“Well said,” Ajo nodded. The Sky Lord rested his fingertips lightly on the table. His fingers were long, encircled by bands of white gold, silver, and sapphire, the long nails painted white. The skin was remarkably unlined for his age. “I mean for the change in authority to go without further incident.”
“Surely there is much about the present level of unrest that is beyond our ability to control?” Corajidin riposted. “The Iron League have already stated they intend on continuing their war against the Avān on all fronts. Even High-Palatine Navaar of Oragon says he fears Ygran will become the object of the Iron League’s ire.”
“Not to mention Tanis,” Belam said. “Was a time when the Avān thought of themselves as a nation. Now? Truth be told, I’ve no idea what we are anymore.”
“Well here is a good a place to start if we’re of a mind to mend fences.” Mari leaned forward, hands palm upward on the table. “The issues of a new rahn to replace Vahineh and the abduction of Indris, Femensetri, and—”
“I know nothing of any abduction,” Corajidin shook his head. “It is entirely too convenient a story. As much as I have neither love for Indris, nor the Stormbringer, you know as well as I the kind of power it would take to overcome the both of them.”
“Convenient? How is it even remotely…?” Mari heard the chill in her voice. She saw Ajo shake his head. Inhaled slowly to centre herself.
“Perhaps we can talk of the issue of Vahineh’s replacement, then work from there?” Ajo suggested. “Let us take hope an early agreement will make us amenable to others as the morning progresses.”
“I would have been content to follow the names on the Ascension Role,” Corajidin said, “had the Federationist cabal not tried to subvert the accepted process. Reparations need to be made for their flagrant disregard of their peers.”
“And these reparations would be?” Mari asked, dreading the answer.
Belamandris produced a document, which he passed around the table to Mari. Mari cracked the wax seal with her thumb, then unfolded the parchment. It was an edited copy of the Ascension Role. The names Kashir, Aram, and Nouri were penned there, known quantities who had been promoted up the list. Jhem was entirely new, a person who had not even undergone the Sēq testing to see whether he could be Awakened.
“Those names,” Corajidin pointed at the list, “are the ones who will be given first chance at being Awakened. The three who already existed on the role have been approved by the Sēq; they are unlikely to die in the process of Awakening. Jhem is to be assessed by the Sēq for his suitability within the day.”
The names on the list were all Imperialists. Should one of them become a rahn, it would even the balance of power in the Upper House of the Teshri. Of the three approved by the Sēq, Kashir was the most reasonable. Aram was one of Corajidin’s longtime supporters and Nouri would cheerfully wage war on the rising sun, if it meant the Avān would rise to eminence on Īa once more.
“I can take this to Nazarafine, Roshana, and Siamak this morning,” Mari agreed. She passed the list to Ajo, who eyed it with trepidation as if it might bite him. “They will no doubt have a preference for the order.”
“That is acceptable,” Corajidin said. “Provided there is a third Imperialist rahn in the Upper House of the Teshri, I am willing to be flexible as to whom it is.”
“If none of your candidates pass their Awakening, we will return to the order on the Ascension Role,” Ajo said. The next five names were all Federationists, some Families having waited for centuries for the chance to be elevated to the royal-caste. It would be up to Roshana and the others to explain why they would need to wait longer still.
“Agreed,” Corajidin nodded. He popped a piece of strawberry into his mouth, chewing contentedly.
“Father!” Mari and Belam both yelled. The soldiers around the room reached for their weapons. Eyes darted accusingly. Belam went to take the strawberry, something poisonous to their father, out of his mouth.
“I am well!” Corajidin slapped his son’s hand away. Her father chewed contentedly, pausing only to dap at his lips with a napkin. He reached for another. “Such an amazing fruit! It is a shame I was unable to eat them for so long!”
Mari sat slowly, mind racing. Her father’s renewed vigour. His seeming lack of pain. How he had managed to survive the Communion Ritual. The fact he could eat a fruit that would have been toxic to him even a month ago. It was clear her father had found something potent indeed to restore his vitality and stave off what had seemed like an inevitable death.
It was also clear that this was something beyond Wolfram’s abilities; otherwise the Angothic Witch would have helped her father sooner. No, Corajidin had some new allies that he had yet to share with the rest of the world. Perhaps, with these new allies, his protestations of innocence when it came to Indris’s disappearance were nothing more than empty air.
“Now, to the topic of Indris and Femensetri,” Mari said. She eyed her father with newfound suspicion. The man seemed oblivious to Mari’s scrutiny, deftly dropping strawberries into his porridge and pouring honey atop the lot. “We will want them released by sunset today. If you want to—”
“I told you I do not have them,” Corajidin’s voice was hard as an anvil. He pointed at Mari with his food-crusted spoon. “And having Vahineh handed over to the authorities is something upon which I will not waver.”
“On what crimes?” Ajo asked. “You have made an accusation, though have provided no proof of any kind Vahineh was involved in Yashamin’s murder.”
“The same way you accused me of murdering Vashne and Ariskander? If memory serves I was robbed of my position as Asrahn-Elect and Governor of Amnon because of those accusations!”
“Is that really the card you’re going to play, father?” Mari thrusted. Corajidin glared back.
Ajo cleared his throat then said, “If you can prove Vahineh—”
“No, Ajomandyan!” Corajidin rose to his feet. His voice cracked with unshed tears, of rage or grief Mari was unsure. “My. Wife. Was. Murdered! Under my own roof. A place, Mariam, that should have been safe had you only been there. I will have vengeance!”
“You may have justice,” Ajo countered, “when you bring proof to the Arbiter’s Tribunal. Even an Asrahn is not above the law, Rahn-Corajidin.”
“You would enjoy that, would you not, Sky Lord?” Corajidin wiped tears away with shaking hands. He winced, as if beset by an unexpected pain. “Would you test my resolve? Do I need to issue a Jahirojin? Though Vahineh be a witless girl driven mad by her Awakening, she will pay for what she has done!”
Corajidin slumped back to his seat, breathing deeply.
“And Indris?” Mari asked, anger rising. “Femensetri? What are your plans for them, Father? Your idea of negotiation seems about as self-serving as I remember it.”
“Mari!” Ajo snapped. “This does not help anybody.”
“No,” Corajidin waved his hand to silence the Sky Lord. “Lance the wound, Mari. Let your poison out!”
“You’ve betrayed your peers in the Teshri.” Mari stood, struck the table with a stiffened fingertip. “You’ve perverted the course of our government with your bribes and malcontent. You even assassinated an Asrahn and a rahn, thinking all the while there’d be no consequences. Now you’d dare slap the Sēq in the face?”
“The Sēq are done in Shrīan, Mari.” Surprisingly, it was her brother who spoke. Belam rose to his feet, his fingers curled lovingly around the hilt of Tragedy. His face was stern, eyes hard as chips of blue marble. “You turn your back on your family, to defend a man who tried to destroy it.”
“Indris defended himself and the nation after our family tried to bend it to their will!”
“Your lover tried to kill me, Mari!” Belam shouted, colour rising. “He left me for dead in Amnon—”
“That’s not what happened!” Mari saw the self-satisfied look on her father’s face. She turned, pointed a trembling finger at the man. “You can’t even tell Belam the—”
From the corner of her eye Mari saw the first flicker of movement. A knife flashed through the air. Belam diverted it with his hand. Rather than piercing her father’s eye, it sliced across his temple.
Roshana’s people! One of them flowed forward, movement so fluid it seemed he hardly moved at all. He glided from foot to foot, part run part lope. Her own hand froze on the hilt of her Sûnblade. She recognised the movement.
It was the assassin from the rooftop of Nanjidasé!
The assassin leaped high, long-knife an extension of his arm as he shot towards Corajidin. Belam drew Tragedy faster than Mari thought possible. The red-hued blade cleared the scabbard as Belam slid sidewise. Became a living shield for their father. He knocked Corajidin from his chair and diverted the assassin who turned his fall into a roll.
Roshana’s other assassin moved forward. Nazarafine’s and Siamak’s warriors drew steel. The Anlūki did likewise.
Corajidin turned to Ajo, furious. “You see? This is what comes of my trust in a faithless, heartless, bitch who lives only to torment me! You hear me, Mariam? Do—”
“I had nothing to do with this!” she cried.
Roshana’s assassins moved to attack. Belam smiled his small smile, so like Mari’s yet so cold.
“Stop this now!” Ajo yelled. “As Arbiter of the—”
“Kill them all!” Corajidin screamed, spittle flecked, veins almost bursting from his temples and throat. Blood tracked down his cheek and jaw.
Mari did not draw steel. The same could not be said of the others. Nima and one of the Sûn warrior-poets faced off, blades shrieking. The Anlūki left Belam to defend Corajidin, their faith in the Widowmaker well placed. Mari swayed under a sword, pirouetted away from another. She lashed out with a boot, caught one of the Anlūki under the chin. Spinning, she smashed the base of her palm, then her elbow, into the temple of the other. Both warriors fell to the floor like so much meat.
Belam faced the two assassins alone. Mari wanted to go to his aid, yet it was Ajo, Neva and Yago she needed to see safe first. The Sky Lord had withdrawn towards the door with his heirs, though none seemed interested in attacking the Arbiter of the Change. Corajidin had scrambled away and stood, knife drawn, at the door to The Twelveway.
“Neva. Yago.” Mari said. “Get Ajo and my father safely away. Please.”
The Sky Knights nodded. They huddled Ajo towards the door, who spoke briefly to Corajidin. Her father glared at her as he left.
The battle was a frenetic blur. Nima had killed his assailant and moved on to the other Sûn warrior-poet. The marshlanders from the Rōmarq fought like dervishes, their shamshirs and hand axes throwing up a net of steel that seemed to draw blood at every turn.
Yet it was Belam who Mari concentrated on. Both assassins assailed him. Alternating. Then together. It did not matter. Tragedy seemed to be everywhere at once. Belam moved faster than Mari had ever seen before. Footwork precise. Parries perfect. Strikes flawless. She rejoiced to watch such an artist at work, though quailed when she saw the stony expression on his face. It was new to him. There was none of his savage joy. None of his humour, or personality. It was as if he were an automaton. Some golem made to rive flesh and bone.
He ducked. Swept his amenesqa in a low cut. Grey coils of intestines spilled to the floor amidst a flow of blood. An assassin crumpled to the floor, looking shocked. The Widowmaker grabbed the other assassin’s wrist. There came the snapping of bones like dry twigs. The man who had attempted to kill Mari on the rooftop of Nanjidasé tried stabbing the Widowmaker with his other hand. The blow skittered off the Widowmaker’s armour. With his other hand the Widowmaker grabbed the assassin’s throat. Mari watched in horror as her brother, without even a hint of remorse, crushed the man’s windpipe. He threw the body to the ground like it was so much waste.
Her brother turned his passionless eyes on Mari. He economically beheaded the assassins, taking the heads by the hair.
“Belamandris!” Corajidin yelled from outside. “Anlūki! To me! The faithless Näsarat’s may have other assassins in wait.”
Those who remained standing were covered in myriad wounds. None looked to be fatal, though some bled profusely through the fingers that covered them. Belam cast a disinterested glance around the room, then flicked the blood from Tragedy’s blade.
Without a sound he left The Twelveway, Nima and the one conscious Anlūki behind him. Mari watched him walk away in silence.
All she could think about was the iron in her brother’s gaze, like he was a different man entirely from the brother she loved, and the knowledge it was Roshana who had tried to have her killed.
Friends, like trust, seemed to be growing scarce.
“BETRAYAL IS THE MOST BITTER INSTRUMENT ONE CAN USE TO MURDER TRUST.”
—Embarenten, Swordmaster of High Arden, 369th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
DAY 357 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
Corajidin sped through the dimly lit streets as rapidly as his legs would take him. The cut on his temple stung, the blood already turning tacky on his skin. The sweat of panic prickled his scalp. Left a long cool trail down his spine and across his chest. His hearts hammered against the prison of his ribs. Everything was in monochrome. The edges of the world were inked in black; parchment shapes pasted one atop the other to give the illusion of distance and depth.
Nima took point, feet flying across the road; hand on the hilt of his shamshir. The wide legs of his trousers made a snapping sound in the wind of his passage. Belamandris loped along beside, scowling. He held the two severed heads by their long hair, blood dripping from the stumps. The last Anlūki on his feet trailed behind, listing badly, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Corajidin spared a glance for the man, who dropped further behind with each passing moment. If the man made it back to the Qadir Erebus, then the fates had decided he would survive this morning’s disaster. If not, there were others who could take his place.
Ahead, his nephew flagged down the driver of a Spool-Carriage, lightning flickering from the spinning layered cogs of the Tempest Wheel set behind its front axle. It was an opulent affair. Wooden panels arabesqued with brass. Teardrop door handles burnished. Iron fretwork screens over glass windows. Sun Globes in iron settings flickered in the shadows, fluid swirling bright in thick crystal. Nima held the door open until Corajidin and Belamandris were safely inside. He tossed a golden crown to the driver, more money than he would earn in a month, with orders to take the passengers as quickly as possible to the Qadir Erebus.
“What of you?” Belamandris asked.
“I’ll wait on Yotep,” Nima muttered. He took a bandanna from a pocket of his over-robe, used it to wiped his face and hands clean of blood. “We don’t leave our own behind.”
He rapped on the side of the carriage. The driver pulled away.
Corajidin huddled on the plush seat, hands folded into the sleeves of his over-robe. The cabin was redolent with leather and beeswax. The gentle rocking motion, as well as the faint hum and crackle of the Tempest Wheels, helped ease his fractured nerves. He stared at his son from beneath lowered brows, taking in the disinterest there. An ennui that had never been a stamp of the old Belamandris. The son who had gone under the Preservation Shroud was the not the son who had come out from it. It was as if part of him still lingered on the lip of the Well of Souls, gazing in.
“It seems your sister has shown her true colours,” Corajidin grumbled.
“So it would appear, neh?” His son continued to gaze out the window to where the world scrolled by.
“Defiling herself with a Näsarat was one thing. Siding with them to assassinate me is something else! It shows she—they—can not be trusted.”
“No more than we,” Belamandris said distantly. He turned to face his father. “It was you who escalated this, remember? You murdered Vashne in the streets. Abducted Ariskander to wring from him what you needed to save yourself.”
“I needed to live and the Iron League forced us to need a warrior
, not a man of peace!” Corajidin snapped. He petulantly kicked at the seat Belamandris reclined on. “You’re beginning to sound like your sister.”
“She tried to save you, Father.” Belamandris’s voice was a monotone. “Perhaps you invent too many monsters in the dark places your mind is want to wander? Her recollection of events in Amnon seems to differ from yours.”
“Perhaps it would be best if we continued in silence, if you are going to be morose.”
Belamandris gave an elegant shrug. They rode the rest of the way in silence, Corajidin glad when the Spool-Carriage rattled beneath the yawning arch of the qadir. The gate was flanked by two massive horses that seemed to be rearing from the mountainside. There was a moment of shadow as they passed beneath the weight of Star Crown Mountain, then sunlight again as they came to the palm and olive tree garden that led to the qadir proper.
Anlūki in their blood-red and black armour snapped to attention as Corajidin and Belamandris stepped from the carriage. Corajidin looked up the irregular defile into which the qadir was built, taking in the polished stone of balustrades, prow-like balconies supported by horse-head reliefs and the all-seeing eyes of keyhole windows.
“Bar the outer gates,” Corajidin ordered. “Double the guard. Nobody enters without my permission.”
Corajidin stalked through the corridors, his long over-robe sighing across polished stone floors. Ilhen crystals in blackened iron sconces swamped the shadows. Potted plants softened the obdurate rock into which the qadir had been carved. The air seemed still and stifling as he stomped past stairwells, arabesqued doors, paintings, and statues collected over centuries not for their intrinsic value, more for their value to others.
When he came to the Hearthall, he paused. Every Avān residence had one, no matter how humble. It was the centre of a dwelling, the place where people came to take comfort in family and a sense of belonging. The Erebus Hearthall was a yawning cave formation, its walls mirror smooth. Stalactite and stalagmite teeth had been carved into lace trees, beasts and statues of ancient heroes of the Erebus. A wide stair spiralled upward and downward, ilhen light reflecting from quartz crystals and veins of silver, turning the blackness into a star-filled sky under the mountain. Several braziers of firestones burned. Lounges with cushions and thick woollen blankets surrounded hexagonal tables with brightly coloured mosaic tops.
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