The Kingdoms of Dust

by Amanda Downum

  Adam’s indrawn breath roused her from the edge of a doze. “You swore their oaths,” he said quietly.

  She smiled into the dark. “I lied. I am a spy, after all.” Her smile faded. It wasn’t something to take lightly—if it were ever known that she was twice forsworn, she would be anathema to mages across two continents. She worked her dry tongue against the roof of her mouth before she spoke.

  “I’m tired of being a spy. I was considering becoming a mercenary. What do you think?”

  He was silent long enough for her throat to tighten. “You might survive it,” he finally said. “If you start eating more.”

  “I’d need a partner. Someone who wouldn’t get me killed. Who’d keep me from doing stupid things.”

  “You would.” She risked a glance from the corner of her eye; his eyes glittered, but bloody firelight shadows hid his face. “But I’m not sure anyone can do that.”

  Isyllt laughed. “No, probably not.”

  Another silence. Embers cracked and hissed as the fire dimmed. “There’s usually work in the north, in the mountains.”

  “Mountains.” She rolled the word over her tongue. “It’s a long way out of the desert, though.”

  “It is. So try to get some rest.”

  As he had a dozen times that night, Asheris paced a circuit at the edge of Al-Reshara, his boots wearing grooves in the dusty reg. When the stars wheeled into Ishâ, the quarter between midnight and dawn, he sank cross-legged onto the cooling ground. For the third time that night, he conjured flame.

  He didn’t bother collecting twigs or dung, but called the fire from the stones. The flames leapt and sparked, fueled by agitation as well as magic; he had called to Siddir every night since the fall of Qais, but with no answer.

  This time, however, he felt the spell catch on the other side, and both his hearts leapt. Siddir’s face wasn’t the relief he’d hoped: grey and drawn, eyes sunken and bruised. As their gazes met through the fire, a sick feeling curdled in Asheris’s stomach.

  “What happened?”

  Siddir laughed, raw and harsh. “You mean to tell me you don’t know?” When Asheris shook his head, he laughed again. “The ghost wind happened. Three nights ago. It came like a wave out of a clear sky, right over the city. I thought it meant you were dead. Or that you did it yourself.”

  The final words of Al-Jodâ’im rang in his head. “It wasn’t my doing. I had— I had a warning, but I didn’t understand it until now. How many dead?”

  “Hundreds, I imagine. They’re still combing the rubble. The cathedral was destroyed—Ahmar is dead, and Mehridad, not to mention all the other unlucky priests and novices and supplicants.” He shook his head. “I would have killed her myself for threatening you, but not like this.” Siddir looked up, hazel eyes sharp through the distortion of heat-shimmer. “Do you swear you didn’t cause this?”

  “I—” Asheris inhaled the taste of char and burning sand. “I can’t. I didn’t mean to, but I helped free the ghost wind.” If he’d taken the freedom Al-Jodâ’im offered in the first place, there would have been no need for their vengeance. He forced the thought away, before it poisoned him.

  “Helped?” Siddir’s eyebrow rose. “Helped Isyllt? I should have known.”

  “The wind is gone now, forever. She sent it back where it came from.”

  “Samar will be glad to hear that, at least.” He winced at the empress’s name, and Asheris frowned.

  “What is it?”

  Siddir glanced away, scrubbing a hand across his face. “She was outside when the storm struck. She’ll be all right,” he added, before Asheris could form a reply. “The baby too, we think. There was bleeding. It was touch-and-go for a while. And now the physicians know, and a few servants. Which means everyone will, soon. She…admitted that it’s mine.” His mouth twisted. “Are you coming back for the wedding?”

  Asheris swallowed. “I don’t think that would be wise, under the circumstances.”

  “No one blames you. Not yet. Someone will think of it eventually, but I’m sure you can come up with a story of a terrible battle and how it nearly killed you.”

  His nails scored his palms as he tried to answer; his throat was as dry as the ground beneath him. But he’d had days to consider this, and to convince himself it was the best plan. “I’m not coming back. Not yet. This ruse was nearly spent, and there are things I have to do. You have my blessings, though, if they mean anything.”

  “Not as much as it would mean to have you.” Silence grew between them, and for a moment Asheris thought Siddir would break the connection. Instead the other man leaned forward, voice lowering. “I could follow you. If you wanted that. Not right away—Samar needs me, and the city is in chaos—but eventually. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve faked my death and snuck out of town.” He said it with a wry grin, but his voice was rough, burred with something raw and earnest.

  Asheris reached, unthinking, but his fingers touched fire instead of flesh. A dozen replies caught and died before he found one he could speak aloud.

  “Don’t. Not because I don’t want you to,” he added quickly. “But because I mean to come back to Ta’ashlan eventually. I mean to change things. And when I do it wouldn’t hurt to have the imperial consort on my side. Besides, I’m going into the desert. You’d be bored sick of it within a decad. Tell Samar I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be too long away.” Siddir raised long brown fingers to his temple, where dye covered greying hair. “Some of us don’t have forever.”

  Asheris’s throat closed around all the things he wanted to say, all the things they’d never told each other. To say them now would sound too much like a farewell. “I won’t,” he said instead, and made the words a promise. He raised his hand once more, a phantom caress.

  The fire died, and he was alone again. He swallowed the taste of salt.

  From across the desert, deep into the glittering erg, came a high chittering cry. Another answered, and fell silent. Wild spirits, the kind he hadn’t seen or heard since he left Symir.

  Asheris swallowed again, and this time he tasted hope as well as dust.

  Isyllt returned to her tent at dawn and woke hours later to find Moth watching her. The girl passed a skin of water and bowl of boiled grain and fruit, and waited for Isyllt to eat and drink.

  “Are you all right?” Isyllt asked at last, setting down the empty dish.

  “Fine. I mean,” she added with a shrug, “I will be.” A bruise darkened on her forehead, and fresh cuts scabbed on each wrist; she rubbed one absently now. Her face was pale beneath the desert tan, and the ruby gleamed on her left hand. She tingled against Isyllt’s otherwise senses, stronger than she ever had before. “I’ve never used so much magic at once before. I had barely solved your puzzle before you did…whatever it was you did.”

  “You did well.”

  Moth glanced away, color rising in her cheeks.

  “What will you do now?” Isyllt asked.

  The girl frowned, twisting the ring. “I’ve been wondering that myself. I think…I think I want to go with Melantha. Or whatever she’s going to call herself now. She doesn’t have anyone. And she reminds me of me.” Her eyes flickered, a quick glint of humor. “I want to see all the places she’s told me about.”

  Isyllt swallowed. “If that’s what you want. I know you can take care of yourself. But if you ever need me—”

  Moth smiled, quick and gone. “I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed.”

  “So am I,” Isyllt said, and surprised herself with how much she meant it.

  That afternoon Isyllt managed a clumsy bath, and Adam helped her wrap her shoulder in a fresh splint. All of Nerium’s healing had been undone by Al-Jodâ’im; a stitch had torn free, and the flesh around the rest was warm and proud. She didn’t need to worry about infection, but it would scar. Next time she injured herself, she’d have to remember to do it somewhere besides her left arm.

  Clean and dressed once more in white, she followed Moth’s
directions and went searching for Melantha. She found the woman sitting on the Chanterie steps between the sphinxes, rubble strewn about her feet. The great brassbound doors hung crooked on their hinges, and fissures crazed the tall red walls.

  Melantha looked up when Isyllt stopped in front of her. Her eyes were bruised and red. Something in her face was different, though Isyllt couldn’t say what. She looked older. Quieter inside. Perhaps it was only the weariness of grief.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” Isyllt said. “She believed in what she did. I wish I could have known her without her vows.

  Melantha laughed, a sound like breaking bones. “So do I.”

  “Take care of Moth.”

  Isyllt watched a retort rise to the woman’s lips, watched her swallow it back. “I will. You take care of Adam.”

  She could have left it at that—should have, no doubt—but as she turned away, a perverse impulse caught her. She paused, casting a last glance over her shoulder. “Before I forget, I’ll let you say your good-byes.” Her ring flickered, and the air chilled as the brown man’s ghost materialized beside her.

  “Why am I not surprised to see what’s happened while I was gone?” His voice was hollow and death-faded, but acerbic as ever.

  Isyllt lengthened her stride, before a knife found its way to her back.

  Isyllt woke during the hour of the jackal, and couldn’t sleep again. Finally she rose and tugged on her boots, moving quietly to keep from waking Adam. In the other tent, Asheris seemed to sleep as well, or was lost in his thoughts. The night was peaceful, broken only by the distant yipping of jackals, but a heavy weight settled in her chest.

  She climbed the ruined temple carefully, testing every step. Her magic told her all the entropomantic power in the building had faded, but that wouldn’t save her if a load-bearing structure gave way. None did, however, and she reached the top unscathed.

  The highest tier where tower and inner stairs had stood was now a pit half filled with broken masonry, like a collapsed well. No one would reach the oubliette and its buried fortune again without a team of architects.

  The stars moved while she stood there. Their light glinted on the black diamond as she turned her ring between her fingers. The dull cabochon shape was lusterless without ghostlight, hollow and weightless without its burden of souls. The stone was near to priceless, the dearest gift she’d ever received and a reminder of the man she’d loved for half her life. A bitter reminder now, but that might ease with time.

  It was also a prison, and the mark of a station she’d lost and oaths she’d broken. And she was sick to death of diamonds. Sick of prisons.

  Black diamond and white gold glittered as the ring fell, clinking softly as it bounced and rolled. With one last spark, it vanished into a crevice beyond her reach. Her right hand clenched at her side, naked and cold. Her stomach cramped and she sank to her knees on the stone, eyes blurring as she fought the urge to crawl after it.

  She held herself still until the worst scald of regret passed. It would scar, but it would heal. If she told herself that often enough, one day it might be true.

  On the valley floor, Adam and Asheris had risen and were breaking camp. Isyllt scrubbed the last tears off her cheeks and went to join them. Hours remained until dawn, but they had a long way still to go.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Elizabeth Bear, Jodi Meadows, Celia Marsh, Liz Bourke, and everyone in the drowwzoo chat. They’ve helped me through four novels now, and deserve medals. And of course my husband, Steven, who’s lived with me through all four of those books. I would also like to thank the Partners in Climb, all my Internet friends, Jennifer Jackson, DongWon Song, and everyone at Orbit who gives me such beautiful covers.

  I owe an additional thanks to Marq de Villiers and Sheila Hirtle for their book Sahara: A Natural History. My descriptions of Al-Reshara would be much poorer without their detailed research and graceful prose.

  Thank you!

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Adam—a mercenary, Isyllt’s bodyguard

  Ahmar Asalar—priestess of the Unconquered Sun, and a member of Quietus

  Ahmet Sahin—spymaster of Kehribar

  Al-Jodâ’im—the Undoing, ancient spirits bound by Quietus

  Asheris al Seth—an Assari mage, also a jinni

  Corylus—an agent of Quietus

  Isyllt Iskaldur—necromancer and sometime spy

  Kash—a jinni, bound by Quietus

  Khalil Ramadi—a member of Quietus

  Melantha—an assassin with a past (several of them, in fact)

  Moth—Isyllt’s apprentice, formerly named Dahlia

  Nerium Kerah—Melantha’s mother, a member of Quietus

  Raisa—a ghul

  Samar al Seth—empress of Assar

  Shirin Asfaron—a member of Quietus

  Siavush al Naranj—a member of Quietus

  Siddir Bashari—an Assari nobleman and spy

  Appendix

  Calendars and Time

  Selafai and the Assari Empire both use 365-day calendars, divided into twelve 30-day months. Months are in turn divided into ten-day decads. The extra five days are considered dead days, or demon days, and not counted on calendars. No business is conducted on these days, and births and deaths will be recorded on the first day of the next month; many women choose to induce labor in the preceding days rather than risk an ill-omened child.

  The Assari calendar reckons years Sal Emperaturi, from the combining of the kingdoms Khem and Deshra by Queen Assar. The year begins with the flooding of the Rivers Ash and Nilufer. Months are Sebek, Kebeshet, Anuket, Tauret, Hathor, Selket, Nebethet, Seker, Reharakes, Khensu, Imhetep, and Sekhmet. Days of the decad (called a mudat in Assari) are Ahit, Ithanit, Talath, Arbat, Khamsat, Sitath, Sabath, Tamanit, Tisath, and Ashrat.

  In 727 SE the Assari Empire invaded the western kingdom of Elissar. Elissar’s royal house, led by Embria Selaphaïs, escaped across the sea and settled on the northern continent. Six years later the refugees founded the kingdom of Selafai, and capital New Tanaïs. They established a new calendar, reckoned Ab urbe condita but otherwise styled after the Assari. Selafaïn years end with the winter solstice, beginning again after the five dead days, six months and five days after the Assari New Year. Selafaïn months are Ganymedos, Narkisos, Apollon, Sephone, Io, Janus, Merkare, Sirius, Kybelis, Pallas, Lamia, and Hekate. Days of the decad are Kalliope, Klio, Erata, Euterpis, Melpomene, Polyhymnis, Terpsichora, Thalis, Uranis, and Mnemosin.

  Selafaïns measure twenty-four-hour days beginning at sunrise. Time is marked in eight three-hour increments known as terces. The day begins with the first terce, dawn, also called the hour of tenderness. The second is morning, the hour of virtue; then noon, the hour of reason; afternoon, the hour of patience; evening, the hour of restraint; night, the hour of comfort (also known as the hour of pleasure or of excess); midnight, the hour of regret; and predawn, the hour of release.

  The Assari divide their days into four six-hour quarters, roughly coinciding with liturgical services: Fajir, or dawn; Zhur, the zenith; Maghrevi, dusk; and Ishâ, the nadir.

  extras

  meet the author

  AMANDA DOWNUM was born in Virginia and has since spent time in Indonesia, Micronesia, Missouri, and Arizona. In 1990 she was sucked into the gravity well of Texas and has not yet escaped. She graduated from the University of North Texas with a degree in English literature, and has spent the last ten years working in a succession of libraries and bookstores; she is very fond of alphabetizing. She currently lives near Austin in a house with a spooky attic, which she shares with her long-suffering husband and fluctuating numbers of animals and half-finished novels. She spends her spare time making jewelry and falling off perfectly good rocks. To learn more about the author, visit www.amandadownum.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed The Kingdoms of Dust,

  look out for

  The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms
>
  By N. K. Jemisin

  Yeine Darr is an outcast from the barbarian north. But when her mother dies under mysterious circumstances, she is summoned to the majestic city of Sky. There, to her shock, Yeine is named an heiress to the king. But the throne of the Hundred Thousand Kingdoms is not easily won, and Yeine is thrust into a vicious power struggle.

  I am not as I once was. They have done this to me, broken me open and torn out my heart. I do not know who I am anymore.

  I must try to remember.

  * * *

  My people tell stories of the night I was born. They say my mother crossed her legs in the middle of labor and fought with all her strength not to release me into the world. I was born anyhow, of course; nature cannot be denied. Yet it does not surprise me that she tried.

  My mother was an heiress of the Arameri. There was a ball for the lesser nobility—the sort of thing that happens once a decade as a backhanded sop to their self-esteem. My father dared ask my mother to dance; she deigned to consent. I have often wondered what he said and did that night to make her fall in love with him so powerfully, for she eventually abdicated her position to be with him. It is the stuff of great tales, yes? Very romantic. In the tales, such a couple lives happily ever after. The tales do not say what happens when the most powerful family in the world is offended in the process.

  But I forget myself. Who was I, again? Ah, yes.

  My name is Yeine. In my people’s way I am Yeine dau she Kinneth tai wer Somem kanna Darre, which means that I am the daughter of Kinneth, and that my tribe within the Darre people is called Somem. Tribes mean little to us these days, though before the Gods’ War they were more important.