“Sanojé and her liches have done all we asked of them,” Wolfram replied, “as have Elonie, Ikedion, and those they chose to help. Even where the Sēq were fighting, the witches lent assistance until the daemon elemental was bound.”
“I’d like them back, if you don’t mind,” Nix said, gnawing at his thumbnail. “There was considerable expense involved in faking your Human invasion, Rahn-Corajidin.”
“We’ll return the ones we can, Nix. Some of what you released took more than a little convincing to behave, and had to be destroyed. I’m sorry if our need to actually survive this confrontation has inconvenienced you in any way.” Kasraman’s smile belied his words, and Nix’s mocking bow did not hide the flash of malignant rage in his expression. Kasraman continued, “Once or twice the Sēq tried to attack the witches, but they only defended themselves until the Sēq left the field. All in all, a good first step, Father.”
“And now?” Corajidin asked, hearts swelling in his chest at the thought of action. He had taken a massive dose of the Emissary’s Font potion and it infused his body with a strength he did not remember having in his prime. “I would have the people see me in action, and remember.”
“Then come, Father, and taste the victory long in the making.”
The great mass of the daemon elemental’s bilious tentacle curled around the shrieking warriors, before lifting them high and throwing them to the ground where one of them burst like a watermelon. Gibbets of flesh landed on Corajidin’s armour. His horse reared, and screamed, spraying foam everywhere. Corajidin tumbled from the saddle. His horse bucked and kicked, then thundered insane and out of control until a massive tentacle flattened it.
Corajidin edged back along the bloody stones, voice frozen with terror, as the betentacled elemental swept a dozen or so men from their feet in front of him.
The daemon elemental was a bloated, toad-like thing almost seven metres tall, with a wide gash for a mouth filled with a jagged fence of teeth. Tentacles sprouted from its shoulders and coral grew in a razor sharp fan down its back. Its breath smelled the same as a dirty fishery in high summer. When it talked, or what passed for it talking, it was a burbling, wet sound that made Corajidin want to vomit.
Corajidin gained his feet and joined Kasraman, Wolfram, and the other witches on the assumption it was the safest place to be. The Anlūki and the Horse Guard were proving ineffective—the ones the daemon elemental had not eaten were strewn about like rag dolls on the ground.
The elemental lurched sideways, causing a high wall to collapse. Stone rained down, killing some, wounding some, and burying others.
“Kill it!” Corajidin’s voice was high-pitched with fear. He went to clutch his son’s arm, but Kasraman was burning hotter than a furnace. Even hovering centimetres above the ground, the stone beneath his feet had turned to molten slag. Corajidin could feel the skin of his face drying and his armour heating up. “Kasraman! You must kill it or this will all be for naught!”
The Aspect of the Daemon Prince faced Corajidin, who quailed and soiled himself. It was Kasraman’s face, made hard and sharp, geometric patterns shining on his skin. His eyes burned white as glaciers under the sun and two massive horns curved from his brow.
“This is our future, Father,” the Aspect said in a voice that was many voices at once. “This is the door you’ve opened and the one I’ll have to close one day. But today we need these witches if any of us are to live.”
Corajidin dropped to the ground. Kasraman, Wolfram, and the other witches filled the air with their chants and songs. Kimiya knelt at Wolfram’s feet, eyes rolled back into her head, skin like wax, and lips slack. “Not this. How could I have forgotten this—” the rahn murmured.
And the curtains of the past whipped away and he was Asrahn-Erebus fe Amerata, the Red Queen, whose world was falling apart around her. The witches had betrayed her! She had agreed to give them power in return for their assistance in cutting the final tethers that held Shrīan to the sinking corpse of the Awakened Empire—the Sēq. Betrayed, after giving them the idea and planning the coup, which should have led her people to freedom and assured the dominance of the Great House of Erebus as the one and only line of Asrahns down the ages. She could not breathe, the air was so hot it shimmered and sparkled, plants withering before her eyes. The sky was super charged, lightning bounced from cloud to cloud, causing the hairs on her arms and scalp to lift. Flame licked at the mountains. The city echoed with the symphony of fear as the witches unleashed their power on the people who had always reviled them. Witches wheeled screaming in the sky, surrounded by the shimmering forms of their half-seen spirits, their Aspects flickering. She cried for her loss. Not the loss of her people. The people were fickle and easy to replace. No, she cried for the loss of her dream—
It felt as if the layers of Corajidin’s mind were peeling away. Waves of malign intent washed over him from the elemental, while the yawning, spinning, impossible vortex of his Ancestors’ voices and wants and needs clattered about in his head like pigeons caught in the room and he could see their mouths opening and closing as they all tried to be heard and they all wanted the chance to live his life for death was not the—
Corajidin scrambled backwards sobbing, only to be pierced by Kasraman’s sharp gaze. He heard his son’s voice in his head, clear as a bell.
“I see what you see, Father. But your mind is not up to this task, and will never be. So let the nightmares go, Father. Forget what you’ve seen and know only you’ve saved your people. Forget now—”
“Say something, Father,” Kasraman urged.
Corajidin started at the sound of cheering. He stood in the Tyr-Jahavān and Kasraman was patting him on the shoulder, his grin wide. Corajidin found his mask and let his face fall into it. The old smile, which crinkled the corners and stretched his lips, without baring his fangs. Kasraman helped his father to his feet, then continued the applause along with the others.
Corajidin still wore his armour, which was smeared with blood, some of the laces snapped and buckles broken. Many of the scales had come off his cuirass. He looked down at his hands to see them sheathed in leather and steel and caked with gore.
Kasraman was battered and bruised, nose bloodied and long clotted cuts fresh on his neck. Wolfram leaned on his staff, which bent under his weight while Kimiya sat listlessly by. Nima had his right arm in a sling and his face was mottled with bruising.
Standing there mute, Corajidin had only the vaguest memory of his part in the battle. He had no recollection of coming to the Tyr-Jahavān. Kasraman smiled wearily at his father, then turned to those assembled.
“Counsellors of the Teshri. May I present to you Rahn-Erebus fa Basyrandin fa Corajidin, the man whose vision, and trust in our old ways, today saved the lives of thousands in Avānweh. My Father.
“Your next Asrahn, and most deservedly so!”
Their cheers were deafening. Imperialists and Federationists alike showed their respect and Corajidin flushed with pride. Even the old Sky Lord and his grandchildren, the both of them much the worse for wear, rose to their feet in respect.
Kasraman was the first to make the First Obeisance. In ones and twos others followed his son. Then in handfuls, until eventually Corajidin was the only man on his feet. He looked out over the assembled leaders of Shrīan, gaining his first true understanding of what it would be like as Asrahn for the next five years. He felt giddy and there were tingles up and down his spine. He felt taller, stronger, a man of steel only wrapped in the veneer of crude flesh, rather than it being the truth of him.
The change in light drew his attention and Corajidin saw the first crescent of the sun burn over the mountain, a glaring crescent above the hard saw-blade of the mountain shadow. The snows shone preternaturally bright. The morning sun caught in Kasraman’s eyes as blinding as a glacier, lit by the fires of his soul, beacons set amidst the cursive patterns writ on his face—
His body spasmed and Corajidin averted his eyes. People looked at him strangely for a mo
ment, including Kasraman, who was just Kasraman. Masking his discomfiture, Corajidin gave a self-deprecating laugh and the panderers joined in.
Corajidin gestured for people to be seated. Once the noise had settled to a low murmur, he looked about the chamber, nodding slowly.
“I see many changed faces here,” he said. “Unsurprising, given what we’ve gone through and survived together. Yes, together. Everybody who remained in Avānweh took part in saving us, whether they were rahn, sayf or mystic, warrior, worrier or writer. Last night, the near razing of Avānweh by… as yet unknown assailants, is something we all survived together.
“But credit where credit is due. It was my son and heir, Kasraman, and those brave witches such as Wolfram of Angoth and Kimiya of the Delfineh, Chepherundi op Sanojé, Elonie of Nienna and Ikedion of Corene, and many others, who did what the Sēq would not—no, could not—do: stand up for our people. It was my second son, golden Belamandris, who chased dangerous traitors out of Avānweh at grave risk to his own life. It was Narseh and her warriors, Ajomandyan and Neva and Yago and the Sky Knights, my nephew, Nima and the warriors he so ably led, who deserve your praise more than I.”
Corajidin paused as their adulation rang out across the high-domed chamber and into the air outside. Let the common people hear them cheer.
“So let me ask you, friends and fellow survivors, are the witches something to be feared, or friends and allies to be respected?”
Shouts of encouragement and thanks clattered from the walls. Corajidin spared a glance for Kasraman and Wolfram, whose lips were curved in proud smiles.
“Then if you agree that these people are worthy of more than your suspicion, let us embrace them and learn from their wisdom from this day forward!”
Corajidin let the people talk. He felt the eddies of discontent and mistrust, though they were soon dried up as the majority grew bigger, until almost all of the counsellors of the Teshri spoke with a common voice and said yes.
“Thank you,” Corajidin said. “And now, who would like once more to have a Lore Master supporting their Great House, or Family, such as has not been done since the Sēq turned their backs on you so long ago?”
“How many?” Corajidin asked later.
“There were forty-three of the hundred sayfs in attendance,” Kasraman said. “Thirty nine of them have asked for a witch to join their household as a Lore Master. And Narseh has also requested one.”
Corajidin clapped his hands together, entwining the fingers to stop them from shaking. “So many, so soon!”
“There’ll be more,” Wolfram added.
“If it was not for you two… You and yours did a superlative job, but we are not done yet.”
“Your orders, Father?”
“I want you and Wolfram to hand select the witches. Kasraman, all the witches will report to you and I want you to ensure they understand their job is much more than being Lore Masters to imbecile sayfs who panicked at the first sign of trouble. Make sure they feed you intelligence on what each sayf—and Narseh—is doing.”
“As you will, Father.”
Corajidin watched as Kasraman and Wolfram left, the sense of euphoria making him light headed. He clasped his hands behind his back, as much to look stately, as to stop their shaking. The sayfs and their attendants smiled and laughed, drank, and ate. The vaulted chamber with its tall, crystal columns seemed warmer than it had, the colours of the dome mosaic brighter.
Tonight he had used means anathema to his people to win a battle that did not really exist, in a fictional war. And his people loved him for it. The Ancestors had not boiled shrieking from the Well of Souls to strike him down, nor had the Teshri questioned his methods. They revelled in their good fortune, perhaps happier being ignortant, and not asking the awkward questions Roshana or her Federationists may have posed. No, the people loyal to him outnumbered those who were not, and his finest gift to them was the fiction they now enjoyed. Almost all was as he had hoped it would be, but he would need to remain vigilant until all his plans had returned on their investment.
He had Belamandris.
He had his throne.
Now it was time to speak to the Emissary about his third and final need, and to bring Yashamin out from the shadows.
“OUR MEMORIES ARE OFTEN THE SUGAR-COATED SWEETNESS OF A MORE BITTER REALITY.”
—Madesashti, the Prime of Amajoram, the Cloud Palace of the House of Pearl in Avānweh (276th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
DAY 359 OF THE 495TH YEAR OF THE SHRĪANESE FEDERATION
Indris leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, trying unsuccessfully to relax and enjoy the sun on his face where it streamed through the high, narrow window. A small alabaster bowl of incense burned in a wall niche, filling the air with the scents of sand and sea. Bowls of fruits, dips, and bread sat half-eaten on the dining table. Blue and yellow lotus flowers floated in a glazed porcelain dish and the ilhen lamps sent faint beams of radiance across the obsidian ceiling. Changeling lay across an ornate weapon rack, brooding and silent. She, too, seemed bored.
There were no visitors save the silent Sēq Major who brought his food, water and wine. There was no news, only the building pressure on Indris’ss senses of something happening about him and to him, rather than with him.
He was alerted by the part of his consciousness set aside to feel for the subtle changes in the Restraining Ward pattern, which had kept Indris confined—body and mind—to his sprawling guest chamber ever since Anj’s revelations to the Avānweh Suret yesterday. The Sēq Colonels who brought his food and drink would not talk to him and the lack of information about what was happening in the world was making him anxious. With the change in the fabric of the Ward, it was time once more for Indris to climb the ladder of his consciousness, and try to reach out with his psé to see whether Mari and his friends—and the rahns—were safe. As well as to learn anything else he could of Anj, or what was happening in Avānweh.
Physical eyes focussed on the light that reflected from the corner of a crystal prism, Indris made it the centre of his universe. He was ready and waiting in the upper reaches of his mind when the scholars began to relinquish their control of the old Ward, in favour of the new. Using the ahmsah, Indris watched as the new pattern merged with the last, like blending two brightly coloured rugs with different weaves together, the new pattern being set by a different mind with a different life of experiences, observations, and context. Indris’s mind tagged along, light as a dust mote, following the mystic fireflies that defined the rules of the new Ward.
The first layer was a fluid circuit of tumbling phosphorescent prisms that flowed across and through walls, floor and ceiling. It was an elegant thing of deceptively straight intersecting bars, a lattice of radiant mystic code that changed direction and speed at intervals. There was little physical danger, though any contact with the chameleon-like traps would result in a shock to his nerves and an alarm being set off, as he learned to his earlier chagrin. He dropped his ahm probe into the flow of the Ward, using his previous twenty or so attempts to quickly locate the vortex of fractals that served as the tumblers in the lock that would let him through to the second layer of the Ward.
The box outside the box was comprised of shining glyphs, which streamed in circles, curves, and lazy spirals, continually expanding and contracting. Characters and symbols tumbled around and through each other, turning from strings of nonsense to lines of text and back again. Learning from his last battering by the second layer of the Ward, Indris paused. Good thing, too—he had mistakenly followed the first strings of text, until he realized he should have been following the keys given in the Pashrean dialect behind it. There! A quote by Marak-ban, a Sēq Knight serving the Sussain. We have only this moment in which to make a difference.
Indris spoke the words in his mind and flew outwards with a dislocating sense of speed into the third layer of the Ward. This was a maelstrom of abstraction and analogy, images forming from fractals as tiny as the head of a pin, flowing
together like storm clouds to be blown away again. Each fractal changed colour and shape, ripples sent out across a mental landscape that was seemingly infinite. But trapped in the confines of a set space, Indris knew this, too, was an illusion. The last time he had focused on scanning the rapidly changing images, too close to see the whole, ended in his failure for the seventh time. This time he overcame his fascination with the minutiae and allowed his ahm-probe to soar away. Between the second and third layers of the Ward, Indris hovered close enough for the second layer to be a dizzying race of illuminated nonsense words. Yet it was here he found the answer he was looking for and saw that what appeared to be thousands of smaller images were nothing but the weft and woof of an integrated whole. It was an image all novice scholars he knew from history, The Rise of the Phoenix. In it, Näsarat, the progenitor of his Great House, was being trained by Sedefke at Isenandar. Erebus was there, along with Chepherundi, Bey, Selassin, Sûn and their peers, along with other disciples. But what was the key? Without knowing who had architected the Ward, Indris had no idea what would turn the lock. He watched for what seemed an eternity as the image broke apart, reformed, showed only parts of the whole, fused into a single complete image, then washed away like sea foam only to start again. Taking a gamble he said a single word.
“Näsé.” The High Avān word for phoenix.
Mystic pain inducers lashed the parts of his mind that told him to feel pain. And he did. A lot of it. He barely had time to howl a profanity before his ahm-probe disintegrated and he plummeted back into his agonised body. Within moments his door opened and an elderly black-cassocked Master he did not recognise, politely, if sternly, asked he not do that again. Indris lay on the ground, body twitching, and told the Master exactly what he could do with his suggestion.
The sun had crossed the sky and was well into the west when the door to his chamber opened again. Femensetri and He-Who-Watches entered without being bid, and sat themselves down. Femensetri scooped dip on to her fingers, sticking the pasty food in her mouth, before doing it to another bowl. Indris gestured at the food.
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