Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  Jessa stepped a bit farther and went to a knee beside Hinsa, the panther’s purr low in tone but loud in volume as it moved with a purpose into the air around them. The nearest horses shied away, and Jessa put a hand upon Hinsa’s back at the hard jangle of bridles and tack and voices seeking to soothe the animals. The cat leaned against her, and her purr shifted into a higher pitch.

  “Are you singing, Biscuit?” she asked in a whisper.

  The wall before them began to move and the thorns folded over upon their thick vines as they turned and rolled. The plant life pulled back of its own accord and bunched up as it rose along a wall of stone. Jessa could feel the majik around them and it was unlike any spell she herself had worked. It was ancient and beyond her current knowledge and her blood raced with excitement despite her fears.

  “It’s her door,” Bentley said as he entered the clearing. His voice was tired but filled with wonder nonetheless. “It’s Hinsa’s door.”

  Jessa pushed to her feet and looked over her shoulder.

  “I was here before, when we were children,” Bentley explained. “But it didn’t look like this. It was much different.”

  Jessa approached the threshold as Hinsa continued her song.

  There were two doors, actually, and though the wood was dark with moisture and heavy with age, Jessa could still see the wrought-iron hinges that only a man could make. She reached out as a harvest of ivy leaves floated down from the canopy above.

  The metal handles were cool to the touch and with a deep breath, she pulled.

  The hinges groaned as she backed up and a vine snapped above her head, caught upon the edge of the wood. Darry’s Boys approached one by one and stood upon the edge of the stone terrace, crowded together as Jessa let the doors swing wide.

  Jessa raised her right hand and a dozen sparks of witchlight rolled from her fingertips into the darkness beyond the doors like a small army of fireflies.

  The trees and undergrowth of the Menath Forest lit up in a ghostly manner, the sounds of the Green Hills alive around them. Hinsa brushed past Jessa’s skirt and leaped through the gateway with a growl that turned into a satisfied scream.

  Jessa spun and faced her companions. “We are at the Green Hills.”

  “Darry’s land.” Bentley smiled. “This is nearly a hundred leagues from Blackstone.”

  Hinsa growled from beyond the doors and watched them, impatient as she waited.

  “We all go through the doors,” Jessa ordered, her tone not without sympathy for their anxious, stunned expressions. “We follow Hinsa as Darry wanted. She will find us a place to camp. Darry’s wounds must be seen to, and we must have a place to stay until she can travel more easily.” And so went her hope, as it lifted to the pinnacle of her love and held on.

  “I’m not tired, my Lady,” Jemin replied in his deep voice. “The captain does not weigh much. But a feather, really, in my arms.”

  Jessa smiled at him with affection, surprised by his crisp and elegant accent. He had come from Artanis and she could hear it. “Thank you, Jemin.”

  “All right, in a line, my brothers,” Bentley ordered as he tightened the silken nightshift that was wrapped about his wounded hand. “Jemin, you and Darry follow the Lady, and stay close. You too, Arkady.” Bentley looked to the others. “Let’s go, lads.”

  Jessa let Jemin cross over the threshold first, and then she followed, taking a single step that stretched a hundred leagues.

  *

  The scarred woman looked down at Darry and smiled. “You should look around before you go,” she suggested.

  Darry was wonderfully warm and sinfully comfortable right where she was. “What about my surprise?”

  “You will have to come back for it.”

  Darry blinked several times and then frowned. “I’m not climbing this rock again.”

  The scarred woman chuckled with delight. “That’s what I said, too. But here I am again. I have made this climb at least thirty times now.”

  “Then I feel I should tell you that you’ve chosen a very unwise pursuit.”

  “Yes,” the woman said with a glorious smile, her eyes alight with amusement. “Essa, but my Akasha must love you to the ends of the world and back again.” She touched Darry’s forehead. “Do not forget to rest,” she whispered. “I always forgot, and it did me very little good.”

  Darry felt the rock shift beneath her, and she closed her eyes as her stomach lurched.

  *

  Jessa stood within the depths of the Menath Forest and watched as the hedgerows and ivy devoured the doors. Vines of thorn and branches of yew cracked and split loudly as Hinsa’s portal vanished and disappeared into the soft earth. The ground shook beneath her feet and she put her arms out for balance as she stumbled backward.

  The fertile smell of earth and moss filled the air, and the undergrowth crawled across the ground, turning over rocks and sprouting new leaves. A fallen branch popped from the center outward, and Jessa took another step back as bark flew several feet into the air.

  The air around her changed and the smell of singed wood was sharp within her nose.

  And then she saw the runes, rising like smoke as they burst through the dirt and lifted into the air. As bright as witchlight they flared in the night as if the quill of a god had written them on the air, a work of great art that was only meant to last until the wind devoured them.

  Despite her excitement, Jessa’s mind took the runes in, wrapping around them as quickly as she could. The curves and the descending swirls. The edges that faded, and the edges that were as sharp as a blade. She had not seen this intricate language before, but as the runes were blown gently into the trees of the forest around them, she knew she would see it again.

  As the normal rythmns of the Menath returned and the earth became still, nothing remained but a small hillock and the tangled roots of a fallen oak tree.

  Jessa turned around slowly and the night was alive as the stars flashed above the treetops. There was only the scent of wild things and the sounds of their passage as Darry’s Boys pushed on through the undergrowth.

  “My Lady,” Jemin whispered and looked up from his burden with a smile.

  Jessa’s heart lurched wildly at his expression, and she moved in a rush, a handful of quilt thick within her fist but a moment later. “Akasha?”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The sweetness of the wine was almost too great, despite the aftertaste that left a touch of sour upon the tongue. The grapes had been harvested too soon for his liking, and though he was thirsty, he did not wish for more of the same.

  Lord Almahdi de Ghalib waited for the servant to advance around the table.

  The sun poured into the council chamber like an anvil of heat, and he felt each movement with an acute awareness. Beneath the layers of his white thawb, embroidered vest, and ceremonial robe, his tunic should feel softer. He knew it was soft. His first wife had made it for him thirty years ago. It could not be anything but soft, at this point.

  She had been so very beautiful that at times his mind could not comprehend it. Asha-Aman she was called, named so for the music of the flowers that only bloom within the rain. Her long, straight hair had been as black as the Solstice moon and just as mysterious. He had not encountered the same scent since her death, nor had he known it before she had come into his life. She had brought it with her when her father had presented her before the elders of his family.

  The smell of wildflowers and sweet peppers, the scent of her hair, had tamed the unbearable heat of one of the worst summers Lyoness had ever known. The aroma had been like the spice within the shama paste served with fresh, ripe tomatoes and milk bread. Or at least, this was how he remembered it. He could not eat sweet peppers any longer. The scent would overwhelm all other thoughts within his mind.

  He would remember lying naked upon the tangled sheets of his bed, with Asha draped across his body as they both tried to breathe within the heavy heat. Most nights, the moon would sneak in through the terrace
and steal what it could while they spent their passion regardless of all other concerns. She would draw pictures upon his skin, her finger dipped in the moisture of their sweat as they waited for even the slightest breeze upon the errant moonlight. She would sing quietly while he laughed and told her to stop.

  He would drift within his memories while the flavors of his dinner lingered heavy upon his tongue, his eyes filled with thoughts of his lost love. So his second wife no longer served him sweet peppers.

  He pushed the fringed ends of his kaffiyeh back over his left shoulder and considered whether he should have worn it at all. It was tradition in the province of Lahaba-Sha to wear the fringed blue headdress at all formal functions, but at the moment, it only served to make him more uncomfortable.

  The servant moved at his left, and he put his hand over the mouth of his cup. “Not this. Bring me something sweet. Sweet like the honey wine from the north.”

  The servant bowed and moved away at once.

  His youngest son had loved honey. All things he would eat with it, even fruit. Once upon an age, his cellars had been stocked with many bottles of the sweetest vintage known in Lyoness, a light, fruited wine that could make your heart race if you drank too much.

  On the twentieth anniversary of his marriage to Asha-Aman, their last boy had taken his first sip. It had been a source of much laughter that day, for the boy had been determined to consume every drop he could find. It will temper him as a man, Asha had said with a smile. He shall be sweet and beautiful, and great words shall tumble from his tongue. He shall entice the women to his side with even the worst of poems, from such honeyed lips.

  He looked up as the servant reappeared eyed and the cool pitcher beaded with moisture as his cup was filled.

  He took up his wine and tasted it with a full swallow.

  His eyes closed upon the flavor, for it was as he remembered. It was full and sweet and yet not so heavy upon the tongue that one could not indulge. It whispered of the papaya fruit as well as the fat, purple grapes of Hooba province. It was as familiar to him as a kiss from one of his children.

  Taste it, Father. His son had smiled as he set a rare glass goblet upon the table. The boy-turned-man had been gone for many months upon a great and mysterious journey, for he had told no one of its true purpose. I have bought the vineyard farm, just as my good brothers have suggested. His vineyard had turned a heavy profit and made the honey-tongued young man into a noble of significant influence.

  Almahdi sat back in his chair and took his goblet with him. His left hand pulled upon the rough thread of his vest as he shifted his shoulders.

  “Lord de Ghalib?”

  Lord Almahdi de Ghalib, First Warden and Lord of Lahaba-Sha Province looked across the table and narrowed his eyes so they might focus. He recognized the angular shape of the face and the pale green of the kaffiyeh. “Lord Shinza.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “It is hot.”

  “Yes, but are you well?”

  “I am well, Lord Shinza,” Almahdi replied and tipped his head in acknowledgment of the concern. “It is hot.”

  “The rains have treated Lahaba-Sha well, I hope?”

  Almahdi gave a sigh and lifted his cup. The bouquet of the wine filled his senses and, in his mind’s eye, he watched his oldest son upon his first horse. Asha had sipped a sweet cup of a similar vintage as they had watched, and his left shoulder felt the ghostly weight of her presence as if she still leaned against him at her leisure. The mare had been gentle but with enough spirit so that Nasir might learn properly how to take command of his mount.

  “Lord de Ghalib?”

  “Yes,” Almahdi answered and then savored another sip. “Forgive an old man, my friend. The rains have been good. Our wells are full and our cattle graze upon the fine summer grass.”

  Lord Shinza smiled and his teeth broke the mask of his dark skin, though Almahdi could not see the expression within his eyes. “Good. This pleases me. We should talk trade before you travel south.”

  “Yes,” Almahdi agreed.

  “Enough.”

  The quiet talk about the long table ceased at once and all eyes looked to King Abdul-Majid de Bharjah. The servants set their trays upon the opposite end of the table and bowed as they backed away. Well practiced in their retreat, they moved as quickly as possible until they disappeared into the shadows.

  Dressed in a pale gold robe, Bharjah sat within his deep chair and cast his gaze along the men about his table as the rings upon his right hand clicked against the stony gray Tarsem wood. It was not the Jade Throne, but it was a replica in shape, if not size. The pikes that rose from the crest of the backpiece were infamous, for Bharjah’s search for the perfect gems of jade had long ago turned ruthless.

  “I have received news from Arravan,” Bharjah informed them, “about my daughter, the Princess Jessa-Sirrah.”

  Queen Jhannina’s daughter, Almahdi acknowledged, and the beauty of Jhannina’s long-ago face filled his vision.

  He had seen Queen Jhannina but a few times during her short reign, and always he had felt her kindness. He had even spoken with her once, at the fete to celebrate Sylban-Tenna’s victory over the Obi River tribes, though briefly, before Bharjah seized her away. She had taken his hand and blessed his fallen sons by name.

  Jhannina’s daughter was even lovelier, and her obvious innocence as to her father’s darkness only made her more compelling. He had heard her sing once, though he could not recall where or why she had done so. She was aptly named for her skill.

  Almahdi looked slowly and with care about the table, and he could feel how the energy had shifted at the mention of the late queen’s only child.

  “My daughter is the heart of my kingdom and well loved by all, is she not?” Bharjah asked simply.

  “Yes, my Lord King!”

  Almahdi could not tell whose voices had spoken up, for there were many about the table from all the provinces of Lyoness. They spoke the truth, however, for the Nightshade Lark was well loved. She was the living symbol of her mother, and though she would never rule from the Jade Throne, she gave them hope. Somehow, in some unexplainable fashion, her presence had given them back their dreams for the future.

  “As you all know, she was sent to Arravan in hopes of a marriage between their Crown Prince and the Jade Throne,” Bharjah announced. “A mission of peace, and one of—”

  “Your daughter deserves so much better,” Almahdi interrupted and Bharjah was silenced by the intrusion, “than a snake such as he is.”

  No one moved and not a further word was spoken. The punishment was great for such an offense and Almahdi knew that it was forbidden. The heat seemed to increase within the room and several Lords shifted in their chairs as the silence became uncomfortable. Almahdi did not know who moved, but a seat groaned as someone’s weight shifted.

  “Almahdi, my old friend,” Bharjah called down the table. “You have something to say?”

  Almahdi sat forward and savored another swallow of his wine before he set his cup upon the table. “Arravan is a green country, my Lord King.”

  “What is that old fool still doing here?” Sylban-Tenna asked upon his father’s right as he leaned back in his chair. “He drinks more wine than Rasul-Rafiq.”

  Bharjah laughed and a response was given within seconds, those gathered obliged to join him. Even Lord Shinza laughed and Almahdi did not fault him for it.

  Almahdi let out a breath of his own amusement and turned in his chair as he looked down the length of the table. “The Nightshade Lark is most beautiful,” he said, and his voice was tinged with a peculiar humor. Almahdi reached into one of the pockets of his robe. “It is odd that you mention her, for I brought these gifts.” He coughed to clear his throat as he set the jade next to his cup. “They were to be in honor of her return home.”

  Bharjah leaned forward in his chair.

  “Almahdi,” Lord Shinza said in a shocked voice. “Where did you find such stones?”

  “Bles
sed be Hamranesh!” Lord Ibish-Dega stood and leaned over the table in order to have a better view. “They are the size of acorn apples!”

  “Bring them here, Lord Almahdi,” Bharjah said firmly. “Bring them to me now.”

  Almahdi took up the jade and leaned heavily against the table as he rose to his feet, the huge stones held awkwardly in his right hand. He shoved his seat back with his left leg and sidestepped free of his neighbor’s chair. His feet shuffled and his left shoulder hung down slightly, though neither of these suggestions of old age and long-ago war wounds was entirely the truth.

  Bharjah sat forward upon the edge of his chair as Almahdi approached, his eyes fierce upon the stones. “Put them on the table.”

  Almahdi set the stones before his king and stood closer than he ever had before to the man responsible for the death of his children.

  “Essa ahbwalla!” Bharjah hissed as he held a stone within each hand. “Where did you find these?”

  “I have another, my Lord King.”

  Bharjah laughed with joy as he held the gems to the sun and they flared with brilliance. His face was flushed with excitement. “Then you are more foolish than your useless sons ever were. Give it over.”

  Sylban-Tenna’s eyes were filled with envy as he stared at the finely cut jade.

  Almahdi leaned over as he reached within his embroidered vest. The thread was crooked and the seams were rough. Asha-Aman would not have been pleased by the lack of artistry.

  “And tell me where you found them,” Bharjah commanded as he turned the jewels within the light. A sudden frown creased his brow. “Why are they not more heavy?”

  Almahdi could smell the sickly odor of Bharjah’s sweat, and he smiled as his hand came free of the vest he had never liked. “Nasir. Amjad. Haddad and Jal-Kadir. These were the names of my sons,” Almahdi whispered close to Bharjah’s ear.

  One of the jewels slipped from Bharjah’s fingers and hit the edge of the table before it fell to the smooth marble floor and shattered into a thousand pieces of glass.