From time to time Mari looked across at Nazarafine as she spoke with Siamak and Ziaire, Ajo, and Neva, who had returned. They made no secret of their plan to replace Vahineh with Martūm, though Ziaire questioned the man as an appropriate choice. They talked of other options on the Ascension Role, ways of ensuring it was a Federationist who replaced Vahineh and ways to save Vahineh from the Awakening, which was killing her. These last heavily depended on Femensetri and Indris, though it sounded like Indris was unaware.
The portly older woman was no fool. By making Mari aware of such plans she was including her by implication. Though Mari had not accepted the offered post, Nazarafine knew the obligation she had placed on Mari in giving her the gift and sharing such knowledge.
Under sende nothing was for nothing. Every gift or favour was a move of obligation, one to another. For the first time in her life Mari had the chance to be free of another’s demands on her. True, she could accept the blade at face value and walk away even though she knew the intent behind it. Ziaire had said as much. Nazarafine had plans for Mari that had nothing to do with Indris. It was as if the Federationists were conspiring to create lives for them in completely different circles.
What to do? To swap one saddle and bridle for another because they chafed less, or to dispense with harness and run free to face the unknown? What was it Indris had said about destroying the lich? Lots of things should be easier than they are. But wishing doesn’t make them so. There was simplicity in service. In doing what she had been trained to do. Modesty aside, Mari thought there were probably no more than a score of people in the world who were her match in combat. Yet her encounter with the assassins had caused her to re-evaluate her position. There were probably no more than a score of people in the world she knew about who were her match. This then left a problem. What about all the warriors she knew nothing about? The ones who had trained their whole lives, who had left not a single living witness to their prowess. If such people existed, then was it not her obligation to protect the Families and the Great Houses who served the public trust—sayfs, pahs, rahns, and the Asrahn—from knives in the dark? By extension, it was also her responsibility to understand the techniques of such people. To adopt them. Adapt them. Evolve them into newer, deadlier, techniques. To draw a line across which the enemies of the State and Crown would do well not to cross.
To do such things required her to commit once more to something larger than herself. And once done there was no easy road back.
A clock chimed elsewhere in the qadir. Mari swore to herself when she realised she was two hours past when she was meant to meet the others at the Iron Dog. With a mumbled apology she took the swordcase by the handle and exited as gracefully as she could.
It was as she turned towards the Iron Dog that she saw Indris. She called out to him, then again. He stopped, eyes narrowed against the glare of the overcast. He looked like any other wanderer in his threadbare blacks and browns, the wind tugging at his unruly hair. Indris watched her as she approached, relief in his eyes.
And then, from the corner of her eye she saw Nadir, his sister Ravi, and the man Nix striding beside them. Their faces were painted with amiable veneers. She lost sight of them when a crowd passed between. Once the throng passed they where nowhere to be seen.
She looked about nervously. How long had they followed her? Tempted as she was to search for them, Indris was soon at her side. His left eye was slightly discoloured with orange and yellow flecks like sparks from a brazier, while his other had the gleam of dark amber. Mari reached out to touch him. Changeling purred softly.
“Shar said she lost you as they escaped,” he said as he took her hand. Kissed her fingers. “Where’ve you been?”
“We separated and they lost me,” Mari murmured into his mouth as she kissed him. He smelled of sea salt and coconut. “But now I’m found. Let’s get away from here.”
“Where to?” His eyes dropped to the swordcase in her hand. When they rose again, they were wide with wonder.
“Congratulations!” He grinned as he drew her into his arms. She felt the hard planes of muscle in his chest as she pressed against him. “A Sûnblade is a weapon to be proud of. Have you named her?”
“Not yet.”
“I take it Nazarafine’s given it to you as an incentive to—”
“I’ve not accepted,” she blurted out, though the words denied the lie that had taken root in her heart. “Walk me to Nanjidasé?”
Indris pulled her by the hand along a quiet street, away from the clamour of wagon wheels and pedestrians. The street was narrow, its paving stones forming hexagonal lines of shadow underfoot, bordered with lush ferns and golden wattles. Eucalyptus trees waved in the strengthening breeze, their scent strong.
Mari leaned in to him as they walked. His hand was warm, muscles hard as bands of steel under the skin. The line at the gondola station was long, so Mari tugged on Indris’s arm until he followed her towards the weathered bronze of the stairway arch with its clinging ivy. There were fewer people there and none seemed terribly interested in them. She looked southward over the rolling patchwork of the Lake of the Sky. The mountains on the other side were a dull smudge, wreathed in tendrils of grey like ropes of cloud joining the earth with the sky. Rain. Summer was coming to a close.
Together they exited the stairs on the Caleph-Sayf. Mari led them through the streets and lanes, past the high walls of the Habron-sûk, until they came to the polished red marble and alabaster of Nanjidasé. The Feyassin’s headquarters was quiet, the long white banners with their white lotus blossoms snapping in the wind. Mari looked askance at Indris as he pulled to a stop.
“There are other things than service, Mari.” His voice was low, almost a buzz, which tickled her ear. His breath was warm against her neck. His arm around her waist strong. “You’ve never left Shrīan. There are so many things you could see and do once the new Federationist government is in place. Amazing, wonderful things.”
“There are amazing, wonderful things I can do here, too.” She looked him in the eye as their brows met. “You could help me make the Feyassin something new. I know our techniques were first taught us by the Sēq, but I’ve watched you fight. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Not even the assassins who tried to end me. “Indris, I want to be remembered as something other than what history expects an Erebus to be.”
“You will be!” he said, expression sincere. “I think you already are. But there’s a world beyond Shrīan I’d dearly love to show you. Places I’ve never seen we could explore together for the first time.”
“What would we do?” she demanded. “For the first time in my life I’m starting to do things for myself. Knight Colonel of the Feyassin is something I’ve dreamed of, yet never thought I’d achieve. You say there’s more to life than service, yet service to others is the life I wanted. Convince me that whatever we do out there will be as important as what we do here.”
“There’re no certainties. I can say there’s more evil in the world than we see in Shrīan. What lurks in the Rōmarq isn’t unique. There’re other places where worlds collide and where a few good people need to take a stand against those who’d dominate those weaker than themselves. People need help everywhere, Mari.”
“What happened to you that you’re always looking outward for what’s inside—” The words were out of her mouth before she thought about what she was saying. There was no way of taking them back. Indris’s face went still. His eyes narrowed. He looked away.
Mari took Indris in her arms. Rested her head on his chest. When he spoke, his voice was a deep hum in her ear.
“There’s a place, a little tower near Memnon, overlooking the Marble Sea. As the sun goes down, the light shudders, as if the sea doesn’t want to let it go. Bet then as the darkness pools out from between the waves, thousands of ilhen lamps shine beneath the water, still working, still lighting the old ruins after all this time. It’s like watching a second sky, dusted with clouds and sparks and secrets in a darkness
we may never know. And then, when the Nomads take shape in the moonlight and start to sing… And that’s just one place, Mari. I’d like to see more, find more, and share more with you.
“If I’m going to lose myself anywhere, I want you with me. Will you think about it, Mari? Promise me you’ll consider coming away when this is over?”
She felt the tears at the corners of her eyes. What he offered sounded so beautiful. “Only if you promise to consider staying.”
“And if your father is elected Asrahn, Mari? What then?”
“It won’t bode well for anybody, least of all the two of us.” She rested her palm on his chest, and looked him in the eye. “The clock is ticking for us, one way or another. But I have to believe that while I’m here, I can make a difference. Otherwise, what point is there to any of it?”
“THOUGH WE SHOULD BE DIRECTED BY REASON, OFTEN AS NOT WE ARE THE SLAVES OF APPETITE. AND THERE IS NO APPETITE SO HARD TO APPEASE AS THAT FOR DESTRUCTION.”
—Miandharmin, Nilvedic Scholar to the Ivory Court of Tanis, Fourth Siandarthan Dynasty. (171st Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 350 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
The arthritic fingers of the ruined dome of the Hearthall were crooked above Corajidin’s head. Wind hummed through cracks in the crumbling walls. A smattering of tall trees grew amidst long coarse grasses where the stony ground had not been fused to a breeze-rippled pond in glass. A broken fountain, its round bronze basin dented and stained by verdigris and moss, was canted from true amongst tumbled red stones. The air was thick with the scent of geraniums and monkshood, which grew tenaciously in the upper mountains.
From time to time, Corajidin was startled by the appearance of shadows where they should not be, to find they were blurred echoes of dead people burned into the rock itself. To north and east the once proud remnants of the Mahsojhin—the great witch’s university of the Awakened Empire—could be seen as broken towers, collapsed libraries, and rubble filled streets where the stone had been melted smooth. Almost all of the students and teachers had perished in what had been the final stroke of the Scholar Wars.
The Sēq were nothing if not thorough.
The Emissary stood at a tripod that held the Emphis Mechanism, stolen from the Rahnbathra by Kasraman and Nadir during the rioting last night. It was made of several round lenses of amber and adamant in a horizontal step pyramid. Around the lenses was a large wheel with many smaller wheels and gears, attached to a pendulum at the bottom and a clock face to the side. The old bronze device was pitted with the years. Gold and silver tarnished. Amber scratched. The Emissary looked through the lens at the dark vault of the Hearthall of the Mahsojhin.
Kasraman, Wolfram, and Sanojé stood in a loose perimeter.
“Will this work?” Corajidin asked.
“If it doesn’t we’ll never know,” Kasraman said with false cheer. “We’ll all be stuck in the damned Temporal Labyrinth.”
“Do you mind?” the Emissary croaked irritably. She adjusted the amber lenses, then wound the largest of the gears forward. “Playing with mazes in time and space isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Corajidin peered at where the Emissary was making fine adjustments to the lenses and clockwork mechanism. “What in Erebus’s name is she doing?” he said quietly, so as not to disturb her.
Wolfram explained how the amber and adamant lenses allowed the Emissary to see through the layers of the temporal maze. The clockwork mechanism was used to align the time and space within the Hearthall with the present. If the Emissary made a mistake, it was possible for the energies to spread outward, trapping a greater portion of the world in it.
“But time would still appear normal to us,” Wolfram finished. He shrugged. “For all I know it may already have failed and we’re trapped in the maze even as we speak.”
“Wonderful.” Corajidin said dryly.
“We’re not trapped,” the Emissary said as, with a final adjustment of the clockwork mechanism, the lenses began to show an image of red-robed witches and their brown-robed apprentices in defiant poses. Corajidin looked into the Hearthall with his own eyes, yet could see nothing. He turned his attention back to the lens, which showed him the image of the witches rooted to the spot.
“Is this what you want to do, Father?” Kasraman asked. “If we pop this cork, there’s no telling what will spill out.”
“The witches in there are still fighting the Scholar Wars,” Wolfram added. The Angothic Witch leaned on his ruined staff. “For them, no time has passed. Their rage, their hatred, is undiminished.”
Corajidin looked to an expectant, triumphant Emissary. There was something in her expression that should have given him pause. Voices in his head cried out a broken and scratched warning.
“Do it,” he said grimly. “Bring one or two of them out so we can test the waters. If I like what I see, we will discuss liberation for the rest. And the price for doing so.”
He pointed at Wolfram and Sanojé. “But first, I would have the answers you promised me.”
“It would’ve been much easier,” the Emissary said, “if you’d let me do this. I know you question my motives, but all we’ve done is give you what you want, and asked a fair and equitable price in return. Do you think you’re being treated unfairly, Corajidin?”
“And how does Indris fit into your plans?” Corajidin said through clenched teeth, choosing bravado against the rustled steel in her tone “I mean for him to die.”
“My husband is none of your concern,” came the stern reply.
“Husband?” Corajidin could not help himself. “Surely you gave up—”
Corajidin felt coldness on his hearts as if icy fingers had curled around them. Chills pulsed through his body as if winter runoff, rather than warm blood, filled his veins. He tried to breath in. It felt like he was drowning.
The Emissary, taller than Corajidin, stared down from the depths of her hood. Her skin flickered as it were lit from within by an oil lamp. The putrescent mindstone in her brow flickered momentarily with a sickly green corona.
“My Masters would not punish me were I to end you here,” she said blandly. Corajidin felt the beginnings of vertigo. He tried to move, to make some form of gesture for help, yet was rooted to the spot. “There are others like you. You happen to be the most useful and the one who is in the place we need them to be. That can change. Should I remind you of what it was like before I lent you the aid of the Drear?”
Agony scored his every nerve. Herds of steel-shod hooves tramped the insides of his skull. His abdomen clenched, his bowels writhed as if hungry rats gnawed on them. Every muscle in his body cramped, acid scouring them. His teeth felt loose in his gums. The old taste of bile on his tongue and the pain of reflux. His eyes unfocussed. Sounds were hollow echoes as if heard from underwater. All he could smell was his own sweat, urine, and faeces as he soiled himself. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes as all he wanted to do was curl up and let the darkness take him to its final—
“I can give all that back to you,” the Emissary whispered. “If you don’t need my help, just say the word. Yes you want my help, or no, you don’t.”
Wracked by shredding pain he did not need to think. As consciousness faded and the fever sweats rolled down his brow, he forced the word out with the last breath in his body.
“Yes!”
Instantly his affliction was gone. Replaced with a warm sense of wellbeing that bordered on a carnal bliss, for which he hated himself a little. He sucked in an enormous breath of cool, sweet air. Could almost taste the magnolia on his tongue. He checked himself to find what the Emissary had done to him was pure suggestion. Thankfully she had not made him soil himself in public.
“Then where Indris is concerned you’ll neither question, nor comment, nor oppose a single whim of mine no matter how trivial it may seem. Am I understood?”
Corajidin nodded, face flushing with angry shame.
“Excellent. Now, you’d best take advanta
ge of what the little Tanisian witch has prepared for you.” The Emissary smiled coolly. “Given how many of your principles you’ve already sacrificed, another shouldn’t bother you overly much.”
With a terse gesture he bade Jhem follow him to the sealed palanquin where Wolfram and Sanojé waited. The Tanisian witch had been in a foul temper all day, a barely contained rage simmering beneath the surface. Corajidin had heard of the disaster at Rayz’s sword master academy where somebody—the Sēq no doubt, Indris if Corajidin made an unsubstantiated guess—had broken in and destroyed much of what Sanojé had smuggled into Avānweh.
Up close the palanquin reminded Corajidin of some of the family reliquaries he had seen kept by the Great Houses. Each ornate container would hold either part of an Ancestor, held after their death as a means by which their descendants could communicate with them, or one of their prized possessions. The Great House of Erebus had something similar, though Corajidin had always preferred to commune with his Ancestors in the more pure manner afforded him by his Awakening. Such methods were almost lost to him now.
“What is this?” Corajidin asked Jhem.
“Not the foggiest,” the Blacksnake replied in his near-lisp. “Apparently Sanojé’s family have access to ancient oracles and diviners who are privy to all manner of secrets. They will give you the answers you are after concerning Yashamin’s murder.”
Corajidin gestured to the box, his question self-evident. “Wolfram?”
“Your Majesty,” the lanky witch nodded his head by way of a bow. “This is one of the Chepherundi Boxes, famous in Tanis and the Conflicted Cities as oracular devices.”
“Rahn-Corajidin.” Sanojé’s bow hid her bitter expression. “The Chepherundi Box is always correct. Those who attacked us earlier destroyed something similar, though not as powerful. Thankfully others of its kind were kept hidden elsewhere. Please understand the answers can take time. The more obscure the question, the longer—”
The Obsidian Heart Page 15