Corajidin nodded, though his joy was momentarily soured by the knowing curl of the Emissary’s lips. Then excitement waxed. He felt a thrill run through him at the thought of having his golden son with him once more. Almost against his will he looked at Kasraman with his high cheekbones, angular features, glacial blue eyes, and dark hair, and was reminded of the man’s mother. Laleh of the Ars-Izrel was the daughter of a long line of powerful witches, their ancestral holdings near to the borders of the Immortal Empire. Kasraman was his mother’s child; more like Wolfram, both students of the Esoterics. Both steeped in the moonlight and shadows of all they had learned, seen, and done. Belamandris and Mariam were children of the sun. Of summer days, warm oceans, and brightness. Of cleaner and more honorable methods.
“Corajidin,” Jhem rumbled, “why do you need more witches? We’ve brought our own. I’ve seen what Sanojé and her allies can do. Believe me when I say it’s impressive. Between those we brought with us, the Angothic witch, plus your own son—”
“You’re dealing with the tidal pull of the Well of Souls, and energies best left undisturbed by the uninitiated.” The Emissary’s tone was scornful.
“Are you initiated?” Kimi asked, leaning forward, lips parted with avarice. Wolfram stepped closer to the young woman. Jhem watched the exchange, gaze frigid.
“Trust me when I say there are forces you’re best left ignorant of,” the Emissary’s tone was introspective. “And they’re best left ignorant of you. With care, Belamandris will rise again before the sun sets.”
Jhem leaned over to whisper something to his son. Nadir smiled, bowed to Corajidin, then left the room on cat-quiet feet. Within a few moments he returned, leading four soldiers carrying a large brass urn engraved with tigers, serpents, and flowers. With careful hands they placed the urn—which came to their thighs—on the marble floor. Jhem waved the soldiers away then indicated for Nadir to lift the lid.
“In the spirit of rising again.” Jhem bowed low, as did his son, “I present this to you as a sign of my allegiance, as well as my faith in your vision. I hope this marks the beginning of even closer ties between us.”
Corajidin’s breath caught in his throat. Gold ingots. Polished gems. Rings. A rahn’s ransom in precious metals and stones glittered and shone. Though it was not as much as he had spent on the Amnon campaign, it was a staggering amount of wealth.
“And the other Exiles who’ve sworn themselves to you come equally burdened with their tithe, my rahn,” Nadir smiled.
“How much is in there?” Kasraman whispered.
“Upwards of three million Shrīanese sovereigns,” Nadir said.
“And a beautiful thing it is,” Corajidin murmured, though his mind reeled at the idea of so much wealth in his hands once more. Transfixed, he let coins and gems trickle between his fingers in a shimmering, jangling rain. If all the exiles were so wealthy he would be able to settle his debts with Teymoud and the Mercantile Guild and have a fortune to spare. Let the grey-skinned leech choke on his coins. Corajidin looked forward to no longer hanging by the hooks of his debts. He turned to his allies. “We still have much to do, my friends. Let us hope you are as generous with your deeds, as you are with your money.”
He looked at the Emissary.
“But first and foremost, I would have my son returned to me.”
The walls of the rough cave deep within the Qadir Erebus were inscribed with lines of graceful, flowing glyphs. The irregular dome of the ceiling was covered with a mosaic of small, reflective silver tiles that shone from the afterglow of strong lights. The air was hot. It was redolent of sulphur, bitumen, and burned skin. Corajidin covered his mouth and nose, swallowing the urge to vomit.
A near naked Belamandris lay in a shallow horizontal cylinder of fluid, filled with bright motes that floated about him. He had been there for almost two hours. Metallic bands encircled the cylinder, making it the axle of a reflective wheel. The wheel was of a ring of long, rough-edged mirrors of polished gold. They spun around him like a broken wall, the wheel losing momentum with each second. Great gears spun slowly, their loud clunking sound dwindling as they came to a stop. At the head of the cylinder, tall metal coils and slivers of jagged crystal were thrust into a large bronze disk balanced on its edge. Faint sparks and traceries of lightning coiled in the charred air.
The Emissary stood by the device, hooded head bowed with fatigue. Kasraman and Wolfram were nearby, hair plastered to their skulls with sweat. Beside Wolfram kneeled a rapt Kimiya, eyes wide with adoration for the Angothic Witch, a broad metal collar around her slender neck. Corajidin scowled at the memory of Wolfram’s last apprentice, Brede. Killed by Indris, he had wondered sometimes whether the Dragon Eye had done Brede a favour. To know Kimiya was now the object of Wolfram’s attention made him worry for the young woman. He wondered what Jhem would say, or do, when he realized exactly what his daughter would be pursuing behind the closed doors of Wolfram’s chambers.
Once the wheel of mirrors came to a complete stop, the Emissary stepped forward to examine Belamandris. Corajidin shuffled closer, eyes only for his son. In the image of the greatest of the Avān, Belamandris was a sculptor’s dream of perfectly formed limbs, golden curls, and sun-brushed skin. His handsome face was refined in repose. His chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths. The only flaw was the ruby clot of blood that remained at the base of his throat, which no amount of cleansing could remove. A wound of hatred and vengeance, the Emissary had once called it. Thufan’s final treachery, where he had shot Belamandris in the throat with a poisoned bolt.
The Emissary whispered softly to Belamandris as she worked. She ran her hands over corded muscle. Listened to Belamandris’s chest. Peeled back the man’s heavy lids to reveal the blue eyes beneath. Wolfram lurched across the room, supported by Kimiya on one side and his witch’s staff on the other. The Emissary looked over her shoulder at Corajidin.
“My son?”
“He’ll not remember some of what happened,” the Emissary said as she chewed a dried black lotus petal. She had regained some of her vigour after eating and drinking, as had Kasraman and Wolfram. They sat in a small reception room, a circular affair with half the walls given over to floor to ceiling windows of frosted glass. Late afternoon rain pattered, leaving long tear tracks on the glass. The room smelled of beeswax and leather.
“Why not?” Corajidin asked from the comforting depths of a couch. He asked his next question carefully, dreading the answer. “Will he be less than we was?”
“He’ll be unchanged,” Kasraman seemed almost boneless where he slouched amongst tapestry-fabric cushions.
“He will need to rest,” Wolfram said. “But in a short time, the Widowmaker will once more show his quality.”
“How much will he forget?” Corajidin asked.
“Only the events leading up to his, well, death.” Wolfram stood, his hand on Kimiya’s shoulder. Those old, long fingers kneaded the fabric of her coat like she was property. “We won’t know until we’ve had the chance to speak with him to see what he remembers.”
“My thanks to you.” Corajidin breathed the words. He looked to his other son and smiled. “All of you. If it is in my power to give, ask and it shall be yours. But for now would you please leave me? I would speak with Belamandris and share with my son all we have achieved during his sleep. I will be telling him things that I will need you to support should he ask anything of you. Am I understood?”
The others bowed, then left. Corajidin was not waiting long before there was a knock at the keyhole door. He lifted himself to his feet, smoothing his over-robe, face split into an involuntary grin. He gave permission to enter.
Belamandris looked hale in his formal layers of red and black. His vermillion over-robe was set with hundreds of polished horse-heads carved from black onyx. The light lingered on his golden hair and made the blue of his eyes preternaturally bright. He smiled as Corajidin opened his arms, then came into his father’s embrace. Looking into his son’s eyes, he was taken aback
by the cerulean depths of them, a blue so like Mariam’s eyes, yet unfathomable and somehow… void.
For the next hour Corajidin told Belamandris all that had happened since Amnon, watching his son’s expressions travel from horror to humour. Shock to pride. He deflected the questions about Mariam. Steered the conversation where it wanted to go. A clock in a nearby room rang out with the five chimes of the Hour of the Dragon. Corajidin looked up at the windows, noting the dying light as the sun dropped behind the towering snow-capped spear of Mar-Asrafah.
“Father?” Belamandris asked. He was looking at his hands, seemingly bewildered by them. He looked up and the light reflected from the backs of his eyes as if he were a cat, the effect vanishing almost immediately.
“What is it?”
“Can you tell me what happened to me? I remember being at the villa on the Huq am’a Zharsi in Amnon. We were leaving, I think. I’m not sure. There are fragments…”
Corajidin paused for a moment. He had been waiting for this question, wondering what he would say when it came up. There was no guile in his son’s gaze. Nothing that indicated he was testing his father in any way. Now the question was out in the open Corajidin knew he had to use what gifts the fates lay at his feet. Feigning hesitation, he leaned forward in his chair to lay his hands on Belamandris knees. His son leaned back, apprehensive.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Do you think I want to know?”
Corajidin nodded, as if acknowledging the wisdom of his son’s question. “We were escaping from the villa when Näsarat fa Amonindris attacked us. You went to our aid and showed him mercy. Your great soul was almost your undoing. He attacked me. Killed Thufan.”
“I don’t remember…”
“Because Indris attacked you, after you had released him on his word of honor. My son, he stabbed you in the throat and left you to die in front of me.”
Belamandris’s face stiffened with a barely constrained rage. He gripped the thick wooden arms of the chair. The warrior-poet breathed deeply, eyes closed. When he opened them they bored into Corajidin’s.
“Where is he now, this oath-breaker and would-be murderer?”
“Here, in Avānweh, spreading his lies to keep your sister from us. Son, I need your help now more than ever.”
“It’s a dangerous road you follow.” The Emissary had been waiting outside as a fuming Belamandris had stalked out of the room. “It won’t take much for Belamandris to discover the truth.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “Almost every person who witnessed what happened is dead, or so far away as to make little difference. Belamandris has been returned to me. Now he will be unleashed as an instrument of retribution.”
“As you will.”
Wolfram came to him with Sanojé in tow. The two talked quietly as they approached, the expression on Sanojé’s doll face timid.
“Your Majesty,” Wolfram said with a respectful nod of his head. “As to your request to find Yashamin’s murder, Sanojé and I—”
“Can you do it, witch?” Corajidin towered over the small woman, who stood her ground. Corajidin resisted the urge to smile his approval for her courage.
“It can be done, my rahn, but don’t you want to know—”
“I do not care how, little one. I only care it is done. Succeed and your future in Shrīan, or Tanis, or wherever you choose is assured.”
Wolfram held up a gnarled hand. “Please, you should hear what Sanojé proposes before agreeing to her methods.”
“Will they work?”
“Almost certainly,” Wolfram said, “but—”
“Then there is nothing more to discuss.”
“As you will, Your Majesty.” Both witches bowed their heads before leaving Corajidin alone in the dark with his thoughts.
The counsellors of the Teshri cried out across the floor or the Tyr-Jahavān. They reminded Corajidin of seagulls, squabbling over scraps. Counsellors, in their formal white cassocks and over-coat, flapped their arms as much as they flapped their jaws. In a rare moment of whimsy he wanted to throw food at them to see whether they would fight for it.
The great amphitheatre of the Tyr-Jahavān ascended in tiers beneath the massive dome above. The dome was rendered with a mosaic of the six seals of the original Great Houses who had authored the Declaration of Federation almost five hundred years before. There was the black and red horse rampant of the Erebus; the golden sunburst of the Sûn; the armoured silver and jade crab of the Kadarin; the white wyvern of the Dar-See At; the golden lion of the Selassin on its field of green; and the sapphire and golden flames and phoenix of the Näsarat. Looking upward he could almost feel the weight of all the stone and metal. In his mind he could hear the way the marble pillars groaned under the weight of the old ways, themselves born of rebellion against the Empress-in-Shadows. He wondered, if only for a moment, how much it might take for the whole thing to come crashing down.
On each tier sat pitted bronze spheres in lieu of chairs, each of them cast the day the Declaration of Federation had been inscribed into the pillars of the chamber. Corajidin knew from bitter experience he would never be comfortable sitting on the sphere. It was cold and hard. Had no support. Was easy to slide from if one did not balance well enough. The message in the spherical seats was clear: power is not meant to be comfortable. One could fall as easily as one could rise.
Historical essays, the dialectics of the great minds of Kayet Al Tham and Robaddin of the Hoje, the collected work of Sedefke—all spoke to the strength that came from challenging established thinking. The old ways had seen his people diminished in power and majesty. What was needed was a revival of the oldest ways, tempered with new sensibilities. A Mahj appointed by fate to sweep away the rubble and lead the Avān back to glory.
Padishin, the middle-aged Secretary-Marshall, rapped the metallic scabbard of his recurved dionesqa against the marble floor. With its scabbard tip on the floor, the pommel of the two-handed sword reached his shoulder. The senior official of both foreign and domestic affairs still looked more warrior than politician: tall, with a powerful physique and proud carriage. The way he gripped the hilt and scabbard of his weapon, as if ready to draw at any time, served as a reminder of the man’s history as a hero of the nation.
Once the room quieted Padishin nodded to Kiraj. The chief justice of Shrīan and leader of the Arbiter’s Tribunal was a slender, middle-aged man with a thick mop of red-brown hair. His tanned complexion and eyes, either blue or green, declared him an easterner from the Sûn Isles. He had in his hands a warrant with black, white, and grey ribbons affixed to the seal. Kiraj’s expression was calm as he surveyed the assembled counsellors, though there was a flicker of rage when his gaze lingered on Corajidin and Jhem.
“The Arbiter’s Tribunal met in a closed session.” Kiraj’s voice was stern and uncompromising, perfect for a man who epitomised the tenets of Avān law. Kiraj waited a few moments for silence in response to his opening statement. He lifted his chin and met Corajidin’s gaze with equanimity. Corajidin felt his blood run cold.
“No doubt,” Kiraj continued, “there are those among you who believe the justice system can be bought, or influenced. That we who safeguard the Avān way of life can be threatened. Let me assure you. You would be wrong.”
Corajidin leaned closer to Jhem in the chaos of shouts and applause that ensued. “I thought your son had taken steps to assure a result in my favour?”
“It is done as it was said it would… be done.” The Blacksnake’s eyes were dead as ever, yet he refused to hold Corajidin’s gaze.
He could almost feel the veins throbbing in his temples. “If I am formerly charged with any of these crimes, you will wish you had died in the filthy jungles of Tanis!”
Jhem shrugged indifferently as Corajidin turned his attention back to Kiraj.
“But today,” The Arbiter-Marshall held up the warrant, ribbons fluttering, “the justice system proved itself. Arbiters on the Tribunal suspected of being compromised
were removed from the judicial process, myself included.
“Rahn-Erebus fa Corajidin. Make your way to the floor.”
Corajidin bristled at the tone of command in Kiraj’s voice. Eyes darting left and right, he noted the positions of his allies and those of the Teshri guard, including the Feyassin. He planned his escape route with each step. From the corner of his eye he saw Nadir smiling. Part of him wanted to rush over and bite the handsome man’s throat out. Schooling his expression to calm, Corajidin came to stand eye to eye with Kiraj. Corajidin wondered whether in his failing condition he could utter his jadyé—his blood curse—to plague all those who had failed him.
Kiraj’s smile was bitter, one side of the man’s mouth lower than the other. He wore a tiara of perspiration. Corajidin stared, fascinated by the gleam of saliva along the man’s lower lip. The Arbiter-Marshall cracked the seal on the warrant with a hard jerking motion, as if he were snapping a neck. His expression was poised as he read the contents of the warrant to the gathered Teshri.
“We, the Arbiter’s Tribunal of Shrīan, find insufficient evidence to prosecute Erebus fa Corajidin for the crimes of Treason, Conspiracy to Commit Treason and Regicide—”
Corajidin thought he would pass out as the uproar swamped him. He could make out the occasional word amidst the jeering, hissing, chanting, and cheering. His wide eyes took in the sour expression on Kiraj’s face as he continued reading. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Noise echoed in his ears. He caught Nadir’s slow nod, as if to say there was never any doubt.
“Did you hear what I just said, Rahn-Corajidin?” Kiraj sounded worn. “Though I would have had you incarcerated in the most foetid, dank hole in Maladûr gaol for the remainder of your pestilent life, my peers apparently are easier to influence than I.”
“Thank you for a fair and unbiased decision,” Corajidin said as the shock faded from him. “I have no doubt I will be in a position to repay your kindness soon enough.”
The Obsidian Heart Page 11