The Garden of Stones

by Mark T. Barnes

  “Indris? Are you unwell?” Shar’s voice held the timbre and husk of the wind through reeds. Lamplight shone on the rainbow patina on her straight nose. “You smell pretty, though.”

  “Where have you—”

  “I was in chains, about to be executed, when the Lion Guard whisked me away.” She looked him up and down, yellow eyes narrowed. “What happened to you? How do you feel?”

  “I feel brilliant,” Indris lied as Shar-fer-rayn leaned against him, gently butting his shoulder with her brow. “Though I think I’ve been hit in the head a little too often in the last couple of days. How do I look?”

  “Like trampled rubbish,” she answered with a smile, her teeth serrated bands of white between blue-tinted lips.

  “Then why ask?”

  “Making conversation.” Shar looked about the chamber. “This isn’t going to be good, is it? What’s happening?”

  “No idea. Have you seen Hayden or Omen?” Indris asked. Shar shook her head in response. He swore quietly. “We should’ve left Amnon when we knew which way the wind was blowing. We could’ve avoided this cursed shambles. It wouldn’t have been the first time I abducted a noble for their own good.”

  “Which always led to good times.” She grinned. “But it’s not your way, Indris. You’ve a penchant for lost causes, though more often than not they’re the right ones.”

  Indris jerked his chin at the crowd around them. “They’d happily argue.”

  “Far-ad-din was innocent of—”

  “They’re the victors. They’ll write the history. Inconvenient truths will be forgotten soon enough. We survived, though.”

  “Again,” she murmured. “Many of my people weren’t so fortunate.”

  “They’re my people, too, Shar.” She smiled at him. “Well, half my people, at any rate.”

  “Which half would that be?” She looked Indris up and down in his stained browns and blacks, which had known a long count of days. “The shabby half?”

  “I prefer to think of it as comfortable.” Indris grinned.

  “Of course you do. You know, having been married to one of us isn’t the same as being one of us. You look nothing like a Seethe. A pure-blood Avān, perhaps, though you’re too young by thousands of years.”

  Indris fought down the pain of his headache. He wished Ariskander could have removed his shackles. Judging from the looks in the eyes of the upper-caste people in the chamber, Indris wondered whether he was any safer here than with Corajidin.

  A woman broke away from the throng. Roshana, Nehrun’s younger sister, a handsome woman with squared jaws and shoulders. She was one of Ariskander’s chief strategists and a soldier of some renown. With her long stride, she quickly covered the distance to Indris and Shar. Nehrun strolled in her wake, his expression dark.

  Nehrun gave Indris a condescending sneer. “Welcome back, cousin. Isn’t it enough to disgrace yourself, you have to tarnish our family name, too? Maladûr gaol will be too good a place for the likes of you.”

  “I hear it’s nice there.” Indris smiled. Roshana gave a good-natured chuckle. “Can I get a room overlooking the Marble Sea?”

  Nehrun stepped forward to within centimeters of Indris’s face. “You deserve to die!”

  “You’re a brave little man when your father’s not in earshot, aren’t you? You didn’t have the fire to speak like that to me when Ariskander was around earlier.” Indris leaned toward his cousin, closing what little distance there was between them. He stared into Nehrun’s eyes. The rahn-elect backed away, averting his gaze. “So…been well, Nehrun?”

  Nehrun curled his lip in disdain.

  “I’d heard you were in the battle,” Roshana said without preamble, her voice surprisingly deep. “It’s true what they’re saying?”

  “If it’s bad, probably.”

  “They say you”—she also looked at Shar—“the both of you, were fighting for Far-ad-din. Surely you weren’t so foolish? Did you seriously think you’d win?”

  “You know what they say. It’s less about winning than being able to walk away afterward. Besides, it was never meant to get so far.” Indris glanced around nervously. Many of those gathered in the room were looking in their direction. Their expressions were neither amused nor friendly. “Rosha, you shouldn’t be—”

  “Here we go,” Shar muttered as Feyassin spilled into the room. Conversations stuttered to silence.

  Vashne entered, flanked by his white-armored bodyguards, their ornate hexagonal shields held at their waists. The elected ruler of the Avān had the gentle bearing of a man who spent his hours tending flowers and reading books. He did not wear armor or carry a weapon. A simple circlet of black leather, knotted with steel ingots, encircled his high, care-furrowed brow.

  As Vashne approached, the gathered nobles of Shrīan took to their knees. Foreheads were pressed to the cold, hard floor, hands extended palms upward. Indris and Shar followed suit. At a gentle word they all sat back on their heels.

  The only person who did not take to her knees was Femensetri, Scholar Marshal and Sēq Master. Called the Stormbringer by some, she was the Asrahn’s adviser and confidante. Femensetri’s tall, sickle-topped stave, like the crook of some militant shepherd, rested in the fold of her arms. Shrouded in her hooded over-robe and black cassock, with its row of onyx buttons from throat to groin, the torso bound by fraying strips of leather and iron buckles, she reminded Indris of a Dragon with its wings furled. It was an unfair comparison. Femensetri was a striking woman. Her ageless features and the startling opal-hued eyes were at once marred and enhanced by the mindstone on her brow: a lightless blemish, an absence, against the olive of her skin.

  As he looked at her, Indris could sense rather than see the dark energy nimbus that crackled and spat around her. The Disentropic Stain proclaiming her a scholar to any who knew how to look.

  Vashne gazed speculatively at those assembled. His disappointed gaze rested on Indris for a handful of heartbeats before it drifted away. After an almost uncomfortable silence, Vashne spoke.

  “Everybody except the Näsarat, the Erebus, Ziaire of the House of Pearl, and the Speaker for the People can leave,” Vashne commanded. The other nobles looked to each other for a moment before they rose to their feet and filed from the room. Indris could hear their muttering echo down the corridors as they walked away.

  Indris watched as the Näsarat and Erebus camps arranged themselves on opposite sides of the room. In between stood Rahn-Nazarafine of the Great House of Sûn, the Speaker for the People and the elected head of government for the Teshri, her eyes shining like polished brown nuts. Beside her was a poised woman, her features those poets waxed lyrical about. Unruly hair, dark as soot, sat piled atop an oval face with delicate, sculpted features. Her green eyes were vivid against burnished skin, itself striking against the layers of her fitted pearlescent robe. She looked across at Indris and Shar, her gaze measuring.

  Vashne’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he glared about the room. “Ariskander? You’ve found who we were looking for?”

  Ariskander nodded. “The ones who were still alive. I’ve brought you the prisoners you requested. Pah-Näsarat fa Amonindris, blood royal of the Great House of Näsarat. Former Knight-General of the Sēq Order of Scholars and once the commander of the Immortal Companions nahdi company. The other is Shar-fer-rayn, a war-chanter and last of the Rayn-ma troupe.”

  Vashne nodded his thanks as he stopped in front of Indris. “We know each other, you and I.” He looked at the raised blisters on Indris’s wrists, where the manacles restrained him. Vashne’s expression was sorrowful. “We do not need these, do we?”

  “Vashne—” Corajidin said.

  “Speaker for the People? Arbiter of the Change?” Vashne looked to Nazarafine and Ariskander. “Do you have any objections to releasing this man?”

  “You cannot be serious!” Corajidin snapped.

  “None at all, Asrahn.” Nazarafine’s smile did not reach her eyes as she assessed Corajidin. “I speak for
both Ariskander and myself when I say we’re glad we’ve had the chance to save some of the prisoners to whom you’d offered amnesty.”

  The Stormbringer strode forward in a snap of leather and old wool. She took a master key from within the folds of her cassock, then unlocked Indris’s shackles. The salt-forged steel clattered to the ground. The Scholar Marshal kicked them across the room.

  Indris restrained his sigh of relief. The pain receded almost immediately. Within moments he could feel the effects of the salt leave his system. He leveled his gaze at the Asrahn, who no doubt knew the risks involved in releasing him. Indris bowed his thanks.

  “Indris.” Vashne looked at Indris, though he spoke to the rest of the room. “A man who has been a hero of our people and a savior for others.”

  “Asrahn.” Corajidin bowed his head to the floor. “This man—”

  “Has done much in our service.”

  “Even so, he’s a traitor, in service to a traitor! We need to—”

  “His weapons and other belongings will be returned to him.” The Asrahn looked hard into Indris’s eyes. “And to his comrade here. Gratitude is a powerful currency. It is worth more than its weight in gold or gems. Would you agree?”

  “Thank you.” Indris felt his stomach knot.

  “I trust my generosity is not misplaced. I expect it will be remembered, should I need to call on you.” With that, he turned away.

  Indris allowed himself to take a deep breath. The prospect of death or imprisonment slowly unclenched its fist.

  “What have you gotten us into now?” Shar murmured.

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  Vashne walked back to the center of the room, Femensetri in his shadow. He glared at Corajidin. “What in the name of the blessed Ancestors were you thinking? This was supposed to be resolved peacefully. With as little bloodshed as possible! Do your prejudices blind you so much?”

  Corajidin cocked a disdainful eyebrow. Indris noted the sheen of sweat on the other man’s waxy skin. “Far-ad-din was mustering an army. He was in discussions with Seethe Sky Realms and their troupes. He was selling relics stolen from the Rōmarq—relics he was supposed to be safeguarding! He needed to be dealt with, and we dealt with him.”

  “The Seethe believed this fight would be settled through Hamesaad,” Indris said. “They were prepared to abide by the outcomes of the trial of champions. With respect, I believe the Teshri were somewhat misinformed on certain of the key facts upon which they based their decision to depose Far-ad-din. One wonders how much of their decision was based in an ancient and oft-gnawed-on bigotry against the Seethe.”

  “The traitor speaks when it should have breathed its last long before now,” Corajidin snapped. He leveled an accusing stare at Indris, who shrugged indifferently. “The whole point of us coming here was—”

  “Not to commit to more violence than was necessary,” Ariskander interrupted. “As Arbiter of the Change it was my prerogative to set the terms and context of our engagement. This wasn’t supposed to be a cursed war!”

  “It was what it was always going to be,” Kasraman offered with an elegant shrug. “The other Exalted Names of Shrīan came here to remove the last bastion of Seethe power in an Avān nation. Surely we all knew what the outcome would be once we took to the field?”

  “My houreh have access to information useful to the Asrahn and the Teshri,” Ziaire said, her voice soft like silk. The Prime of the House of Pearl was suspected in some quarters as being Vashne’s chief intelligencer; the women and men who worked for her had ready access where many did not. “Satiated women and men love to murmur across pillows and skin. We hear a great many things. Yet of Far-ad-din’s supposed treachery, there were strangely few, if any, whispers at all. I find that odd, don’t you?”

  “Far-ad-din never proved his innocence,” Corajidin insisted. “We were right to remove him from power.”

  And your secret excavations in the R marq, discovered by Far-ad-din, who tried to put a stop to them, had nothing to do with your haste to end him, did it? Indris thought. What are you looking for, you old fox? More interestingly, what have you found in the muck and mire of lost empires?

  “We need to find Far-ad-din.” Ziaire folded her hands in the wide sleeves of her silk over-robe.

  “The marshes of the Rōmarq are treacherous,” Femensetri interjected. She looked to the Asrahn. “It’s easy to lose one’s way there. Anybody we send to find him would be in danger from Fenlings, marsh-puppeteers, dholes, and the Ancestors only know what else.”

  “I’ll go,” Belamandris offered. The young warrior-poet stepped forward, the light of the ilhen crystals shining on his golden head. He looked at his father. “Give me a company of heavy Iphyri and I’ll find Far-ad-din and bring him back.”

  “Alive?” Ziaire asked, at which Femensetri cackled. “I applaud your bravery, Belamandris, but allow me some skepticism as to your motives, given it was the Great House of Erebus that brought us all here.”

  “In more ways than one,” Ariskander muttered. He pursed his lips. Glancing at Nehrun, he scowled, then looked to Indris. “Vashne, with your permission I’ll take a company of the Lion Guard and Nehrun. It should be enough, if we’re careful.”

  “I don’t think—” Nehrun protested.

  Vashne waved Nehrun’s objection away. “I appreciate the offer, Ariskander, but I’ll need you here to govern Amnon as the Arbiter of the Change until—”

  “Vashne…Asrahn…” Corajidin stiffened, his face betraying his outrage.

  “Corajidin?”

  “With respect, you need somebody to bring this city and prefecture under control. I lead the only Great House with the military strength at hand for such a task.”

  “What he says makes sense, Asrahn.” Nehrun’s voice was weak. Indris’s head snapped around in shock. Rosha looked as if she was willing to murder her brother. Ariskander scowled at his heir. “Though I love and respect my father, Amnon needs a stern hand now. My father brought only two companies of the Lion Guard, with slightly more in numbers of the Phoenix Army. Even with my personal guard company and Rosha’s Whitehorse Cataphracts, we still only number some eight hundred soldiers. Rahn-Corajidin, what’s the current fighting strength of your army?”

  “Nehrun! Are you insane?” Rosha hissed. “How can you—”

  “I have somewhere in the order of fifteen thousand Erebus troops at my disposal.” Corajidin’s smile was gloating. “Rahn-Kadarin fe Narseh also lent me another three thousand of the Sarat, her elite heavy infantry.”

  “Enough!” Vashne held up his hand for silence. “I need somebody seasoned to restore order, but not an army to loom over a people already fearful for their lives. Ariskander, I need you here, not risking your life trying to save your friend.”

  “As you say,” Ariskander replied softly. “I’ll begin the necessary preparations for restoring order to the city. I can send Knight-Colonel Ekko with the First Lion Guard Company into the Rōmarq in my stead.”

  “Very well.” Vashne’s smile seemed forced. He gazed at Indris and Shar. “It has been a trying couple of days for all of us. Why do we not join our guests and celebrate the lives of those we lost at Amber Lake? Perhaps we can find joy somewhere.”

  Vashne rose from his seat. With Ziaire on one side and Femensetri on the other, he led the other nobles from the room. Belamandris grinned at Indris on his way out. He whispered something to Kasraman, at which both brothers laughed. Corajidin’s face was florid, his stride stiff-legged as he left. Indris could see the veins protruding from the stretched skin of his brow.

  Indris needed to show his good grace and attend the evening’s bacchanal. Lotus wine would flow. Enough food for a small village would go to waste. Words would be spoken, regretted, remembered. Sende, the strict codes defining Avānese behavior, demanded honor be satisfied and blood spilled.

  Indris cared little for their posturing. He cared he was alive.

  Indris found himself dancing the flamenon with
a woman who reminded him of sun-drenched beaches, with her wide sea-tinted eyes and hair the shade of where the breakers met the shore. Her skin was smooth, the color of honey, and she moved her body with the strength, the suppleness, of a warrior-poet. Her hands were calloused, ridged with muscle. When she smiled it was a slow, lazy thing that exposed the tips of white fangs. Her hair was scented with henna, honey, and milk.

  Indris had seen her earlier in the revelry; she had been seated, legs akimbo. He had watched her talk and laugh and dance all night. Time and time again they found themselves watching each other over glasses of dark wine.

  After the dance they made their way to the gardens. He had not felt such desire in too long. They never spoke. Guilt warred with lust, eventually overcome by the heat of her kiss and the surety of her touch. Her laugh vibrated across the skin of his throat as she tore the buttons from his old worn jacket. She straddled him, used a long curved knife to slice away the laces on her tunic to expose the skin beneath. She kissed the tattoos and the brands on his arms. Hands wandered. Mouths teased, pleased, wordlessly urged…Her breath tasted of mandarins.

  He did not know who used whom. When he woke, she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Nothing fills the air with the smoke of funeral pyres so much as loyalty.”—soldier’s saying

  Day 312 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  The air tasted of cooked meat, oiled leather, polished steel, and perspiration. Mariam could hear the gentle hiss of the nearby Marble Sea where it lapped in tiny waves against the sand and gravel shore. From among the tents came the murmured buzz of conversation. The drone of snores, the occasional laugh, and soldiers in song. The heartbreaking bamboo breathlessness of a kahi flute. The basso tones of a theorbo or the complex chords of a long-necked sonesette.