Warning bells rang in Mari’s head as they approached. We should not be here…
The traveler unwrapped the frayed taloub from about his head and face. His long flaxen hair and unkempt beard looked dry and brittle. His sun-darkened temples and cheeks were inked with colorful orjini tribal tattoos, but Mari did not know enough about the orjini to tell what tribe they were from. The stranger carried a sickle through his sash, and a long staff, which on closer inspection was a smoothed-off branch. He had no other weapons and no armor that Mari could see.
And what kind of man wanders the dangers of the Dead Flat so blithely? The city of Ar Orjini was more than a day’s walk to the south. The mountains were home to Fenling packs, and bandits, that raided along the road and across the sands. Even the orjini, at home in the Dead Flat like no other, traveled in numbers. Yet the stranger seemed to have no fear. His wide smile was welcoming, and without concern. It bothered Mari very much.
“Indris?” Mari grabbed his arm before they came any closer. “This man feels…”
“Odd?” Indris murmured. The stranger cocked an eyebrow, smile widening slightly. “I’ve the sense he’s somebody to be reckoned with, and has stories aplenty. But I have to know, Mari.”
“And what if things turn out for the worse?” As they seem to do, Mari thought.
“Then don’t wait for me,” Indris said. “I’ve come here for answers, but I don’t know how long those answers may take to find.”
“I’ll not leave you, love.”
“If it comes to it, you may have to. The others will need your strength. People will rally to you, and that’s what our people need now: something to oppose the darkness your father brings with him.”
“Indris, I can’t—”
“Promise me, Mari.” Indris leaned close and murmured in her ear. “Promise me you’ll take the others and do what needs to be done to stop your father. You know it’s the right thing to do, and we both swore to do our duty till this was done.”
Mari was reminded of their conversation outside of Nanjidasé. She had told him she wanted to be remembered as something other than what history expects an Erebus to be. The clock is ticking for us, one way or another. But I have to believe that while I’m here, I can make a difference. Otherwise, what point is there to any of it? She nodded her promise to him.
Indris thanked her, and gestured for the others to remain where they were. Mari sidled forward on light feet and stopped by Indris’s side, weight in the balls of her feet, close enough to protect him and far enough away to initiate hostilities if it came to it.
“You’ll not need your Deer Stance here, young woman,” the stranger said. His voice was rough, as if it were not used often. “Nor will your Humming Wind draw serve you any better. Am I friend or enemy, you wonder? A pointless exercise. Only you bring with you such distinctions, give these nothings substance, and believe them to be true. I was nothing before you came, I am nothing now, and will be nothing when you leave. So please, be at peace.”
Mari tensed. The stranger was too calm. His poise reminded her of Bensaharēn, but put her old teacher to shame. Indris studied the man intently, brow furrowed. Changeling murmured to herself, and the stranger gave the dragon hilt a tender look.
“May I ask your name?” Indris said.
“There is never harm in asking questions—”
“There is only harm in answers,” Indris replied. The stranger maintained his silence for a long while before Indris continued. “Will you answer?”
“In time. There is power in names, even when one has many. But you know this, neh?”
“Time is something I don’t have, I’m afraid.”
“On the contrary, Amon-Indris,” the man countered. “Time is something of which we all have exactly as much as we need.”
“Erebus’s bones!” Mari whispered for Indris alone. “Can’t I just slap an answer out of him? I mean, really, who talks like this?”
“Pretty much every teacher I’ve ever had,” Indris murmured. Mari thought about her years with Bensaharēn and was forced to agree. Indris gave her a sideways smile. “Besides, I doubt this man has anything at all to fear from any of us.”
“I could prove him wrong.” But Mari put her trust in Indris, and let her thoughts go.
The stranger stood lightly, an extension of the desert and the winds. Be like water, Bensaharēn had said. Let your form flow in the need of the moment. Be water. Be fire. But be mindful that we are, at our core, bound to the earth. The stranger seemed part of everything around him, as if it were what he was meant to be. Mari had to admit that Indris was right: There was little this stranger had to fear from her, or her sword. She allowed herself to relax.
The stranger nodded. “You, Amon-Indris, need to think about why you’ve come. I will give you the opportunity to prepare yourself. We will speak again when I return. Until then, please, take your ease and enjoy the silence.”
“When will you be back?” Mari asked.
“What is when?” the stranger asked. “The world does not track time, so why should you? Suffice to say I will return when Amon-Indris is ready for me to return.”
Turning his back, the stranger walked into the megalith, and was gone. He did not come out the other side. Mari entered the little course, searching for the stranger’s prints, but he had left nothing that the faint winds had not already blown away. Nor was he hiding among the rocks.
“He’s gone,” she said. “I’ve no idea how, but there’s no sign of him.”
“What are you going to do, Indris?” Shar asked.
“What he asked.” Indris sounded somewhat bemused. He sat down in the sand and faced the megalith. He rested his lantern across his lap. To Mari, he said, “I’m going to meditate on why I’ve come. I get the impression this isn’t going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped.”
Mari ruffled his hair, and leaned down to kiss him. “Did you think it would be?”
“Not so much, no. See you soon.” Indris closed his eyes, deepened his breathing, and became still as the stones in front of him.
“What now?” Belam asked.
“Looks like we wait,” Mari said. “And watch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“There are few in power who understand that it is their destiny and purpose to serve, not to rule.”
—Cennoväl the Dragonlord, Sēq Master, explorer, and teacher (115th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
Day 65 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
“Is that all of it?” Corajidin asked, looking with come disappointment on the extent of what they had pillaged from the ruins. Other than the Havoc Chair, which Kasraman and Wolfram had failed to activate, there had been little of significant military value.
A makeshift camp had been set up, pavilions used to house the workforce while those buildings that could be occupied became command stations. The clamor of picks and hammers rang sharply. Smoke from the cook fires hung in a greasy pall, black against a morose sky. The delays nagged him like an infected fingernail. Two days of rain made soup of the ground. Nix reported their losses each day. Several walls had collapsed, destabilized by the ongoing work, killing scores of his captive workforce, as well as some soldiers. Near a hundred more had died as the result of traps, but Nix could only be in so many places at once. Often enough it was greed on the part of the people that died, digging in areas that Nix had not cleared, hoping they could find something of value to squirrel away. Other times it was because Nix missed something, mistakes the little man made no apology for. Beyond the issues of the ruins, there was the Rōmarq itself, which was inimical to outsiders—though Corajidin doubted it showed any mercy to its own. Workers and soldiers died from spider bites, scorpion stings, and snakes—creatures that should have been hibernating, but did not either because such was not their nature here or because they were angered by the presence of interlopers in their habitat. Another thirty or so had been killed by nāga who had not relinquished their claim on the ruins. A
t night it was Fenlings and reedwives carrying people away for food, or worse. And the marsh-puppeteers were an ever-present threat. When Kimiya had been confronted about the attacks, her bland response had simply been “They’re not of my clan.”
Corajidin smiled as the filthy woman walked into his presence. She looked like a doll that had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations, a favorite that should have been thrown away long ago. She walked to within arm’s length of him, smiling. He neither flinched nor retreated.
“Thank you for all that you and your clan have done, Kimiya,” Corajidin said. “Though we have not unearthed as much as I would have liked—and only what he have at great cost—you have upheld your part of our arrangement.”
“And now it’s time for you to do the same.”
“Let us not be so hasty on that score just—”
Kimiya opened her mouth and made an insectile clattering at the back of her throat. Corajidin saw the fine, chitinous appendages that moved at the back of her tongue. He recoiled with disgust as she stepped in. The stench of mud, blood, and excrement on her was overwhelming. Kimiya looked left, and right, and Corajidin followed her gaze to where marsh-puppeteers skittered through cracks in the walls, floor, and ceiling.
“We have given,” she said. “Now it is for you to fulfill your promise.”
“Who do you want?” he asked, cursing himself for the fear in his voice.
“The bodies of those with influence. The ones that can cause the most damage. The ones that can still ally with your cause, whether the host would have it or not.” Kimiya stepped back, but the other marsh-puppeteers remained as they were, all within jumping distance. “The Soul Traders want to establish a foothold in your new world order, but we would look disfavorably on that arrangement. Indeed, a lesson may have to be made should you decide to follow such a course. Am I clear, Corajidin?”
“Yes,” he muttered. “You will have them.”
“When?”
“I return to Avānweh today, to prepare for the Winter Court.”
“Then we will come with you,” Kimiya asserted. “We are an honorable people, Corajidin. Unlike the Soul Traders, who cast off their agreements like decayed strips of flesh. We both are faceless, but my people relish the world of the living and all it offers. Our tastes are not so cold as those of the dead. And unlike you, Corajidin, we do not so easily put aside our bonds of loyalty, or our word given in good faith. We agreed to take those who oppose you, and to help you rid yourself of inconvenient and inconstant nemeses. This we will do. And in return, we will continue to show your people the things hidden here.”
She turned and left, the other puppeteers skittering away the ways they had come. When he was alone, Corajidin allowed himself to collapse into a chair, uncomfortably aware of how closely he had brushed against his own end.
As soon as Corajidin stepped from the Weavegate, he felt twice as heavy and less than a quarter as strong as he had in the Rōmarq. He grunted at the near-instant fatigue, and again at the pain that shot through his knees as they crunched onto the marble floor.
“Get him to the Qadir Erebus!” Wolfram shouted.
He slept badly, dreams and reality blending into a sweating, stench-laden whole. A frigid wind howled across sodden grasses of Ast am’a Jehour, as biting and fierce as the wolves the plain was named for. Corajidin’s banners—their black and red rearing stallions shredded against a mustard-tinted overcast—streamed like tattered plumes of smoke. His forces had their backs to Fandra, and the lure of the Rōmarq was strong: to run, to hide, to live out his life as an Exile with the greatest of all powers at his fingertips, rather than die an ignominious death. The weight of his armor, dented and drenched in blood, bore him down. His arm ached from fingertips to wrist, his hand numb where it held his notched sword. He was surrounded by the war-lean figures of his warriors, while wild-eyed witches in their flapping robes circled the sky above, stentorian voices calling out to the powers that dwelled in the shadows between worlds; mad-eyed sayfs cackled, bonded forever to marsh-puppeteers, and led their forces in chaotic formations that made little sense, other than to confuse, disrupt, and dismay.
Across the rain-flattened grasses, the banners of his enemies ignited as the sun streamed through a rent in the clouds: lotus blossoms of silver and white, orange and brown, and blue and gold. In the uncertain light a mist boiled over the nearby hills, etched with the spectral forms of warriors long dead. At their front was a figure armored in scales forged of stars, his shield shining like the dawn and his sword a brilliant recurved shard of moonlight. Belamandris and Mariam fought at his side, as did the hosts of nations, and overhead Seethe skyjammers descended gracefully though the clouds, storm-cannon coughing destruction.
The figure raised his face, eye blazing with dragon fire.
Corajidin fought with the sheets that coiled serpentine around his limbs. He cracked open an eye and squinted against the brightness of alchemical lamps set around his room like moons in his orbit. He rubbed the perspiration from his face. Was his dream vision, or metaphor? Was Indris alive? Had his children betrayed him?
He extricated himself from the sheets, fished for his over-robe, and came face to face with Mēdēya, who had stood in the shadows all along.
“Your dreams again, Jidi?” she asked. Light played on the edge of her cheek, nose, and jaw, leaving the rest of her in darkness.
“As always.”
Mēdēya held out a vial of the Emissary’s potion. “Perhaps if you did as you were supposed to do, you would know some relief?”
“Why is it that I hear your voice, but the Emissary’s words dance on your tongue? I am destiny’s agent, and was before that curse of a woman came into our lives. That the road may have changed on the way to me being the father of empire is a trifling thing: It is the end that concerns me.”
“So you say,” Mēdēya challenged.
“I will prove I am destined for greatness.”
“And how will this miraculous proof, that defies all your previous failure, present itself?” Mēdēya jibed. Corajidin clenched his fists in rage, for he could hear the Emissary’s words again. Even the cadence was the same. “The Emissary will not wait forever. She has given and given. Provided you with allies you’ve yet to use well—”
“I will not traffic with the Soul Traders!” Corajidin snarled. Can you hear me in there, Emissary, as you somehow hide behind my wife’s face? “The marsh-puppeteers are one thing, but Nomads lead us down dangerous roads from which there is little chance to turn back.”
“What about your promises to me, Jidi?” Mēdēya asked. “An end to Vahineh at my hand? You agreed to give her to me.”
“Give me peace, Mēdēya!” he shouted. The sound stabbed in his head. Corajidin rubbed his temples with his fingertips, moving aside when Mēdēya tried to touch him. “I give Martūm to the marsh-puppeteers today. Once that is done, Vahineh will be yours.”
Corajidin stormed away to his bath. He shook off Mēdēya’s offer to help, closing the door in her face. He bathed quickly, and dressed in the most regal clothing he had: black and red damask, studded with rubies and red-gold stallion-head ingots. Layered silks, and sable fur on the hood and cuffs of his over-robe. His weapons and armor he had lost in the fire at Sedefke’s tower, so he marched to his private armory and selected a shamshir more for show than battle. Tempted as he was to don armor, the Emissary’s potion gave him strength enough to walk, and to talk, but little else.
Corajidin hastened through the qadir, Mēdēya behind him. He startled servants and caused guards to snap to attention with a clamor of arms as he passed. At his office, he took brush to parchment and wrote a missive that summoned all the rahns and the sayfs to the Tyr-Jahavān at the Hour of the Fox tomorrow morning. It was a civilized hour, giving the upper-caste members time to see to their morning business, and have little suspicion that Corajidin meant them harm, as would be the case of an early-morning engagement. Under sende, an impolite hour showed Corajidi
n’s displeasure, his want to unsettle, or inconvenience. Late in afternoon, or early in the evening, spoke of his disregard for their family, or social lives, for such were the hours of dining, the theatre, concerts, and assignations kept quiet for the benefit of those both involved and those who would be wronged as their result. Traditionally the morning Hour of the Fox was the hour of intellect, of planning, and of guidance. And to a degree it would be, just not as any of them suspected.
He inked a second letter to a more select group. Recalcitrants mostly, who followed him for gold and personal influence above any shared commitment or ideology. This was a personal invitation to attend the Qadir Erebus for a private meeting to discuss the immediate future. For those who swore themselves to Corajidin and the Imperialist cause, without the need to bargain more concessions or boons, it would be the end of it. For those who proved unreliable, Corajidin would make good on his commitment to Kimiya and her clan.
“Nix?” Corajidin said. “Speak with Kimiya. I want a marsh-puppeteer made ready for every person who receives that letter. Make her understand that not all will be bound, but this will go a long way to honoring my commitment to her.”
“Your will, Asrahn,” the little man replied. He scanned the list, one eye twitching. “And what of the Soul Traders? Will you extend them the same offer?”
“Forget the Soul Traders. Any potential alliance with them is severed.”
“They’ll not be pleased, Asrahn.” Nix’s voice was colder than was polite. “I know them well. They can be intractable when defied, and have a subtle influence.”
“My decision is final. Go now.” Corajidin waved the man away. Nix bowed, and took the missive away. Mēdēa sat in the chair opposite Corajidin.
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