Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Not exactly, kid,” Brother Yarit said ruefully. “It’s about all of us.” He dusted his hands together and glanced around. “Watery hell, I’m famished! Tell me there’s something to eat, eh?”

  Four days later, we returned to find the Fortress of the Winds in a state of mourning and confusion.

  Despite everything, there was a very small part of me that had held out hope against hope that Brother Yarit was wrong, that he had suffered sunstroke in the desert, that we would return to find Brother Saan alive and well, his eyes crinkling with amusement at the notion that he had perished while we were away.

  It was not so.

  I visited his body, which had been laid atop a bier in the heights. It looked small and shrunken, but the expression on his face was one of peace. As though to express their respect, none of Pahrkun’s creatures had yet troubled his flesh.

  Beside his bier, I wept.

  He had been a father to me; father, grandfather, mother … everything. The hawk’s feather I had caught as a babe had fallen from his hand, and I did not know how to be in this world without him.

  On the high plateau where we laid our dead to rest, Brother Yarit touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry, kid.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  And yet life continued, as it must.

  If Brother Yarit was unhappy about Brother Saan’s gift of Sight passing to him, he was surely not alone. No one was pleased to hear it, and a good many of the brothers doubted it. In the end, Brother Yarit called a meeting, addressing the entirety of the brotherhood from the narrow stone bridge that spanned the Dancing Bowl while we gathered below.

  “I get it,” he said to us. “You don’t like this. Well, I don’t like it, either. But you know what? That’s too damn bad. None of us gets a choice in this matter. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be as wise as Brother Saan was, but for whatever reason, Pahrkun’s chosen me for this. All I can tell you is that I’ll do my best. All I ask is that you do the same. All right?”

  It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest and it did the job; for the most part the grumbling ceased and we returned to our regular regimen of training. If I had thought that becoming the Seer would alter Brother Yarit’s demeanor in any significant way, I was soon disabused of the notion. After that first day in the desert when the Sight had come upon him, he spoke little of it.

  Autumn gave way to the chill winds of winter. I continued to squeeze rocks and pick locks; to hop up and down steps and shinny up and down ropes; to practice walking soundlessly and navigate sightlessly. I threw zims and the heshkrat; I trained with the yakhan and kopar, both of which became easier to wield as I continued to build strength in my wrists and forearms. I practiced the art of disguise. I sparred with Brother Hakan and a few of the others, acquiring and bestowing more than a few new scars in the process.

  As spring and my eleventh birthday approached, I grew taller by several inches, though no broader of shoulder; impatient, I despaired of gaining the physique of a grown man.

  “When will I come into my full growth, do you think?” I asked Brother Yarit one day in the Hall of Proving. “Next year? Or the next?”

  I expected him to counsel patience; instead, he opened and closed his mouth a few times and eyed me with an unreadable look. “Frankly, kid, that’s something I’d like to know myself.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. “Why? What do you mean?”

  Brother Yarit shook his head. “Never mind, I’m just thinking out loud, wondering how long we have before you turn sixteen and it’s time to send you to serve the House of the Ageless. This business of the Sight’s no use when it comes to practical matters,” he added. “It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

  I might have thought nothing further of it if Brother Yarit hadn’t summoned the senior brothers to a meeting in his chamber that evening. He did it discreetly, but that was the very thing that caught my notice. He had taught me too well how to notice when one’s attention was being diverted.

  The days when I would have scrupled at eavesdropping were long gone. Since Brother Yarit’s tenure, the entrance to the cavern that served as the Seer’s chamber had been hung with thick carpets to keep out the wind, for when it came to the elements, he was not as hardy as desert-born Brother Saan. The good thing was that meant I had no need to conceal myself; the unfortunate one was that it meant the voices of the men within were muffled.

  I strained my ears to hear. At first I could make nothing of the murmurs, but as the conversation grew heated, voices rose; especially Brother Yarit’s.

  “No, I haven’t Seen it!” he said in annoyance. “I don’t need the Sight to show me what common sense makes perfectly clear. Or are you planning to wait until the kid starts sprouting tits?”

  Someone shushed him then; Brother Ehudan, I thought. I frowned, trying to make sense of Brother Yarit’s words. Was he speaking of me? Milking she-goats and camels had tits; I could no more see why the flat nipples that adorned my narrow chest would sprout them than I would grow horns or hooves.

  After a prolonged spell of inaudible discussion, it was Brother Drajan’s deep voice that rose above the fray. “All right, all right,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m returning to Merabaht next month. I’ll do whatever you ask in order to procure an apothecary’s services, but only if you promise to await my return before you do anything rash.”

  There was some low muttering, which I guessed by the general tenor to be Brother Yarit agreeing to something he’d prefer not to do, and then Brother Merik’s voice. “Very well, brothers,” he said formally. “I do believe we’re in agreement.”

  It was the sound of a discussion coming to a conclusion, and I crept away.

  A month passed and Brother Drajan set out for Merabaht once more, in search of a willing apothecary and any rumor of the long-missing Brother Vironesh, the broken shadow. This time he was armed with mysterious letters of instruction written by Brother Yarit, as well as fistfuls of gold from the brotherhood’s coffers.

  Since I couldn’t satisfy my curiosity regarding the matter that piqued me most, I chose to satisfy it regarding another matter. “Elder Brother,” I said to Brother Yarit; after half a year, it still felt strange to address him thusly. “I chanced to overhear a conversation some time ago.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “Oh, you did, did you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And there is something I’ve been wondering about ever since. Last spring, when they were speculating about Brother Vironesh’s whereabouts, Brother Saan said it should be easier to find a purple man. What did he mean?”

  “Ah.” Brother Yarit relaxed a bit; whatever he had expected me to ask, that wasn’t it. “As to that, it happened before I was born, but I know the tale. You know that his charge was killed?”

  I nodded. “Poisoned.”

  “Right,” he said. “Prince Kazaran, the king’s third-born son and his favorite. He had a name for being a great swordsman. Someone slipped death-bladder venom in his wine.” He raised his brows again. “Do you know how death-bladder venom kills?”

  I shook my head.

  “It causes all your veins to burst,” he informed me with a certain macabre relish. “It’s called the Purple Death.”

  “But Brother Vironesh didn’t do it, did he?” I was confused. “Brother Saan said he was devastated.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Brother Yarit assured me. “The thing is, his wine, Vironesh’s wine, was poisoned, too. Only he didn’t die. He was proof against the poison, at least in part. Only the little veins in his skin burst. Like a bruise,” he added. “Except it never healed.”

  “So he really is … purple?” I asked.

  “So says the legend,” he said. “And Brother Ehudan, who is the only one among us old enough to remember him now that Brother Saan has passed, confirms the truth of it.”

  “He doesn’t remember Brother Vironesh’s training, though, right?” I asked.

  Brother Yarit laughed. “Are you joking? None of
us mere mortals outside the House of the Ageless was alive when that took place. We have only the lore passed down through generations.”

  “Who poisoned the prince and why?” I asked. “And why was Brother Vironesh proof against the poison?”

  He grimaced at me. “You’re full of questions today, kid. And I suppose you’re owed some answers. The prince’s killer was never caught, but if I were to put money on it, I’d bet on one of his two older brothers. You know King Azarkal hasn’t declared an heir?” I nodded. “Well, the story goes that forty-odd years ago, he was close to naming Prince Kazaran. You see, the prince was betrothed to a Granthian woman.”

  “Granth!” From what little I knew of Granth, I couldn’t imagine it. “Why?”

  “Ah!” Brother Yarit raised one finger, warming to his tale. “Because Granth has no hereditary monarchy. They’re a warrior folk.”

  “Like the desert tribesfolk?” I asked.

  “Even more so,” he said. “I’m not saying they’re better warriors, mind you—the desert’s a harsh proving ground—but the tribesfolk fight as a matter of honor, and frankly, I think they’re wise to let their Matriarchs serve as arbiters of bloodshed and justice. Granthians … Well, let me put it this way. Every seven years, they hold a tourney. The strongest warriors in the nation gather and fight to the death. It’s more slaughtering ground than battlefield, and the last man standing is crowned the Kagan. He gets to rule for seven years, and while he does, his word is absolute law. The stink-lizards are his to command, and he gets his pick of any woman he wants. Not a bad gig while it lasts.”

  “But he has to defend his crown in seven years?” I asked.

  “Right.” Brother Yarit nodded. “There have been a few who succeeded, none more than once. There’s always someone younger and quicker and stronger barking at their heels. But it might be another story if, say, a member of the House of the Ageless took the crown.”

  I put the pieces together. “Prince Kazaran meant to try to become the Kagan?”

  Brother Yarit grinned at me. “You’ve got it, kid. With a Granthian bride, he’d have been eligible to fight in the tourney. It’s a fair bet that King Azarkal would have named him his heir if he had won and laid claim to Granth. And with the rhamanthus seeds, he might have been able to hold the crown indefinitely.”

  “I wonder how Brother Vironesh felt about it,” I mused. “He wouldn’t have been able to protect him in a tourney to the death.”

  Brother Yarit shrugged. “If we ever find him, you can ask him for yourself,” he said pragmatically. “Whatever he felt, I imagine it would have been better than what did happen.”

  “True.” I shuddered, then recalled an earlier question. “Elder Brother, you never answered. Do you know why Brother Vironesh was proof against the death-bladder venom?”

  He hesitated. “That, young Khai, I cannot answer. It’s a mystery you’ll have to discover for yourself.”

  “Does it have to do with an apothecary?” I asked.

  “No.” Brother Yarit’s voice was unwontedly gentle. “No, it’s absolutely nothing of the sort.”

  TEN

  “Is it true that you remember Brother Vironesh?” I asked Brother Ehudan during our study session the next morning. “And that he’s purple?”

  “Yes, yes.” He flapped one gnarled hand at me. “The broken shadow, I remember him well.”

  “Did he speak to you of honor beyond honor?” I asked.

  “He didn’t speak to me at all,” Brother Ehudan said wryly. “Only to Brother Saan, to whom the gift of Sight had quite recently passed. But one does not forget a purple man, nor a man whose entire purpose in life has been destroyed.”

  “Did—”

  “Khai.” He took a seat on a carpet in the study chamber, gesturing at me to do the same. I sat cross-legged opposite him across from the low table, which was spread with a map of the world. “Brother Yarit gauges it is time you learned something more of the world.”

  My pulse quickened. “Yes, brother.”

  “You have heard how the children of the heavens rebelled against the Sun and the Moons, until Zar the Sun cast them down to earth,” he said. “And that Anamuht and Pahrkun were Zar’s best beloved, and the first to repent of their rebellion.”

  “Yes, brother.” I did my best not to sound disappointed, having hoped to learn something new and interesting.

  “Attend.” Brother Ehudan touched the map with one crooked finger. “You do not know the whole of the tale, young Khai, for there is a portion we do not tell to children, and this is what I will tell you today. Before the rebellion began, Zar saw that the heavens were growing crowded and his children restless. He declared that the Moons would bring forth no more new life; but he did not know that Eshen the Wandering Moon was already with child. No one noticed when she hid herself to bring forth this child, for Eshen was ever fickle in her ways. This child she cloaked in darkness and hid from Zar’s eyes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “She was afraid,” he said simply. “And so the child Miasmus grew in darkness and knew nothing of the bright lights of its brethren—”

  “Miasmus?” Something tickled at my memory; it was a name Brother Yarit had uttered in his ravings when the Sight first came upon him.

  “So Eshen named the child,” Brother Ehudan said. “And Miasmus took no part in the rebellion, but when the children of heaven were cast down, there was nowhere left for Eshen to hide her last-born. Angry at her defiance, Zar cast Miasmus from the heavens, the last to fall.”

  “That wasn’t fair,” I said.

  “Perhaps not,” Brother Ehudan agreed. “But it was done.” He touched the map again, pointing out a blot of darkness on the farthest western verge of the world. “And here is where Miasmus fell to earth.”

  The west.

  “What form did he take?” I asked. “Or … she?”

  “No one knows,” Brother Ehudan said. “I was once told that many have sought to explore, and sailors from distant realms tell tales of a great abyss capable of swallowing entire fleets of ships, but no one has ever returned to confirm it.”

  “The Abyss that Abides,” I murmured. “The Maw.”

  “You know of it?” Brother Ehudan sounded surprised.

  I shook my head. “Not really, no. Brother…” I swallowed. “There is a prophecy that one day a darkness will arise in the west against which one of the Sun-Blessed will stand. Is it Miasmus?”

  “That, too, is unknown,” he said. “Some of the priestesses of Anamuht believe it to be so; others believe it is a force of darkness to which Miasmus will give birth after these many centuries, for it is said that Miasmus is male and female alike.” He rolled up the map carefully. “Understand, Khai, that it is exceedingly unlikely that this will come to pass in your lifetime,” he said kindly. “The princess Zariya, whom you will serve one day, is surely neither a warrior nor an adventurer, and I can conceive of no reason for her to leave Zarkhoum, let alone journey to the far reaches of the world. We are not a nation of sojourners. Like as not, she’ll be wed to some distant kinsman, and you’ll be guarding her from nothing more challenging than petty squabbles in the House of the Ageless.”

  “And all my training will be for naught?” I couldn’t keep a faint note of bitterness from my voice.

  “If it is so, you may count it a blessing,” Brother Ehudan said sharply. “Don’t go begging for trouble, Khai. I’ve seen one broken shadow; I’ve no wish to see another.”

  Abashed, I saluted him. “Forgive me, brother. I will pray for an uneventful life and do my best to be grateful for it.”

  His wrinkled face creased in a smile. “It is the province of youth to dream of battle and glory. May you live a long and rich life, and one day in truth be grateful that those wishes were not granted.”

  In many ways, the tale Brother Ehudan told me changed nothing; and yet I felt different for knowing it. I might be years away yet from being a man grown, but I was no longer a mere child.

  T
here was darkness in the world, and it had a name: Miasmus.

  I remembered how Brother Saan had spoken to me of the fall of the children of heaven the day after Brother Yarit’s trial, when I was angry and grieving. He had spoken of how they were bound to the earth, and the night sky was empty of stars, and I had not forgotten another thing he said to me. Do you suppose that all the fallen children of the heavens shall remain content that it should ever be thus?

  I would not be content if I were Miasmus, raised in darkness and secrecy, cast down from the heavens for a sin I had not committed. No, I would not be content at all, but filled with a bitter and long-simmering fury; and I thought this, perhaps, was the reason this portion of the tale was not told to children. It was a grave thing for a child’s mind to encompass.

  On that same day, Brother Saan had spoken for the first time of the prophecy, of the Sun-Blessed and the darkness rising in the west. Of course, he’d also said much the same thing that Brother Ehudan had, that it was highly unlikely it had anything to do with the princess Zariya.

  No doubt it was true, and it was foolish of me to entertain the idea that it might be otherwise; no, if there were a hero born to the Sun-Blessed, it would be someone like the slain Prince Kazaran, a great warrior with a bold and adventurous spirit, not the seventeenth child and youngest daughter.

  Still, I allowed myself to daydream from time to time, and I was determined to continue training as though it might be true.

  Honor beyond honor.

  Whatever came, I would not fail Zariya for lack of preparation; and if it were to prove in vain, so be it.

  It was some weeks before Brother Drajan returned from his errands in Merabaht, but he came with an apothecary in tow, a dusty-looking fellow in drab clothes. Even his skin seemed to hold a tinge of grey. Still, he knew his business. Ostensibly, that was the preparation and prescription of tinctures and powders to treat all manner of ailments; in practical terms, it included the administration of poisons, though in my particular instance it was to be constrained to recognition of the distinctive qualities of various poisonous substances.