The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “Qesha-rē?” Mari called. Walls and floor shone under lantern light. Surgical tools gleamed on trays, rainbow patterns dancing on bottles of ointments, medicines, and raw ingredients. Alchemical instruments were burnished with loving care. Mari called out once more, and Qesha walked out of the convalescing rooms, wiping her hands.

  “Time to go?” the Nilvedic surgeon asked. She looked at Shar and Ekko with interest, and Mari made introductions. Qesha called out Vahineh’s name, and the young woman shyly poked her head out the door, eyes widening as she saw Mari and her friends. The Rahn-Selassin—if such a title still applied—raced out and threw her arms about Mari with desperate strength. Oddly touched, Mari allowed the hug to continue for a long moment before she extricated herself, nodding to Qesha that it was, indeed, time to go.

  “Shar? Ekko?” Mari said as they entered a wide courtyard exposed to gentle flurries of snow. “Please make sure nothing happens to Vahineh.”

  “I need to kill him,” Vahineh said with an almost childlike honesty. She looked at Mari sadly. “Your father, I mean. I killed his wife, and I mean to finish what I—”

  Mari stopped short at Vahineh’s words. The younger woman’s face was without guile, her eyes those of an innocent. Mari caught the glances of her friends as she ordered her thoughts. “Vahineh, we can talk about what we do later. But we need you away from here, away from my family, so you can help the other rahns against my father.”

  “I can indeed help them against your father.” Vahineh’s voice was chilling.

  “There’s little left of the Federationist party, Mari,” Shar said. “Since you’ve been gone, Shrīan’s changed. Your father … the witches—”

  “Let’s worry more about what we can do, neh?”

  Footsteps behind her caused Mari to turn. Ekko growled and Shar swore. Both took combative stances as Belam and Sanojé joined them. Her brother and the witch were panting, their clothes bloodstained. Mari doubted any of the blood was theirs. Belam gave Mari a cautious grin that dwindled as he assessed Shar and Ekko, who had closed ranks. The Widowmaker allowed Tragedy’s tip to fall toward the ground, his other hand held out and open.

  “We’ve cleared the corridor between here and the skydock,” Belam said softly. Shar and Ekko stepped toward Belam, and Tragedy’s tip rose from the ground. “I’m here to help, not hinder. Mari? Tell them, please.”

  “Mariam?” Ekko said. “Allow me to clear your brother from our path so we may continue our journey away from Tamerlan.”

  Belam looked bemused. “You could try that, yes. Or, you could put your sword down, and live a long and happy life. There is no vendetta between us, Tau-se, so why should I spill your blood?”

  “No vendetta?” Ekko growled. “Hayden … Omen … There needs to be a reckoning!”

  Mari rested her hand on Ekko’s arm and shook her head. I don’t need to lose any more friends. “I, we, hold you responsible for the deaths of my friends, Belam. That’s not something we can forget.”

  “And I hold your dead lover to account over the death of my Ancestor!” Sanojé spat. “But we don’t all get what we want.”

  “Peace, please!” Belam took a deep breath. “I’m not asking you to forget, Mari. Nor am I asking for your forgiveness. All I’m asking is for a chance to help undo some of what I’ve done.”

  Mari nodded to Shar and Ekko. The Tau-se drew himself to his full and impressive height. “I have my eye on you, Widowmaker. Any betrayal by you will be answered.”

  “Be my guest.” Belam’s tone was less flippant than Mari expected, and entirely without fear.

  A blood-spattered Morne, Kyril, and a squad of the Immortal Companions careened out of the gates at the far side of the courtyard, weapons drawn. They pulled up short when they saw Mari and her company. One of the Companions, a compact woman in russet armor, carrying a heavy rapier with a dented hilt, began to swear soundly. She finished off with “We’ve lost them,” in a heavy Ygranian accent.

  “What happened?” Mari asked.

  “The Dowager-Asrahn escaped,” Morne said bitterly. Mari began her own round of swearing, raising the eyebrows of those nearby. Morne gestured her to calm. “There’s no pouring that wine back in the bottle, Mari. Tamerlan is ours, but the Dowager-Asrahn and her inner circle are gone. Nadir, his father—both of whom I’d love to see dead—and the Emissary, gone. Along with their witches and some soldiery.”

  “How did they escape?” Shar asked, though the war-chanter seemed relieved there would be no more fighting. “There aren’t that many ways off the island.”

  “The witches,” Sanojé suggested. “The ones from the Mahsojin that the Asrahn has in service. They’ve no fear, and little restraint in opening portals through the Drear. They’re a different vintage from the witches and scholars I know.”

  “Because they’re missing the last three hundred years or so,” Belamandris said. “But as General Hawkwood said, what’s done is done. We need to press forward. Father’s agendas won’t wait on us.”

  “Not yet,” Mari countered. “We’ve got some cleaning to do. The Dowager-Asrahn wouldn’t abandon Tamerlan so easily. She’s here, lurking somewhere. Advise your people to caution and make sure nobody is alone.”

  The sky above them cracked; a slit of brilliant lightning flared behind the clouds. The air growled, groaned, wailed as it was ripped open in brilliant ripples like a stone had been thrown into the pond of the clouds. A column of silver-white radiance speared down, striking the courtyard with a titanic boom. A shining figure streaked downward, trailing liquid light behind it.

  The light faded, revealing a man crouched in the center of the courtyard, the hood of his over-robe covering his head. He carried a tall staff that glowed gently, and an amenesqa with a dragon-headed pommel was slung across his back, as well as a round shield that was black as night. Everybody froze as he stood. The head within the hood looked this way and that.

  With a casual gesture the man swept his hood back to reveal handsome features and a mop of untamable hair. Mari felt light-headed. Her chest hurt and her breath hurt and her eyes burned as tears welled and her hands trembled and her knees felt weak.

  Indris gave Mari and the others a brief smile. “Sorry I’m late.” He looked around at the blood-covered warriors and witches. “What did I miss?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Hatreds and prejudices are learned, born from the fear of that which is neither comfortable, nor familiar, nor in our control.”

  —From The Nilvedic Maxims

  Day 60 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Corajidin lay in his pavilion, entranced by the sensations that washed over him. He felt individual strands of silk in his sleeping robe. He smelled cloves on his quilt from where it had been stored for the warmer months and not aired long enough, and the arid smell of dust. He observed the swell of light where it descended to the shadowy curves of his pavilion. The tempo of his hearts, the beetles that scuttled around the base of his pavilion, the forlorn cries of marsh devils, the burble of the river, and the nervous whispers of those sworn to his colors. When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear their individual words and see in his mind’s eye the speakers where they huddled around campfires that seemed all too small in the seemingly infinite, and oppressive, darkness of the Rōmarq.

  Īa was alive with energy that renewed and sustained him. He had felt neither hungry, nor thirsty, nor tired since his arrival earlier in the day.

  Unity had been something like this. Being fully Awakened, and aware, and in touch with the world around me. I’d forgotten how beautiful, how peaceful, and how humbling it all was. But the Rōmarq was more intense, more giving, than Erebus Prefecture, overflowing with energy. No wonder there were so many echoes of empire here.

  I have been Awakened for a third time. Am I the Thrice Awakened that will both do and undo everything I have planned? Is it because of my actions that I will have all, and my children nothing?

  Corajidin rose from bed and s
lid into his over-robe. He was reminded of dramatists’ tales where rahns went disguised among their soldiery, to hear and learn what the common folk thought. He found himself glad and saddened in equal measure that the opinions of others were no longer his compass. Does that make me weaker, stronger, or just older and more set in my ways? He exited his pavilion and walked into the camp, the Anlūki his black and scarlet shadows.

  Outside, the sky dazzled with the light of thousands of stars that burned like jewels against the velvet night, so bright Corajidin thought he might go blind. The Ancestor’s Shroud reached out a nebulous arm across the sky, painted with more colors, and more brightly lit, than Corajidin had ever remembered. He blinked a few times to adjust his sight, each opening of his eyes showing him more of the world around him. Everything shimmered with life. Coronas around the trees, grasses, and marsh flowers. Whorls of brightness in the water, and people! People shone, their souls limned in the radiance of hundreds of candles. It did not take long for Corajidin’s eyes to pierce the darkness as easily as if it were dusk, rather than deep night. He was overwhelmed by the scents of people, and steel, and oil, and leather, and the smoke of campfires, the horse musk of the Iphyri—and beneath it all the foundation reek of brackish water, decaying vegetation, and carcasses rotting in the mud. About him, the horizon glowed as if the ghost of dawn was about to come from all directions.

  Soldiers made their obeisance as he passed, which he only vaguely responded to, so transfixed was he by everything about him. He felt his lips part in what felt like the first unencumbered smile he had given in … far too long. At the edge of camp, Iphyri guards walked the perimeter, horse heads swinging this way and that, nostrils and eyes wide, massive frames burdened by layers of steel and leather so that their hooves sank into the mud. A squad of the Iphyri sheathed their weapons, and dropped to all fours, before trotting out along a dimly lit path on patrol.

  Corajidin stood on the riverbank, unafraid of what he could now clearly see. Fish seemed to hover, glowing in the depths like the reflection of kites. On the far bank a few huge marsh rats, big as Corajidin’s arm, were cracking snail shells open with small stones. Reedwives soared on leathery wings above, their auras bruised. He even heard Kimiya as she approached, though her tread was light as the breeze.

  “You see it, do you not?” she asked.

  “See what?”

  “Everything.” She stood beside him, her filthy blonde hair limned by star and moonlight, face beautiful and peaceful in repose. Her lips and chin were stained with blood, as were her hands. She closed her eyes and inhaled. “You see … no, you feel … why this place has been so important, to so many, for so long.”

  “Why here?”

  “Because this is where the walls between worlds are thinnest. There are other places, but few such as this. The Water of Life bubbles from the ground here, renewed and renewing, pouring its vitality into everything that lives here in the”—and she recited a long string of guttural and atonal syllables. “This is why many of those who came before tarried here. It is why their servants remain, waiting.”

  “For?” The word was no sooner out of Corajidin’s mouth, than he regretted saying it.

  “The right time.” Her smile was chilling. “We watch, and we wait, and hear them in our dreams, promising us a return to the days we long for. You have seen them. Heard them. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Corajidin tried his best to turn his grimace into a smile, and knew from her expression that she found his failure amusing.

  “Fret not, great Corajidin!” Kimiya looked north across the great shimmering flat of the Rōmarq, torrents of energy rising here and there like spectral fountains, to fall like diamond points of rain. “Those who came before know who has been faithful. When the time comes, your part in their revival will be rewarded.”

  “I have no part in their revival!” The words flew from his mouth. Corajidin looked about conspiratorially. “I have no part. My only concerns are for my people to be all that they can be, and for me to lead them to the greatness they deserve.”

  “And who is to say that one does not enable the other? And you carry more concerns than those, Corajidin. I see writ on your soul the weight of the burdens you carry, the doubts and the fears, like a drowning man deciding which bag of gold to release and which to keep, though both, or one, would see him sink.” Kimiya reached out a hand and absently touched Corajidin on the arm. He felt her warmth radiate through his sleeve. “And you are right to fear him. He is exactly what he was always intended to be, and for that, too, there is gratitude.”

  Fear whom? “I will rule the world, girl,” Corajidin said with more bravado than he felt. “I am surrounded by mighty heroes and mystics, and am soon to have the power of the ages at my fingertips.”

  “You will not, and do not,” Kimiya replied solemnly. “But you pave the way for one who might.”

  “And that is…?” A dead man walking.

  “Kasraman, of course.” Kimiya crouched by the riverbank and ran her hands through the shining water. “Or another, whose visage is shrouded from us, blurred between then and now, and there and here. We have neither seen nor do we see all. It has been long and long since the Rōm gazed upon the length and breadth of the worlds, but we were never their friends.

  “If you are wise, you would take what life has given you. Find a place to live out the span of your years, and forget the lofty heights from which you will, no doubt, fall.” She looked at him as if he were an unruly child. “But you are not wise, are you, Corajidin? No, you are not wise at all. You have sacrificed wisdom for pride. Morality for satisfaction. And honor for expediency. But you have done what was needful, when it was needful, and the old powers are content.”

  “The old powers?”

  Kimya gave Corajidin a sidelong glance. “How little you know of your own world. Empire built upon empire, knowledge stolen, borrowed, and assumed. It is rare for you Afternoon People to build for yourself. You forget what you should not, allowing fact to become belief, then fade into legend, and become myth, to vanish like smoke in the breeze. Speak with Wolfram, who peeled away many of the comforts which Kimiya held dear, stripping her bare as he broke and remade her. Us. The scholars know. The witches know. But those who would sit their thrones and bend beneath the weight of their crowns know nothing—things that were great, and powerful, and old, and gone, long before the Elemental Masters brought the Bamboo People, or you of the Afternoon, into existence. But it matters little, now.”

  Corajidin did not voice the words before Kimiya answered his unasked question.

  “Because the shadows grow long, the afternoon wears on, and night is sure to come.”

  Corajidin dismissed his guards at the entrance to Wolfram’s pavilion. It was a large thing, plain and worn, redolent of musk and the residue of years of burned incense. A brass bell hung by a chain from a post of scorched wood set with goat horns at the top. With his newfound vision, Corajidin saw the hundreds of figures carved into the blackened post: squirrels and owls, spiders and scorpions, lions, wolves, horses, all interwoven among curled leaves. Toward the top were eagles and a phoenix, but at the top and the bottom were carved black goats, their eyes hard and angular.

  He was about to open the pavilion flap, then thought better of it. Corajidin had learned from experience there were things about his Lore Master that he was better off not knowing. It was best he did not enter unannounced.

  “Wolfram?” he called. I will not ring the damned bell like some petitioner. “Wolfram? Are you there?”

  “Yes, my Asrahn,” came the musical voice. “Please, come in.”

  Corajidin entered the pavilion and almost gagged on the thick, pungent air. Tapestries formed a labyrinth, and thick carpets cushioned the floor. Corajidin flapped his over-robe in the oppressive heat. Light flared from between two tapestries, themselves portraying goat-headed women and men, and fornicating three-legged trees with lashing branches. The witch wore only his stained and patched leather trou
sers and rusted calipers, his narrow chest covered in a pelt of his own brindle hair, where it was not covered by the ink of ancient tattoos.

  It was the man himself Corajidin saw—perhaps truly saw—for the first time. The emaciated rangyness was there, the vivid wolf’s eyes and tangled mat of his hair and beard. Yet his aura burned like a black sun, constantly wavering with small fountains of energy. They arced away, and splashed back against the man’s skin. But it was the looming presence around him, a half-imagined image, that gave Corajidin pause: a giant goat-headed beast with horns that drank the light, and eyes darker yet. It filled the tent to bursting, dwarfing the Angoth. Corajidin turned away, and blinked rapidly. When he looked back, the shadow beast was still there, nostrils flaring, glowering, taloned hands resting on Wolfram like a jealous lover. Corajidin concentrated on Wolfram’s physical presence, until the shadow of the daemon faded from sight.

  Wolfram gestured for Corajidin to enter. There were campstools, and many boxes and chests. The open ones had vials and jars. On a small table there rested alchemical equipment, the remaining space covered in books and parchments. The witch poured wine and water into two earthenware bowls, and handed one to Corajidin as he nodded to one of the camp chairs.

  Corajidin wasted no time telling Wolfram all that he had seen, recounting the changes in him since they had arrived in the Rōmarq. He told all, except for what he had seen of Wolfram’s shadowy daemon Aspect. When Corajidin was finished, Wolfram set down his wine bowl and massaged his own legs, wincing with the pain.

  “This didn’t happen to you when we were here last?” Wolfram asked.

  “No. I felt no better here than anywhere else. But now … I’ve neither eaten nor touched a drop of the Emissary’s potion, and the things I can see!”