully. “I should never have tried to influence the Teshri to allow Vashne to remain in power…”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Femensetri growled. “Focus on the now, Speaker.”
Mari stretched her legs under the table. The now was precisely what bothered her. No matter which way she looked at the situation, Mari could not help but see bloodshed.
“I’ll summon enough of the Teshri for a quorum,” Nazarafine said. “We need to ensure they’re advised that a Jahirojin has been declared, to prevent them from interfering. They’ll be informed this is now a personal matter between two Great Houses.”
“Will you take the regency, Nazarafine?” Femensetri’s opal eyes were fierce. “With the Asrahn-Elect gone, you’re the next in line of succession.”
Nazarafine rose from her chair to stand beside the window. Her hands were white-knuckled where they gripped the windowsill. “Femensetri, do you have the writ of deposition drafted?”
Mari hung her head. With two pieces of parchment, Nazarafine was about to petition the Teshri that her father be deposed from his position as governor of Amnon, as well as stripped of his role as Asrahn-Elect. Only an Arbiter’s Tribunal and a full assembly of the Teshri could petition for him to be stripped of his rank as rahn. Such was unlikely. Her father would either die of his illness, unless his new allies could keep him alive, or fail his next Communion Ritual and damn himself there. Rosha winced as Nazarafine signed the papers, having done something similar herself not so long ago to remove her own treacherous brother from power.
“And you, Roshana?” Ziaire asked as Femensetri placed another sheaf of parchment on the table. “Are you truly willing to risk the future of your Great House on this gamble?”
Rosha lifted her head, gaze hard. “Don’t you think I have the stomach for this? Nehrun almost ruined us, the selfish, absurd narcissist. The honor of my House is on trial for the world to see, so believe it when I tell you I’ve the motivation to do what needs be done.”
“Spoken like your father.” Nazarafine approved.
“Spoken like me,” Rosha countered. “Though you’ll see I am my father’s daughter.”
Mari looked about the room at her fellow conspirators. Was this how it had started for her father, she wondered? The quiet thrill? The utter belief in a cause, no matter whether others understood, approved, or even knew why she risked herself in its service? Mari hoped, deep in the quiet places of her soul, her father had once been a good and righteous man. If not, if his life had been for nothing except ambition without benefit, or broader purpose, then why had he lived at all?
Rosha took the silver ink brush in her hand. She signed her name against the contracts binding Kembe and his company to her service. Femensetri gestured to a long scroll of blue-tinted vellum, bound to alabaster rods capped with two small golden and sapphire phoenix heads—the Jahirojin.
To her credit Rosha did not hesitate. She drew the knife from the sash at her waist and, in one smooth motion, sliced the blade across the inside of her left forearm. Rosha pumped her fist until blood welled freely from the wound, then picked up an ebony brush, bristled with her own hair. With a fixed expression, she dipped the brush into her blood, then signed her name to the Jahirojin. Allowing her blood to drip onto the paper, she pressed her signet ring to the scarlet pool. Some of the first Jahirojin had been linked with the ancient halyé—blood curses—of the Awakened royals, many of whom had been scholars. Though Rosha was no scholar, the power in her blood would be enough to give the Jahirojin the strength of her intent.
“So by my blood, under the eyes of the hallowed Ancestors, do I call down just vengeance upon the malcontent of Rahn-Erebus fa Qarnassus fa Basyrandin fa Corajidin. By my will I condemn him to ignominy. May his aspirations be as ashes in his mouth. May all he taste be the bitterness of failure. May his blood flow free and his body be rendered unto ash so all the world may witness the fire of my vengeance. Let all those of Näsarat’s blood be bound to my will in this, till it be done!”
“So it was written, so it was sworn in the blood royal, so let it be,” Femensetri intoned. She touched her scythe-bladed crook to the paper, and the image of the signet briefly flared with an inner radiance. When the light faded, the paper was marked with the embossed image of the Näsarat phoenix.
This was the old way.
Qamran rose from where he stood. He cleared his throat. Looked out the window. Returned his gaze to those others in the room, his expression lost.
“There is something more you should know.”
Chaos erupted as Qamran confessed to what he knew of Yasha’s murder. To her shame, Mari felt little save a slight surprise at the news of the woman’s death. More an unpleasant twinge in her chest rather than true grief. Her companions saw the tears in her eyes and looked at her with compassion, unaware the tears were not for herself. They were for her father.
Truth be told her tears would fall for all of them when Corajidin found out the woman he loved had been murdered. Vahineh had, with one rash move, potentially forged Corajidin into an intractable weapon they all could have done without facing.
Mari remained behind as the conspirators left the room, snapping questions at Qamran. Rosha sat where she was, binding the wound on her arm, eyes calm and cool as she looked at Mari. There was a time she would have found it odd, incomprehensible, to be alone in the same room as a Näsarat of the blood. Their Great Houses had feuded for the better part of an empire, though in all honesty Mari was never certain what had caused the rift between them. Certainly the Erebus had been portrayed throughout history as villains, while the Näsarat were remembered for their nobility and sense of justice.
“Strange,” Rosha said, “for you and I to come together now, under these circumstances.”
“You’ve an interesting definition of coming together, having just condemned my father to failure and death.” The words tasted as flat as her tone.
“Your father’s a dead man, Jahirojin or not.” Rosha shrugged with equanimity. “I’ve done nothing to him which was not already in motion.”
“Under your Jahirojin every Näsarat alive is compelled to do my father harm, which I’ll do my best to prevent. I’m my father’s daughter, and despite his flaws I love him still.” Mari was grateful for the ring of truth in her tone. She mimicked Rosha’s shrug. “It’s my hope this can be used to sway him from his course and give my family the time we need to save his life. I doubt it’s the first time our Great Houses have found common ground. Otherwise we would’ve eradicated each other long before now.”
“It’s not through lack of trying.”
“On both our parts.” Mari’s voice was stern.
“I wasn’t implying anything else, Mari.” Rosha’s voice was sad. “How many of our forebears sat as we do now, united by a common cause or a longing for a…”
“Better world? A nation of conscience, such as Navaar promises in Ygran?”
Rosha shook her head. “I was going to say different world. Better is something only time may tell. Better for a day? A month? A generation? Perhaps we doom our people even as we endeavor to do that what’s right.”
“If you believed that, you’d neither have deposed your brother nor agreed to accept the burden for our plot if things should go badly.” Mari stood before the woman she had come to think might not be her enemy. “You’re a brave and honorable woman, Näsarat fe Roshana.”
“As are you.” Roshana reached out to squeeze Mari’s hand. Mari looked at their clasped hands. Rosha’s skin was olive, the nails of her strong fingers short and polished. Her own hand was narrower, darker, large knuckled, corded with veins and muscles. A scar crossed the back of her hand, whereas Rosha’s skin was unblemished. It was as if each woman carried the legacy of her Great House on her skin. “It’s a shame we’ve come to be where we are, yet I’ll not choke on the things I can’t change. Nor should you.”
“You’re going to try and kill my father, aren’t you?” Mari asked quietly. “Regardless of whether he’s removed from power or not.”
“You told us yourself what he planned for my own father.”
“What about Maladûr gaol?” Mari blurted. “Or sending him—”
“Somewhere he’ll eventually be released, when memories fade and that which should never have been forgotten is little but an unpleasant aftertaste? Mari, your father deserves to die not only for what he’s done, but for the anguish he has yet to inflict. Thousands will perish if he’s not stopped.”
“How can we condemn him for sins imagined?”
Rosha’s look was resolute. “We condemn him for very real crimes. Your father is too much of a risk to keep alive.”
Mari had her hand on the door, about to leave, when she turned. “Will you give power back to your brother, when the time comes?”
Rosha smiled a small smile. She turned her attention to the view outside the open window, her thumb against the signet ring on her finger.
“Only my father can answer that question, Mari.”
Mari knelt naked at the foot of her bed, eyes turned toward the clear blue sky beyond her balcony. The breeze tousled her hair and cooled the beads of moisture on her skin.
She had been met with the hysteria of Yasha’s assassination when she had returned to the villa. It was if a stick had been rattled in a wasps’ nest, the air buzzing with angry voices and accusations. Soldiers rattled as they sped through the corridors, searching the large building room by room.
After a quick briefing from one of Thufan’s senior intelligencers, Mari ordered the man to continue looking, breathing a sigh of relief no sign of Vahineh or Qamran had been found. Mari gave orders she was not to be disturbed until evidence that led to the perpetrators was found.
Through her chamber windows the sound of bifurcated brass flutes wailed above tolling drums. From where she knelt, Mari heard the rising notes of the “Last Farewell,” the song to which the Erebus nobles had been sent into the Well of Souls for centuries.
The day’s be
en long the shadows dark,
we stand to watch your final march.
I did not know you well at all,
yet now you hear that final call…
Mari let the words slide away. A broad bowl was at her knees, filled with warm water. It had once been the shield of Kepedon, an Atrean champion whom Mari had defeated in single combat. She dipped her hand into an alabaster jar of minerals, then rubbed the mixture into her skin. It smelled of milk, honey, and the scent of the ocean warmed by the sun. She massaged the balm into the skin of her arms, torso, and legs, then dipped a rough cloth into the water to wipe herself down. Her skin felt smooth, the color more even, after she had purified herself. She laced herself into her arming shift and tied her loincloth in place.
Her panoply of war had been laid out on her bed. With quiet respect she whispered the rituals as she pulled on her wide-legged trousers and hauberk of deerskin and kirion scales. She fastened the buckles and pulled tight the silk laces, then stretched to be sure of her range of movement. Curve-toed boots dotted with scores of metallic rivets covered her feet. Then the cuirass, scarlet leather interwoven with bands of kirion so red they were almost black. Vambraces for her arms. Greaves for her legs. Then the rounded pauldrons, which made her wide shoulders appear even more powerful than they were. Over this she donned the white, deep-hooded over-robe of an ashinahdi, a royal-caste warrior acting beyond the purview of her Great House. An upper-caste mercenary who fought to satisfy an ideal rather than for wealth or fame.
Mari looked at herself in the mirror, at this thing wrought of metal, leather, and flesh. There was neither softness nor compromise there, for in this costume it was as if she had shed mortality to embrace the spirit of bloody mayhem. Her comrades hoped steel would not be drawn, yet Mari underestimated neither her father’s ferocity nor his single-minded will to succeed. As sure as water was wet, there was no chance Corajidin would surrender when he had an opportunity to fight and win.
The Garden of Stones Page 38
