The Pillars of Sand

by Mark T. Barnes

  With a smile, Indris stepped through to Avānweh, where those he loved were waiting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “We do not choose family. We choose what we accept from them, hope they accept us, and do what we can for them when they need us most.”

  —from By Ship from the Shrine of the Vanities by Pah-Näsarat fa Nehrun (496th Year of the Awakened Empire)

  Day 79 of the 496th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Mari leaned against the wall of the sunroom in the Qadir Näsarat. The glass doors and fretwork shutters had been closed against the wind, panels backlit. Small pedestals of firestones made the room almost uncomfortably hot. They were perched so high over the bowl of Avānweh below that no sound rose from the streets. The room smelled of warm wool and furniture wax.

  All eyes were on the rahns, huddled in their over-robes beneath opulent silk blankets. They had wasted away since Mari had seen them last. She was reminded of her father, and the way he had seemed less of himself as the weeks of his illness passed. Yet to see the cumulative effects of the sickness displayed between one day and the next was horrific. Roshana and Siamak were frighteningly lean, honed down to the bare essentials of bone, muscle, and ashen skin stretched too taut. Nazarafine was the worst, her skin loose where opulent curves had been. Her jowls sagged, her eyes sunken in wrinkled orbits. She could barely stand without the assistance of her nephew and heir, Osman. Mari hoped the man was harder than he appeared.

  The other heirs stood at the shoulders of their rahns: Siamak’s daughter, Uma, who had her father’s height and imposing presence, with her mother’s delicate features; and Roshana’s brother, Tajaddin, who wore the garb of a scholar and the demeanor of an ascetic.

  “Our spies in Corajidin’s camp report Vahineh was unsuccessful in her brave attempt to kill him.” Ziaire swatted her palm with her steel-veined war fan. “Apologies, Mari, but I only give voice to what we all feel.”

  Mari waved Ziaire’s apology away. Her father had skated perilously close to the rim of the Well of Souls so often, Mari wondered whether he could be killed. It was entirely possible he was an instrument of destiny, kept alive until his role in the drama was complete.

  “What’s done is done,” Ajo said.

  “Has Indris spoken to you, Mari?” Rosha said.

  “Briefly. Femensetri and the other Sēq Masters took him away as soon as he arrived. We’d not the chance to say much.”

  “He wouldn’t have returned without a solution,” Rosha said hopefully.

  “But whether it is the solution we want is a different matter.” Nazarafine’s voice was weak. She peered around the room, her eyes unfocused. Nazarafine patted Osman on the hand. “I have lived a full life, and my family is with me. If this is the end, I am content.”

  “Aunt, stop it!” Osman’s eyes were large and damp. “We need you yet.”

  “Is it true that Anj-el-din had been helping Corajidin?” Ziaire diverted attention away from the sniffling Osman. “That she Fell, and became a servant of the Drear?”

  “That’s what Belam tells me.” Mari related what Belam had told her of the Emissary’s involvement with the Erebus. “We were there when Indris made an end of her.”

  “That must have been hard for him,” Ziaire mused. “To have searched for so long—”

  “It’s not something we spoke of.” Mari’s voice, and the look she gave Ziaire, were steely. “No doubt when he wants to speak of it, he’ll let us know.”

  “Indris did was what needful, no matter the personal cost, and there is honor in that.” Bensaharēn presented an elegant figure as he crossed his legs, and sipped at his tea. He looked more a banker or wealthy merchant than the greatest warrior-poet in Shrīan. Mari smiled, for when she had met Bensaharēn’s husband she had thought him a merchant with the mannerisms of a soldier.

  Indris entered, Femensetri in tow. He came to stand beside Mari, his smile warm, kiss lingering. His mouth tasted of mint. She nuzzled into the circle of his arm. Femensetri rolled her eyes, yet kept any words she had to herself. The Stormbringer fixed herself a cup of black tea and laced it with wine, before taking her place in the middle of the room.

  “The good news is we can save your lives,” Femensetri said without preamble. “We can Sever you from your Awakening, and Indris can re-Awaken you—”

  “If you decide that’s what you want,” Indris put in.

  “Yes, if you decide that’s what you want.” Femensetri’s tone was sour. “The process is not without its risks. None of you are in the best of health and Severance is difficult under ideal circumstances. We can’t re-Awaken you until you regain much of your fitness.”

  “Why could not the Sēq do this before?” Ajo said. “You have been Awakening rahns for centuries. What has changed?”

  “If I may?” Indris offered. Femensetri nodded for him to continue. “Awakening has always been a thing of rote and ritual. Most of the time, an Awakened rahn will select an heir and pass into that person on their death. Understand that when this happens, there are usually years, if not decades, of familiarity between the rahn and their heir. Almost always it’s a family member who becomes Awakened, so there are many similarities. The predecessor guides the heir through the change, and remains with them for life as a constant source of knowledge.

  “When a new rahn—such as Siamak—is Awakened, the Sēq follow an established process that has been repeated over and over. It’s the difference between a painter creating original art, versus a person who traces artwork to make a copy. The tracer doesn’t have the skill to create something new, but is adept at forging. When the rahns stopped taking the Water of Life, the original painting, the complex interconnections between body, mind, and soul in the rahns, was damaged. The Sēq do not know how to trace around what was damaged and make a painting similar, if a little different, from the original.”

  “And you can?” Rosha coughed.

  “I can, and will,” Indris said. The sense of relief in the room was palpable. Mari found herself smiling as the others smiled, laughed, or sobbed with relief. She felt the agitation in Indris. He waited for the noise to abate, before he continued in a gentle voice. “Understand that Awakening was never intended for those without mystic training. In the days of the Awakened Empire, every Mahj and rahn was a product of the Sēq, and spent much of their lives learning how to understand, harness, and channel power. You don’t have this training, and without a lifetime of study, you never will.”

  “What are you saying?” Umna asked.

  “I’m saying that an Awakened rahn, not trained as a mystic, will be reliant on the Water of Life for so long as they live. It must be taken regularly to prevent the kind of illness the rahns now suffer. And even then, their re-Awakening is not without risk.”

  “Which means we’ll be reliant on the Sēq forever,” Rosha finished. “Who’ve proven they’re willing to keep such things secret, and withhold certain truths for their own purposes.”

  “Yes.” Indris’s one word fell to the ground, where nobody touched it.

  “So we lose our power,” Siamak said, “or we keep it, our health held hostage by the Sēq?”

  “Yes,” Indris replied frankly.

  The silence that followed became aggressive. Femensetri stood unabashed amid the sullen anger. She offered no argument, explanation, or apology. Clad in her weathered cassock, she was the obdurate nature of the Sēq made flesh: something eternal, partially familiar, yet never truly understood.

  “Indris, you’ve given us much to think on, and I thank you for your candor.” Quiet as it was, Nazarafine’s voice startled Mari. “If you can make me feel well again, I will take that as about the greatest blessing you can give. I will heal, and decide whether or not I want to be re-Awakened when the time comes. To be both dog and master at the same time for the rest of my life is something I need to reflect on. But I can rule my prefecture almost as well without my Awakening, should I need to. Indeed, perhaps only living with my own memories would be goo
d for me, rather than having generations of experience in my head.”

  “Where nothing is ever new…,” Rosha added quietly. She looked to Siamak, who gave a brief nod.

  Mari kissed Indris on the cheek. He turned into her and they held each other close. “I know,” Mari said. “They need you.”

  “I need you.”

  “Later.” She patted him on the chest, flattened the folds of his brown over-robe so he looked, if not respectable, less like a vagabond. “Come to me when you’re done. There’s much to be discussed with Shrīan’s leaders, and other than our friends, nobody in the Teshri knows that you, or the Sēq, are in Avānweh.”

  Indris kissed her. Their embrace was not long enough. Mari let him go and he gestured for the rahns to follow him to the royal suites, where they could undergo their Severance in comfort. Her hearts swelled with pride at what he had done, what he continued to do, for the people he was sworn to protect.

  Do this thing, love. Save the rahns, so that I know there is even the faintest hope that we can recover from my father’s malcontent.

  Two hours passed without word from Indris. More of those allied to the Federationist cause had arrived over the past half hour, until the high sunroom of the Qadir Näsarat was filled to bursting. Tajaddin opened the folding doors, adding the space of the larger salon so people were not cramped. The senior voices of the Federationist faction had come, as had the leaders of those parties who believed a safer future lay in their shared direction. Dozens of people milled about in a riot of color, the cacophony of their voices making it so people needed to lean in close to be heard. It lent the gathering a misleading intimacy.

  Chairs and couches had been set in a semicircle that faced inward toward the heirs of the rahns, and the nominated heads of the political parties. Ziaire’s presence as head of the Peace Faction was no surprise, her drive for harmony sometimes financed by the wealth of secrets and scandal at her disposal. Ironically the Unity Circle had no leadership to speak of, and was represented by four people who argued more than they agreed. Mari was most surprised by the presence of a sumptuously garbed Teymoud. When questioned why the Trade Consortium was present, the gray-skinned merchant sayf had replied that he saw no future with an Asrahn who would kill markets, rather than win them.

  “My brother and Poet Master Indera are marching on Corajidin,” Umna said. “Though we know the Rōmarq better than any others, we’re still hopelessly outnumbered! The Asrahn has invaded our prefecture with soldiers, witches, and the alchemists and artificers have made weapons for him we can’t match.”

  “We’re a number of days away from any conflict, but must be careful what we do and say,” Danyūn, the Näsarat Master of Spies, replied. “Nix and his ban-kherife are active in the city. To be safe, I assume he’s a witch with him, and in regular communication with the main force in Fandra.”

  “Nix is a ruthless little psychopath,” Ziaire said. “He’ll have gone to ground, but will have his contacts among Chanq’s criminal organization. My houreh will find him.”

  “It’ll need to be soon,” Belam said. “Nix can cause a great deal of carnage for one mad little man. He did it at New Year’s with his daemon elementals, and he’ll do it again. We’ll need to time his capture carefully, so as not to alert my father.”

  “I can help,” Sanojé offered. “I know Nix, and can cast a seeker hex to locate and track him.”

  “You find it so easy to betray the man you once served with?” Umna jibed. “You change masters faster than many change their sheets.”

  Sanojé narrowed her eyes dangerously, though it was Belam’s deadly poise, the way he tapped Tragedy’s hilt, that alarmed Mari more. Umna smirked.

  “I’m only saying what we all think.” She shrugged. “But it seems you’ve managed to trick the others into—”

  Ajo rapped his walking stick on the floor. “Enough, Umna! Are you the Asrahn, to have abandoned sende? Pah-Belamandris and Pah-Sanojé are of the royal-caste, which in and of itself demands your respect. That you are a rahn-elect does not give you.

  “It was the Widowmaker and Sanojé who saved the prisoners from whatever fate Corajidin had planned,” Morne added. Beside him, Kyril voiced his agreement. “They led the rescue party to where the detainees were being kept for their own safety. The hostages were well cared for, and able to defend themselves if the need arose. I’ve come to respect these two, just as I respect Mariam.”

  “Don’t judge them by their father’s actions,” Ziaire said. The smile she bestowed on Belam was radiant enough to cause Sanojé’s hackles to rise. “Belamandris, Mari, and Sanojé stand to lose everything by siding with us. Give them the credit they’re due.”

  Umna looked sullen. “I will leave it be for now, if such is the collective will. But I’m not convinced of these newfound loyalties to our cause. So instead let’s address our inferiority in the field. It’s my brother who marches on the Asrahn. My lands that are threatened. The Teshri has done nothing to censure Corajidin over his gross misconduct, and now we are on the brink of war!”

  “We have an advantage Corajidin does not expect.” Kembe’s voice was a deep velvet rumble, the High Patriarch of the Tau-se prides massive in his armor of layered leather, felt, and bronze. “The Sēq have come to aid us, and will prove a valuable asset against Corajidin’s mystics. Morne Hawkwood and the Immortal Companions are our allies, and Indris has returned from the dead. I’m sure that last will unsettle Corajidin somewhat.”

  “But do we have the Sēq?” Neva asked. “Or is it only Indris?”

  Voices raised in debate. News had spread of the Sēq’s duplicity in the rahn’s current state. Faith in the exiled order was low on the ground. Though some might trust Indris and his reputation, there were those among the Teshri who remembered recent events, would rather have naught to do with mystics, and were quite happy to share their opinion.

  There were few points of solidity. The heirs were ignored for the most part, considered too young and inexperienced to add any value. Tajaddin was given some deference for his lineage, and his Zienni training. Ziaire and Ajo were the mountains about which the clouds gathered, with Teymoud rising in their shadow. Maps were unrolled. Distances, supply lines, and travel times were calculated. Military strengths and weaknesses were compared. The caliber of the Masters of Arms was debated, Maselane’s military genius over Feyd’s unorthodox tactics and Tahj-Shaheh’s style of raid and run that had served her well as a Marble Sea corsair. Rahn-Narseh was discussed and discounted: the Knight-Marshall had been absent so long with her illness it was assumed she was bedridden, or dead.

  Belam and Sanojé came to Mari’s side. Her brother shook his head. “They’re afraid, but don’t seem to know what to be afraid of most.”

  “So they’re afraid of everything,” Sanojé said.

  “They need somebody to lead them, Mari.” Belam glanced at Ajo and Ziaire. “Those two are extraordinary and that’s no lie, but neither are rahns. They can’t instill the same kind of cohesion that Roshana, Siamak, or Nazarafine would.”

  “What about Indris?” Sanojé asked.

  “He’d never do it,” Mari replied. “He’ll advise, suggest, and put himself in harm’s way, but he won’t put himself in power.”

  “I wonder whether it matters?” Belam sounded melancholy. “The Erebus has the largest army in Shrīan. Half of it is at Fandra; the other half is within and around Avānweh. Father has called on those who fly his colors, plus the witches, plus whatever alliances Kasra has made with those monsters that dwell in the Rōmarq. We’re outnumbered pretty much every which way.”

  “Come with me,” Mari said. She asked directions of the first Näsarat soldier she saw, who curtly directed them to the royal suites. It was a short walk down the corridor, through doors guarded by hostile—though silent—soldiers, to an ornate round solar with a stained-glass dome overhead. There were more than a dozen doors enameled in blue and trimmed in gold, each marked with the Näsarat phoenix. Only one of them had Tau-se gu
arding the door, with Knight-Colonel Mauntro giving orders to his warriors. The lion-man saw Mari and smiled.

  “How may I be of assistance, Pah-Mariam?” His deep voice was almost a purr.

  “We’re looking for Indris. Is he here?”

  Mauntro barely hesitated before asking Mari and the others to follow. He led them through the guarded door, into a suite of rooms. In a large bedroom where Rosha slept peacefully, Indris curled bonelessly in a chair, his chin resting on his arm, breathing deep and even. Shar and Ekko stood by him with Femensetri, her tender expression hardening when Mari entered the room.

  “What do you want, girl?” the Stormbringer whispered sharply.

  “We need you in there,” Mari said, jerking her thumb toward the solarium. “It’s like cats trying to herd themselves. Ajo and Ziaire are doing what they can, but—”

  “They’re circling the drain,” Belam finished.

  Mari crossed to Indris’s side. He was pale, his eyes shadowed. There was a faint frown line on his brow, the one he sometimes wore when he slept and was thinking of things he feared to show the light of day. They had spoken of it, once or twice. One long-fingered hand was curled around Changeling’s hilt, bringing him comfort. Mari looked up at Femensetri in a silent question.

  “He’s done what was needed,” Femensetri said. “The strength and control needed to Sever three dying rahns, to heal them and set them on a course of recovery … I’ve never seen it done. He finished with Siamak, came in here to check Rosha, and fell asleep.”