“Wake!” she called, though to her father, her mother, or to Sajani herself, Sulema did not know. Nor did she care. In the depth of her grief, she wanted nothing more than to see the world burn. “Wake!”
Far below her, in the darkest depths of a dreamshifter’s nightmare, something old and cold and inconceivably huge began to stir.
A third time she sang, thrice to make it true.
“Wa—”
She froze, the last note caught in her throat. She was unable to breathe or move or so much as blink. An icy paralysis spread through her body like a spider’s web, binding her fast, freezing her into a moment of time that stretched out infinitely in all directions.
“Enough.” Aasah’s voice rolled out at her from everywhere, it seemed, and echoed in the bright chill of her injured shoulder. The red walls of Atukos dimmed, and flickered, as if uncertain, before once more falling cold and dead. The ground rumbled and rolled for a moment longer before it, too, fell into quiescence. The air around her went dark as Sulema, starved for breath, began to slip away.
“Breathe.” It was Aasah again, commanding her to live, bending her will to his. Her lungs pumped air in, out… Blood rushed through her heart and into her body… in, out. Still she was frozen in that moment, hunched on the floor beneath the Dragon Throne, unable to move or call out, unable to so much as look away from the desecrated body of her mother.
Fuck this, she thought, as a red rage blossomed within her, a dark music of the soul unlike anything she had ever felt or heard. Sulema raised her chin fractionally, raised her eyes to the king’s dais. A man she did not know, but whose name she could guess, sat upon her father’s throne.
Pythos, she thought, and let his image be burned into her memory. Son of Serpentus. Not dead, after all. Mattu had spoken truth, in that.
The man, who looked much like an older and unblemished Mattu Halfmask, held the Mask of Akari in his lap as if it were a toddler, and her father’s robes of state pooled about him in a lake of gold. Ninianne il Mer stood behind the throne and to one side, a proud woman as beautiful as Nurati had been, head high and proud, eyes flashing in the dim torchlight. She wore upon her brow a diadem of diamonds and salt, and her robes were thickly crusted with precious salt.
Pythos was flanked on the other side by a woman in a demure gown of rose and cream, which left as little flesh exposed as a warden’s touar. Her gaze was downcast, but when she raised it for a moment and met Sulema’s stare, her fleeting smile was venomous.
Standing upon the steps beneath the throne were the matreons and patreons of Atualon, mistresses and masters, men and women who just that morning would have happily licked sand from the sole of Sulema’s foot. A few were notable in their absence. Loremaster Rothfaust was nowhere to be seen, nor Matreon Bellanca, nor—and this last surprised her—Master Santorus. The twins Matteira and Mattu were there with all the rest, dressed in the white-and-gold robes of the ne Atu, with thin circlets of gold upon their brows. Mattu did not wear a mask, nor did he meet Sulema’s eyes, though she thought she might burn a hole in his heart with her wrath.
Liar, she thought. False heart. She would have torn hers from her chest and thrown it at him if she could, so great was the pain of his betrayal.
Heralds all around the room raised golden trumpets to their lips and blew out a series of long, quavering notes so unlike the powerful sound of her mother’s shofar that Sulema curled her lip in disdain.
Even their horns are weak, she thought.
They may be weak, a laughing voice sounded in her head, but they are strong enough to have defeated you, Sulema Firehair. The blood chilled in her veins. She knew that voice.
Nightmare Man.
As the heralds lowered their trumpets, and the last feeble notes faded away into nothing, the man who had stolen her father’s throne sat up straight, twisting the golden mask in his lap back and forth and letting it catch the light for all to see.
Why does he not wear it? Sulema wondered. Surely that would make him seem more kingly, more powerful. For she had no doubt as to this man’s intentions.
Pythos raised a hand, and smiled, and spoke. “I am Pythos ap Serpentus ne Atu, Ka Atu, and your rightful king.”
People behind Sulema began to cheer, to laugh, to cry out in horror. As the women behind the throne raised their hands in unison, the crowd quieted just enough for Pythos to raise his voice and begin again.
“I am the firstborn son of Serpentus, who as you know was Ka Atu until… until Wyvernus murdered him and stole his throne. His soldiers were supposed to have killed me, but as you can see”—he flashed a bright and charming smile at the crowd—“rumors of my death have been slightly exaggerated.”
There was laughter at this.
They laugh, Sulema thought. My father, my mother lie there dead, and they laugh. The walls flickered red, and the crowd gasped, but Pythos ignored it and went on, raising his voice yet again, beating the crowd into submission.
“Moons ago, the man who betrayed my father realized his error. Upon learning of my continued existence, Wyvernus sent envoys to Taz Merraj, where I had long lived with my mother as an honored guest of our friend, Ninianne il Mer. We did not believe these envoys, in truth, being somewhat wary of the false king’s intentions.” More laughter. “But as I am echovete, able to control the atulfah that keeps us all safe from a wakeful dragon, and as he had no proper heir”—he glanced meaningfully at Sulema—“we did, at last, reach a resolution to our many differences. Wyvernus agreed to make me his heir, and I, in return, agreed to marry his daughter. His virgin daughter,” he went on, “raised though she was by barbarians.”
“Lies!” a voice called in the crowd. “Lies!”
“Why would I lie to you, my people?” Pythos smiled that charming smile again. “The truth is ever so much more entertaining. Though if you should doubt your king, and I suggest you do not do so out loud again…” He winked. “…my ministers would be happy to educate you in the matter.”
“He speaks truth.” Master Ezio’s voice was heavy, as if he spoke through a mouth full of mud. “Hard though this is for me to hear, I have read the truth in the king’s, in Wyvernus’s own hand, sealed with his own seal.” There was muttering in the chamber, but none raised further protest. Pythos let the smile fade from his face, and continued.
“As I said, an agreement was reached. An agreement that would have meant a peaceful transfer of power in time, and the continued safety of all, but Wyvernus was betrayed, even as he had betrayed my father. He faced a worse treachery than his own, if such a thing is possible. In the end, he was betrayed by his own blood.” He stood slowly, raising the Mask of Akari in front of him so that it stared down upon Sulema. The mask glittered, as it always had, and it was beautiful, as it had always been, but it was just a thing of gold, quiescent, as dead as Atukos herself. Sulema would have laughed, had she been able to do more than breathe and glare.
“He was murdered,” Pythos declared, “by his own daughter.”
No…
The crowd gasped. Somewhere behind her, Sulema heard a woman cry out, and the sound bounced round and round the walls. Aasah, the king’s shadowmancer, came to stand beside Pythos. His eyes were wide blue pools, cool and deep as the dragon’s lake, and filled with liquid sorrow.
“Sulema an Wyvernus,” he intoned, staring at her. “You have been accused of the crimes of regicide, and patricide. Of killing your father, your king.”
No, she wanted to scream, no no no. But she could not move.
“Sulema an Hafsa Azeina,” Aasah continued, damning her before the world, “you have been accused of the crimes of regicide, and matricide. Of killing your mother, the Queen Consort.”
Sulema jerked within the magical web that bound her, but managed no more than a weak and muffled “nuuuuuuuuu,” which was swallowed whole by the crowd’s ugly moan.
“Sulema of the Zeeranim, daughter of no one,” Aasah finished in a voice of steel and stone, “how do you answer?”
&nbs
p; Sulema was jerked upright, as if held by a puppeteer’s strings. Her eyes bugged out and her throat was a fiery agony as words were forced from her well-trained lungs, through her well-trained throat, to fall from her well-trained lips at the feet of the man who had taught her to sing.
“Guilty,” she heard herself say. “I am guilty.”
The crowd behind Sulema erupted into a storm of fury. There were cries of pain and the thud-thump of fists on flesh as the Draiksguard beat them back. Aasah, her teacher, her friend, stared at her with his pale blue eyes, and nodded.
The golden mask glittered in her enemy’s hands.
And the Dragon swallowed her whole.
FIFTY-SIX
The Grinning Mymyc was destroyed and rebuilt, but not as it had been. Where once the inn was warm and welcoming, now it was a grim, sere fortress, all sharp edges and ugly, undressed stone. Gone were the wide windows overflowing with laughter and the smells of fine food. In their places were arrow-slits scowling over a small army of guards. Even the sign had changed. The grinning, dancing, merry mymyc had been replaced with a fell red-tongued beast snarling defiance over a disemboweled enemy.
Charming, Ani thought. I wonder if I will find Aish Kalumm so changed, if ever I return. Likely I would not recognize my old home.
As she shifted her weight from foot to foot, the bag she had slung over her back rolled to the side and she heard the soft, sad clatter of human bones. Then again, she admitted, it is likely that Aish Kalumm would not recognize me, either. Istaza Ani is as dead and gone as the man in my bag. In her place…
She was spared further thought when the heavy iron-bound doors of the Grinning Mymyc swung open, revealing a dark interior and disgorging a pair of imposing figures. Bretan wore his helm set with bull’s horns, while the other… Even from such a distance, Ani could feel the heat of the smaller man’s eyes. It was Soutan Mer—but only just, she thought. He had the look of a sword that had been forged in pain.
Everything is changing.
The doors thudded shut and the men approached her, hands at their hips, with the cautious low-centered glide of fighting men who sense a serious threat. As they drew near, Ani held up her free hand, palm-out, and smiled as charming a smile as she could manage.
You will scare the skin off them with that grimace, Askander would have said.
Shut up, she replied to the dream of her lover. To them I am only an old woman with a bag full of bones. What might they possibly have to fear? The changes she had experienced were hidden beneath loose-fitting clothes, and she hoped that would be sufficient.
She could tell the moment Bretan recognized her. He looked at her curiously, as if uncertain, then straightened, mouth dropping into an “o” and flattening in a stern line, and his step quickened so that his companions had to scurry in order to catch up.
“Istaza Ani,” he said, and she could have wished his voice had been warmer. “I had not thought to see you again, not here.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at her.
“It is Ani only, now,” she replied, “and I am very glad indeed to find you alive. What happened here?” She gestured to… everything. “Where is your Eleni? I have brought her a visitor.” Talieso whickered. The city may have changed, and the demeanor of these people as well, but her stallion remembered a warm welcome and plenty of food. If only humans were more like horses, she thought, the world would be a better place.
Bretan and Soutan exchanged heavy glances. Soutan shook his head, but Bretan stared at him hard till he relented with a sour shrug.
“As you will, brother,” he said. His mouth was a sour twist. “On your head it will be if this woman brings further trouble to the family.” Ani regarded the youth steadily, wondering what had happened to quench his bright and mischievous flame.
No more than has happened to any of us, I suppose, she thought. Aloud she said only, “Well met, Soutan Mer, once again. This time I find you better clothed, I see.” One of the guards coughed a laugh, but Soutan did not even flick his eyes in her direction. He turned on his heels and left.
Bretan shook his head. “I will not apologize for my brother’s behavior,” he told her. “Much has happened since last you came to the Grinning Mymyc, Meissati. Much has happened to sour our attitude toward outlanders.”
“Much has happened to me and mine, as well, salt merchant,” she snapped, out of patience. She needed food, water, a bath, feed and shelter for her horse. She did not need a pair of broody young men and their heavy words. “As well you know. You hardly left me in safe circumstances, despite your pledge of honor.”
He stiffened at those words, dark eyes flashing.
“That is not fair,” he growled.
“Life is not fair,” she tossed back. “Surely your mother taught you that. Are we going to stand out here under the sun, kicking words back and forth like a goat’s head? Or are you going to invite me inside your… charming establishment?” Her heart pounded in her ears even as she flung the challenge in his face, and she more than half expected him to turn her away. Or worse, to attack her. It had been a long road and hard, and she was not in the mood for a fight.
He frowned at her a moment more, and she frowned back twice as fiercely. I was playing these games for years before ever they placed you at your mother’s tit, she thought. Finally the young man grunted, much like the bull whose horns he wore.
“Come then,” he told her, “and on your head be it if you have come to cast shade upon our hearth once again.” He turned his back and stomped toward the inn, expecting her to follow.
“Is Eleni here?” Ani asked his retreating shoulders. “I had hoped to…”
“Eleni is dead,” he replied without slowing. “If you want your horse fed and watered, you will have to do it yourself.”
* * *
The new stable was much less to Talieso’s liking than the old one had been, and he communicated his displeasure by kicking at his stall door.
Ani felt much the same about the new inn. Gone were the serving girls and boys with their colorful clothes and bright smiles. Gone was the warm hearth piled high with sweetbreads, the dark ale, the salt-crusted fish. Piss-pale ale was set before her by dour-faced servants, followed by a shallow bowl of stew as thin and unenthusiastic as her welcome had been.
Ah well, Ani thought as she grimaced around a swallow of ale. At least I have not had to kill any of them yet. Still, the night was young.
“Your hospitality is somewhat meaner than it was, the last time I sat beneath your roof,” she remarked in a mild way as Bretan sat down across from her.
“And yet it is warmer than the welcome I was shown by your warriors,” he countered.
Ani picked up the mug again, considered it, and set it down without drinking.
“It is not poisoned,” Soutan Mer said, as he took the bench beside her.
“Poisoning this ale would be a kindness.” Ani pushed food and drink away. She would rather subsist on her remaining pemmican and stale water. “Mariza was none of mine,” she told Bretan. “Her false warriors are nothing more than Kha’Akari—exiles.”
“Was?” he raised his brows.
“I killed her.” She smiled. And they killed me, in return. But she saw no need to tell him that.
“And the king’s son?”
She held out both hands and shrugged. “Alive, last I saw him. I wish him well.” And luck, she thought, if he is still alive.
“There have been rumors that he is dead.”
“I heard that he was sold as a slave in Min Yaarif,” Soutan interjected.
“There are more rumors in the Zeera than there are grains of sand,” she said, and she snorted. “Only a goat-brained idiot would listen to half of them.”
“Only a goat-brained idiot would admit to having been with the son of the Dragon King just before he disappeared,” Bretan said in a hard voice, bringing both hands down upon the table between them. “And with the king dead…”
Ani grabbed the edge of the table as the world spun aro
und her.
“The king is…” she said, gasping. “How?”
“You did not know?” Bretan blinked at her. “How could you not have known?”
She staggered to her feet, grabbing her bag and clutching it to her chest as a child might cling to her blanket.
“Where is Hafsa Azeina?” she demanded. “Where is my Sulema?”
Soutan stood too quickly, too close. He grabbed for her shoulder.
“Do not act innocent, you—”
She struck him down hard. He flew from the bench, ass-over-helm, to lie in a crumpled heap near the wall. Ani backed away from the table still clutching the bag of bones, which had begun singing to her.
Bretan was on his feet, shouting. The entire room was on its feet, roiling like a kicked spider-hill.
“Soutan! My brother!”
“He will live, Meissat,” a guard cried, kneeling next to the prone youth. “He is just—”
“Where are they?” Ani roared. “Where are they? Tell me!”
Heat flashed through the room, through all their bodies, as the fire that was in all their bones crackled through her voice. The serving girls, the serving lads, every guard and patreon and cook in the room went still as stone. Then they all collapsed like heaps of ash. All except Bretan, who stood and stared at Ani as if she were a monster.
As well he should. Ani walked carefully back to the table, set her bench upright, and took her seat with slow and gentle ease. She set one hand upon the table, but when the wooden surface began to smoke beneath her touch, she put it in her lap instead.
“Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me everything. Now.”
Bretan again took the seat across from her, staring at the smoking handprint on the table between them, and took a deep breath.
“The king is dead,” he began.
Ani tightened her grip on the bag.
“He was found slumped before the fire in his chambers,” he continued, “as if he had fallen asleep. But there was… there have been rumors that…”
She knew. “What was missing?”
“His heart, they say. Burned out from within.”
The Forbidden City Page 44