The Garden of Stones

by Mark T. Barnes

  Screams came from the courtyard below. The repeated thuds of bladed weapons cleaving necks. The desperate gasps of strangulation. Wails as shackles were placed around wrists and ankles, freedom swapped for servitude. Indris leaned against the wall, looking to the purple-and-yellow-tinted clouds, wondering whether they were the last he would ever see. Soon his captors would come to him again and ask him the predictable questions he would refuse to answer. They would tire of his silence. Seek to motivate him to talk in evermore inventive ways. Sheltered in the bastion of his mind, he had known about the pain. Acknowledged it at an intellectual level. Packaged it. Locked it away to be expressed in the moments when he could release his self-control, if only for a short while. In the presence of the torturers who wanted him to betray Far-ad-din, Indris had shown nothing but a face of stone.

  Tired beyond anything in his recollection, Indris focused his mind once more. As the Zienni Scholars said, “There is no failure in falling, only in not trying to regain one’s feet and take another step.” Disentropy, the energy of creation generated by all living things, eddied and swirled about him. He could feel it, a thickening in the air that brushed across his skin. In the quiet places of his mind, he could sense the comforting warmth of his Disentropic Stain, the corona around his soul that flowed through and about him.

  The basic formulae of minor cantos flickered in his mind. Causes and effects were calculated, assessed, discarded to make way for more feasible hypotheses. The various arcane cantos were built upon causality, the knowledge of one thing leading to a predictable other. Though his mind was dulled by the effects of the shackles, solutions finally, slowly, presented themselves.

  Satisfied he had found the answer he sought, Indris flexed his will and—

  The spike of agony pierced him from the top of his skull to the base of his spine. Bile rose, to pour in an acid burn from his mouth, which had opened in an involuntary gasp of pain. His wrists and neck burned where the salt-forged steel touched them. Indris fell back against the wall, chest heaving. The formulae simplified into a useless abstraction, then faded away.

  Despite the pain, he calmed his mind and entered the trance state the Sēq Scholars called the Possibility Tree. Questions rose in his mind, a series of hows and whys that led to other hows and whys until possibility had been narrowed to a probability of either success or failure. He played scenario after scenario in his mind. Escapes. Rescues. Negotiations. Pardons. Indris smiled bitterly. As a former knight of the Sēq Order of Scholars, he had been taught the only certainty was a solitary death. Knowing it was different than facing it.

  In agony and too tired to think, Indris closed his eyes for a moment, and memories of a war he would rather forget played across the dark canvas of his lids.

  Indris’s head snapped up at the rattle of a key in the lock. The parquetry door opened with barely a hint of noise. He eyed his visitors with apprehension. The first man through the door was enormous, muscular, and hard, the skin of his bare arms and neck littered with tattoos. His tunic was stretched across his broad chest, and legs like gnarled tree trunks emerged from his kilt. He was followed by a smaller, older man in a soiled linen coat, his left hand replaced by a bitter hook of dark metal. Thufan, Corajidin’s Kherife-General and Master of Assassins, with his giant son, Armal. They were Corajidin’s law keepers. Those who entered next were easy to identify. Belamandris’s hauberk of ruby crystal scales and his ruby-sheathed amenesqa—the long, gently recurved sword named Tragedy—marked the man. The other two men in red-and-black silk would be Corajidin himself and his heir, Kasraman. Behind them was a squad of five Iphyri, so tall their horse heads almost scraped the high ceiling. Their hooves clopped against the old stone flagging as they settled. Their armor creaked, metal harnesses chiming. They held hook-bladed axes in their enormous hands.

  Indris frowned at what he saw in Corajidin. The man was clearly very ill, his skin waxen beneath a sheen of sweat. His red-blond curls were streaked gray, lank against his scalp. His face was drawn, hollow. The stooped rahn of Erebus wrung his hands as if they were in constant pain.

  Indris held his banded wrists up with a smile. “I take it the confusion has been sorted and you’re here to release me?”

  “Where’s Far-ad-din?” Thufan cuffed Indris on the side of the head. The blow rattled Indris’s skull. Thufan’s breath was sour with rot and rum. Indris winced at the reek.

  He glared at the rank old villain. “I surrendered to Rahn-Ariskander as Arbiter of the Change. I’m his captive. A Näsarat wouldn’t give an Erebus the time of day, let alone a prisoner who was also a family member.”

  Thufan coughed, a wet rattle from chest to throat. He spat at Indris’s feet. “You’ve been hung out to dry. Your uncle has given you up. Now, where’s Far-ad-din?”

  “Far-ad-din? Have you checked the Rōmarq?” Indris said helpfully. “He was escaping in that general direction when I saw him last. Now take me to Ariskander.”

  Thufan rested his hook against Indris’s throat. “You’re going to die anyway. Can be easy or hard. Your choice.”

  Indris felt the heat build behind his left eye, the unwilling pooling of disentropy. A wave of nausea rose in him. He blinked slowly to calm himself. When he opened his eyes, he caught Thufan’s gaze and held it. “How about not at all?”

  “You know, I counseled the Teshri to issue your writ of execution years ago,” Corajidin drawled. He shook his head, his expression sad. “But the government of the time was too soft. I sent assassins myself, but they never returned. The Sēq Scholars were too lenient on you. It was your duty to die serving your people, not to take what you had learned to make your own fortune. Time has caught up with you.”

  “Face facts.” Kasraman’s mellow voice was pitched to carry. “You were Sēq once. No doubt you’ve tried to escape and failed. You’ve tried your precious Possibility Tree? Surely you’ve calculated there’s no escape?”

  “Don’t you have some witchery to make him talk?” Armal asked Kasraman. The man-mountain looked to the door nervously. “We don’t have much—”

  “My talents aren’t meant to be discussed openly, Armal.” Kasraman’s smile was thin, the tips of his fangs showing as he held up a hand for silence. “Besides, the salt-forged steel prohibits me as much as him from anything esoteric. And I’d not want to see his shackles removed while he lived. It wouldn’t end well for any of us, would it, Indris?”

  Indris bared his fangs in a smile. “That I promise you.”

  “Getting nowhere,” Thufan grated. He turned to Corajidin. “We need to carry out his sentence and—”

  “Sentence?” Indris stepped away from the wall. Thufan was closest. Perhaps he could snap the old man’s little chicken neck before the others stopped him. He would need to kill Corajidin next. He doubted he would be able to take a third in his current state. He flexed his fingers. “Every prisoner is entitled to a trial—”

  Corajidin pointed a shaking finger. “You are a traitor to the Asrahn and—”

  “Step away, Thufan, if you want to live,” Belamandris suggested. “Our friend here is almost within reach. Not the best place for you.”

  Thufan blanched, then stepped back. He looked at Indris with a wary eye. Indris shot Belamandris an insincere smile in thanks.

  “I’m a mercenary.” Indris struggled with his chains. “Our codes of justice—”

  “If we took him elsewhere, could you torture the information out of him?” Kasraman asked Thufan.

  “Maybe,” the little man grunted. “Doubtful. He’s trained by the Sēq. They don’t break easily.”

  “There are too many watching eyes to move him,” Belamandris offered. His hand dropped to the hilt of his amenesqa. “If you’re not going to question him, at least let the man fight for his life.”

  “He’ll kill you stone dead.” Kasraman’s expression was wry. Belamandris snorted.

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Indris lied through clenched teeth. He strained against his shackles. “T
hink about this. If you kill me—”

  “If he will not tell us where Far-ad-din is, there is no point in delaying any further. Armal?” Corajidin waved his hand in Indris’s direction.

  The big man’s expression was resolved as he came to stand before Indris. His fist a blur, he cuffed Indris on the side of the head so hard he was slammed back against the wall, dazed. Armal placed his massive hands around Indris’s throat. Squeezed. “I’m sorry I can’t do this the proper way.”

  In his weakened state, Indris could do little against Armal’s strength. He tried to knee the man, to no effect. Weakened from the salt-forged steel, he could not strike back effectively. Each of Indris’s blows fell on layers of corded muscle, which felt like stone. He tried to form a canto in his head, but his thoughts withered in an airless haze.

  Darkness had begun to descend when the door crashed open. Armal released his grip and spun to stand beside his father. Indris, barely aware of what was happening, collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. He looked up from beneath dirty curls.

  The Iphyri stamped their hooves, nostrils wide. Indris could see the light glistening in their eyes, like pools of white around wet brown stones. The hafts of their axes groaned in their grips. Sweat glistened on their skin, black, sorrel, and roan. They snorted. Backed into the room on iron-shod hooves. The smell of horse was heavy in the air.

  Facing them were a dozen or so Tau-se in the blue-and-gold armor of the Näsarat Lion Guard. Faces impassive, manes braided with fortune-coins, the lion men glanced about the room impassively. Their hands were never far from the hilts of their khopesh. Indris had seen Tau-se fight. Such were their reflexes he knew the Lion Guard were not disadvantaged. If the Tau-se drew their sickle-bladed swords, it would be a massacre.

  From between the Lion Guard stepped two men. The first was Nehrun, Ariskander’s heir, eyes circled by kohl and the Näsarat phoenix painted in blue-and-gold ink on his brow. His armor was an immaculate construction of polished gold and enameled blue plates, so perfect Indris doubted it had seen dust, let alone blood. Nehrun lifted his chin in an imperious gesture.

  By his side was a taller man. Older and leaner. Less polished, his panoply of war showing the minimalism of a veteran. Ariskander’s face was gaunt, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a high ponytail, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were large, so dark they were almost black. Ariskander gave Indris one of his hesitant smiles. They were the only kind he had.

  Two of the Lion Guard crossed the room to Indris, taking him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. The Iphyri stamped in consternation, though Corajidin shouted at them for silence.

  “You’ve overreached your authority this time, Corajidin,” Ariskander snapped as he gestured for the Lion Guard to take Indris from the room.

  “Ariskander!” Corajidin snarled with venom. Spittle flecked his lips. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

  “I’m the Arbiter of the Change.” Ariskander smiled coldly. “And my jurisdiction comes from the Teshri—who sanctioned this inane war—and both the Asrahn and Speaker for the People we elected into power. On top of that the Scholar Marshal is very interested to know why one of her scholars—”

  “He left the Sēq Order,” Kasraman pointed out reasonably.

  “Nobody ever truly leaves the Sēq,” Indris tried to joke through the pain. “They always want their tithe of blood…”

  Ariskander held Indris’s eyes open with his thumbs. He frowned at what he saw, then raked his gaze across Corajidin. “You can raise your objections with the Scholar Marshal in person, if you like. Though I’d not recommend it. Femensetri isn’t known for either her patience or indulgence.”

  “You’ll regret interfering with me, Ariskander!” Corajidin ground out.

  “The rest of your captives are being released also,” Ariskander informed the red-faced Corajidin. “We’ll see whether there are any formal charges laid against you for what you’ve done here.”

  “Try it,” Corajidin said through gritted teeth. “See how far you get.”

  Ariskander gestured at the Lion Guard, who helped Indris out of the cell. Nehrun led them through the villa and into the large courtyard beyond. The air was thick with the smell of shed blood. Indris was placed in a carriage with Ariskander and Nehrun; the door locked behind them. Both men wrinkled their noses at Indris’s smell, though nobody spoke. Nehrun glowered at Indris as if he was an inconvenience. Ariskander’s eyes remained half-closed, deep in thought.

  The carriage rattled along, the Lion Guard racing on foot beside it, from streets sided by sandstone and dome-topped marble buildings to the tiered hills where the Seethe had made their crystal eyries. Jagged crystal mansions shimmered yellow, white, blue, and rose in the evening shadows, shards of light on the ripples of a darkening blanket. The entourage passed beneath an ancient stone archway, the carvings all but worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Then through the Zephyr Gardens, where the winds hummed to themselves through stands of pale, blue-flowered reeds. Indris was taken from the carriage then along the sweeping stairs of the Kestrel Glide, which curved around the side of Cloud Hill like the feathers of some great wing.

  Perched on the summit, the interwoven slivers of sapphire and rose-colored quartz of the Hai-Ardin, Far-ad-din’s sanctuary, rose skyward. From there Indris could see Amnon’s city sprawling across the bent fingers of low hills and stream-filled valleys below. A cool breeze swept in from the Marble Sea, its caress a welcome respite from the heat. It carried on its breath the salt tang of the sea, as well as the scents of gardenia, lavender, and pine needles from Amnon’s beachside parks. Over the din of conversation, Indris could hear the mournful cry of gulls.

  In Seethe fashion there were no exterior walls in the Hai-Ardin. No doors. Crystalsingers had coaxed the growing formations into seemingly random steps, chambers, and tilted columns. In some areas the high, semivaulted ceilings of the Hai-Ardin were open to the sky. Translucent beetle-shell hangings adorned the walls. Ilhen crystals shone like jagged candle flames frozen in time.

  “Take him to the baths,” Ariskander ordered two of the Lion Guard. “I’ll arrange for clean clothes. Leave the collar and wristbands on. Don’t let anybody talk to him until I return.” The two Lion Guard bowed their heads to their rahn, then half carried, half walked Indris to the baths.

  Alabaster tubs dotted the mosaic-floored baths. Steam swirled sluggishly in the thick air. The faint drip of water echoed about the cavernous room, lit by ilhen crystals. The night sky made frosted white streaks of angled quartz columns. Lavender and rosemary scented the air, so much so Indris began to doze as soon as the hot water enclosed his aching muscles. A bound-caste servant in a short tunic scrubbed the grime from his skin. Washed and rinsed his hair until the water flowed clear. She massaged oils into his skin and scalp. Indris winced at the pain as her fingers found the deep knots in his muscles, the bruises and scrapes and cuts on his skin.

  He was not sure when the servant stopped her ministrations. He vaguely remembered the water in the tub being changed, new for old. Then a warm, swaddling, damp silence. All he knew was the water had cooled when he sensed somebody staring at him. Indris cracked his eyes open to see Ariskander sitting nearby, two massive Lion Guard looming over him.

  “You cut it close this time,” Ariskander began. He tore off a fist-size piece of bread, dotted with the brown and yellow of bacon and cheese. “We were lucky we got to you when we did.”

  Indris held up his banded wrists. He did not bother to hide the pain he felt. “Care to do something about these?”

  “Why are you here?” the other man demanded. “You were supposed to get Far-ad-din and his family out of Amnon before our army got here. For the love of the Ancestors, I delayed the army enough!”

  “Er, my bindings?”

  “I can’t have them removed. Not yet. Are you going to tell me why—”

  “Far-ad-din refused to leave,” Indris snapped. The water crashed in ripples against the ivory-hued walls of the tub.
“Do you really think I wanted to be there when the fighting started? We knew the marshaling of the armies was inevitable. You assured me we’d avoid mass conflict and have trial by single combat. I told Far-ad-din we’d have the Hamesaad and he trusted me. Ancestors on a stick, what happened?”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” Ariskander warned. “You’re Far-ad-din’s son-in-law! If he would listen to anybody, I thought it would be you. “

  “And I’m your nephew. How much attention do you pay me?” Indris smiled.

  “Not enough, it would seem,” Ariskander chuckled.

  “What now?”

  “You’re not free and clear yet. The others will want to know where Far-ad-din went. Corajidin in particular is anxious to get his hands on the last Seethe rahn in Shrīan. I’ve no doubt he wants to end the influence of the Seethe once and for all, leaving the Avān to govern all six Great Houses.”

  Indris was wondering how much to tell of the little he knew when one of the Lion Guard politely interrupted. Ariskander and Indris had been summoned by the Asrahn. Ariskander gestured to a small pile of folded clothes. Indris recognized the faded blacks and browns of his own garments. He dressed quickly, giving care to the layers of clothing sende demanded of his caste: one for the individual, one for his Great House, and one for his nation. Within minutes, the Lion Guard was escorting him through the long crystal corridors of Hai-Ardin. Soon enough he was brought into a room crowded to overflowing.

  The Exalted Names of Shrīan surrounded him, a field of flowers in their traditional layers of embroidered silk: tunics under high-collared, knee-length jackets; loose trousers; supple leather boots with upturned toes; open-fronted, hooded over-robes dyed in the colors of the six Great Houses and the Hundred Families that governed Shrīan. Voices smashed into him. The din of goblets being struck in toasts, platters clattering on tables, the metallic jangle of sonesette strings. Surrounded by noise, Indris was thrown back to the chaos of the battle. The open mouths. The wide eyes. The barrage of sound. All of it assaulted his senses. Pain blossomed behind his left eye as he was rocked by memories.