Slowly, the ache in his muscles dwindled away to be replaced by a pleasant tingling warmth. Within moments he saw individual clusters of frost and the bend of grass stalks beneath them. He heard the gentle hissing of the wind through the pines and the protest of branches abrading each other. The air was alive with the smell of pine needles and sap, horseflesh and oiled leather. Corajidin grasped for the insight his re-Awakening had granted him since the Communion Ritual. There was the fleeting touch of seeds that lay dormant beneath the soil. An elusive flash of hunger from an owl as it dropped from the sky to take a squirrel. Beside him the power of Asha’s great heart and lungs. But nothing real, nothing lasting. The Emissary’s potion and the Water of Life together had not been enough to grant Corajidin the strength he needed to undergo Unity. The depth of a connection to the land was denied him and what little he could experience faded daily.
According to the laws of my own people, I am unfit to rule … In the long and lonely shallows of night, he sat huddled in his robes in front of the smoldering embers of his hearth, while Mēdēya trembled with unspoken fears in her sleep, and he wished he was not reminded of everything he had lost. I must face the fact that what I have may no longer be what I want.
“Then give up, but there’s nothing more for you than this.” The Emissary’s rusted voice was loud at his side. Is a thought all it takes for her to appear? “Lie down here in the snow and die. It might be easier for you than the fall to come. Abdicate and let Kasraman, wise and gifted and powerful Kasraman, do what it’s clear you can’t.”
Corajidin bristled at her tone. “Kasraman is not ready. For us to succeed, I need you to help Narseh survive, just as you helped me.”
“Ah. You can delay all you like when it comes to your commitments, yet I’m supposed to carry ever more of your debt to my Masters?” Asha whickered nervously and Corajidin heard faint whispers from within the folds of the Emissary’s cloak. “You’re becoming a poor investment, Corajidin, which is stupendously unwise. You’ve war to make, and thrones to topple, and scholars to destroy.”
“I do not take orders from you, Emissary!”
“Perhaps not. But you’re already indebted to my Masters, and here you are asking for my help again. I’ve given you your son, your crown, and your wife. You’ve given me nothing. Your mother is much more responsive to our needs. Perhaps she would make a better Mahj?”
Corajidin wanted to spit. My mother? What has she to do with this? “I’ve banished my daughter at your request. Freed the witches of the Mahsojhin, financed—for no good reason I can see—those useless wastrels of the alchemists and the artificers. I have given! But I am unable make war on Pashrea without the support of the Teshri! The Asrahn can be replaced, you know, and I have no doubt Roshana is looking for any opportunity to make it so. Narseh is my only Imperialist ally. I need her alive. If I do not have influence, I cannot pay my debts. I am worth more to you right where I am.”
“Everybody can be replaced, Corajidin.”
He forced a smile and hoped it looked stronger than it felt. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise. You, Narseh, your daughter … all will become history unless you make good what you owe. Change comes with need, Corajidin. And if you can’t change the people, then change the people.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are other allies I have that can help you maintain a, shall we say, firmer hold on your power, and make the headway you desperately need. These allies will ensure that none of your people ever betray you, nor will they argue. You’ll be able to do as you like. All the powers of the Mahj, just lacking the title. For now.”
“And these allies are…?”
“I want you to accept the help of the Soul Traders,” she said. The air about her blurred, and a gray-washed figure floated next to her, his legs ending in a boiling, ashen cloud. The man was a bag of sticks in the ghost of leathery skin pulled too tight across protruding bones, the remnants of centuries-old finery billowing about it. Corajidin wondered whether the ghastly Nomad had been dead for so long, he had forgotten what he used to look like. The creature smiled, exposing receding gums and chisel teeth. “The Soul Traders and I share a common journey,” the Emissary said, “which means you now share their journey.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“You will, and you’ll shut your complaints behind your teeth. You are in no position to demand, or refuse, anything. I suggest you make use of what you quaintly refer to as the marsh-puppeteers, or malegangers. They are older than those names, and more powerful than you know.”
“Next you will be telling me to recruit the Fenlings, or reedwives. Why not dholes, while we are talking about things that will never happen.”
“As you wish.” The Emissary held her hands up, causing Asha to flinch and take nervous steps away. The whispers from the dark folds of the Emissary’s cloak grew louder for a few moments, words in a wet language Corajidin could not understand. The Emissary was silent for a moment longer before saying, “But your debts will be paid. My Masters are losing their patience, and Shrīan is only a thread in a much larger tapestry. All things must happen in their appointed time, and yours is expiring. You will make war on Pashrea, and you will hunt the last of the Sēq down. The Soul Traders will do what it is in their nature to do. They will follow you and your people, and take advantage of any … opportunities that arise. Use the witches, alchemists, and artificers. It’s what they’re for. If you don’t do as you’re told, you’ll make way for somebody who will.”
“What about Narseh? Without her, I cannot do half of what you ask.”
“Then you’d best double your efforts, hadn’t you?”
The Emissary turned and walked away. The Soul Trader faded from sight, a cloud torn apart by the wind, but Corajidin could feel it there, waiting, watching.
Kasraman and Wolfram approached after she had disappeared, their boots crunching on the frost.
“I neither like nor trust the Emissary, Father,” Kasraman said as he watched her blend into the swirling white. “But will she help with Rahn-Narseh?”
“Our conversation did not have the desired outcome,” Corajidin said, rubbing his hands together and trying to breathe warmth into them through his fur-lined gauntlets. “The Emissary did not say no, but neither did she agree.”
“What does she want for her help?”
“Oh, what does anybody really want? The fall of Mediin, and the destruction of the Sēq. And that is only to bring me out of debt to her Masters.”
“So Narseh will probably die of her illness?” Wolfram asked. “Her son, Anankil, is by no means a confirmed Imperialist. If Narseh dies—”
“I am well aware of the consequences, my friend. I need options.”
“We could dose Narseh with the Emissary’s potion,” Kasraman said with a shrug. “It’s not a perfect solution but it worked for you, and will buy us some time.”
Use my stores? For Narseh? Corajidin shook his head. “I need all that I have.” More than I have.
“Can you meet the Emissary halfway?” Kasraman asked patiently. “If refusal is not an option, then at least partial collaboration may be the answer.”
Corajidin explained what the Emissary had said about changing the people, and using the marsh-puppeteers to enforce permanent cooperation. The two witches were stone-faced as they listened, though Corajidin could almost hear the wheels spinning in their minds. When Corajidin finished speaking, Kasraman and Wolfram shared a conspiratorial look.
“What?” Corajidin snapped. “What have you done?”
Kasraman spoke without apology. “I had Tahj-Shaheh bring some of the marsh-puppeteers back from her last foray into the Rōmarq, so I could experiment on them. I thought they’d be an interesting way of infiltrating our enemies and possibly using some of our hostages as assassins … Father? Did you hear what I said?”
Corajidin gazed at Kasraman. He was plagued by something close to a memory of something once seen. As he grasped for the
image—of a face tattooed with fire, the curving horns, the eyes like looking into the heart of a star—it shattered in a flare of pain behind his eyes.
“You were wrong to do so,” Corajidin replied as he rubbed at the pain in his head. The marsh-puppeteers were grotesque perversions, parasites who brought nothing but mayhem. “Destroy them, son. We will find other ways.” Saying the words was like a weight off his shoulders. At least I have some moral compass left to me.
“What other ways?” Kasraman snapped, hands held wide. “We should use our captives for our own purposes, before they are discovered, or can escape and talk. The malegangers give us an advantage we—”
“I said no!” Corajidin yelled, his voice cracking through the mist, spooking the horses. He calmed himself, laying a hand on each of the witch’s shoulders. “We walk a narrow path, and I will not sell the future because we were rash today. After the liches, witches, and elemental daemons in Avānweh, have we not had our fill of monsters, at least for a little while?”
“The Emissary is a monster, Father. Yet you treat with her.”
The Emissary is a monster … and I have indeed had my fill of her.
Corajidin did not enjoy the rest of his morning ride. Asha sensed his discomfort and was skittish. What should have been the smooth flow of muscle and sinew in an effortless gallop was jarring and painful.
As Corajidin reined Asha in at the stables, a palatial fortress of marble domes and patterned archways, he passed a squad of the powerful Iphyri shock troops. Satyrs were rumored to walk the woods of Erebus Prefecture, goat-headed and goat-legged primal lords of the wood. Corajidin had tried to find them in his youth, despite the rumors of their passions and perversions. Centuries before, one of his Ancestors must have had the same fascination, paying them homage in the form of the Iphyri. But where the satyrs were goatlike, the Iphyri resembled horses. They were men once, changed forever to reflect the totem spirit of the Erebus stallion: With the heads and manes of horses, their legs were replaced with the powerful haunches of destriers, with tails that swept the ground. An Iphyri had long arms, and large hands, and could run on all fours for vast distances, then stand and fight like heavy infantry. They were strong, virtually fearless, and loyal, if not terribly bright. They were good at killing, and dying, and there would be much of both once winter broke and spring brought warmth and war. Corajidin dismounted among his guard, seeing the Jhé-Erebon—the Wives of the Stallion—grooming their Iphyri, polishing the horse-folk’s armor and sharpening their massive weapons. An all-female cadre, the Jhé-Erebon wore lighter armor and rode their Iphyri into battle, dismounting to fight side by side with them. They were an elite fighting force few soldiers wanted to face.
Mēdēya watched with fascination, bundled in a sable over-robe and thick gloves, a red and black–checked taloub around her dark hair. She came to Corajidin and took his hand, dragging him over to where the muscular Iphyri exercised.
“Who needs the other sayfs when we have warriors such as these?” she said, eyes bright, breathing heavily. “They are incredible! Such a perfect fusion of muscle, and power, and obedience. To ride one must be … exhilarating.”
“The Iphyri have their place—”
“I was reading that they were originally made from a Darmatian zherba stallion, and Erebus fa Baibaron, the greatest warrior-poet of his time, who sacrificed himself for the future.” She breathed. “Why don’t we do the same, but use the greatest Erebus warrior-poet of our time?”
“Belamandris?” Corajidin choked. The idea made him nauseous. “No. It is not something I would ever countenance. Put it from your mind, and never speak of it again.”
Mēdēya patted Corajidin on the arm as one would a stupid child. “Not Belam. Mariam!”
Corajidin’s laugh exploded from him. “As much chance of me riding the Rahn-Roshana around like a pony.” His humor left him. “Mariam is my daughter, and will not be used for such dire purpose. Besides, we do not have any Torque Spindles to make such paragons of violence. Otherwise I would make the armies I need and be done with it.”
“What if we did have Torque Spindles?” Mēdēya asked, smiling conspiratorially as she drew Corajidin out of the palatial stables and into the cool afternoon air. “What if there was no such impediment?”
“Tell me!”
Mēdēya drew a rolled-up scroll from her sash and slapped it into Corajidin’s palm. She wormed her way into his arms as he unrolled it. The scroll was from Baquio, a Master of the College of Artificers. He read the scroll once, then again, to ensure he had not misread the message. A smile dawned on his face, and it took all his self-control to not shout out loud with joy. Mēdēya hugged him and lifted her face so he could kiss her deeply. When they parted, she sighed contentedly. “All the artificers need are more Torque Spindles to work on and you can make your armies, Jidi! And fulfill your promises to the Emissary.”
Corajidin’s excitement waned at the thought of the agent from the Drear. He looked into Mēdēya’s eyes, so dark that no light of Yashamin’s soul escaped them, though her mannerisms, memories, and appetites were those of the woman he had loved to distraction. Or so close in the vertiginous rush of passion as to be indistinguishable. Who are you, really? But he sculpted a smile from his doubts before the grimace set in. “We will see what we see, when the artificers prove that they can do what they say they can do.”
“Mariam would make a perfect—”
“Mēdēya, no!” She stiffened in his arms and he softened his tone. “Please make no more suggestions about my children.”
“But this is the ultimate service she can do for her House. Mariam and the great stallion totem of the Erebus. The Emissary says it hinges on Mariam. She who will be the mother of many in the great Feigning of our time.”
The Emissary says … How far would the Emissary go to distance Mariam from Indris? Mariam was already the prisoner of the Dowager-Asrahn, a fate that Corajidin would never have inflicted on his wayward daughter were it not for his debts to the Masters of the Drear. But a Feigning? There had not been one in centuries, certainly not of the scale the Emissary had suggested to Mēdēya. He extricated himself from Mēdēya’s embrace, slowly, so as not to alarm her. A simmering rage at the Emissary rose in him. It was bad enough she threatened him, but for her to fill Mēdēya’s head with her suggestions was intolerable! Yashamin would never have been so blindly compliant. What else did the Emissary bring back with you, when she gave you new life? Mēdēya looked at Corajidin questioningly but said nothing as he kissed the top of her head. They walked together through the snow-dusted courtyard with its silent fountains, then into the qadir where Nix waited.
“Asrahn.” Nix’s next words tumbled out like pebbles clattering on the flagstones. “I trust your morning ride was pleasant? Feyd and Tahj-Shaheh are waiting on your indulgence.”
“I will join you soon, Nix. Please find Kasraman, and Wolfram, and wait for me in the observatory. Mēdēya, would you please go with Nix?”
Corajidin waited for them to vanish from sight before he made his way to the suites that had been set aside for the witches and their work. He paused in the corridor overlooking the courtyard, where Kasraman and Wolfram remained, standing close to one another. Kasraman made angry, chopping gestures with his hands. What bothers you, son, that you would speak to Wolfram, rather than coming to me? Can I not trust any of my children? Do you all share Mariam’s rebellious heart? The Angoth nodded, or shook his head, by turns, once while resting his hand on Kasraman’s shoulder, or gesturing for calm. Nix joined them presently and the three headed off through the doors that led through the qadir, and to the distant observatory tower.
Knowing the others would wait on his pleasure, Corajidin headed directly to the witches’ workrooms. At every turn guards, bound-caste servants, and those of the middle-castes—artisans, crafters, and their ilk—dropped to their knees in the Third Obeisance, palms and brows pressed against the floor. Such behavior had not been as overt when he was the Rahn-Erebus: A
s Asrahn it was a different world altogether; sende demanded the utmost respect for the highest office in Shrīan.
Corajidin soon arrived at the black-enameled doors of the witches’ suites, the door latches shaped into red-gold horse heads. Two witches in ornate robes stood by the doors, armored in layers of quilted silk and clutching tall staves. They looked at Corajidin warily as he approached.
“Stand aside,” Corajidin said.
There was a pause, before the shorter of the two witches replied. “We are at the orders of Pah-Kasraman, and Lore Master Wolfram, to bar—”
“And those two take their orders from me.” Corajidin drew himself up and folded his hands in the sleeves of his over-robe. He was reminded for a moment of Brede, and her fanatical loyalty to Wolfram when they had been in Amnon.
“Asrahn, we—”
“You will make way.” Corajidin was pleased with the iron in his voice, the faint resonance the result of the Emissary’s potion. The two witches on guard fidgeted under his glare. “Now. And you will be thankful that I, my son, or the Lore Master do not boil the skin from your bones for defying me.”
“Yes, Asrahn.”
Corajidin entered and took stock of the place where the witches worked their secrets. The chambers were surprisingly light, the air scented with cinnamon and vanilla rather than the reek he had expected. Tables crowded with metal and glass apparatus lined the walls, while small crucibles and cauldrons bubbled over hand-sized braziers of firestones. The burbling sound was oddly cheerful, reminding him of winters as a child, spent reading near the kitchens of Erebesq.
He crossed the room to another door, and opened it. The air within was almost oppressive, thick with warmth and damp. It smelled of brine and rotting vegetation, as well as corrupt flesh. Corajidin placed his hand over his mouth and nose, but the stench was already in his nostrils. Several tall cages with dry bushes, rocks, and sand lined the walls. The first few Corajidin looked into showed corpses in various states of decay. Small tables near each cage had journals, outlining the observations of whatever witch had been present: including some in Kasraman’s and Wolfram’s handwriting. Small boxes of thick glass had marsh-puppeteers in them. Some were nailed down while others twitched, writhed, or threw themselves against the walls of their prison in an attempt to escape. The sight of them made Corajidin want to vomit. Their reek was worse. The marsh-puppeteers resembled two strangler’s hands joined along the thumbs, covered in pliant turtle shell. The tails were short, flat, and segmented like a lobster. Their finger-thick limbs were encased in a moist-looking carapace, tipped with hard black points that twitched and flexed. Their abdomens were pocked with a multitude of large pores, all of which showed the tips of oily barbed tendrils.
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