by Val Gunn
Heart racing with a mixture of fear and relief, he found a path and made his way to the outskirts of Aley. A stable was situated conveniently on the road that led out of town. Slipping into the empty shedrow, he inspected the curious heads peaking out over the half-stall doors until he found what he was looking for—the intelligent face of a blood-bay gelding. Quickly he opened the door, seizing the horse’s halter and vaulting onto the bare back.
Within seconds he was out the door and moving away from the stable, pausing just long enough to throw the sleepy-eyed stable-boy a sopping wet but heavy bag of coins. He had to find Nasir before it was too late.
Part Six
REVELATIONS
28.2.793 SC
1
THERE WAS still time to kill her.
The summit of the hill was a tapestry of color, carpeted with wildflowers and fragrant herbs. Two dark figures looked down at the twisting path that emerged from a dense expanse of maritime pine and chestnut trees and stood unmoving as a red cloaked traveler passed below. This strange climate might have its charms in afternoon sunlight, but after a day of careful travel through the blowing drizzle, these desert dwellers had no affection for the place. They were silent and withdrawn, their faces grim. Each wore a long, hooded bishlah that billowed in the stormy air. Beneath the cloaks were layers of ink-black linen.
They had tracked the woman for most of the day, shadowing her path, keeping her in sight as she set a course through the hills above Cievv, keeping their distance to avoid giving themselves away.
They had studied the maps upon their arrival in Ruinart. They knew the paths she would likely take. Only when the time was right would they seize what she possessed: the Books of Promise.
Both figures remained on the hill after she’d passed from sight, winding steadily upward, following the path toward them. Afternoon was slipping into evening, and the clouds were breaking at last. The western sky glowed orange as the second sun dipped behind the purple masses of the Soller Mountains. In the twilight, the sky had become a stunning canvas, a mosaic of pastel colors and subdued contrasts. The desert dwellers were unmoved by the beauty, keeping their eyes on the bend in the path just below them. Night would fall soon. Even if the clouds blew away, a waning moon and a scattering of stars would be all the light they would need.
They found comfort in the darkness. Darkness made it easierto strike. If this wasn’t the spot, they’d find another. Perhaps they would close in on her from two sides. The best strategies were fluid, not set in stone.
The veil between worlds was as thin as gossamer. The two figures saw no change in the land around them, but their hearts knew. Soon—very soon—the barrier between Jnoun and men would be gone. Then there would be a reckoning—retribution against all who did not believe.
They would burn.
All of them.
2
MARIN BIT her lip.
The scene had played out continuously on the voyage from Messinor until the ship docked in Cievv. Sometimes it took the form of a charade; other times, it seemed that nothing less than complete honesty would succeed. Again she wrestled with the words in her head. How would she say what needed to be said? Which words were right, and which would doom her efforts? Even the serene views from above the unwalled city failed to comfort her, and she delayed her meeting with Ilss Cencova yet another day.
From the crest of the hill Marin slowly descended a series of loops and switchbacks, coming at last to a little bridge over a swift-running stream. Still below her, she caught glimpses of where the path entered a belt of green trees and eventually rejoined the web of footpaths leading back to the city.
Would she return there tonight? She still didn’t know what she would say to Cencova. Perhaps she needed another day after all.
The incline was steep, its gravel slick but posing no real danger for an experienced hunter. The day’s rain hadn’t been heavy enough for water to pool between the stones. She was more thanhalfway down when the path skirted a wide scarp and bent away from the hill, nearly doubling back on itself. As she moved, she felt the subtle approach of an ominous presence—a hint of malevolence. Instinct drove her toward cover, but there was nothing here above waist height. She was exposed.
Quick, light footsteps approached from above and below. Someone without her training might not have noticed them yet. Marin dropped into a crouch, drawing her sword. She backed silently into a low wall of heather and gorse, peering between the stems to see a figure emerging from the shadows below. It was tall and menacing, its face hidden in a hooded cowl. Another figure appeared from above, hugging the scarp as it edged out into the open. This one wore the same dark bishlah.
There was only one reason for them to be here. They were hunting her, just as Khoury had warned.
“She is near, I know it.” A man’s voice, speaking in Rumes’. “Have a care.”
“We should have killed her and taken them days ago,” said another man’s voice. “We could do it now.”
The quiet words hung like shards of ice in the evening air. Marin crouched motionless, thorns poking into her back. She gripped her sword tighter, the other hand resting on a pile of loose stone. The two men stopped before her, scanning the hillside.
“And yet we cannot.”
“Why? Why must we wait for an order?”
“Because our duty tells us so.”
Marin knew by their dialect they were from the south.
Qatana.
“All things in time, my friend. Matters such as this require flexibility.” This one had to be from Riyyal, Marin realized. His presence was commanding. “Both plans and risk will be rewarded in the end. Set aside your fears and doubts.”
“Have they called on Ciris Sarn to come? He cannot be trusted, but their minds are clouded.”
“Do not speak his name,” said the man from Riyyal.
The other snorted. “Haradin fear no one. Why should we curb our tongues?”
“He is not in Ruinart. This I know.”
“Then we must not wait any longer. Kill her now.”
Marin could almost see the tension in the air.
“Soon,” said the one in charge.
“It is not enough to say ‘soon.’ I must know when.”
There was a pause. Marin held her breath and turned her head slightly for a better view. One of the black-clad Haradin shook back his sleeves. His olive-dark fingertips traced silvery threads in the air—luminous and ghostly, a spider’s web of dark alchemy. The strands wrapped together in small circles, and each circle became a mirror. As the mirrors took shape, the man gathered them in his hands. It was too difficult for Marin to see any more, for the Haradin stood with their backs to her. She remained still lest they catch a reflection of her movement.
Then the one from Riyyal spoke. “Do you still doubt?” His voice was full of venom.
Marin’s fear grew. Her mind raced and her heart pounded. She stared at the arcane mirrors as they faded away into the twilit air, trying to decipher whatever alchemical mystery her pursuers had discovered.
“One thing I do not doubt,” said the other Haradin with cold amusement in his voice. “We are not alone here.”
He turned, pointing a finger directly at her.
3
THE ONLY way out was forward.
Marin’s sword was already drawn and the Haradin were still reaching for theirs as they rushed toward her. She leaped to her feet, pulling free of the gorse, her other hand clutching the stoneon which it had rested. She met her assassins with a vicious swing of her blade. She ducked slightly as she followed through, feeling the air part over her as one of the Haradin narrowly missed her with his own curved sword. Marin stayed low, tucking her blade beneath her, and drove forward into the first Haradin. She knocked him over, slamming his knee with the rock as she rolled forward and sprang to her feet—just as the second assassin came at her, swinging his scimitar.
She parried his thrust, grunting at the impact as the blades clashed and s
hot sparks. Metal locked on metal, the fighters pushing against each other with desperate strength. Marin risked a backward glance. The one she’d knocked to the ground had staggered to his feet, a bit unsteady on his injured knee, raising his scimitar above his head. Turning back to the Haradin she’d already engaged, she yielded with her blade and then pushed, knocking him off balance for just a moment.
It was enough. Marin moved quickly, her sword ringing against his as she spun and slipped behind him. She put her foot in the small of his back, shoving forward so that the man tumbled into his partner. She hurled the rock at the back of his head. Then she broke free and rushed downhill along the switchback.
Looking to her right as she rounded the next turn, she saw two menacing shadows racing down toward her. One was limping and the other weaving as if stunned, but they outnumbered her and their legs were longer than hers. She plunged recklessly off the winding path, somehow keeping her feet while crashing down a steep slope, blurring past exposed rock and wild growth. Marin winced as branches and thorns caught clothing and struck exposed flesh. Her face, arms. and legs stung with scratches.
The sky was still light above the ravine, but the darkness at the bottom blinded her. She gulped for breath and tried to listen over the pounding of her heart. There was no disturbance on the hillside above, and the sound of water at her feet was peaceful. The stream rushed through the darkness, flowing fast and probably clean. She bent down and splashed cold water on her cuts and scratches, and paused to listen again.
Still no sounds of pursuit.
Marin’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. She followed the streamlet as it trickled beneath towering pine trees with branches bending low over the banks. She ducked under them, pine needles and nut hulls crunching beneath her boots. The tunnel of branches felt like a hiding place. Or a trap.
She moved on. The incline was much less severe than it had been on the hillside, but she did not slow her pace. Beads of sweat streaked her brow, running down to sting her eyes.
After a time the stream poured over a mossy waterfall and ran alongside a more visible footpath. The ravine broadened into a valley, and the twilight brightened.
Marin had to rest. She was breathing in ragged gasps. Her heart raced with fear and exertion.
Then she felt them, and a moment later heard them.
Who else could it be but the Haradin? And they were approaching quickly.
She’d stayed too long. Cursing silently, she set out once again.
Panic carried Marin faster and farther than she thought exhaustion would let her go. Her feet pounded the forest path, but she could not feel them. Breath tore in and out of her throat. Still the Haradin chased her, maybe closing in, maybe just running her to death. She stumbled over something in the path, lurching, barely keeping her feet. Yet she dared not look back.
She needed sanctuary—some place that would offer her both rest and protection from the assassins.
Then she knew.
“I will see him now,” Marin told herself. “It makes no difference whether I have the right words.”
She knew the house of Ilss Cencova was near. Reaching it was her only hope. There would be a high wall, a sturdy gate, and sentries standing guard. Inside would be a place to rest, water orwine to drink, and a man who would listen carefully to whatever she said.
If the Haradin let her reach him. She felt them on her heels now, although she would not risk a glance behind her.
Was this it?
Marin saw a trickle of light spilling out between the trees to her left. She leaped off the path by the stream and struggled up a gravel incline with what felt like the last of her strength.
Sanctuary.
A single man stood before an arched qoos of stone, dressed in armor and holding a long spear. The sight of an ally unlocked her voice. Her scream was more like a whimper.
“Kill them—”
She dove behind the stunned guard and fell to the flagstones.
“Them! Out there!” she gasped furiously, pointing toward the stream. Why was he staring at her instead?
Marin raised her head and looked past him. No one had followed her.
They were gone.
4
“MARIN? It is you.”
The words came from behind her as she stood in the courtyard. She knew without turning that it was Ilss Cencova. She recognized the assurance in his voice and the solidity of his tread on the flagstones.
“I am sorry.” Marin turned wearily. “You must think me mad.”
“Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance.”
Marin looked at him as he stood silhouetted against the doorway. Cencova was of average height, but with broad shoulders and thick hands that bespoke power. Though he still movedwith youthful fitness, she saw the years etched on his face as he stepped into the lamplight of the courtyard. Time, worry, and decisive action had lined his brow and cheeks like a beach worn down by the tide. Thick hair spilled from the top of his head and down his neck; he flicked it out of his eyes with the casual gesture Marin remembered so well. His chin was hidden under a thicket of unkempt hair. When she had first met him, the flowing mane and beard had been mostly black. Now, only a few dark hairs wove through the gray.
“I was told you were in Cievv, but waited for you to come to me in your own time,” Cencova said. “I heard your rather interesting dispute with the guard and came myself to see the assault on the house.”
Marin smiled. “He thought me mad, too. I cannot blame him for that.” She blew out a sharp breath. “I bring news.”
“It would definitely seem so,” Cencova said. “Come.”
He motioned for her to follow him into the house. The great hall echoed with their footsteps. The high-windowed room had seen its share of banquets and councils but now seemed more of an armory and warehouse. He led her down a side passage filled with the clatter and smells of a nearby kitchen.
“You will be staying for supper, of course,” Cencova said over his shoulder and moved on without waiting for an answer.
Turning a few more corners and descending a short flight of stairs brought them deeper into the house. He threw open a door and waved her in. Marin relaxed a little as they entered a cool, quiet chamber with a gilded fountain bubbling gently in the center. White marble benches circled the cascade of water. Cencova offered her a seat, ladled water into a pewter cup, and handed it to her. He watched her drink gratefully.
“You must tell me why you’ve come,” he said, breaking into her silence. “It has been over a year now since I saw you last.”
Marin sighed. “I come seeking answers… about Hiril and why he was killed.”
Cencova leaned forward, his high forehead wrinkling in thought. “We know Ciris Sarn was his killer,” he said carefully.
Marin paused, her mind racing. Ciris Sarn. She had never seen the man, yet vividly imagined running her sword through his chest. But there was a conspiracy far deeper than the deeds of one ill-famed assassin. Did she trust Cencova enough to tell him about the books?
She took a deep breath. “What if you were to learn,” she began slowly, “that everything you had been taught—everything you have trusted and believed in since the day you were born—is a lie?”
“What do you mean?”
Marin studied Cencova and finally reached the decision she’d struggled with for days. She had no choice but to tell him all that she knew. It was clear this evening’s attack was an effort to steal the manuscripts she kept in the hidden pocket of her cloak.
She looked into the spymaster’s eyes and saw in him nothing but a deep commitment to her. He’d been devastated when Hiril was murdered. He’d confided in her at the funeral. She’d wept in his arms.
She must trust him.
“Before I tell you what I have learned, think about this for a moment.” Marin’s words flowed smoothly now that she had decided to speak the whole truth. “What if people that stood to profit from your ignorance conspired to keep you ignorant? Not
just in this or that, but in every aspect of your existence.”
Cencova frowned. “I’m listening. But I don’t—”
“Think on this, then. What if someone showed you the ways in which you had been deceived? And showed you also that your father and his father and many who came before had been taken in by the same lie? How valuable would the truth be to you? Would it change your life? Would that lie reshape your world, or would you choose to disregard it and carry on with what that you already know?”
Caught up in the excitement of sharing her secret, Marin no longer felt exhausted from her escape, and her cuts and scratches no longer stung. She watched Cencova, waiting for a response.
After a moment, he shrugged. “These are very deep questions. I suppose I would have to know more.”
Marin nodded and went on. “What if, after realizing the truth of those deceptions, you chose to respond to that truth?” Her voice rose with confidence. “What if you began studying history and wars and politics, and you discovered that, like a string of pearls, key moments in time were not random—that they’d been crafted with skill and care? Suppose you came to understand that certain people had intentionally created history as we know it—told us all an impossible tale in order to keep us completely ignorant of the truth?”
Cencova’s expression remained neutral. “What are you implying, Marin?”
“Only this.” She flicked a fingernail against the cup in her hand, and it rang like a bell. “Everything you know about the history of Mir’aj has been rewritten to suit the purpose of those in power.”
“What do you mean, those in power?” Cencova gave an irritated frown and didn’t wait for her answer. “Listen, a deception on such a scale—a conspiracy of the size you’re describing would be… well, impossible. Too many people would know… would have to know the truth.”
She said nothing, waiting for him to finish sorting through her words.
“Look,” he continued, “I’m not sure I follow you. Just what are you getting at? Even if what you’re saying is possible, what kind of consequences… what could possibly be at stake?”