‘The feya-kori are on their way back from Zila,’ Avun said. He needed to say something to breach his wife’s wall of silence. When she did not respond, he persevered: ‘The troops of the Empire were driven out with barely any resistance at all. The Weavers are pleased with their new creations; more will join them soon, I think.’
The quiet became excruciating once again, but Avun had given enough to expect something in return. Eventually, Muraki asked: ‘How soon?’
‘A matter of weeks. It is uncertain.’
‘And then?’
‘We will overrun the Southern Prefectures, and after that we will turn to Tchom Rin.’
‘And will you turn their cities into places like this?’
‘I cannot see why the Weavers would do so,’ he replied. ‘There will be no need for feya-kori once they have control of the continent. And so, there will be no need for this miasma.’
‘Will there be a need for us, do you think?’ she asked softly. ‘When they have control of the continent?’
Avun smiled gently. ‘I am no fool, Muraki. I do not think they would keep me as Lord Protector out of gratitude. I will be invaluable to them still. The people need a human face upon their leader. They will never trust a Mask.’
‘But they will trust you?’
‘They will trust me because I will give them their skies back,’ Avun said. He took a sip of wine. ‘I do not want to live under this murk any more than you do; it is unnatural. But the sooner we are rid of the opposition, the sooner we can dispense with the feya-kori and dissemble the pall-pits.’
‘And the temples?’
Avun was lost for an answer for a moment. His wife had a way of pricking his sorest spots in a tone so submissive that he could not take umbrage. ‘The temples will not return. The Weavers do not like our gods.’
Muraki’s silence was more eloquent than words. She knew he still prayed in the dead of night, in the empty interior of the temple to Ocha on the roof of the Keep. The dome still remained in all its finery, though the statues of the gods that had ringed it were gone, and the altars and icons stripped away. It had an appallingly wounded feel to it now, and Muraki would not go near it. But Avun did.
Muraki wondered how he reconciled his actions to himself: he was not the most pious of men, but he would not forsake his gods, even though he would tear down their temples. Did he expect forgiveness? She knew of no deity so divinely gracious as to provide him with that, after the crimes he had committed against the Golden Realm.
Avun dodged the subject in the end, returning to his previous point. ‘In the end, the world will be as it was. The blight can be contained once the Red Order are overthrown, for the Weavers will not need so many witchstones. The miasma will be gone. And the land will be united once again.’
‘That is what the Weavers say? I had not heard that before now.’
‘I met with Kakre this morning. I persuaded him to divulge. It was not easy.’ Avun seemed proud of himself; she had no trouble believing that it was a courageous thing to do. She knew what had happened to him in the past when Kakre was displeased.
‘Why?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘Why did you do it? You have been content in ignorance until now.’
He gazed at her levelly. ‘Because my wife does not like the air here,’ he said. ‘And I had to be able to tell her it would be pure again one day.’
Muraki’s eyes flickered to his, and then back to her plate. It was the only outward sign of the flutter she felt in her breast. For a long while, she said nothing.
‘Do you believe them?’
‘It is the only way I can make sense of it. The alternative is to continue to poison the land. To do that would kill their own people, their own army. There is not enough food, and the famine will get worse.’
‘Or perhaps we do not see the Weavers’ greater plan,’ she whispered, her voice softening with the terror of contradicting him. ‘Perhaps Kakre is merely mad.’
Avun nodded. ‘He is mad.’
Muraki looked at him in surprise.
‘I have been watching his decline most carefully,’ Avun said. ‘It has steepened since he awakened the feya-kori. I think the effort of controlling them has hit him the hardest. His sanity is eroding fast.’ He took a bite of a dumpling, chewed for a moment and swallowed, as if what he was saying was just idle conversation and not something he might be executed for. ‘I suspect he would not have told me the Weavers’ long-term plans if he had not been quite so addled.’
‘But if the Weave-lord is mad,’ Muraki breathed, ‘who will direct the Weavers?’
‘That,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘is the question.’
TWELVE
The desert city of Izanzai sprawled over an uneven plateau that rose high above the dusty plains. It was a forest of dark spikes, its buildings cramming up to the lip of the sand-coloured cliffs. Needle-thin towers speared towards the pale sky; bulbous temples tapered to elegant spires as they ascended; bridges looped abbinove the hot, shadowy streets. At its southern edge there was a vast earthen ramp that was the only road up to the top of the plateau, built through years of toil and costing many lives.
Izanzai commanded an impressive view of its surroundings. To the south and east the plains were gradually swallowed by the deep desert, and in the distance it was possible to see the beginning of the enormous dunes that humped across central Tchom Rin. To the north and west the land was starker still, dry flats and mesas streaked with swatches of muddy yellow and deep brown, then suddenly rising hard, becoming the great barrier of the Tchamil Mountains. The mountains loomed grey and bleak, their sides flensed of life by hurricanes, innumerable peaks ranked one behind the other and stretching to infinity.
At their feet, men fought and died.
Barak Reki tu Tanatsua sat on manxthwa-back on the lip of a mesa, overlooking the battle. The warm wind plucked at his hair and clothes and ruffled the pelt of his mount. His eyes were narrowed, studying the form and movement of both sides, calculating strategies. The fight was all but over, and the desert forces were the victors, but he would not count it done until every last one of the enemy were dead. To his right and left, also on manxthwa, were a Sister of the Red Order and Jikiel, his spymaster. Other bodyguards waited at a distance, keen and alert, though they were far from anything that could harm them.
The latchjaws had arrived in greater numbers than ever this time. Had they come up against the armies of the families of Izanzai alone, they would have crushed them. But the unification of the Baraks had changed things, and with old enmities laid aside, Reki had been able to direct a much larger force to defend the city. The alliance had come not a day too soon, it seemed.
But the battle had been costly. Those cursed Aberrant beasts were tough to kill, and more often than not they took a few men with them when they went. Unlike the majority of the predator species that the Weavers had deployed thus far, they needed little water or food and were all but immune to the heat. They dealt with shifting sand or hard stone with equal ease; and their deadly natural armour meant that the desert warriors’ manic, close-up fighting style was effectively rendered suicidal. Too many were falling to them, snatched up in the mantrap-like jaws that gave them their name. Gods, if he didn’t think it impossible, he would have believed that the Weavers had tailored this species for exactly this purpose: to overrun the desert.
It was impossible, wasn’t it?
‘Your men in the mountains have located some of the Nexuses,’ the Sister murmured suddenly, relaying the information passed from her companions nearer the battle.
Reki made a noise of acknowledgement. He could have guessed that anyway. A section of the shambling monstrosities down on the plain had suddenly gone berserk, a sure sign that their masters had been killed. No longer under the control of the Nexuses, they reverted to being animals again, and animals were liable to react badly at finding themselves in the midst of a pitched battle of thousands.
‘It seems that this day is ours,’ Jikiel observed.
Reki looked askance at his spymaster. ‘This day,’ he said. ‘But how many more can we win?’
Jikiel nodded gravely. He was old and bald, brown and wrinkled as a nut, with a thin black beard and moustaches hanging in three slender ropes down his chest. He was robed in beige, with a nakata, the hook-tipped sword worn by the warriors of Tchom Rin, belted to his hip. ‘Perhaps we should take action against the source,’ he suggested.
‘I was thinking the same,’ said Reki. ‘Each time they come, there are more. We are forced to spread ourselves thin, for the borders of the mountains are vast. By bringing the Baraks together, we have won a respite; but that is all. They will overwhelm us in time.’
‘What are your orders, my Barak?’
‘Assemble as many men as you need. Send them into the mountains. I want to know where these things are coming from.’
‘It shall be done.’
They watched the battle for a little longer. The Nexuses were falling, and with them went their troops, collapsing into disorder and being shot down by the desert folk. The manxthwa stirred and grumbled, shuffling from side to side and scraping their hooves. The Sister delivered reports from time to time.
Half of Reki’s mind was on the battlefield, but half had drifted elsewhere, to his wife. It always seemed to. She had been gone over a month now, but the anxiety of separation had not faded. He still yearned for her. And he still burned at the way she had left him: without an explanation, with only cryptic hints and emotional blackmail left in her wake. He was furious at himself for letting her go without demanding more. He wondered what she was doing now, what was so important as to take her over seven hundred miles to the west. In the time she had been gone, he had tormented himself with innumerable invented histories; but in the end, how could he guess? What did he really know about Asara’s past? She was a mystery to him, as much as she had ever been.
And yet, was there really anything to fear? Was there anything he could not forgive her for, anything that might stop him loving her? He could not believe that. And he could not bear the torture of possibilities when there were the prospect of certainties that he could deal with and overcome.
‘Jikiel?’ he murmured, turning himself so that he was out of the Sister’s earshot.
‘My Barak?’
‘Find out about my wife.’ It felt like the most exquisite betrayal, and for a moment he considered taking it back; but it was a risk he had to take. If Asara did not trust their love, then he would have to take matters into his own hands. ‘Find out everything about her.’
A smile touched the corner of Jikiel’s mouth. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Asara came to Cailin in the small hours of the morning, in the house of the Red Order at Araka Jo. Cailin was drinking bitter tea, looking out through the sliding panels at the dark trees, watching owls.
‘Asara,’ she purred. ‘It was only a matter of time.’
Asara was already inside the room, having glided through the drapes without a sound. ‘Why else do you suppose I would come this far, if not to see you?’
Cailin put aside the delicate bowl that she was drinking from, stood up and faced her visitor. ‘Kaiku, perhaps? You never did seem to be able to keep away from her for long.’
Asara did not rise to the bait. ‘I saved Kaiku’s life for you,’ she said calmly. ‘I have paid a price for it ever since. I expect a measure of gratitude for that.’
‘Ah, gratitude,’ Cailin replied. ‘Why would I owe you that, Asara? You did what I told you to. You will get your reward when our deal is complete.’
Asara stepped a little further into the room. It was dark; there was no light but the white glow of the two larger moons. She stood there in the shadows, a disdainful arrogance in the tilt of her chin. She wore a white dress fastened with a brooch, delicate jewellery on her wrists and in her hair. Every inch the desert Barakess.
‘Things are different now,’ Asara said. ‘I am no longer the woman I once was.’
‘You think you have changed?’ Cailin said in disbelief. ‘You can change all you want on the outside, Asara, but inside you are just as empty as you have always been.’
‘It is my situation that has changed.’ Her tone had become edged with venom now. ‘As well you know.’
They regarded each other across the room. It was the same one in which Kaiku and Cailin had been Weaving several nights before, on the second storey of the Red Order’s house. The vases stood empty now, the incense burner cold. The charcoal etchings on the wood-panelled walls seemed to creep in the darkness.
‘I must congratulate you,’ Cailin said at length. ‘Your seduction of the Heir-Barak showed impressive foresight. How you must have grieved when both his sister and his father died, making way for him to become head of his family.’
‘His sister was ineligible to become head of the family, since she was wed to the Emperor,’ Asara replied levelly. ‘Her demise benefitted you more than me. You wanted the Weavers to succeed in their coup, you wanted them to take this land. And now you have your wish.’
‘And you had nothing to do with her death, I suppose?’
‘Maybe so, and maybe not,’ Asara replied. ‘If the former, it would have been another example of how I have given more on your behalf that anyone has a right to ask, and received nothing in return.’
‘Such is the nature of our agreement, Asara. You will be paid in full when the time comes.’
‘Then I am altering our agreement.’
Cailin raised an eyebrow. ‘You are? How amusing.’
‘I am the wife of a Barak now, Cailin,’ Asara said, bridling a little. ‘I hold the most powerful man in the desert in the palm of my hand. You cannot sweep me aside as you might once have done.’
Cailin’s red-and-black lips were set in a mocking smirk. ‘I see. And you think that because you have fooled a callow boy into marriage that you can use it as leverage to bully me? I had thought better of you, Asara.’
‘I have been over a decade in your thrall, Cailin,’ Asara spat, sudden rage igniting within her. ‘Kept tied by your promises. You realised what I needed – the gods know how; your filthy kana-games, no doubt – and you have exploited me ever since. And all this time I have chased a dream that I am not even sure you are capable of fulfilling! Now I have the power in the desert, and I can turn Tchom Rin against you and your kind. I know what you desire, and I can make it much more difficult for you if you do not give me what I want now!’
‘Enough!’ Cailin snapped. ‘What is ten years, twenty, fifty to such as us? We will not age, Asara. We do not run out of time as others do. Where is your patience?’
‘I have been patient,’ came the reply. ‘But there is a line between patience and foolishness. Should I be your slave for another decade, and another, until you decide to release me? And even then, could you grant me what you say you will? Would you? One woman’s word is a slender thread to hang such a weight from. And you have hardly been a paragon of trustworthiness in the years I have known you.’
Cailin laughed, the sound high and bright. ‘Poor Asara,’ she said. ‘Poor, murdering Asara.’ Her laughter faded, and her voice grew dark. ‘You want sympathy? I have none. The Red Order’s cause is as much in your interests as ours—’
‘I doubt that,’ Asara interrupted.
‘—and however unwillingly, you are fighting for yourself when you fight on our side. We will make a world where Aberrants can live without fear. And you will aid us in that, whether you want to or not.’
‘You are avoiding the issue,’ Asara said, stalking closer. ‘Give me what I want.’
‘Release you from our compact? Hardly. You are, despite your faults, an extremely useful ally.’
‘Give me what I want!’ Asara cried.
‘Or what?’ Cailin shouted. ‘What will you do, Asara? You think you can turn the desert against us? You think you can stop us? Your best efforts would be nothing more than a mosquito bite to the Red Order. We could kill you a thousand times
over before you could even get back to your beloved Barak. And even Reki is not such a fool as to forsake the powers we lend him when the Weavers are even now trying to invade Tchom Rin. Yours is a poor bluff, Asara, and you tire me now.’
‘It ends here, then!’ Asara returned. ‘It all ends here. If you cannot prove to me that you can do what you say, then I—’
Cailin cut her throat.
It was a swift, dismissive gesture with her hand, a disgusted flick of her fingers in the moonlight. She did not touch the other woman; they were too far apart. But Asara’s neck opened from side to side in a red slit, as cleanly as if Cailin had been holding a sword.
Asara staggered backward, her eyes wide, making damp noises in her chest. Blood gushed, pulsing down the front of her dress, staining it a glistening black in the moonlight. Cailin watched impassively, sidelit by the moonlight, her irises gone crimson.
Asara tried to make a sound, but none would come. She tried to draw breath, but not even a gasp would make it through her severed windpipe. Panic swamped her, a terror like nothing she had ever known before: she was dying, dying unfulfilled, and when she was gone it would be as if she had never been here. Her legs went weak, her muscles leaden. She fell to her knees, clutching her throat with one hand, the other feebly propping her upright, her splayed fingers sliding in her own fluids. Her head was becoming light. So much blood, so much blood, and nothing she could do would staunch it.
Not like this, was all she could think with the last dregs of her reason. Not like this.
Cailin made a vague waving motion with two of her fingers, and Asara’s throat sewed shut, fibres and tissues knitting seamlessly from side to side as if zipped. Eager nourishment slammed from her heart to her brain, and she hauled in a huge, sobbing breath. She had never felt such a divine sensation as the relief she experienced then, nor a hatred so pure as that which she had for the one who had hurt her this way. Still gasping, her dress sodden black, she raised her head and fixed Cailin with a gaze of utter malice.
The Braided Path: The Weavers of Saramyr, The Skein of Lament and the Ascendancy Veil Page 111