The Forbidden City

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Askander faced her straight then and looked into her eyes, holding back nothing of his pain, his worry.

  “And…?”

  The words were slow and bitter. “If needs be, I will use bonesinger magic.” She said it as if she had not begun to do so already. So quickly I stray from the path of truth.

  “Such magic is unclean. Khutlani.”

  “It may be forbidden, but is not unclean. Magic is neither clean nor unclean—magic simply is. It is the users of magic who determine whether it is used for fair ends or fell.” She smiled a little. “My mother was a bonesinger, and she was the kindest, most gentle lady you might hope to meet. When I was younger, I would vow to the stars every night that I would find her again some day.”

  Askander pressed his point. “If you do this, you will lose your place among the people. You will have to give up Talieso, you will have to give up teaching your youngsters. You will have to give up the love of a Ja’Sajani.”

  “If I must give up my people in order to save them, so be it. As for my horse…” Her hand stole up to stroke her stallion’s neck. The big head swung toward her and Talieso nickered, hoping for a treat. “You do not have the authority to take him from me, Ja’Sajani. We are beyond the pridelands, and your sword stops at our borders.”

  “Our borders, but not yours,” the warden corrected her. His voice was so low, so rough, it scraped her heart raw. “Not yours, pretty girl, not if you take this foolish path.”

  “I must,” she told him. “You know that. My duty to the people does not end at the borders, and it does not end with their acceptance of me. Ehuani, my duty to the people is the only truth I have ever known.” She grabbed mane and swung up into the saddle as easily as if she were, indeed, the girl who had hunted and caught the elusive Askander Ja’Sajani, long years ago.

  “As you say.” Askander bowed low in his saddle. “Safe roads, Dzirani.”

  “May the road be ever at your back, Ja’Sajani,” she replied, “and may your enemies be worthy.”

  With those words, she turned and rode away from him.

  Her tears dried quickly in the merciless heat.

  That did not stop more from coming.

  * * *

  She rode north and east, allowing Talieso to choose the pace, dismounting now and again to walk beside him when he stumbled. The swelling and heat in his leg had gone down. There would be no permanent damage, or so she hoped. It would be better if she did not ride him at all, but the need was such that they both had to make sacrifices.

  Well past midsun the stallion’s pace quickened, his ears perked forward and he grunted in anticipation. They had reached a midsized oasis, a place they both knew well, where she and Askander had more than once…

  No, she thought. None of that.

  The moment their feet touched thin grass, Ani stripped off Talieso’s tack and let him have his way. He took off like a colt, kicking and farting, and she laughed to see his dilemma. The old stallion wished to eat, he wished to drink, and he wished to roll in the soft sand, all at once.

  Ani waded ankle-deep into the shallow water and filled her waterbags before taking a long drink. The water was more sour than she remembered, the grass brittle and dry.

  Then again, she thought, I am having a shit day. It is no wonder if I see the world through bitter eyes.

  All through the day a song had been building within her, growing and becoming until the air around her fairly shimmered with dark colors for which there were no names. Not in Zeeranim, anyway. Khalzash, she named them, archat. Nach-aat, gharram, fakhash. Fell colors born of a song with a foul purpose. Ani had never attempted such magic. Until this day, she would have said that she would rather die than unleash such thing upon the world.

  Everything has changed.

  Everything is changing…

  To the deep west, another voice joined the song. It was a low voice, low and unsavory, and it crackled with the heat of the wicked mountains whence it came.

  Everything will change, it said mockingly.

  Everything will end.

  Ani knew the name of the demon to which this voice belonged. Such names had been taught to her at her mother’s breast, before ever she learned to say “imma” or “ah-ba,” before she knew that “Ani” meant her. Names, to those with the dark gift, were everything.

  Khoroush-Il-mannech, she thought, and that morning’s pemmican churned in her gut. The voice of Jehannim himself. She raised her eyes to the western horizon, and though she could not see the dark peaks that had birthed the demon, she knew he was there. Ani could feel him through the song, searching blindly for the one bold enough, foolish enough, to rouse him from the darkness to whence he had long been banished. She could feel him groping, seeking.

  Ah, there you are, little one.

  The words hit and Ani arched her back, ice and fire bursting in her skull like red and black flowers of pain. She fell to her knees, to her side, clenching her teeth so hard it seemed as if they would shatter. Bony fingers clawed at her essence, shredding her from within like so much dried meat.

  Remember who you are, her mother’s voice whispered, low and urgent. If ever you meet a bonelord, he will try to steal your name. Remember who you are.

  “Ani,” she growled, drawing her lips back as if she were vash’ai. “I am Ani, and you shall not have me.” A third time. “I am Ani.”

  Ani. The pain receded, slowly, but the foul presence did not. Its laughter wound all through her song, wicked and dark and gorgeous. Ani, it crooned as she lay panting in the sand, bleeding from the mouth where she had bitten her tongue. Last daughter of the lost tribes. I so look forward to meeting you.

  She pushed herself upright, refusing to weep at this. Ani had endured pain before, and heartbreak, and despair. Those had not killed her then, and they would not kill her now.

  “Show me yours, demon,” she said aloud, spitting blood upon the sand. “I am Ani of the Zeera, youthmistress of the Shahaydrim. Second Mother to Sulema Firehair, daughter of the Dragon King. I am Ani Dzirana, last of the bonesingers.

  “And I am ready for you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Akari cast his baleful eye upon the happenings at the Madraj. Torches had been lit about the perimeter of the arena, red fire reaching up to a darkening sky. Even Akari Sun Dragon was abandoning his people to the tender mercies of Ishtaset.

  She and her Mah’zula prowled among the grunting, sweating, crying Ja’Akari, striking hard with hand or foot if any dared falter or fail. Had Ismai thought the warriors had trained before? Had he thought they had fought, before? That had been as nothing. Compared to the Mah’zula, the Ja’Akari seemed soft and untrained as toddlers. Beneath the iron palm of Ishtaset, however, they began to transform into something harsher, harder.

  It seemed to Ismai that the friends and playmates of his youth were slowly being replaced as their hearts and minds were turned away from the people with whom they had laughed and loved, and toward their enchanting new leader.

  Ishtaset was their leader now, in truth if not in name. Even as Ismai watched, veiled in shadow and the invisibility of his own unimportance, she walked loose-limbed and arrogant as a vash’ai across the arena and ascended the steps to the high dais. Every girl and woman of the Ja’Akari gave way before her, eyes cast down or to the side. None dared challenge her—indeed, they seemed to yearn after her like cubs after the pride queen, doubling and tripling their efforts as she passed.

  He shook his head. I am glad, now, he thought, that the First Warrior ignored my request to become Ja’Akari.

  It was a silly request, anyway, Ruh’ayya chided. She sneezed, a cat’s laugh. Might as well wish to become an eagle, or a fish.

  It would be nice to fly, he thought wistfully.

  A wise vash’ai once observed that no human is ever content in its own skin.

  Who said that?

  I did, she answered. I am wise beyond my years.

  Ismai sneezed, then grinned as she swatted him with her tail.
His grin faded, though, as First Warrior Sareta entered the Madraj and strode purposefully toward Ishtaset.

  Trouble, he thought, stepping deeper into the shadow. It is a good time to be invisible.

  Trouble, Ruh’ayya agreed. She did not move from her patch of sunlight. The vash’ai was only invisible when she intended to kill something.

  Sareta attempted to mount the steps behind Ishtaset, but was blocked by one of the Mah’zula, an older woman so heavily mottled and painted that she looked more feline than some of the vash’ai. Ismai could all but smell the hot iron fury of the First Warrior as she stood at the foot of the dais.

  Ishtaset took to the middle of the stage, and held up both hands, and silence fell upon the Madraj even as the last golden scales of Akari Sun Dragon slid below the horizon.

  “My people,” she said. Though she did not shout, her voice carried to the edges of the arena as if the wind itself strove to please her. “People of Akari. People of the Zeera. People of Zula Din… my people.” The warriors froze mid-strike, wardens froze mid-move in their games of Stones and Bones, babies froze mid-wail as all strained to hear what the golden warrior had to say.

  “This cannot be good,” a voice hissed in Ismai’s ear. Ismai leapt half out of his skin, clapping a hand over his own mouth to stifle his own un-wardenlike squeak. Heart still trying to gallop free, he spun to face his assailant.

  “Jasin!” he hissed. “You limp gewad! I might have killed you!”

  “With a half-eaten fish?” Jasin whispered, chuckling, and pointed with his chin at the remains of Ismai’s stolen meal. “Not much has changed, I see—still stealing food from the kitchens.”

  “Luck favors the prepared,” Ismai replied, just as quietly. “I figured I should eat before the Mah’zula forbid that, too.”

  Ruh’ayya licked her chops. She had prepared herself by eating a small pig.

  “We knew you would be here,” a third voice whispered, and the tall, blue-clad figure of Amil stepped clear of the shadows. Amil, Daoud, Jasin, Ghabril, all had taken the blue at once, though none had been bonded by the vash’ai. Now here they were, looking at Ismai with eyes wide as boys, as if they expected him to do something about this mess.

  “Fish?” he offered, handing the clay platter to Daoud. Each young warden took a share of the flesh, and ate in solemn silence.

  So, I am not the only one who senses that things are… not right. Chillflesh ran down Ismai’s spine, and raised the hair on both his arms. It was not a comforting thought.

  Even a human can see the truth in front of his face once in a while, Ruh’ayya agreed. Sometimes before it bites him.

  Sometimes, Ismai acknowledged as he turned back toward Ishtaset. Only sometimes.

  “…have strayed so far from the paths of your ancestors, our ancestors, that I am not sure they would recognize you as people at all,” Ishtaset continued. She shook her head, eyes downcast and heavy with sorrow. “So far from the tenets of the Muammin, laid out by the First Women in the long ago. Mua’immaish… protection of our lands. Mua’immjal… protection of our men, the breath and future of the Zeeranim. Mua’immasil… protection of our herds from outlanders. Mua’immalad… protection of our precious children.”

  “We protect our children!” a man’s voice protested.

  “Do you?” Ishtaset shook her head again, slowly. “How many of your children have been stolen by slavers, this past year alone? How many lost to the river, to predators? How many have not been conceived at all, because you allow your men to wander heedlessly into foreign territories, spreading their seed outland instead of remaining home with the mothers and children, where they are most needed?”

  Ismai’s chest tightened. Something is not right, he repeated to Ruh’ayya.

  It smells like a trap, she agreed. ’Ware, Kithren.

  “Ismai, look,” Jasin whispered. “The Mah’zula. What are they doing?”

  Mah’zula warriors poured into the Madraj like mead poured from a pitcher of gold, honey-sweet and dangerous. They filled the outer rows of stone seats, the stairs, and walked across the arena to stand beside their leader, stiff-maned and arrogant, dressed and armed as if for war. More than half of them were flanked by vash’ai, their tusks free of golden cuffs as if they were wild, and half again as big as the cats Ismai was used to seeing.

  “They are magnificent,” Daoud murmured.

  “So many of them,” Jasin replied, voice low and tense. “Where did they all come from? There were not so many with Ishtaset. Not nearly so many.”

  That is a very good question, Ismai thought. “I do not like this,” he said aloud. “Ishtaset talks as if she would—”

  “Ssssst!” Ghabril hissed. His eyes were round and white in the near dark. “Did you hear that? Ja’Shamsin! She has declared Ja’Shamsin!”

  Under the sword. Ismai’s very blood ran cold as the river. So it begins.

  “Can she even do that?” Jasin asked, too loud to Ismai’s ears. Before he could answer, their attention was drawn to a commotion at the foot of the high dais. The First Warrior Sareta and a short fist of Ja’Akari were shouting and trying to fight their way up the stairs. It was a brief struggle. Sareta and her warriors were forcibly disarmed, stripped of their warriors’ vests, and escorted out of the Madraj. Among the hundreds of warriors in the arena—any of whom would have placed their lives before Sareta’s, just a short moon ago—most refused to meet her eyes as she was marched past. Of those who did, a handful nodded in satisfaction before turning their faces back to Ishtaset.

  “Ja’Shamsin! Would you hold a sword to our throats, then?” a woman shouted, and a ripple of nervous agreement washed through the crowd.

  “You mistake me,” Ishtaset replied. “A warrior under Ja’Shamsin does not hold a blade to the throat of her brother.” In a single smooth motion, Ishtaset drew her shamsi and brought the golden blade up and across her own throat. Blood welled from the shallow cut and ran down her dark skin. “A warrior under Ja’Shamsin has pledged to pour every drop of her blood upon the sands before allowing one drop of her brother’s to be spilled.”

  “Ja’Shamsin.” The woman whispered, and her voice was picked up by the people. It rolled through the empty eyes of the Madraj and carried across the Zeera, birthing a sharp new wind. “Ja’Shamsin!”

  Ishtaset kissed her bloody shamsi and held it aloft. As one, the Mah’zula drew their blades, as well, drawing the sharp steel across their throats and stabbing the bloodied blades upward into the night’s soft underbelly.

  “Ja’Shamsin!” one of the Ja’Akari cried, teeth flashing in the torchlight as her face was split by a grin. She drew her own sword and repeated the gesture. Her blood splattered upon the arena floor.

  “Ja’Shamsin!”

  “Ja’Shamsin!”

  A gentle red rain began to fall in the Zeera as, one by one, the Ja’Akari pledged themselves to the law of the sword. Their faces danced in and out of the torchlight, feral and beautiful and terrifying.

  “They are magnificent,” Daoud breathed.

  “I do not know whether to throw myself at their feet or run away,” Ghabril confessed. “Maybe both.”

  “I do not think this is a good thing,” Jasin said. His forehead creased as he looked to Ismai. “Your mother was Umm Akibra. What do you know of the laws of Ja’Shamsin?” There was an uncomfortable silence at that. Umm Nurati had been dead for less than a year. To speak of her this soon was khutlani.

  “Not much,” Ismai admitted at last. He had never been a scholar. “Nothing good. Mostly I remember that there are rules for how men dress, who they can talk to, where they can go, that sort of thing, and that they are supposed to obey the Ja’Akari.” He wished that Daru had not gone to Atualon. That boy had read every book in the Zeera, it seemed, and remembered them all.

  “Obey the Ja’Akari?” Ghabril snorted. “I wish them luck with that.”

  “They might not need luck,” Jasin pointed out. The crease in his forehead deepened. “They have swords, a
nd vash’ai.”

  “We have swords, too.”

  “Would you raise yours against your sisters?” Jasin shook his head.

  Ismai stroked the hilt of his sunblade, gifted to him by his mother. Surely she had not meant it to spill Zeerani blood.

  “My… mother used to say that the Zeeranim are like reeds. One reed may be broken, or two, or three, but if you gather us all together, we are unbreakable. I do not think she would have wanted to see brother fighting sister. Or sister fighting sister. I think… she would have wanted us to work with the Mah’zula.” It almost sounded like a question.

  “I am not so sure.” Jasin frowned as he looked out at the cheering Ja’Akari. “Did you hear what Ishtaset said about our people living in stone cities like outlanders? I do not think those two would have gotten along very well. I think that… Umm Nurati…” He coughed uncomfortably. “I think she would have sent the Mah’zula on their way, if she could.”

  It is interesting to note, Ruh’ayya said gently, that your Queen Mother was killed before this strange pride invaded her territory. Do you suppose they have a dream eater among them?

  Ismai’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped.

  “Ismai?” Jasin touched his shoulder.

  “Ruh’ayya says… she says… that my mother was killed by a dream eater. Are there any dreamshifters among these Mah’zula?”

  “Only warriors, as far as I know. Besides, the only dreamshifter I have ever heard of who might be that powerful would be—”

  “Hafsa Azeina.” Ghabril shuddered. “That woman scares my balls right up my arse.”

  Hafsa Azeina. Ismai reeled at the thought. Sulema’s mother. “Hafsa Azeina was gone long before my mother…” He shook his head, unable to finish the thought.

  “A dream eater can kill anyone, anywhere,” Daoud said. “There is no distance in the Dreaming Lands… so I have heard.”

  Ismai gripped the pommel of his shamsi so hard his hand hurt. “It cannot—”

  “Ah, there you are, young Ismai!”