by Val Gunn
For a moment all was still.
The sha’ir sat propped against the curving wall. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at Marin.
Then she spoke.
The voice was not her own; it was the efreet.
“The books… give them to me.”
There was irresistible command in that voice. Marin felt her feet move; they brought her to the throne where the hag had left the books. She picked them up. The ancient magic she felt when she touched their covers seemed more alive than ever. She was amazed, but the amazement belonged to someone else. The efreet’s mystical essence was transforming her into a puppet. Would she ever be herself again?
Marin thought about killing Ciris Sarn, and the hatred was satisfyingly familiar. Yes, she was still her own creature.
While she was lost in reflection, she had walked to the sha’ir and placed the books in those bony claws.
She pulled back. The dry old skin was burning hot.
The sha’ir lifted the first manuscript and paged through it, running swift fingers over the black calligraphy. Marin expected the palm boards to singe and curl, but nothing happened. The witch sat hunched on the floor of the cave, skimming her way through one book, then setting it down and picking up another. She flipped through the pages and reached for the third.
With the efreet’s attention turned away from her, Marincame back to herself. It was quiet in the cavern. The stench was hideous, and her body ached as if she’d been standing for hours, tensed for flight.
The sha’ir set down the third book and picked up the fourth. She went through this one more slowly, whether paying closer attention or fighting off sleep, Marin could not tell. At long last, the hag finished the final book, made a neat stack of all four, and held out the Waed an-Citab, her dark, empty eyes staring through Marin.
She took them, careful not to touch the hands again.
Then the efreet spoke.
15
IT WAS GONE.
Impossible words were still ringing in her mind.
Marin had braced herself for the efreet’s huge fiery shape to burst out of the sha’ir once it had told her what the Books of Promise held. But there was no fire to be seen, other than the guttering candles that lined the cavern’s walls. A wisp of the efreet’s essence undulated from the hag’s body with a flash of light in colors Marin had never seen before. It faded as if retreating into the distance, crossing back into the unseen realm of the Jnoun. The sha’ir jerked once and slumped forward like a dead thing.
Marin stood watching, as she had for hours—disgusted, exhausted, and realizing that she could now flee. The books were still in her hands. She hid them once again in the folds of her cloak and turned to leave.
“Well?”
The witch struggled to her feet, looking careworn and irritable. “Now you’ve learned the secrets,” she said, her raspy voice sullen. “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” Marin said.
“When Ciris Sarn is dead, I will know.” The sha’ir wagged afinger at her. “Whether he is slain in Qatana or Miranes’ or anywhere else, I will see. And I will command his soul.” Her smile was all pointed teeth and puffy gums. “Then you will deliver the Waed an-Citab back to me. And I will keep them.”
“Yes,” Marin said. “That is our bargain.”
“Wait,” the sha’ir told her, turning abruptly. “A trace of the efreet’s flame lingers within me.” She reached into a wooden box on a nearby ledge and produced what looked like a glass eye. “This will tell us if it said all there was to say.” Holding the round object in her right hand, she slammed it with surprising strength into the palm of her left, pressing and grinding until the smooth glass was embedded in her flesh. Revolted, Marin looked on.
The orb pulsed with the same impossible colors the efreet had flashed when it vanished moments before.
The sha’ir raised her eyes and fixed Marin with an menacing stare. “There is a fifth book,” she rasped. “I shall have this one too.”
“A fifth book?” Marin shook her head. “I know of only four.”
“There is a fifth,” the sha’ir repeated. “The efreet knows to be true. Bring it when you return.”
Marin stood a little straighter. “May I remind you of your own words?” she said coldly. “Four books, or nothing. Was it not our bargain?”
The witch clenched her bony claws, nails clicking on the glass orb embedded in her palm. “Do as I say, pretty bitch,” she spat.
“I am not bound to this!”
The sha’ir thrust her face toward Marin, her features contorted into a mad grimace. Her breath stank of carrion. “You will bring me the fifth book!”
“Never!” Marin shouted and ran for the mouth of the cavern.
The sha’ir’s feet slapped on the stone, closing in fast.
Too fast.
16
MARIN BURST out of the cave into the glare of sunlight.
Both suns were already well above the eastern horizon, and their reflection off the white limestone ridge was blinding after a flight underground.
She sat gasping on the nearest boulder, clutching at the stitch in her side. If the sha’ir emerged from that black opening in the rocks, Marin would be defenseless.
But the hag did not appear. Indeed, Marin had run so fast and hard through the fetid darkness, lantern thrust in front of her to keep from crashing into the tunnel walls, that she had no idea when the witch had stopped chasing her. Maybe the sha’ir had thought to slow her down with the onslaught of malevolent whispers and nightmare images that haunted the caverns, but the assault on her mind had only made Marin run faster.
She looked around as the painful heaving of her breath slowed. This white finger of rock, jutting into the sea from a desolate coastline, was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, especially under a blue morning sky with gulls screaming and wheeling above the surf. It was good to be alive, to see where she was, to breathe clean air again.
Marin patted the deep fold within her cloak where she had hidden the books. Yes, they were still there. She laughed in relief at not having to go back into those caves and look for them.
Her lantern was still burning brightly in the daylight. She extinguished it and set it on the ground. Her saif was still at her side, too, and she gripped the comforting shape of its handle.
Taking inventory of her possessions, enjoying the sunny morning, calming her pounding heart and heaving chest—the simple pleasures of here and now were so much better than the images that would haunt her mind if she let them. The efreet, itsfrighteningly beautiful voice coming from the hag’s vile mouth, had told her things that mortal minds were not meant to comprehend. To recall it now would be too close to the terror she was trying to escape.
Escape. Yes, she must get away from here.
Marin rose to her feet, picked up her lantern, and set off down the slope. It was still early in the day, but she intended to reach Darós and her ship as soon as possible—to be well out to sea before night fell again on this cursed island.
It was best to think only a few minutes or hours ahead. Facing the horrible truth could wait until she was with someone she trusted.
When the path between the boulders met the coast road, Marin turned her face to the south and began to run again. One hand rested on her sword and the other clutched the lantern like a weapon. She felt ready for whatever dangers this land might hold.
Until an armed figure stepped in front of her as she rounded a sharp bend.
Her sword was drawn and swinging through the air before she recognized her foe.
It was Torre Lavvann.
17
“YOU LIVE.”
Marin smiled as she saw the look of relief that washed over Lavvann’s face.
“Indeed, Torre, I do.” It was the only response she could manage. She sheathed her sword.
“Is something chasing you?” The Four Banners captain stepped to one side, peering around the bend behind Marin.
“Not yet.�
� Marin’s smile faded. “But I wish to be far from the shores of Aeíx by nightfall.”
“An excellent plan!” said Lavvann, grinning. “Come.”
He spun on his heel and strode off at a brisk walk. Marin fell in beside him, comforted by the familiar clink of chain mail.
“Did Cencova send you?” she asked.
“He did. He knows my long history of saving your life.”
Marin snorted. “Why not just put us on the same ship? Fewer sailors to pay.”
“He knew I would be finishing some business just across the channel, and sent one of your sailors to collect me.”
“Why were you on Inníl?”
Lavvann shrugged his broad shoulders. “Greedy brigands, timid royals—the usual tales.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “And why are you on Aeíx, which we all know is your least favorite place?”
“I like it less than I did before,” Marin sighed. “And I’ll like it still less when I return yet again.”
Lavvann’s lips curved in his familiar ironic smile. “I suspect you have a story to tell me, Marin Altaïr.”
“Suspicious, are you?” she shot back. “Well, maybe I do.”
And if so, where would she begin? She trusted her former captain with her life, a trust he had confirmed on many occasions, yet there were parts of her story about which she was still unsure. But even as she deliberated, Marin found herself beginning the tale, her tongue loosened by the ocean air and the comforting presence of her old mentor. It was such a relief after her encounter underground with the sha’ir and the efreet.
She told him of meeting Nabeel Khoury at the shrine of Sey’r an-Shal, of her resolve to kill Ciris Sarn by her own hand, of the Haradin’s attack in the hills above Cievv and—finally, because her story made little sense without it—of the Waed an-Citab, the Books of Promise.
The efreet had told her exactly what they were: contracts between a long-ago Sultan of Qatana and the four tribes of Jnoun. That would explain why one book felt like fire, one like water,one like sand and one like air. The contracts were an agreement to slowly destroy the curtain between worlds, although the efreet had been vague as to the method of destruction. Over the centuries, the Sultanate had worked steadily, using its supreme authority to fulfill the terms of the contract.
And if Marin was to believe the words of a Jnoun whose hatred for mortals was legendary, the contract was nearly fulfilled.
She and Lavvann reached Darós without incident and boarded the ship in silence. Marin had hoped that sharing what she knew with an old friend would make the knowledge easier to bear. It had not.
A world where Jnoun roamed free was not a place in which mortals could live.
18
SOMETHING WAS pounding on the ceiling.
Cencova ignored it even though Marin started from her chair at the sudden noise.
“Large men are throwing flour sacks and kneading dough,” he told her.
“What?”
“Bakery. Upstairs,” said the spymaster, pointing casually upward. “People wonder how I can work here, but in all honesty, I don’t even notice the noise any more.”
They sat in another sparse flat, to which Cencova’s guards had conducted her after the ship docked in Cievv. The half-basement room lay near the heart of the city, its sunken windows just above ground level in an old garden in which the bakers left their broken wheelbarrows, empty crates and other rubbish. Alley cats patrolled the area, suggesting an active mouse population.
“So, Ilss, have you nothing to say?” demanded Marin. They had been silent for some minutes before the distraction from above.
“I have much to speak of,” Cencova told her. “But if you refer to the report you just gave me about your meeting with the Sha’ir of Aeíx, I must think awhile before I say anything.”
Marin growled, rose to her feet, and began to pace the room.
“I will, however, say something else. Something I believe you want to hear.”
She stopped and turned to look at him.
“There is a lead. You will have your chance soon.”
Marin stopped breathing. “Go on,” she said.
“A man was captured in Riyyal.” Cencova’s brown eyes caught the light of a sunbeam slanting down into the room, and appeared to burn from within. “He is not from the kingdom; rather, he is from Tanith. Yet he has dealings with the royal family. This we have good reason to believe. The Jassaj have never informed us of his actions before.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We are only now learning his true motive for being there. One thing is certain, however. He was to meet with Ciris Sarn.”
Marin’s heart leaped as she imagined coming upon Sarn from behind and striking off his head with her sword. But she kept this emotion out of her face. Instead, she spoke deliberately. “So you do bring good news, then.” She pursed her lips. “Go on.”
Cencova paused and looked into Marin’s eyes. When she remained silent, he continued.
“There is a way to get you close to him.”
Marin stared calmly at him as if he’d never spoken. She turned and walked to the window, watching as one of the cats inspected a stack of rusty baking trays that leaned against the wall. He could see the tension in her shoulders.
“Tell me,” she said.
“I shall very soon. A week, two at the most. There are others who must be gathered to aid you in this mission. You cannot do it alone. And Marin—I know you would try.”
She did not answer. She watched the cat lunge behind the trays and then back out, a mouse squirming furiously in its jaws.
The cat turned to look Marin in the eye, and trotted away with its prize, tail held high. A strange feeling overcame her, a wave of emotion so strong that she felt faint. Then she recognized the feeling: hatred. Hatred raged within her heart. Perhaps it was consuming her spirit as well.
“Again I wait,” she said in a low voice. “This is too much to ask.”
“And yet you must,” Cencova said. “I am with you in this matter, and I want you to trust me. There are two sides to this. Can I trust you, Marin?” He waited for her to speak, and then sighed. “Patience. You will see this out to the end; however, you must obey my words when you do so.”
She met his eyes but said nothing.
“Marin, do you understand?”
She remained silent.
19
THE MAN waited.
It was dark and there were no windows in this private sanctuary hidden deep within a network of cloistered buildings. Only a few torches burned in sconces. It was common for family members to spend time in solitary reflection, sitting motionless in a dim chamber. But only someone intimately familiar with the deceased would realize that this particular man was not here to mourn. He was here to find Ciris Sarn.
The sanctuary’s door opened and a tall figure joined him. Had this second man been a mourner, there would have been a quiet greeting between the two. Instead, the first man spoke abruptly.
“Where is the spy?”
The newcomer peered through the gloom. “I do not know.” His voice was heavily accented. “He said he would come.”
“I am here.”
Both men started as a shadow separated itself from an unlit
stretch of wall.
“I sat here all this time with you in the room and did not know it,” said the first man angrily. “What child’s game is this?”
“You majals!” The voice mocked them from the darkness. “How much else escapes your notice?” A short silhouette walked toward them, moving with muscular grace. “My orders were to find both of you. Now you are each here. Let us begin.”
“You are a Jassaj spy,” snapped the second majal. “Let us remember who works for whom.”
“And let us not bicker like old women.” The first majal waved his hand impatiently as he spoke, voice betraying a slight accent. “Torre Lavvann is preparing to leave for Riyyal.”
“Hmm.” The spy sat on a bench that faced theirs. “What of Pavanan Munif?”
The second majal made an irritated noise. “There are many irons in the fire; you are but one of them. We need you here.”
The spy said nothing, but bowed his head slightly to acknowledge he understood. The second majal continued.
“We have an unforeseen problem. A man who was once valued is now a threat to our goals: Rimmar Fehls. He cannot be allowed to live. He is far too willing to compromise. There is no telling how much information he gave to the siri holding him.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at the spy. “The group you join must not know anything about Fehls’ mission. Either you or Sarn must kill him before he decides to talk.”
“It will be done,” the spy agreed. “But where is Ciris Sarn?”
The first majal spoke. “Sarn is on his way to Riyyal. You will hear from us when you get there. Arrange for the siris to be kept out of the way while you greet Sarn.”
“But what if he has already spoken?”
The first majal made a dismissive gesture. “Do not concern yourself with things you cannot control.”
“But I am concerned,” the spy said defiantly. “What about Fajeer Dassai? Weeks have passed with no word from him.”
Awkward silence fell as the majals considered this. Fehls might have been willing to betray the Rassan Majalis without a qualm, but his loyalties were obviously to Dassai.
“Again, you need to dismiss these worries,” the first majal finally answered in a brisk tone. “Fajeer’s duties often take him down uncharted paths. He knows his own affairs well.”
“I think your plans go too far,” the spy growled. “At some point a loose string will be found—and then the ball will unravel. We’re all marked for death if that happens.”
Suddenly the second majal leaned across the distance between the two benches and brought his face close to the spy’s. The smaller man stared back at his employer, unsure how to react.