The Obsidian Heart

by Mark T. Barnes

  He glared across the polished marble floor at Vahineh. The Rahn-Selassin rocked back and forth in her chair, chewing on the bloodied crescents of her fingernails. Corajidin doubted the imbecile woman would have the presence of mind to vote today, yet Nazarafine and Roshana would have her here just in case. Keeping a watchful eye, eh? You, who’ve known all along what Vahineh did, but kept it secret! There is vengeance aimed at you, too. The Communion Ritual had neither repaired Vahineh’s shattered mind, nor seen fit to end her. Corajidin expected that her search for Unity—were she capable of it—might kill her. Or, in a case of cosmic irony, the soul of the world might actually heal the broken little doll of its ills. The last things he needed to contend with were the shadows of Ariskander and Vashne, both men he had murdered, conscious in, and whispering their malcontent to, their heirs.

  Corajidin’s throat constricted with fresh grief. Had he any proof he could share he would call down a Jahirojin on the Great House of Selassin and wipe them from the face of Īa. Yet the secrets told by a Nomad in the windy ruins of Mahsojhin were nothing he would take to the Arbiters, or the Teshri.

  Vahineh would die for her crime. It would be no more sanctioned than it would be merciful.

  Corajidin leaned forward as Jhem crossed the floor. The former-exile’s expression was contemplative as he perched on a cold bronze sphere beside Corajidin. The two men leaned closer so they could speak.

  “There’s no sign of our missing allies anywhere,” Jhem murmured. It was impossible to tell what he felt.

  “And the Federationists who are likewise absent?”

  “Some easily explained. It was myself, Nadir, Ravi, Nix, and a few others. The kherifes found Iraj’s corpse under the Naje-dar Viaduct this morning, not far from his mansion on the Huq am’a Jarhen.” Jhem’s lips stretched across his teeth in a satisfied smile. The tips of his fangs, decay mottling them the colour of old coffee, showed for a moment. There was a feral gleam in the other man’s eye, which gave Corajidin pause. “They’ll no doubt find others as the night wears on. It would appear the Federationists unsheathed their knives, too. There are others, though. Stories of corpses torn to shreds, their throats ripped and their hearts torn out. Somebody was up to some red work.”

  “If I had to guess I would say it was Roshana who showed the resolve to tip the odds in their favour,” Corajidin said. He looked across at the square-jawed, square-shouldered woman. Awakened only weeks ago, she already displayed much of her father’s strength. Even so—despite what he had just said to Jhem—he doubted Roshana would stoop to such savagery in killing as Jhem described.

  Mind turned to the dark paths of shedding blood, Corajidin looked to where the strongest of the returned Exiles sat. Tahj-Shaheh and Feyd sat beside Nix and Sanojé, who looked on the inbred man with a smouldering gaze. Nix was so much like his father, spinning his webs and watching as people were stuck fast.

  “It would be best if you kept an eye on Nix,” Corajidin said. His lips curled as if he had a bad taste in his mouth he could not get rid of.

  “Stick a knife in Nix, was that?” Jhem’s eyes remained dead, belying his words were even remotely said in jest.

  “One day. I don’t trust Nix, and I trust his father even less. But Jhem, what have you and the others done? I was confident the Accession vote would go my way, with the players I knew already on the board. Now I’ll need to deal with a different kind of game…”

  “‘Never ask a question you can’t afford the answer to’,” Jhem said. His expression was bland, his eyes hooded and deep as all Corajidin’s sins remembered. “You said yourself we should do whatever is necessary to put you in power, and it’s best you know nothing of what we’ve done, in case the Kaylish Face Readers try their ways on you. Or worse, the Sēq Inquisitors.”

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Corajidin asked curtly, not wanting to prolong his interaction with Jhem any longer than he had to. The thought of the Sēq Inquisitors made him shift in his chair.

  “Nothing you’ll want to hear. But remember there are those of us who can, would, and will do anything to bring about a new Shrīan with you at its head. We’ll make you Asrahn, Erebus fa Corajidin. In return you will thank us by binding us more closely to your Great House and the throne. We will all ascend to greatness, or all fall trying.”

  Memory crashed through Corajidin. Of lurid rites. The foretelling in Wolfram’s chambers in Amnon. Was Jhem an agent of his fate? Was the man, remorseless and single-minded as he was, here to pave the way for Corajidin’s destiny?

  Corajidin’s ruminations were interrupted by motion on the chamber floor. Padishin, the middle-aged Secretary-Marshall, rapped the metallic scabbard of his recurved dionesqa against the marble floor. He nodded to his functionaries who made rapid time to gather the votes from the counsellors. Each functionary carried a locked wooden chest with a hole in the lid.

  The rules to the Accession vote were both simple and deeply ingrained. With two main factions there were few complications with casting votes. You were either an Imperialist or a Federationist, or had promised your vote to one faction or the other for a return of some kind. Only a rahn of a Great House could be considered for Asrahn. Any vote going to Vahineh would be a complete waste, as the fidgeting halfwit lacked the capacity to even direct her preferences to another rahn. The Imperialists had himself and Narseh, and it was no secret that Narseh would forward all votes for herself to Corajidin. Narseh had made it clear that she was happy with being the Knight-Marshall, and had no aspirations for higher office. If Corajidin took the day, Narseh would be Asrahn-Elect whether she liked it or not. There was no other choice.

  The selection for the Federationists was more complex. Nazarafine was an experienced rahn and had been the Speaker for the People for almost fifteen years. A gifted diplomat, she had shied away from the Asrahn’s throne at every opportunity. Roshana was new to her Awakening, yet she was the daughter of Ariskander who—and this made Corajidin’s gums ache—would have been his most dangerous opponent, and the most likely candidate for Asrahn. Corajidin had heard the others talking, saying how much of Ariskander they saw in Roshana, though Roshana was harder and more prone to rash action than her father had ever been. Siamak was new, of a fine and honourable line, and had served Far-ad-din well. Yet it had been centuries since a Bey had been a rahn.

  Corajidin hoped Roshana was not voted as the leader of the Federationists, let alone Asrahn. The woman would be dangerous, and difficult to deal with, more so when she finally grasped the insight and wisdom for which her father had been almost revered. It would only be a matter of time before she became truly formidable.

  There came the dry rustling of reed paper as the forms were slipped inside the boxes. Some counsellors, more pretentious than others, caused delays as they waited until the last minute to seal their votes. Corajidin suppressed a snort as some counsellors thrust their scrolled votes into the ballot chests like spears. It was as if they could not wait to be rid of the things.

  Once the chests with their votes had been returned to the Secretary-Marshall, he left to begin the count.

  Two hours later, Corajidin sat up as the Secretary-Marshall’s voice filled all the empty spaces of the Tyr-Jahavān. It must have been close for it to have taken so long.

  Not a very comforting thought.

  Of the Exiles who had returned, most had been given lands and titles in Kadarin and Erebus Prefectures. Corajidin had taken comfort in the swelling of Imperialist ranks in the Lower House of the Teshri. Even should the Upper House be run by the Federationists, Corajidin would still control much of the will of the government. He revelled in the knowledge of the tithes his own client sayfs would pay for his patronage, though wondered how many had failed him to make the vote take as long as it had.

  The seats on the Magistratum were announced with no changes, which came as no surprise. Narseh was still Knight-Marshall and an ally, while Femensetri as Scholar-Marshall was a known quantity he could deal with. The others were
of little consequence, tending to be bureaucrats who adhered to policy rather than trying to shape it.

  As each result was read, Corajidin felt the tension coil alongside the pain in his chest. His mouth was dry. His palms perspired. His eyes felt hot in their sockets. Jhem’s presence was scant comfort. Narseh, the old Knight-Marshall and rahn of Kadarin Prefecture, locked her gaze with his in a sign of support. With each passing moment, he felt his closest allies draw nearer, an illusion woven by the stress of waiting for the final vote of who would be Asrahn.

  A surprise came when the Speaker for the People was announced. Nazarafine’s jaw opened in disbelief. She looked to her friends in shock, then across to Corajidin with apprehension. The wild card candidate Sayf-Cesare of Ashion—an Ygranian expatriate and one some would call a Dusk Avān behind their hands—had been appointed. Corajidin knew him by reputation. Unfortunately, he was a moral, honest man with blood relations to the Sky Lord of Avānweh. The ex-mercenary commander was also a cursed Federationist. He was inexperienced though, so time would tell how well he represented the voice of the State.

  Corajidin felt like he had been punched in the stomach when Rahn-Näsarat fe Roshana was declared the leader of the Federationist Party, and Siamak her deputy. The pain was eased a bit when he glanced at Nazarafine—who seemed to crumple with the blow—who in turn was looking askance at an entirely self-satisfied Roshana. Siamak looked guilty, refusing to meet Nazarafine’s gaze. The portly woman’s face reddened in what Corajidin took to be either embarrassment, or rage at an unexpected betrayal. He clapped his palm against his chest in honour of Roshana’s determination. As much as he hated her for her blood, he had to respect her ambition.

  He clasped his hands so tightly they hurt when the final result was announced.

  The Tyr-Jahavān vibrated with the force of applause. Stamping feet. Relieved laughter. Outrage. Jeers. Corajidin let the noise wash over him. Felt it crash in waves so loud he could feel it on his face.

  He was Asrahn! Or would be, when he was crowned in ten days time. But with the support of his Imperialist peers, and those wanting to curry more favour, the great work could start now.

  He stood on weak legs. His face felt like a wooden mask as he was carried along by his supporters. They made their way from the bright Tyr-Jahavān and into charcoal blue mountain shadows.

  Finally he would walk in the footsteps of his father. He would look him in the eye in the Well of Souls when the time came and know they had both governed a nation.

  Outside, Kasraman and Belamandris waited, expressions proud. He threw his arms wide and embraced his sons, wishing in the moment Mariam was there with them. He felt lightheaded. Noise came as from a distance. The fingers of his left hand began to tingle as a profound pain settled in his left arm and chest and—

  “DARKNESS IS THE NATURAL STATE OF THE UNIVERSE. LIGHT, FLEETING, COMFORTING AS IT MAY BE, MAY STRETCH TO THE VERY EDGES OF ALL WE KNOW. YET ONCE IT IS GONE, THE DARKNESS ALWAYS REMAINS.”

  —From The Darkness Without, by Sedefke, inventor, explorer, and philosopher (751st Year of the Awakened Empire)

  DAY 350 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION

  Looking down from the beak-like balcony of the Sky Room, Avānweh was a bowl of varicoloured stars cupped in shadowy fingers. Indris leaned against the wind, listening to the tattered sounds of singing from below. There would be dark days to come with Corajidin as Asrahn. As if hearing his thoughts, lightning flickered on the other side of the Lakes of the Sky. The air smelled of storm and brine.

  “I was wondering whether it’d be worth jumping,” came Femensetri’s hard, angular voice from behind him.

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” Indris murmured. “Might be less painful than what’s to come.”

  “This is on you, boy.”

  “Really?” Indris feigned disinterest, masking his irritation. Ten days until the New Year when Corajidin started his five-year reign. What happened between now and then was anybody’s guess, though Indris expected tensions to be high. No doubt there would be more blood in the waters come morning. “How’s Nazarafine holding up? This must have come as quite the disappointment.”

  “You should’ve—”

  “Killed Corajidin?” Indris snapped. He cast a withering glance over his shoulder at his former teacher. She was a wind-swept silhouette against the lamps of the Sky Room. “I hear that a lot. Funny, when last I checked I wasn’t the only faruqen person in the country! You, or any of these others, could’ve slipped a blade between Corajidin’s ribs!”

  “It’s what you were trained for.”

  “It’s what I stopped doing.”

  “We remember how well you stopped doing it at Amnon,” she said with a sarcastic smile. She came to stand beside him. Looked over the edge, leaning on her Scholar’s Crook flickering with blue-green sparks. “You’re happy to shed blood, provided it’s for your own causes.”

  “And only when there was no other choice. My causes were your causes for a very long time, sahai. They got me little more than grief.”

  “You may not believe it, but I always had your best interest at heart. Your mother and I were friends, Indris. I swore to her I’d do whatever I could—”

  “Including keeping secrets from me? Like the fact I don’t actually know who either of my parents are?”

  She scratched at the wind-blown mess of her hair. “Anything I can tell you, you’ve been told. There’s a lot about your mother’s life I don’t know. Those answers most likely lie in Pashrea, with the Sussain.”

  Indris snorted. He had visited Mediin, though never spoken with anybody from the Parliament of Immortals. He had kept his presence quiet, he and Shar focussed on the search for Anj-el-din at the time. “Can you tell me anything about my father?”

  “Of course there was plenty of rumour and innuendo.” Indris thought it sounded strangely like trepidation in Femensetri’s voice. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but was forestalled by her open hand in his face. “Pashrea has some of the most ancient surviving members of the Avān race, including a few First Bloods like myself and my twin, Kemenchromis. But no. Truth is I honestly don’t know who your father is.”

  “But you’ve guessed, haven’t you?”

  The wind gusted more strongly, bringing with it the first sting of rain. Femensetri gestured for him to come inside as she left the exposed balcony.

  It was a large natural chamber in the mountainside, with several irregular corridors leading away from it. One led to a long stair along the side of the mountain. Another outside to a path sheltered behind verdigris-stained screens to the gondola station. Others led to what had once been a barracks of Avānweh’s fabled gryphon-riders, now turned to sitting and guest rooms.

  Scores of ilhen lamps had been set into the stone, giving the room a cold radiance. Marble chairs and couches were forged into the likenesses of gryphons, worn smooth by time. Old uniforms and weapons of the Daiharim—the order of gryphon-riding knights and airship pilots—were sealed in glass cabinets. The antique swords and knives were long and curved with ornate hilts and scabbard furnishings. The uniforms were wool-lined leather with plates of bronze-chased steel, winged helms with beaked visors, bronze-rimmed goggles, elbow-length gauntlets, and thick scarves.

  Guests mingled quietly, drinking, talking, nibbling on food intended for Nazarafine’s victory celebration. There were few smiles and fewer laughs. No celebration. Not tonight for the Federationists, probably not for a long time to come. Even Roshana was noticeably absent, not joining her fellows to celebrate her appointment as leader of the Federationists. Indris heard the talk. The fear of antagonism between the young, headstrong Roshana and the wily old Corajidin. Such fears would not have been given voice had Ariskander been alive.

  Hayden and Ekko sat together, speaking quietly while Shar strummed her sonesette nearby. Omen stood beside them, seemingly frozen, facing one of the uniforms in its glass cabinet. Hayden looked up at him sadly.

&nbs
p; Mari stood with Ziaire, the two of them consoling a despondent Nazarafine. Indris smiled at Mari, who gave him a terse head shake in response. Neva and her brother were there, tall and lean in their flying leathers. The statuesque beauty gave Indris a warm smile from across the room, Indris responding with a casual wave. Mari’s brow creased in an annoyed frown, at which Indris dropped his hand with a wan smile. Siamak, his petite Tanisian wife Vasanya and solid daughter, Umna, stood together, watching the storm gather. Vasanya looked like a tree between the powerful hill of her daughter, and the mountain of her husband. Siamak saw what passed for the exchange between Indris and Mari, and nodded his support.

  Needing a cup of tea, Indris passed by where Martūm sat next to Vahineh in a small alcove. The long-faced gambler had maintained his role as the solicitous cousin, more so now Vahineh’s condition had not improved. Poor Vahineh had not been healed by drinking from the Communion Font, despite people wishing otherwise. Her skin looked as if parts of it had been burned smooth as dark porcelain while chalky patches marred her like rot. Her eyes were dull beneath heavy lids. The right side of her mouth drooped.

  Vahineh would never be the Rahn-Selassin. His heart went out to her. A young woman, her life one of promise that had barely even started, cut short by Corajidin’s schemes. Of course Corajidin would never be brought to task over what he had done to Vahineh, her father, mother, and brothers. To Ariskander. To Far-ad-din and his family. To a long and nameless list of others who had suffered.

  “She’s not long for the world,” Femensetri observed Vahineh over a goblet of yellow lotus wine.

  “And Martūm?”

  “Bloody disaster,” she said without a glimmer of humour. “He’ll use the Selassin fortunes to pay his gambling debts and litter his bed with courtesans. Ziaire’s reports of him weren’t encouraging. He’s politically indifferent, just as likely to sell his votes to either faction, depending on where he benefits most. Unfortunately, he’s the closest living relative. There are some other, distant cousins we’re looking in to, but he’s probably the only real candidate.” She sneered. “I hope I’m wrong, though; Martūm is a polished turd at best.”