Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Oh, by all means, Your Majesty!” Lord Rygil said lightly. “Only I would ask that you extend the same courtesy to my sister the Lady Marylis.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “You see, my sister and several of her women accompanied our embassy, hoping to offer your daughter a measure of familiar decorum, but they stayed aboard the ship in the doubtlessly misguided notion that unveiled women in the throne hall of Merabaht might offend your sensibilities.”

  “Oh, he’s clever,” Zariya murmured, and I wondered if the peculiar Therinian practice of saying the opposite of what they meant armored them in some manner against the combination of Barakhan grace and guile.

  Whether or not it was so, the exchange sufficed to harden King Azarkal’s resolve. “My daughter’s choice is made,” he said firmly. “I regret to refuse you, Lady Onesha, but there will be no further debate.”

  She was wise enough to know herself defeated and accept it with the same grace, bowing her head once more; once toward the king, once toward Lord Rygil, and once toward the screen behind which Zariya was concealed. “Then I congratulate you and wish you every happiness.”

  “Of that I have not the slightest doubt, my lady,” Lord Rygil said in a cheery tone, causing the faintest of wry smiles to crease her smooth cheeks.

  So it was decided.

  The marriage contract was drawn up that very day, and although in this Zariya had no say, she was privy to the terms of it, for it was contingent on the rhamanthus harvest. The Therinians had agreed to a waiting period of thirty days. If Anamuht the Purging Fire came to Merabaht to quicken the seeds within that time, all would be executed in accordance with the contract. Zariya and her stupendous dowry of three thousand seeds would sail to Therin and wed Lord Rygil, the Keeper of the Keys.

  If Anamuht failed to make good on her promise in that time, the betrothal would be rendered null.

  With the ink on the marriage contract not yet dry, King Azarkal sent couriers throughout the city of Merabaht and to the far reaches of Zarkhoum announcing the betrothal. How long would it take, I wondered, for word to reach Anamuht’s ears? Had a goddess need of mortal couriers? It seemed unlikely to me; and yet, I suppose the king but did what he could.

  Later, I would look back on the events leading to this interminable waiting period and remember once again Brother Yarit scratching in the hard-packed sand with the point of his dagger and muttering to himself, So if this, then that; but if this, then that.

  If Varkas Long-Arm had not defeated Sandrath the Quiet …

  If I had not spared Varkas’s life …

  If Lord Rygil had brought some lesser offering …

  If King Azarkal had granted Lady Onesha’s request …

  At any given crux of events, the outcome would have been different. Or might have been different.

  It was all very complicated; but at the time, I could do naught but endure the tedium of waiting. The day after the betrothal was arranged, Zariya dispatched me to invite Lord Rygil’s sister Lady Marylis to call upon her at the palace, an errand I undertook gladly. Since it was a formal visit she decided I should dress in formal attire, and for the first time I ventured into the city clad in a dress, veil, and sleeveless over-robe befitting one of the royal women, escorted by a quartet of the Queen’s Guard.

  The Therinian ship of state was an enormous vessel, dwarfing every other ship in the harbor. Upon stating our business, we were ushered aboard with prompt, albeit irreverent, courtesy.

  Lady Marylis received me in her private cabin with several of her women in attendance. It was a spacious, well-appointed room with woven hangings on the walls and ornate furniture in a style unfamiliar to me. If it weren’t for the fact that the furniture was bolted to the floor of the ship, I would never have guessed we weren’t on dry land. Lord Rygil’s sister didn’t share his reddish-gold hair—hers was a light brown—but I could see the resemblance in her sharp, foxlike features and the bright gaze that regarded me with lively curiosity.

  “Greetings, my lady.” I offered her a salute. “I am Khai of the Fortress of the Winds, Her Highness Princess Zariya’s shadow, and I come bearing an invitation.”

  “Doubtless it is my ignorance of your culture speaking, but I could very nearly swear I’ve heard that name before.” Lady Marylis’s expression was one of genuine perplexity. “Although I was not privy to the battle of the Granthian suitors, my brother spoke of a young Zarkhoumi warrior who served as the princess’s champion with, shall I say, unexpected results. I don’t suppose he’s kin to you?”

  I smiled and unpinned my veil, revealing the marks of Pahrkun. “Not kin, my lady, no. We are one and the same.”

  “Here in Zarkhoum, of all places!” She laughed, and her attendants laughed with her, sounding for all the world like a flock of twittering birds. “You surprise me into candor, Khai of the Fortress of the Winds. Tell me, what is a shadow, and how is it that the young princess comes to possess one?”

  I explained the lore surrounding our twinned moment of birth at the height of the eclipse, adding only that I spent my life being trained to protect Zariya.

  She exchanged glances with her attendants, who seemed more like companions than servants. “Well, now, that’s a tale to pass the time on a dull day, isn’t it! But I suppose it must be common here in the realm of the Sacred Twins?”

  “No, my lady,” I said. “Princess Zariya is the first of the Sun-Blessed to be born with a shadow in over a hundred and fifty years, and the only daughter of the House of the Ageless to be thus honored.”

  “Ah, you disappoint me!” Lady Marylis said. “It pleased me to imagine that Zarkhoum was hiding an army of fierce warrior-women born on the cusp of a lunar eclipse.”

  Unsure how to receive the comment, I said nothing.

  “Does Granth know?” one of her women inquired. “I confess my heart bleeds to think of the mortification of their champion—what was his name? Farkas?—upon learning that he was defeated by a mere woman.”

  “I do not know.” I could not keep a trace of stiffness from my voice. “But I am no mere woman.”

  “No, of course not.” Relenting, Lady Marylis spoke kindly to me in a forthright manner. “Forgive us, Pahrkun’s child. Our feckless banter must sound strange to your ears. Tell Her Highness that although I am unworthy of the honor, I accept her invitation with pleasure.”

  I inclined my head to her. “A litter will be sent for you on the morrow.”

  The following morning, the royal women of the House of the Ageless entertained Lady Marylis and one of her companions, introduced as Lady Cyrgilen, in the Hall of Pleasant Accord, where a great feast of delicacies had been laid out. As she had done with my family, Zariya received them already seated; supposing it a Zarkhoumi custom, they took no offense at it.

  “What a lovely little thing you are!” Marylis exclaimed, pressing one of Zariya’s hands in both of hers. “It’s a pity you’ve chosen to wed my brother. I fear you’ll find him a simple fellow.”

  “Meaning he’s not?” Zariya inquired. “Forgive me, but in Zarkhoum we speak plainly.”

  “Zariya!” her mother whispered urgently.

  Her betrothed’s sister smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Obviously, I am terribly offended.”

  “But you can speak plainly if you wish to, can you not?” Zariya asked her. “You did so to Khai yesterday.”

  “Well, it’s not impossible. But our manner of discourse gives honor to Ilharis the Two-Faced, as I suspect you know.” Lady Marylis tilted her head, studying Zariya with her bright eyes. “You’ve a curious mind, Your Highness. Tell me, do you regard Therin as a riddle to be solved?”

  Zariya frowned in thought. “A riddle? I’m not sure. And yet there is one question that plagues me. I would know why your brother gifted me with a fate-changer, my lady.”

  “Oh, that!” Marylis laughed. “Why, it’s been in our family for ages. A useless trinket, no doubt. Do you imagine there is some prophecy that one day a great darkness will rise in the west, and
the fate of all existence might hinge on a tear shed by Ilharis the Two-Faced?”

  I drew in a sharp breath.

  For all her bold spirit, Zariya looked taken aback. “If it were so, I would still ask why your brother gave it to me.”

  “A whim, a gamble, a dream’s prompting sent by Ilharis … any or all or none of those things may be true, Your Highness.” Lady Marylis lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug, reaching for a honey-soaked pastry. “Who can say?”

  If there was an answer to that question, we did not learn it. Seizing the reins of the conversation, Queen Adinah guided it toward a more banal exchange. We learned about the games of chance Therinians favored, which involved carved dice or painted playing cards or anything on which one might conceivably wager; Lady Marylis inquired with roundabout discretion about the challenges involved in managing such a large household composed of members who did not age. All the royal women chuckled ruefully at the question and shared their favorite stories, some of which stretched back over centuries.

  It was toward the end of the visit when Marylis broached a more serious topic in her confounding manner. “Passing through the city today, I saw signs that the scourge of Miasmania has reached even Zarkhoum’s shores,” she said in a casual tone. “I trust you find it as delightful as we do in Therin.”

  “Miasmania?” Queen Adinah echoed in confusion. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Lady Cyrgilen laughed. “Oh, ’tis a term we coined to name the phenomenon. Perhaps you know it by another name, for we saw the black star painted on a number of walls. There was a small disturbance in Merabaht quite recently, was there not? We heard rumors.”

  I was not deceived; I suspected they knew exactly what had transpired. An attack on the royal entourage and the death of a crown prince of the House of the Ageless was not something that could be concealed. “You speak of those calling themselves the Children of Miasmus,” I said. “Have there been attacks in Therin? Mad Priests inciting people to violence?”

  “Oh, well.” Marylis waved a dismissive hand. “There has been some unpleasantness. Mad priests … you speak of the Harbingers of Doom, I imagine?” She shuddered. “Yes, we were graced with one such not six months ago. Such a tiresome fellow, always droning on about darkness rising to swallow the world.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Cyrgilen said complacently. “It made for an interesting change, don’t you think?”

  “You said one such,” I said to Lady Marylis. “Are there others? What do you know of these Harbingers?”

  She shrugged. “There are always ghastly rumors coming out of the west, aren’t there? Though I imagine you’ve been insulated from them here at the far end of the world. I suppose we might have had two if one counts the harbormaster. Do we count the harbormaster?” she asked her companion.

  “Well, I think the harbormaster deserves to be counted,” Cyrgilen replied judiciously. “If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t know that those industrious little parasites can take a new host and drive it just as mad as the first. I’m sure he’d be charmed to know his death wasn’t in vain.”

  “Can we not speak of more pleasant matters?” Zariya’s mother pleaded. “This ought to be a happy occasion.”

  Zariya and I exchanged a glance.

  “Ah, but there is an inquiry pending!” Marylis fixed me with her bright gaze. “And to my everlasting chagrin, I find myself forced once more to candor. Pahrkun’s child, I cannot tell you what I do not know. I believe the coursers of Obid are investigating the phenomenon, but if they have learned anything, I have heard nothing of it. We in Therin are as confounded by the Harbingers as everyone else beneath the starless sky.”

  “Though I’m sure it’s of absolutely no cause for concern whatsoever,” her companion added in a cheerful tone.

  Later, in Zariya’s chambers, we discussed the conversation at length, both of us frustrated by the opacity of its nature, neither of us coming to any satisfactory conclusion save that something was happening, and it seemed no one knew enough to piece together the puzzle. All I could do was hope that Vironesh would return from his sojourn to seek the coursers of Obid sooner than expected with answers in hand.

  And then three days after our meeting with the Therinian women, we received news that put the entire matter clear out of our minds.

  Anamuht the Purging Fire was emerging from the desert on a course toward Merabaht.

  A combination of exhilaration and panic gripped the city.

  King Azarkal gave Prince Dozaren leave to command the City Guard and rally the Fire Brigade, which had not been deployed for an entire generation; it seemed Anamuht’s infrequent ventures into Merabaht were not without their incendiary hazards. From what I could ascertain, Dozaren did a good job of preparing the city for her arrival, a fact that both reassured and galled me.

  “My darling, I think I need to be there,” Zariya said to me, her gaze strange and distant. “You’ve come face-to-face with the Scouring Wind and pledged your loyalty in a moment of perfect trust. Should your soul’s twin offer less to the Purging Fire? Whether Anamuht asks it of me or not, I would do the same.”

  I nodded. “Then you shall do so.”

  It was not as simple a matter as I had supposed, for by tradition no one save Sister Nizara and the senior priestesses were allowed to be present in the Garden of Sowing Time when the harvest was quickened. After a morning’s hurried negotiations, Sister Nizara combed through the temple’s archives. Although she found no precedent, she concluded that the tradition owed more to sensible precaution against theft than any edict uttered by Anamuht, and agreed to allow us into the garden.

  So it was that with Anamuht the Purging Fire bearing down upon the city, the Queen’s Guard escorted Zariya and me into the Garden of Sowing Time, lowering her litter beneath an awning of water-soaked leather that had been erected on the lowest tier.

  “Not here,” Zariya said, craning her neck and gazing toward the summit of the stepped mountain. “Keep going, please. We’ll make our stance on the uppermost tier.”

  Captain Tarshim didn’t respond to her request, glancing at the High Priestess instead.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Sister Nizara said firmly. “You’ll be safer here, Zariya.”

  Zariya pointed. “That’s exactly why I need to be there.”

  Sister Nizara hesitated, and I could see refusal gathering in her concerned frown. “You sought and found Anamuht in the high places, Elder Sister,” I said to her. “Even as I found Pahrkun in the deep desert. Now the Purging Fire comes because Zariya has obeyed her decree. Will you deny your sister the same chance?”

  She sighed and reached into a nearby tub to pull out a waterlogged piece of hide. “The rhamanthus burns as it quickens and falls,” she said in a grim tone. “Have a care, for her safety lies upon your head, chosen.”

  I accepted the hide. “Do you think I do not know that, Elder Sister?”

  Ignoring my rebuke, Sister Nizara carried on with her preparations, ordering buckets filled and placed around the perimeter of the temple. At Captain Tarshim’s command, the Queen’s Guard hoisted Zariya’s litter once more and made the arduous climb to the highest tier. I followed, carrying the dripping hide.

  “You’ll be on your own for the descent, Your Highness,” the captain warned Zariya as he assisted her out of the litter. “We won’t be allowed back into the garden until every last seed has been gathered and tallied.”

  “I know,” she said breathlessly. “Khai and I can manage. Oh, look!” Clutching my arm, she pointed toward a fiery glow on the eastern horizon. “She’s coming!”

  My pulse quickened. “I see.” I turned to Captain Tarshim. “We’ll be fine, thank you.”

  He gave me a wry salute. “I daresay you will.”

  The view from atop the summit was splendid and bizarre. The crowns of the rhamanthus trees on the lowest tier were on a level with us, forming a ring of vibrant green foliage, as though we stood at the center of some unearthly lagoo
n; the tall silver-grey trunks on the other levels stretched above us in concentric circles. We could not see the temple for the foliage, but the sprawling city far beneath us looked as small as a child’s toy in the distance.

  Zariya leaned on her canes, her gaze fixed eastward. As we watched, the glow resolved itself into a column of flame.

  Anamuht was coming.

  It happened faster than I would have reckoned, her great strides eating up vast amounts of ground. One moment it seemed the Purging Fire was a candle-flame in the distance, the next a blazing torch, the next a roaring bonfire; and then Anamuht crossed the River Ouris in a single stride and entered the city of Merabaht, a column of flame taller than a rhamanthus tree.

  Zariya hobbled to the edge of the tier and I followed her, the soaked hide in my arms.

  Beneath her robe of fire, Anamuht’s feet were bone-white and skeletal, each one as wide as a street and as long as a city block. She placed her bony feet with care, ascending the tiers of the city. The skirts of her fiery robes brushed against buildings, leaving a trail of sparks and igniting fires in her wake. We could hear faint shouts as members of the Fire Brigade raced behind her, tiny figures passing buckets from hand to hand.

  Closer and closer to the Garden of Sowing Time came Anamuht the Purging Fire, looming ever larger. My blood hammered in my veins and I could hear Zariya’s ragged breath.

  And then Anamuht was there, her flame-veiled face framed by the tallest of the silvery trunks on the upper tiers. Were the flames a veil or her face itself? I rather thought it was the latter. The flames danced and shifted, crimson and gold, as expressive in their own way as human features. The heat blasted my skin and my mouth was as dry as the desert; as in Pahrkun’s presence, I had the urge to fling myself to the earth in prostration.

  But no, I had withstood that ordeal. I had endured the sting of serpent and scorpion; I bore the marks of Pahrkun’s favor on my cheeks. I was Zariya’s shadow, and my soul’s twin stood unwavering despite her canes, her face alight with a fearsome ecstasy.