For two nights and a day he had lain in torpor, his body struggling with the strain put on it at the Communion Ritual. When he had awoken it had felt like acid scalded his veins. His chest was still tight, though. It felt as if it had been hit by a hammer, and he had been reminded of the savage blow of Thufan’s hook not so long ago. The pungent smell of his own faeces and urine in his soiled bed had been thick in his nostrils. Part of him imagined he could still smell it.
The perfume of success.
Every time he blinked there came flashes of the turbulent visions that had plagued him.
Blue-green clouds had swirled above, shot with wavering pillars of light. He had panicked, for fear of drowning, holding his breath until his eyes burned and his chest ached and his hearts thundered in his ears and he had to take a breath and when he did there was—air. Shapes flitted about him: people, yet not. Heads, torsos, arms, and legs, yet proportions were wrong, as if their limbs had been fused with great diaphanous fins. Or backlit wings, dyed with rainbows. He heard his name called by familiar voices. Memories caressed the surface of his mind. Conversations held in different times in different rooms by different people resounded in the confines of his head.
He was sinking. The voices told him to swim. Some of the shapes came close, to show faces half-remembered from other lives. Their voices collected in him, like sediment, so much clamour he could not make out words. Only noise. It made him heavy. He kept sinking.
Below was turbulent darkness as if light was held captive there. Things moved. Heaved. Gave out great bellowing groans. Screams. Giggles and shrieks and laughs and cries. Sobbing. It was cold. Much colder as the darkness swaddled him in a great heavy blanket. Down he spiralled.
Tentacles coiled about each other, like snakes the size of fortress towers. Great clusters of orbs for eyes, unblinking as they stared upward, so large Corajidin would walk on any of them. He saw other beings down here, wheeling like birds flying underwater. Tiny compared to the leviathans below. Sound boomed upward, buffeting, causing his body to thrum. Words dark, phlegmatic, and stentorian rolled across him. One of the flying shapes came close. Her pallid, corpse-still face was set with a polished tourmaline in her brow, which flickered, radiant.
“What can we do for you?” she asked.
He was sinking—
Corajidin rose feebly now. He shuffled to the Seer’s Window, wincing with each step. The Emissary’s potion had most certainly saved Corajidin from dying during the Communion Ritual. He held tight to the all too brief joy of Communion with the soul of Īa and his Ancestors, something long past for him. Days after the ritual, the world blood that remained in him was taking its toll. As he reached out to adjust the Seer’s Window, he saw the raised, ugly blisters on the insides of his arms, mottled red brown and yellow green. The skin around them was tender and hot to touch.
Out of curiosity he scratched at one. Foul-smelling pus burst out, to dribble slowly down his arm. Sickened, Corajidin wiped the filth on the hem of his over-robe. He would have the cursed thing burned, rather than washed. He would have everything he was wearing burned. His bedding, too. Better there was no reminder of how his body had betrayed him.
Turning his eye to the Seer’s Window, Corajidin used the flywheel to adjust its angle and direction. He was overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo as his eye tried to track objects near then far then near. Eventually he found the landmark on Īajen-mar he was looking for: two enormous diorite statues of a hooded woman and a hooded man, Scholar’s Crooks held angled so they formed a high arch. There was a heavy gate beneath the arch, the metalwork a thing of intertwined, thorned vines with lotus flowers scattered amongst them. Changing the angle of the Window he followed the sheltered passage along the mountain face where it climbed steeply to a natural turret. From there, a long stair had been carved into the rock. Boulders and sharp pieces of stone rose from it, the original builders leaving as much of the natural stone formation as they could. Diorite columns lined the way, each topped with an ilhen sphere.
At the top of the stairs, two hundred metres above where the Calephrahn sprawled on neighbouring Star Crown, a great archway had been carved. Almost five metres in height, the stone within had been arabesqued around a recessed door that stood three metres tall. The door was kirion black, shot through with clouds of red, blue, and green like an oil stain.
The doors to the near-fabled Amer-Mahjin, the Deep of the Wise Ones, were without lock or handle. The Sēq Chapterhouse of Avānweh had once drawn the greatest minds of many generations. No longer. After the Scholar Wars people had started calling it Amenankher: the Long Shadow. The Scholar Wars and the terrors that had come with the century of scholar-witch conflict had left some deep scars on the society who had survived it.
Corajidin would stand there the day the witches blasted those doors from their hinges. He would watch light flood in and banish the shadows of long-kept secrets. Stride the timeless corridors, filled with knowledge the Sēq had kept from the Avān in their long-held arrogance. The world deserved answers to the questions that plagued it… like the cure for his illness and the weapons of ages past when the Avān had ruled all they had laid their eyes upon.
Whispers filled his head. His vision swam with the illusions of other-memory. The same place, a different time. A different person. In a quantum of insight he knew he was Asrahn-Erebus fe Amerata, the Red Queen who had ruled Shrīan during the Scholar Wars. She had died in them, fighting against the Covens.
Superimposed above the sheltering sky he watched as the firmament burned. Clouds seethed red. Flame sprouted on the mountain heights. There came the echo of shrieks from the city below. The Stormbringer stood in the turret near the gates, mindstone blazing with dark energy, her Scholar’s Crook glittering with fractals of light. She raised her pale beautiful face to the sky and sung down blades of wind, hailstones, and scourging rain, amongst lightning bolts that struck to kill. Others near her cut the air with planes of incandescent light, orbs, arcs, and prisms of energy that detonated like murderous fireworks. Witches wheeled in the sky, and fell from it. Wrapped in the frightening illusions of screaming tornadoes, dragon-headed monsters, flying insects with glowing entrails, and worse, they cast down bolts of fire, or commanded daemons of the water, earth, and air to tear Avānweh from its foundations. He felt the phantom tears stream down his face as he remembered the anguish of so much loss of life—
“Finally you see what it is you’ve forgotten,” came the creaking groan of the voice from behind him. Corajidin turned to face the Emissary. Her hood plunged the ravaged beauty of her face into shadow, though there was a faint hint of what she had been. The squid on the pommel of her sword seemed to flex its tentacles where they rested on the end of the hilt. There came a faint rasping, little more than a distant whisper, with each movement. “You are once again Awakened, Corajidin. At least for a little while, until the Water of Life leaves your body.”
“Will I ever be able to be what I was?”
The Emissary shrugged. “We’ve given you the means to be more, yet you hesitate to do what needs to be done. You want to conquer Pashrea. You want to become Asrahn—or to rise even higher and unify your people. Yet you still resist our gift, and the dawn of your returned power stays forever beyond the horizon.”
“Are you here to plague me, Emissary?” he asked peevishly, idly rubbed at the lesions covered by his coat. “I left orders I was not to be disturbed.”
“The witches of the Mahsojhin have been waiting to meet you.”
“Ahh,” he said, nodding. His smile was as false as any he had ever given. “And so it is I can start paying off my debt to you, Emissary.”
Trepidation and excitement filled Corajidin in equal measure. He had sent for Kasraman, Belamandris and Wolfram, waiting for them to arrive before giving the Emissary leave to admit the witches freed from Mahsojhin.
The Emissary went to the door and gestured to people outside. She stepped aside as a woman and a man in ornate, layered vermillion coats strode
past her. Both had rings of silver, gold, and bronze on their fingers and thumbs. They wore thick torcs of twisted gold and silver strands like metallic rope. The ends were sealed: hers with a jet goat’s head; his with a blackened silver octopus that reminded Corajidin of the Emissary’s sword pommel. Both carried tall staves of stained oak, set with polished metal ingots and smooth gemstones.
The woman was a petite thing, her features disturbingly symmetrical and cold. She called herself Elonie, a creature of milk skin and spun-sugar hair with eyes the colour of cornflowers. The other, Ikedion, was a confectionary-coloured obese man of middling height, with shiny round cheeks, rubbery lips, and eyes sunken in flabby pouches. His chubby fingers twitched as he looked around the room, gigging to himself.
Neither witch made obeisance, nor showed Corajidin the slightest honour for his rank or station. He looked them up and down with some disappointment. A tiny, frigid-looking woman and a tittering fat man. He turned his gaze on the Emissary, one eyebrow raised as if to sayIs this all?
“Rahn-Erebus fa Basyrandin fa Corajidin,” the Emissary said, “Elonie is formerly of Nienna and a Magnate of the Stone Witches. Ikedion of Corene, in Atrea, is a Master of the Sea Witches. They would negotiate with you on freeing of the remainder of their brethren. They are amongst the most senior of the professors at the Mahsojhin.”
“No doubt.” Corajidin leaned back in his chair. Elonie of Nienna? Ivoré and its capital city of Nienna had been wiped from Īa almost two hundred years ago by the Angoths. Elonie’s family and friends, husband and children if they existed, were long gone to ashes. The glittering towers of candy marble and limestone reduced to rubble. Her glorious knights a memory. He wondered whether anybody had told Elonie the fate of her famously beautiful homeland, gone to ruin in her oblivious incarceration.
“The question is, are they worth the trouble?” Kasraman asked pointedly. “The Sēq taught them the limits of their power once—”
Where Elonie stood there was now a tall, gaunt phantom crone. Her long hair streamed like a dirty mop in a gale, her shredded coat translucent and wrinkled, rotten skin translucent so the putrid blue grey of her organs shone through the skin. Her eyes were two gelid blue stars and her teeth blackened fangs in grey gums. Her oaken staff became crooked, a bleeding goat’s head with weeping eyes at its top. A whirlwind formed about the edges of the room, turning even the most harmless of debris into a lethal projectile that ground against stone and splintered wood.
Ikedion had likewise changed, the obese man replaced by an even more obese octopus whose tentacles flayed in a mire of ink-like cloud. A cluster of eyes like blazing golden coins against flesh that burned the colour of hot coals. One of the tentacles lashed out and smashed a table to kindling. The octopus continued to grow, taking up more and more space in the room. The heat was incredible.
Corajidin felt his bowels loosen at the sight of the lashing tentacles. So much like his vision! He tried to crawl back through his chair and away. His mind was bombarded with the need to run. Run! RUN! He almost wet himself with fear and his hearts faltered in his chest. His left arm was virtually paralysed by a blinding pain.
Belamandris had drawn his amenesqa and stood, pale-faced yet resolute, between the terrors and his father. Wolfram likewise took station to defend his master. Corajidin looked on as Kasraman stood, his back to his father, facing the two horrors. There was a brilliant flash as if lightning had sheeted across the room. Corajidin thought he heard a thunderous voice boom with authority in a language he could not understand.
One moment the room was filled with the visions of nightmare. The next Elonie and Ikedion were standing, pale-faced and almost fearful, eyes downcast before Kasraman, who loomed over the both of them. The two witches gave trembling obeisance.
Corajidin did his best to stop his own limbs from trembling. His chest ached, mirrored by a stabbing agony behind his eyes. He smoothed his coat and sat himself more authoritatively on his chair. The room was none the worse for wear: furnishings in place, walls unscathed. Only the Emissary seemed unperturbed, though she looked at Kasraman with a newfound respect.
Kasraman turned to his father and bowed. “I believe our guests are more than ready to discuss terms with you, father.”
“We apologise for our outburst, great rahn,” Elonie said in a subdued tone. Ikedion nodded his agreement. “Please understand we’ve come to understand the world has changed much in what has been centuries for you, but moments for us. Much of what we knew, what we loved…”
“The betrayal by the Sēq,” Ikedion kept his face down, “as well as by Asrahn-Amerata, is something that only occurred hours ago. Our passions are high.”
Corajidin stared them down, taking the time to control his still-shaky extremities. He cast a glance at Kasraman, who looked no different than before. Yet he was sure it was his heir who had dominated these two. The question was how? He wondered what else his son was capable of.
“It would please me to take you into service,” Corajidin said graciously, “provided you take Kasraman’s orders as if they were my own.”
Elonie and Ikedion nodded quickly. Kasraman looked at the two of them thoughtfully, no doubt wondering the true strength of the weapons given into his hands. Wolfram came to stand by Kasraman, to whisper in his ear words Corajidin could not make out. Kasraman nodded once, lips twitching in a smile.
“Now to business.” Corajidin clapped his hands together briskly. He gestured for Elonie and Ikedion to be seated. “There are things we need from each other. I understand there are more of you locked in Mahsojhin and I am eager to help you set your friends free. However, let us start our newfound relationship by what you can do for me, shall we?”
Corajidin poured himself a tall glass of coffee, spicing it with cinnamon. He closed his eyes with pleasure as he sipped. It was moments like these, devoid of pain, when life was almost as good as he remembered it being.
“Will you really make use of the witches, Your Majesty?” Wolfram asked from where he leaned on his crooked staff. The old witch reached down to massage one leg beneath the worn straps of his callipers.
“I would think so,” Corajidin said. Memory of their demonstration of power still lurked like childhood fears. “They carry with them such…”
“Hatred?” Belamandris offered. “Danger?” He pushed himself away from the wall, expression troubled. “This is a reckless course you pursue, father!”
“They’re what we need, little brother,” Kasraman countered. Corajidin’s heir pulled at his lip as he pondered. “They bring a terrible power, but it’s a power we need to control. The Sēq are unlikely to ever do anybody’s bidding save their own. We can forge the witches of Mahsojhin into something that will serve the Great House of Erebus.”
“Speaking of which.” Corajidin withdrew from an inside pocket of his over-robe a scroll case. He tossed it to Kasraman, who caught it deftly. At his cocked eyebrow he gestured for his son to open it. Kasraman read far more quickly than Corajidin would have thought possible. It was as if he had taken in the entire contents in a single long glance. His oldest child looked up wonderingly. The scroll was passed to Belamandris, then Wolfram, before the Emissary had the chance to read it.
“You know the Stormbringer,” Corajidin said to her. “Your thoughts?”
“She’ll not be happy to read this,” the Emissary said, one side of her mouth twitched into a smile. “Do you really expect the Scholar-Marshall to come to you, to discuss the future of the Sēq in Shrīan? She doesn’t bend.”
“Then she and the Sēq will break,” Corajidin snapped. He glanced quickly at Belamandris, then back to the Emissary. “This is what was agreed, neh? Part of your price? The scholars will bend a knee to me as Asrahn, or they will find they have no place in Shrīan. Now that I have an alternative, their days of unquestioned authority are over.”
“SO A GARDEN CAN NOT THRIVE WITHOUT SUNSHINE AND WATER, THE GARDEN OF THE SOUL CAN NOT THRIVE WITHOUT LOVE OR COMPASSION.”
—Fr
om The Nilvedic Maxims
DAY 352 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
The Seethe troupe sang unaccompanied, using their breathy voices for layered vocals and instruments both. Gathered in the comforting darkness of a deep, oval arena in the mountain, hundreds of people from myriad backgrounds watched the troupe in wonder. The night sky was littered with stars. The coloured cloud that was the Ancestor’s Shroud stretched part of its cowl over the night-sharpened edge of the arena. Some thirty Seethe, including Shar, sang their beautiful choral work where each voice caused tall radiant crystals to shine a different colour and brightness in time with their voices. Indris spared a glance for Mari’s face, her profile lit with innocent wonder, tears forming at the corner of her eye. He smiled. Let his own tears flow at the beauty that caused his spine to tingle and chest to tighten.
As the music swelled to a breathtaking crescendo, a number of the troupers took to the air, pirouetting in open space, skin shimmering from within and gem-like eyes bright as candles. Those who remained on the ground mirrored them in a complex, swaying, heart-breaking perfection of movement.
As the piece came to a close, the crowd surged to their feet. The roar of their applause, hands clapping against chests, feet stamping, all of it filled the arena to overflowing. Hayden’s eyes were bright, wrinkles deep etched at their corners with his smile. Ekko’s tail beat the seat, his enormous velvet paws clenched together and eyes half-closed with joy. Neva and her brother, Yago, shouted their appreciation. Only Omen remained sitting, his head cocked upward and to the side as if listening and watching things only he could see and hear. Shar searched them out from the round, face lighting with pleasure. She clapped her hands and bounced on her feet, smile wide.
The Obsidian Heart Page 20