“Indris?” Femensetri’s angular voice broke his reverie. “We think we can keep the rahns alive for another few months … They weren’t without the Water for very long, so the damage wasn’t severe before they came here. But they will only get worse as time passes.”
“Do you think you can find what we need?” He-Who-Watches asked urgently.
Indris replied, “All I can do is search for the answers—”
“Hope you do better than you did saving Ariskander,” Femensetri said.
“—you’ve never had,” Indris finished. He looked to the other Masters, his face warm with guilt over Ariskander’s passing, in itself one of the reasons Rosha was unwell. In anger and disappointment at their millennia-long duplicity. “I’ll spend tonight in the archives, and another few hours in the Manufactory to finish my projects before I go. I’ll also need a couple of jars of the Water of Life. I’ll also have Changeling and my other possessions back.”
“And if we say no?” Aumh asked.
Indris smiled at the tiny, fern-haired Master. “You’ve already said yes.”
Rosha returned to her suite almost an hour later looking fitter, but still nothing compared to her former vitality. She was supported by Taj, and surrounded by Mauntro and the Lion Guard. Rosha smiled at Indris and her brother as she entered her bedroom.
“How is she?” Indris asked his cousin. Taj went to the table, where he picked at a few morsels of food and poured himself a short, thick black coffee, offering Indris a cup, which he declined. Taj took a seat near him, fatigue apparent in every limb as he sank into the chair.
“She’s stronger after the treatments,” Taj admitted, what he did not say more telling than what he did. The pah sipped at his coffee. “But she needs to rest. As it is, she gets reports every other day on the state of the Federation, and it makes her both stressed and angry that she can’t do anything to change it. Maselane, Danyūn, and Bensaharēn are running the day-to-day of Näsarat Prefecture. Rahn-Nazarafine and Rahn-Siamak are likewise burdened with worry. Ziaire is doing what she can to influence the political parties to remain calm in the face of Asrahn-Corajidin’s aggression, while Sayf-Ajomandyan challenges the Asrahn at every turn.”
“Has it become so bad that the Great Houses and the Hundred Families are holding their long-knives so openly?” Ajamensût, a War of the Long-Knife, was the classic way of fighting between the Houses and the Families. Rarely would a rahn or a sayf take to the field with an army unless they planned on conquest; otherwise they preferred a subtle and quiet victory over their enemies. Ajamensût solved many problems without the collateral damage and cost that came from an aj, or an ajam—military campaigns of increasing size.
“Yes. Some Imperialists doubt Corajidin as a leader, not surprising given his flagrant disrespect for sende, and the freedoms our laws try to protect.”
“So, wars of assassins have become inevitable?”
Their conversation was interrupted as the door to Rosha’s bedroom opened, and Rosha came out to join them.
Indris avoided the obvious questions, fully expecting that Rosha was tired of hearing them. Taj rose to get his sister some food and wine as Indris spoke. “Rosha, I need to—
“Indris, wait. Before you start, let me apologize for the way I’ve treated you.” Rosha played nervously with the pleats of her over-robe as she avoided eye contact. “It wasn’t until Father’s voice began to fade from my mind that I realized how much reason had abandoned me. In truth, I think I was becoming ever more him but without any of his self-control, consumed by the anguish of my—of his—death. The things I said … that I did…”
“This was Nehrun’s burden, not yours. You did the best you could for your House, and the Federation.”
Rosha laughed then, a bright sound. Tears flowed and she wiped them away with a firm hand. “I did poorly by you, and all you’ve ever done has been for the good of others. You did, you do, deserve better. And Mari? In the name of all the Näsarats that have come before me, I never thought I’d admit that there was an Erebus I actually liked.”
“But…?”
She shook her head. “No buts. You two are perfect for each other. Even Father thought so, but the anger, the betrayal, of seeing our country fall apart: I was filled with such blind, reckless, consuming rage—” Her words spat out like marbles clattering around her feet.
“I understand, Rosha.” Indris took her hands in his. They were fever hot, the skin dry as old paper. “I take it that means you’ll not stand in my way of being with Mari?”
“No. In fact, I’d be proud to call her cousin.” Rosha leaned in to rest her forehead against Indris’s. Taj came to join them. “I’m glad you’re both here,” she said. “And I’ve asked for Nehrun to return from the Shrine of the Vanities. He was a good brother, a good Näsarat, once. I’d have as many of my family here as I can. Now is the time to forgive, while we’ve the chance.”
“My thanks for these words, Rosha.” Indris felt guilt weigh heavily on him. What has happened to me? I would have let you die … “I thought unkindly of you, without ever stopping to consider your burden. There’s nothing more I can do to help you, Rosha—or Siamak or Nazarafine—from here. This illness may kill you yet. What the thaumaturgeons are doing is a treatment, not a cure. There is no cure that we know of. But I’ve an idea that may work, and I’m leaving here tomorrow to find a way to save you, and the others, if it’s at all possible.”
Rosha said nothing, only hugged Indris and Taj closer as she rocked, sobbing silently and whispering her apologies over and over.
Indris did not wait for the setting of the sun to enter the Black Archives. This time Femensetri offered to join him but Indris declined. His former teacher seemed more upset than angry, and it was clear there were things she wanted to say in private. Standing at the door, feeling her presence, he was taken back to his days as her student when she had always been there, helping him with the fear, and the pain, and the isolation.
Now is the time to forgive, while we’ve the chance, Rosha had said. But as he looked at Femensetri, her angular features predatory and beautiful and timeless, her old cassock held together by leather straps and lacing, the mindstone boring a hole in her brow like a third eye, he could not bring himself to do it.
So he nodded politely, then closed the door firmly on her as she turned away.
When Indris arrived at the central archive, the Herald was waiting for him. The masked figure watched as Indris made his way to the bottom level, and into those areas that contained the proscribed works.
Knowing it was fruitless, and feeling caught in a swirl of events he could not control—a nexus point where all his choices led to here, and from here in fewer directions than he hoped—Indris searched again for the information he needed to answer the question of his growing abilities. No matter where he looked, there was nothing of value written about the Mah-Psésahen. There were references. Hints that it had been studied here and there: that it was a relic of the Haiyt Empire of the Time Masters; that the Dragons practiced it along with their dreaming mysticism; that it had been the high watermark of the teachings of Khenempûr; that it had been a near sacred field of study by the Masters of Isenandar. But in all cases the message was clear: The scholars of the various orders had turned their backs on it for reasons nobody understood.
And the last place it had been taught was at Isenandar. The secrets of Awakening, the lost lore of the great mental teachings, the greatest school of the Sēq and all its secrets lost to time. Everything pointed Indris toward the Pillars of Sand, and the man named Danger-Is-Calling, who may have the answers Indris sought.
Heavy-footed, Indris climbed the stairs back to the vault and the Genealogy Tree. Once more he scoured it for his name, even among the dulled leaves of the dead: He searched for some clue in the scratches around the heretical bloodlines that narrow-minded Masters had sought to remove from history. Indris touched a line abandoned, the ashen quartz leaves of Näsarat fe Malde-ran, her husbands, her
children, all forsaken in her Great Heresy as the empire fell to ruin. It was a different Näsarat line that knew power now, rahns descended from Malde-ran’s brother and cousins.
Indris turned to the vault with his name on it. Only a few of the hundreds of questions of its lock remained. The Maladhoring characters drifted there like blocks of rain on the glass. Of those questions, there was only one query he knew could not be answered here: What is Awakening, how does one prepare the mind for it to be effective, and how does one Awaken such a mind?
“There are times I wish I could reach back in time and slap some people,” Indris mused.
“I doubt you are alone in that sentiment,” the Herald replied.
“Hmmm. Well, it seems I’ll need to search elsewhere if I’m going to answer this question.” Indris flicked the vault door with a fingernail.
“You are leaving Amarqa-in-the-Snows?” the Herald said without preamble.
“I’m going to try and find out how to re-Awaken the rahns.” And how to open this damned vault.
“Awakened rahns are—”
“Irrelevant. Yes, I heard that before. Not to me they’re not. One of those rahns is my cousin, and I’ve precious few anchors to family or friends left. I don’t intend to lose another one if I can help it.”
“Only the Mahj, and the mahjirahns, are relevant.” The Herald intoned.
“How?” When Ariskander had tried to Awaken Indris in Amnon, he had said that Femensetri and the other rahns had all agreed that Indris was to be his heir, despite Ariskander having three of his own children to choose from. Indris recalled the yearning to embrace the connection to Īa and all things on it. The sensation of a deep and abiding strength that would never fade for so long as the sun burned in the sky. With such power Indris could do a great many things, not all of which were good. His own Ancestors had proven that point: Näsarat fa Dionwē, the first Mahj of the Awakened Empire, had sunk the Seethe High Court beneath the Marble Sea. Malde-ran, the Empress-in-Shadows, had turned thousands of her people into Nomads, and commanded the dead to return from the Well of Souls to defend the empire. There were hundreds of stories with happier endings, of centuries of benign rule under Näsarat Dynasties, but in the extremity of their need, the Näsarats had proven they would abuse power. Indris stepped closer to the Herald as if he could see through his own warped reflection to the face of the person beneath.
Who are you? An obvious question, tainted by perspective, and observation. But then so is why, how, what, where, and when. We are all of us different, depending on the circumstances we are in: we are kind and cruel by turn, sometimes tyrants or saviors, teachers and students, ardent lovers, or driven by anger and our darker emotions to cause harm in defense of a stance that may mean nothing in a weeks time.
“Why are you and those like you so focused on giving the scholars power you know they can’t be trusted with?” Indris asked.
The Herald reached out a gauntleted hand, the fingertips polished black and sharp as a talon, to tap Indris on the brow. “You know. You have seen.”
And had it taken from me! “Enlighten me. Save me the trouble of learning again what I already know.”
“You children of the Afternoon People do not have the patience to wait, and watch, for you do not live long enough to learn what patience means. Your lives are but a flicker in history.”
“But they’re everything to us.”
“And rightly so!” the Herald said vehemently. “All life is precious, and the life you do not live is as lost as if it had never happened at all. But your passions, seen as just and true in your span of days, may be seen as reckless and wasteful from a different vantage.”
The drowning of the Seethe under the Marble Sea … the gathering of the Nomads at the end of the empire … “I understand. But it’s in our nature to act when we feel we must. What could be so terrible, so dramatic, that it had to be taken away from me?”
“What if you had found out that your entire life had been a lie?” The Herald asked. “What if the world was not ready to accept certain truths?”
“I don’t…” Indris felt a terrible apprehension take root. What would I do? What did I do?
“This is why you had your memories hidden within the spirals of an Anamnesis Maze. You knew too soon some things that both you and the remainder of the world were unprepared for. You would have acted, and many would have died without purpose, when their deaths could be made to count at the right time and the right place.”
“What about their lives?” Indris asked, aghast. “Their lives are what hold meaning. Dying is simple. Living for something is much harder.”
“In their time, all things die. It starts from the moment we are given life, and accelerates from the moment we are aware of what death means. A good life means much, but a good death often inspires others more.”
“Including mine?”
“When the time comes, most especially yours.”
Indris spent the next hour in the Manufactory, as he finished engraving the characters on his Scholar’s Lantern, and anchored the final glyphs of his armor and shield to the disentropy streams of the world around him. Femensetri pushed the door to the Manufactory open just as Indris breathed the formulae to activate what he had made.
The characters etched along his lantern flared, then faded to a jade glow before becoming a faint blue-green shimmer. The serill head flickered with light at its heart, no brighter than a candle. Indris coaxed it to a brilliant white so bright that it drained the color from everything about it, banishing shadows to little more than razor cuts of darkness.
“Oh…” Femensetri breathed, her face lit with wonder. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those. They were better times for all of us.” She looked at her Scholar’s Crook, lips turned downward with sour humor. The Stormbringer called out and two Sēq Librarians made their wide-eyed way into the room. They carried between them a long crate of polished ebony that they set down at Indris’s feet before bowing and hastily departing. Once the door closed behind them, Femensetri leaned on her crook and nodded toward the chest at Indris’s feet. “That’s what you asked for.”
Indris laid his lantern on the workbench beside his armored coat and shield. He opened the crate and breathed a sigh of relief as his fingers curled around Changeling’s gentle curves. She crooned as he took her up, purred as he held her for a long moment. His satchel and journal, other personal effects, and storm-pistol were also there.
“Thank you,” Indris said. With Changeling close by, his senses were sharper, and within seconds he felt stronger as she trickled disentropy into him. He had forgotten how much he had become used to the sensation, or how good it felt after its absence. He shrugged into his scaled hauberk, jumping a few times to even the weight. Femensetri came forward and helped him tighten the buckles and adjust the lacing so it did not hamper his movement. She helped him into a worn over-robe, brushing it smooth across his shoulders and back. Indris slung his weapons and shield, took up his staff and the bag containing the two jars of the Water of Life.
The two of them walked in a neutral silence down the valley, past the Black Quill with its steaming hot spring, and over the ancient stone bridge with its covered wards. They remained, the two of them, shoulder to shoulder and a footstep away from the border of the Sēq valley.
Femensetri looked at him for a long while, her expression wistful. “Indris…” She cleared her throat so when she spoke next her voice had none of the unaccustomed softness of that single word. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Things here aren’t as they seem. In time, you’ll understand.”
“Perhaps,” Indris replied gently. He stepped into the outside world and cycled his breathing, raising his consciousness to the point where he could call out across the ahmtesh. Chaiya? Are Shar and Ekko still in Tamerlan?
It took a moment before his friend answered. Indris cycled his breathing once more, and his awareness dropped back to the cool valley and his old teacher.
“I’ve put life off for too long, sahai, and it’s past time I was gone. If there’s an answer for what ails the rahns, I’ll find it. But you need to get the rahns back to Avānweh. There’s nothing you can do for them here that you can’t do there, and they need to return to governing the country.”
“We’ve already made preparations,” Femensetri replied. “We’ll leave via the Weavegates tomorrow morning.”
Indris took a mockingbird out of his bag, and twisted the hemispheres. The clockwork mechanism began to tick, the characters he had inscribed slowly starting to form as the pieces aligned. “I need to speak with Anj before I go. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s gone, and we don’t know where.” Femensetri’s voice once more had its customary edges. “She’s not what you think she is, Indris. But whatever she may be, you know she’s no longer your wife. You can’t see that woman anymore. You can’t love that woman anymore.”
“I’ll always love her, until she does something to break it … but I’m not in love with her. I’ve not been for years. I don’t know what she is, but like you I’ve suspicions I don’t want to give voice to.” Who knows who’s listening? “She’ll come after me when she knows I’m gone. No doubt we’ll have words then.”
Indris willed his staff into incandescence, and then he did something he had not done in many years, and only then when his need was great: He opened a portal into the Drear. The cold blue-green light washed the edges of his sight, and the deep basso groans, staccato chittering, and gibbering that came from its depths rolled up through the fluid space. Among the deeper shadows, in the sediment of lost dreams, forgotten hopes, and people’s madness, Indris saw the slow ooze of gargantuan tentacles, and the opening of toothy maws, surrounded by clusters of sleepy eyes. The analogies of land formed around his feet, a marsh of sighing reeds, rank waters, and air that tasted like wet ash. He tossed the mockingbird in. It streaked away, chattering loudly, sacrificed for Indris’s safety.
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