Rosha sat tall in her chair, square-shouldered and square-jawed, her dark hair drawn back from even features. Her clothing was simple: a sleeveless blue leather jerkin bezainted with bronze, loose-legged trousers and high supple boots. She looked like a woman of gentle summer. Of olive groves, sun-dappled fields and lakes that shone as sharp as sword edges. Roshana smiled broadly, rising from her seat to take him in a warm embrace. Her companions likewise rose from their chairs: the elderly Poet Master Bensaharēn, layers of clothing elegantly arrayed on his slender frame, his high ponytail and braids plaited with the gold and gems of his commendations; the bookish Knight-General Maselane, scarred hands at odds with his gentle, soft features; and Danyūn, with his lamb’s wool hair and blue eyes, the southerner all hard planes of muscle in common warrior-caste clothing. Young for his post, the Näsarat’s Master of Spies was an accomplished operative of the Ishahayans, the Gnostic Assassins from the mountains beyond the Rōmarq. Only Mauntro, her commander of the Lion Guard, was absent. No doubt keeping the qadir secure.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Rosha said, gesturing for Indris to take a seat. He cast a casual glance around the room. Several maps lay on a nearby table, curled edges fluttering in the breeze. A large sheaf of parchments was weighed down by the small bust of Kohar, a general from antiquity who had helped develop some of the cavalry tactics still used today. Close by on a small writing table was more parchment, a scratched old ink-well and a ragged-looking ink brush. One of the maps had several sets of figures on it, representing troop movements across Shrīan.
“I’m afraid this is more about business,” he said. “How are you settling in as the Rahn-Näsarat?”
“Well enough,” she said, bravado masking uncertainty. She tapped her temple with two fingers. “Still coming to terms with everything my father is—was. Though you prepare for it, nobody ever tells you Awakening is so…”
“Breathtaking?”
“Violent.” She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair, more his cousin than the monarch of a Great House. “The imposition of so many thoughts. Aspirations, hopes, victories, defeats. Everything. It’s like several lives trying to fit with mine. Or take mine over.”
“You’ve survived the storm. Now you need to wait for the waters to settle.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “How are the household taking it?”
“Like they have a choice?” Rosha smiled to take the sting from her words. Bensaharēn and Maselane smiled small smiles, while Danyūn cocked an eyebrow. “My staff will be much as Father left it. Maselane will be my Master of Arms. Our relationship with the Gnostic Assassins of the Ishahayan is a long one, so Danyūn will stay on. Hopefully the conversations I’m having with Sayf-Ajomandyan will net me a new Sky Master, now that Far-ad-din and his Seethe aren’t with us.”
“And I’m looking to retire,” Bensaharēn said. The sun flared from his long white hair and short white beard. “But I will serve as Poet Master until we can appoint somebody new.”
“You always said Mari was your greatest—”
“Indris!” Rosha growled. “An Erebus as the Poet Master of the Lament? Be serious.”
“I suggested the same,” Bensaharēn pointed at Rosha. “See! She is the perfect choice. One of the best I have ever trained, now even more famous after her heroism at Amnon.”
“Not now, Bensa. Besides, what I really need at the moment is a Lore Master!” Rosha’s expression was frustrated. “The Sēq have not responded to my request.” She looked at Indris critically. “You served my father, Indris, and I’d have you with me.”
“I advised Ariskander as and when I could, Rosha,” Indris said gently. “But my path is elsewhere.”
“You’re family and you have an obligation.” Her voice was hard, with echoes of older rahns long dead. Family. Was he, though? Indris was reminded of Ariskander’s words. My sister was a vessel, one who willingly accepted her great burden. Your mother risked all when she sent you forward… Rosha continued, “As your rahn I expect you to serve the Näsarat, in whatever capacity I deem best.”
Indris ignored this, and instead took Femensetri’s list from his satchel. He gave it to Rosha, who did not so much as glance at it. “Has your Master of Spies told you the Imperialist Exiles have returned to Avānweh?”
“Old news,” Danyūn said. “They returned today, via wind-frigates from Tanis.”
Indris pointed to the list. “The real leaders, the ones you need to worry most about, arrived via faster wind-skiffs over the last couple of days, no doubt to make their plans in secret.”
“What makes you so certain?” Maselane raised a ceramic teacup to his lips and sipped. The sea-patterned glaze shone against his dark fingers and rough nails.
“It’s what I’d do. If the key leaders of the Exiles haven’t been seen yet, it’s because they don’t want to be. Were I them, I’d be in talks with fellow Imperialists to stake my claim before the others can. Corajidin will be looking for new friends.”
Rosha pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded to Danyūn. The man shrugged and, without a word, left the room. Indris studied the feline way the man walked, the fluid grace, as he seemed to glide soundlessly from the room.
“Indris,” Rosha began tentatively, “myself and the other Federationists have been discussing our options. After the events at Amnon, Shrīan is in something of a predicament. We lost many experienced leaders, my father and Far-ad-din of the Din-ma Troupe notwithstanding. We need help stabilising the country.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Indris said.
Rosha sat straight in her chair. The cousin was gone. The rahn remained. “The Federationists agree we need your talents. Shrīan is divided. The Iron League threatens more war. We risk losing the Conflicted Cities. We need to reward you for past services so you have the authority to do some real good.”
Indris bowed his head to hide his apprehension. “I appreciate the gesture but I’ve done more for less on Shrīan’s behalf over the years. I help from conscience, not coercion.”
“Title,” Maselane began, “lands, money, influence—”
Indris shook his head. “Have some. Don’t need more. There’re plenty of people who could do some real good with what you offer.”
“And we’re finding places for them,” she said, frustrated. “They want it. You don’t. You respect power and I know first hand you’d not abuse it. You know what’s going on here!”
Indris took a deep breath as Rosha talked. He listened with part of his mind as his eyes lost their focus. The branches of the Possibility Tree were blurred at first. Shadowy images, like watercolor brushstrokes across his vision. Soon enough, individual branches began to take on shape. Causes illuminated effects as specific branches were limned in pallid light in his mind’s eye. Faction fighting between the Federationists and the Imperialists leading to more civil unrest; Far-ad-din deposed; Ariskander’s death; Vashne’s death and the return of the Exiles; a weakening of the Avān presence in the Conflicted Cities as the Exiles departed; the potential fall of Tanis to the Iron League; the greater probability the Iron League would turn their military might on Shrīan; the Imperialists using the threat of foreign invasion as leverage for their agendas—
“Indris?” Rosha asked. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
He blinked his eyes slowly. Allowed the room to come into focus as he scanned his recent memory. “You were offering me the estate of Irabiyat, on the borders of Tanis. You think a scholar ensconced there as its governor will be a deterrent. You also want me to keep an eye on the Sēq, expecting they’ll cooperate with me. I don’t think it’d make a lick of difference, one way or the other. If anything, the Sēq will not react well to me at all.”
“I also want you as the Lore Master of the Näsarat,” Rosha added. “Or you could become my Poet Master.”
“Not the perfect choice, but far from a bad one,” Bensaharēn said.
“I’m not that good a swordsman.” Indris shook his head. “And we
return to the Sēq. They’d have a collective stroke if I revealed their techniques to outsiders.”
“Once you were appointed the Sayf-Irabiyat—something I’ll do here and now—you could start your own Family.” Rosha strode across the room to her desk and sat. She took ink brush in hand.
“Rahn-Ariskander wanted Rahn-Roshana to marry Yago of the Näsaré, to strengthen your ties with your distant relations.” Maselane drummed his fingertips on his tea cup. “That’s out of the question now.”
“But”—Rosha added—“you could just as easily marry his older sister, Neva—”
“The lady I’m with is just fine.” Indris said with an embarrassed laugh. He remembered Neva from when they were children. A precocious tomboy, defiant and headstrong, always getting herself into trouble. Indris had liked her. He had heard she had grown to become a remarkable woman, the heir to Sayf-Ajomandyan—old Uncle Ajo—of Avānweh and the commander of his Sky Knights.
“Surely you don’t think your relationship with Mari has a future?” Rosha’s voice was harsh. “That she survived at Amnon was unexpected, some may say remarkable, but there’s no way the Teshri will allow a formal union between the two of you.”
“Neither Mari nor I are going to inherit anything meaningful.” His voice was calm, masking the anger that flared within. Rosha’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “An alliance between the Näsarat and the Erebus would strengthen our nation with no risk to the bloodlines. Quite the opposite. It might lessen some of the internecine friction between our Great Houses.”
Rosha shook her head. “You’d both become outcasts if you even tried. I won’t allow you to throw a beneficial alliance with the Sky Lord away, so you can play with your forbidden princess. Woo her, bed her, and then abandon her. There are better options for you.”
Indris took a deep breath in his search for patience. “Rosha, I’ll help you as best I can, but there are limits. I’ve been down that road with the Sēq, the Crown, and the State, and it didn’t work out well for anybody, least of all me. Leaving Shrīan again wouldn’t be such a hardship.”
“Would you make an exile of Mari as well?” Maselane asked, surprised. “The woman almost died to regain our trust. You need to respect what she did to remain part of what we’re trying to build.”
“There are plans for her future as much as there are plans for yours.” Rosha rubbed her hands together, as if her saying it made it so. “Easier for you both to end it now, before it cuts too deep. Trust me. I know.”
Mari. Would she want to be part of the life being offered him, or the one he wanted for himself? She was the daughter of a Great House, only recently come into her independence. Indris would not have been surprised if she had been offered lands and titles of her own, given her very public display of heroism in Amnon. He could not make any choice that impacted her, without talking to her about it first. To work out their future was one of the reasons he was here.
Thinking of Mari brought back memories. Tenderness. Peace. Passion gladly given and just as gladly shared. The beginning of something Indris had not thought he would experience again, or at least certainly had not planned on experiencing more than once.
Indris turned to look through the glass doors to where his friends waited. A smile quirked his lips at seeing Hayden throw his hands up, no doubt at something Omen said. Shar and Ekko almost doubled over with laughter.
“Well?” Rosha snapped. “Are you going to do what we need of you?”
Indris paused for a moment before he replied.
“What you want and what you need are two very different things. If Mari, my other friends, or I can’t enjoy a place without your threats and agendas, then you’ve nothing to offer. Let me know when you’re willing to listen, rather than talk.”
He had his hand on the door when there came a swirl of used disentropy across his soul, like inhaling old smoke. It was followed by the sound of a colossal explosion somewhere in the city below.
“BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS ARE INEXTRICABLE. WE BEGIN SOMETHING NEW, BECAUSE SOMETHING HAS ENDED WE EITHER NO LONGER NEED, OR IT NO LONGER NEEDS US. OFTEN, WE NEED TO EMPTY THE CUP OF OUR BELIEFS TO SEE HOW NECESSARY CHANGE IS.”
From Climbing From the Top of the Mountain, by Kobaqaru, Zienni Magnate to the Serpent Princes of Kaylish (490th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 347 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
As Mari leaned against the rooftop balcony rail of Nanjidasé, the fortress of the Feyassin in Avānweh, she looked down at the sheaf of canvas flapping in the breeze. It had been a while since she had drawn anything. Slender lengths of charcoal, pointed, chisel-edged, and blunt lay in an old box, the varnish on the edges worn pale with use. The box—once her mother’s—sat alongside old jars of pigment, used brushes, and a small bowl of water and a pestle for mixing. She knew the same nervous thrill she remembered when about to embark on a new project, wondering how her hands would render what her eyes saw and heart felt.
Mari mixed the pigments and water to make her ink. Took a brush in her hand, closed her eyes. Exhaled. When she opened them again the image was beautiful and clear, which she rendered in sure strokes on the canvas.
The mass of World Blood Mountain seemed to lean over her in the gathering dusk. Silhouettes bustled along nearby streets, past the lantern-lit windows of artisans and vendors. Students from the Habron-sûk, the Heron School of warrior-poets, walked in a small group, long spears across their shoulders, swords at their hip and shields slung on their backs. Memories of her training at The Lament tugged at her. Of long days, short nights, pleasure, pain, and dreams. Always the dreams. Of greatness and glory. Of being a name to ring true amongst the line of heroes who had come before.
The long held breath of the day was preternaturally deep as it exhaled into evening. Mountain shadows were razor edged, vermillion hued, and sharp against an indigo sky marbled with streaks of yellow cloud. It was as if the light had been frozen, reflected from the red orange stones of the city and the mountains into which it was carved. Hard shadows framed townhouses that seemed to thrust themselves from the terraced rock, or pooled around the base of the city where it rose and fell in valleys and foothills.
Mari set down her brush as the sun rolled behind the mountain, and shadows fell in a silent avalanche. The tiny sparks of lanterns ignited across Avānweh. It was if somebody had scattered bright chips of amber, sapphire, and diamond across a rumpled charcoal quilt. The temperature dropped sharply. Mari folded her arms across her chest, shivering. In thirteen days autumn would come. It would be a new year. With a new Asrahn and the relentless anvil of summer only a vaguely remembered nostalgia as the new world turned and hopefully both tempers and the country cooled with autumn.
It seemed an age since she had last been at Nanjidasé. Some of the greatest warriors of her people had lived within these walls. Had trained in its wide courtyard. Meditated under its arched colonnades, in its sculpted gardens, or under its domes with their mosaic ceilings.
So much history. Her affair with Indris. Vashne’s death. Her defiance of her Great House and its legacy. Estrangement from her father and brother. Nazarafine’s offer to command the Feyassin. Indris had spoken to her of his encounter with Belam, how Thufan had taken revenge. Indris did not know whether Belam had survived, though Mari was sure if her brother had died the world would have known of it. History. What was it Indris had said to her? The ripples of today were stones in the waters of yesterday. We form our truths from the facts of what’s gone before. You can’t separate what was from what is. You can only change what will be.
So here she was. Ready to try for a new tomorrow where her yesterdays did not matter so much. Today was her new beginning. Too many pebbles had been cast into the pond for her to see clearly. Everything was ripples, the mirror of her life distorted—
Danger lashed her senses.
Mari threw herself sideways. Sparks flew as the blade meant for her back struck the railing where she had stood. She let momentum carry h
er. Rolled smoothly to her feet.
There were three cowled figures. They wore dark, tight-fitting short coat over trousers bound with cord about the legs. Their exposed skin had been blackened, as had the blades of their long curved knives. Spread out, they approached on silent feet.
“You’ve some stones on you,” she admitted. “But no brains.”
The assassin on the left sped forward. A blur in the gloom. Mari stepped within the arc of her enemy’s arm. Grasped the wrist. Twisted savagely. Smashed an elbow into the assassin’s jaw. Caught the knife, which fell from their hand before it hit the ground. The assassin came again. Using his momentum, Mari blocked; folded her hand down. Grasped the assassin’s wrist and elbow. Spun. Propelled the assassin over the high railing into the empty air. The assassin tumbled soundlessly into the darkness.
“Look what you’ve done.” Mari tapped the long-knife against her thigh. Smiled lopsidedly. “Now I’ve got a knife, too.”
The assassin to the right approached more cautiously, one knife extended before them, the other obscured behind. After the first frenetic pass of steel, Mari danced back. Weapons rang against each other. Steel scraped. She kept her assailant between herself and the third assassin, who tried to circle behind her. Pride warred with common sense and lost.
“Assassins on the rooftop!” Mari bellowed as a knife scored her ribs. Hopefully somebody heard her shout. She bared her fangs in a snarl. Her own blade bounced from some kind of armor beneath the assassin’s hooded robe. The shudder in her wrist and forearm told her it was metal. All she had was a sleeveless jerkin and kilt.
Mari found herself forced back to the railing. Knives flashed in the jade-tinted moonlight. Fists pummelled. Feet lashed. Knees struck. Shins and forearms slammed against each other. She focussed on her breathing. On remaining calm. On moving. Always moving, to face one opponent at a time.
The Obsidian Heart Page 3