The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  “The Rōmarq is known to be rich in disentropy, and you’ve been taking a lot of the Emissary’s potion.” Wolfram waved away Corajidin’s objection. “I’ve seen how much is missing, my friend. But it’s neither my place to judge nor comment. My service to the Erebus has lasted long enough for me to know that you’ll do all that is needful to persevere.”

  Corajidin finished his wine and indicated Wolfram should pour another, but without the water. After a long draft, Corajidin stared moodily into his reflection where it wavered in bloody liquid. Without looking up he asked, “And that includes serving Kasraman? In knowing that he, too, will do all that is needful to persevere?”

  “It includes all your children.” Wolfram sounded hesitant. “But Kasraman most of all. He is your heir, and the future of your Great House.”

  “Is he a danger to me?” The Emissary’s, and Kimiya’s, words rattled in this head, wasps trying to escape the hive.

  Wolfram leaned back in his chair, and exhaled slowly. A gust of wind pushed against the pavilion walls as ripples of fabric spread across the roof. It moaned faintly between cloth panels, and the tapestry maze shifted grudgingly. In the silence, Corajidin heard the sounds of worms turning in the earth, and the slow and steady hammer blows of Wolfram’s heart. This place is changing me … or is it reminding me of what I could have been? Or worse, what Kasraman already is? My third Awakening has made me more alive than ever before.

  “Do you remember the night Kasraman was conceived?” Wolfram asked, his chin resting in his chest as he slouched, legs spread out before him.

  “Not precisely, no. The healers and the astrologers placed it sometime during the month of the Amentehv Festival. Laleh and I were on a royal progress with my father. Why?”

  “Do you remember where he was conceived?”

  “It was in the only habitable part of Memnon.” Corajidin finished his wine in one draft, got up, and poured another. “It was deep winter and the towers and walls were awash with lantern light. They burned from dusk till dawn, for the longest nights of the year.”

  “I remember the storms on those nights…”

  “And the Dark Loving,” Corajidin added, taking another sip of his wine. The witches had crooned into the storm, exhorting the spirits to take them all, and taste of the pleasures of the flesh: masked faces and passions running high, eyes bright with drink and drugs, skin flushed, bodies writhing in flickering shadows as the world became an undulating, gyrating, grinding ocean of naked flesh. The Mordamren was an ancient festival, dating back to the lust-fueled excesses of the Avān, when civilization was little more than a tattered over-robe: easily lost, and just as easily replaced. Corajidin did not recall how many lovers he had that night. He had felt as if he were filled with all the vitality of his Ancestors, loving for himself and for all of them while the Asrahn-Basyrandin, Corajidin’s own intractable father, had looked down on the revelers, eyes burning with lusts and perversions that were only ever rumored, and never spoken of by his family.

  So many people, wearing masks both literal and figurative, had celebrated the heroes and villains, myths and legends of the Avān. There was no telling who had been who that night…

  “Wolfram, are you telling me that Kasraman is not my son?” Corajidin held his breath, divided as to what he wanted the answer to be. Were Kasraman not of the Blood Royal, there was no way Corajidin would allow him to become rahn. It would all go to his golden son—

  “No.” Wolfram struggled to his feet and limped over to Corajidin. “I’m saying he’s not only your son, but also the son of whatever spirit infused you that night. I saw you, my friend, and some others. That you were the vessel for an elemental spirit is not in doubt. Kasraman is Avān, Erebus, and more.”

  “Why did you not tell me this before?” Sweet merciful Erebus! What kind of creature have I raised to assume power? And should I stop him, or allow Kasraman to be the next generation of the Erebus, the first in almost a millennium, after myself, to be a Mahj? “Wolfram, how long have you known?”

  “Known?” The witch threw up his hands in disgust. “I know nothing. But suspect much, and have had my misgivings since Avānweh.” Wolfram pointed to the piles of books on the table, and more besides on the floor. “And there are more near my bed. Astrological charts, Ulreich’s Gray Grimoire, as many volumes as I could find of Amradiin’s Jafir Morden, even the proscribed works of Yattoweh—a Sēq, true, but a man who knew more than his fair share about the dark places of the world. But it’s all supposition. For all I know, Kasra’s immense power could come from his mother’s blood. Her family has always bred powerful mystics.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  “A prodigy like Kasraman?” Wolfram shook his head. “I’d hazard a guess that a birth such as his was by careful design rather than chance. Which isn’t unheard of. The Avān were made from a breeding program, and the Great Houses and the Families still select their partners to keep bloodlines strong. Though you’d sooner eat your own face than admit it, Mari chose one of the best living Avān males when she became involved with Dragon-Eyed Indris. Their offspring will shake the foundations of the world. Who’s to say you weren’t in Memnon on the night you were just so Kasraman, himself a marvel, could be born?”

  Corajidin stumbled to a nearby chair and collapsed into it. The wine bowl fell from his slack fingers to roll across the worn carpet. Wolfram listed back to his own chair, legs creaking with every step, and settled into it stiffly. He was breathing hard with the effort. Corajidin stared across the distance at the man who had served the Erebus for centuries, wondering at the perspective such a life could give. The little things that seemed so immediate and so pressing to Corajidin, the things that needed to be done now, for lack of time, might be nothing more than an afterthought to one such as Wolfram. And Wolfram was not old by the standards of the Ilhennim. Femensetri the Stormbringer was Avāndhim, one of the few surviving first generation of Avān to be created in the Torque Spindles of the lost east. How would such a one perceive the world around her? What would inspire her to action, or what experience would give her the perspective to wait?

  Kasraman. Prodigy. Marvel. Firstborn of Corajidin and stern Laleh and … what? Some daemon from the far shores of the Well of Souls? A spirit of fire, or something cold from waters darker and deeper than Corajidin wanted to imagine? He trembled at the dreams of what lurked in such places, and their awareness of him. And his debts to them, if such things were what he suspected the Emissary served.

  “Will he be a great man, do you think?” Corajidin murmured.

  “Kasra?” Wolfram nodded. “He already is, thanks to your guidance and oversight. Your son has been trained to wield power, my friend. And even without your Awakening, or the contact of the long line of your Ancestors, Kasra has a surfeit of his own power. He will be a rahn, an Asrahn, and a Mahj to be reckoned with. Possibly the greatest since the early days of the Awakened Empire. That is what you wanted, isn’t?”

  “It was.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “There is no failure in falling, only in not trying to regain one’s feet and take another step.”

  —Penoquin of Kaylish, Zienni Scholar and philosopher (325th Year of the Awakened Empire)

  Day 61 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Indris to Mari, who caused his hearts to quicken, and face to warm. And for Shar, Ekko, Morne, and his husband, Kyril, Indris tried for a smile but it was as if his lips were not sure what to do, and just twitched on his face. “What did I miss?”

  You idiot … He closed his eyes at the banality of his words. Then snapped them open at footsteps drumming toward him in time to see Mari as she threw herself at him and covered his lips with her own, which now seemed to know exactly what to do. Shar and Ekko followed not far behind her. The Seethe war-chanter’s eyes and skin shimmered with emotion. Indris closed his eyes and kissed Mari like she deserved to be kissed, saving his questions about why the Wi
dowmaker and Sanojé, the Tyrant of Massadesai, were present. A lot seems to have happened in my absence.

  Morne and Kyril snapped orders to the Companions, who in turn broke into four units of ten. The unit commanders divided Tamerlan between them, then began a systematic search of the fortress.

  Indris stepped toward Morne and swayed, dizzy and fatigued from expending the energy necessary to plunge through the Drear without a Weavegate. He buckled at the knees, head swimming. Thankfully, Mari, Shar, and Ekko were there to stop him from falling. Were it not for the sudden rush of energy from Changeling, Indris doubted he would have had the strength to walk.

  “Indris?” Mari’s face was etched with concern.

  “It’s nothing a week of sleep won’t fix,” he mumbled. Morne looked at him with concern, but Indris waved him away. Hawkwood was a seasoned campaigner, and Indris trusted his ability to take and hold a backwater like Tamerlan without help.

  “Then let’s get you out of here. You can tell us where you’ve been, and why everybody thinks you’re dead, tomorrow.” Mari looked to Belamandris and Morne. “Find the Dowager-Asrahn. And, Morne, please have some of your Immortals secure the fortress, the port, and the skydock. I doubt my grandmother will retreat from Tamerlan, but let’s not make any assumptions.”

  The Widowmaker and Sanojé glared at Indris. Belamandris’s fingers curled around Tragedy’s hilt, as if he were prepared to draw and strike. Sanojé’s Disentropic Stain flickered; her many-armed skeletal Aspect phased in and out of sight. Mari glared at her brother, and repeated her order in such a tone that Indris would not have refused, had it been him. Belamandris and Sanojé muttered to each other, then joined a squad of the Immortal Companions and dashed off. Morne and his own commanders set their tasks.

  Indris held her face in his hands, and rested his brow against hers. Her skin was warm and dry, through the air about them was cold and damp. He stared into her eyes, as blue as he remembered, and ran his hands through the mess of her blonde hair. “I’m sorrier than you know to have worried you, but—”

  “Tomorrow. You’re a mess, and there are plenty of veterans here who can secure Tamerlan.” Mari silenced him with a gentle kiss that lingered long enough for Indris to forget, for a moment, the bone-crushing fatigue. Their kiss became more heated. She pulled away, her lips stretching in the smile that was so much a part of her. “And for that, there’s also tomorrow.”

  Ekko took Indris’s bag, and Mari led Indris into the depths of Tamerlan.

  The sounds of sporadic fighting could be heard as they walked through Tamerlan. Indris could see how ancient the place was: not something built by Avān hands, unless they worked to somebody else’s design. The dimensions were wrong, the architecture lacking true symmetry, built with curves and circles, as if formed from the scouring of the tide, currents, and waves. It was disturbing, of an older world with less restraint and mercy than the ancient Avān had known. He paused from time to time, the others looking at him strangely, as he touched the fused stone, feeling the way the ahm flowed through the place like blood through veins. There were similar places in the Golden Kingdom of Manté, though much of their original design had been changed over the years. The Seethe, the Avān, and the Humans had added to the places they had inherited from the original builders: Eidelbon … Damarsan … Sorochel, with its tall towers and deeper mines, and slave pits. But Tamerlan was closer to its original construction with its lofty walls of glassy stone.

  Mari led Indris to her room, as Morne’s warriors—and those nahdi they were sure of—took station in the corridors and junctions. The room was a cheerless place, the tall window slits providing little light. There were no hard angles anywhere, everything smoothed off to gentle curves, lacking symmetry, while adding a subtle discomfort. People would sleep in this room—Mari had slept in this room—no doubt troubled by nagging doubt, and unsettling dreams.

  Indris thanked his friends as they left, one by one. Shar was last, her skin and eyes radiant, smile broad, tears making her eyes an even more vivid citrine. She hugged him fiercely, and whispered into his ear. “Hem ahn nahasé, thē inya.” She slapped him in the face, harder than playful, less than angry. “But don’t you ever do that to me again!”

  “I’ve missed you, too, my friend,” Indris said as Shar fled the room, leaving him alone with Mari.

  She was leaner than he remembered, her eyes bright against the shadows around them. Her hair had lost some of its gloss, and her look was sharper, but her smile was the same. They shed their armor and weapons until they were both wearing only their tunics and trousers.

  Mari crawled beneath the furs on the bed. Indris joined her, and took her in his arms. Exhaustion pulled down on his eyelids, and he cycled his breathing into longer breaths, slowing his hearts, calming his mind. He smiled, eyes closed, as Mari nestled her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder, her arms across his chest, her breathing light as a feather…

  Indris, his friends, and Morne’s senior officers all with their many fresh wounds, were gathered in the Dowager-Asrahn’s sunroom, the mists thick and white against the windows, the hearths blazing. Morne’s junior nahdi had been assigned the task of preparing and serving food, until the servants could be assessed for trustworthiness. Under the good-natured jibes of their more veteran comrades, the young nahdi carried in platters of food. Indris inhaled the scents of tea and coffee, of freshly baked bread and hearty porridge laced with honey. Belamandris and Sanojé were absent. According to Morne, the two of them had joined another crew in the early hours after dawn, the Widowmaker in particular wanting a reckoning with Nadir, for his treatment of Mari. Indris did not imagine it would end well for Nadir.

  Indris’s reverie was broken by Mari’s request for an update on the occupation of Tamerlan. He smiled behind the lip of his bowl as she controlled the room.

  “There’s been no sign of the Dowager-Asrahn or her inner circle,” Morne reported. “There’ve been some skirmishes with those nahdi who remain loyal, though a larger number have stayed neutral.”

  “Waiting to see who takes the day, to get their pay,” Kyril muttered.

  “There are still pockets of resistance,” Tamiwa said in a clipped accent. The captain was a compact, muscular woman from Jiom, her skin so dark it was tinged blue. The sides of her head were shaved, temples and skull marked with intricate tribal scars. She sat so close to the fire in her brightly colored cloak that Indris wondered whether she might catch alight. A shotel, a sword so curved it was almost a sickle, leaned against her chair in a worn leather sheath. “The Dowager-Asrahn abused her people, but many of them fight on for fear of her retribution. And, as Kyril says, the nahdi will want their money.”

  “Make sure they keep their hands off the treasury, and that there’s no violence against the townsfolk,” Mari said. “There are those among the Dowager-Asrahn’s ranks who only know sende as a word.”

  Carmenya, another of Morne’s captains, nodded in agreement. She was as lean as the heavy rapier at her hip. Her russet leathers creaked as she shifted in her chair. “We’re still rooting them out. Many tried for the harbor, some for the skydock. As best we can tell, no vessels escaped. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Accept the surrenders of those who offer,” Mari suggested. The officers of the Immortal Companions looked at her incredulously. “I’m serious. The Dowager-Asrahn was a mean, spiteful stain of a woman. Many served her out of fear, but there are still those hidden away, ready to fight back, who served her out of shared enthusiasms. The Dowager-Asrahn, Jhem, Nadir, and probably the Emissary will be with them. We’ll need all the nahdi we can get if we’re going to try to put an end to my father’s plots, and restore some grace to the Asrahn’s office.”

  “Mari’s right,” Indris added. “Corajidin has the largest army of any of the rahns, and the great majority of the Imperialist sayfs follow him. Narseh is ever his ally, and her heavy infantry are the best in Shrīan. Martūm, Vahineh’s cousin, has taken on the mantle of the rahn-elect Sel
assin, acting as regent in her absence. We can do something about that to start with, and take away some of Corajidin’s support. How is Vahineh?”

  “Qesha-rē, the surgeon here, has Vahineh in her care,” Mari replied. “I’ve not seen much of her since my imprisonment, but Qesha says Vahineh seems well enough. Did you manage to actually Sever her from her Awakening, or is she still going to be plagued by it?”

  “I don’t know, to either question. That she’s alive is a good sign. I’ll need to take a look at her, to see what damage there is to her mind.” And her body, and her soul…

  “What about the Sēq?” Morne asked. He and Kyril sat together, sheafs of reports scattered on the table in front of them. Morne leaned forward and tapped strong fingers on the tabletop to emphasize his words. “Without them we’re doomed before we start. We’ve fought witches in Tanis, in Manté, and other places besides—but that was always when we had scholars, or our own witches. Will the Sēq get involved?”

  Indris let his silence answer the question, at which Kyril swore. Indris finished his tea, grabbed a quick bite to eat. He noticed the sideways glances Mari gave him, as well as those of Shar and Ekko. As people broke their fast, Indris related what had happened to him since the battle with the Mahsojhin witches.

  “After what could only be called a cessation of hostilities at the Mahsojhin,” Indris said, “the Sēq took me into custody.” But how do I tell them that Anj has returned? I can’t shoulder those questions right now. He told them the rest of his story, of the interrogations, the long days and longer nights at Amarqa-in-the-Snows. Of the appearance of the Herald, and the plight of the rahns. Mari in turn related her tale, which caused Indris’s chest to constrict, for Shar to take Mari in her arms, and for Ekko’s leonine face to go hard as stone. Shar and Ekko, Morne and Kyril, recited the events happening around Shrīan.

  Indris settled into his chair, excluding the drone of voices, the clatter of plates and cutlery one by one as he sorted through the information given him. It was not all bad news, and nothing had gone so far that the Sēq, provided they stopped sulking, could not set to rights. This was the type of threat the Order needed to bring itself out of the introspection Zadjinn had diagnosed, yet poorly sought to treat. The symptoms of the Sēq’s disaffection with the modern world could not be removed unless the cause was healed: Give the Sēq a purpose in the modern world. The Sēq needed to learn from their past, correct their present, and have a course into the future that was not reliant on obedience to an indifferent Mahj, trapped between the realms of the living and the dead.