Indris drew his blade out as the Widowmaker fell. Belam feebly clawed at the stone with his left hand. He made an inhuman keening as blood poured from his wound. Indris stood over the writhing man. He rested Changeling’s point against Belam’s throat.
Mari’s hand rose to her mouth. She stopped breathing. Her chest hurt, her head hurt. Out of fear for her brother, out of fear of what she had seen Indris do. In all her years as a warrior-poet, Mari had never seen anything like him.
“This is over,” Indris said gently. “There’s no further story between us. Go your own way. We never met tonight. There’s no need for us to meet in the future.”
“Indris!” the Asrahn snapped. “I want to know who this is!”
“We’ve not the time.” Indris sounded tired. “I’ve saved your life, Vashne, as you saved mine. Your sons’ lives you can have for free. Aren’t there more important things for you to be doing?”
The Asrahn shot Indris a dark look. He ordered Daniush to unmask the assassin. There was a moment of wrathful silence when Belam’s pale, sweat-streaked face was revealed. The Asrahn stared with loathing at Mari’s brother. Ariskander frowned as he used one of the dead attackers’ cloaks to clean the blood from his sword.
Her father’s plan to murder Ariskander and depose the Asrahn was over. She and her family would be dead by dawn.
Shar stood beside Indris. She kept her weapon drawn in a silent threat. Ariskander gestured for the Asrahn to take the stairs toward the relative safety of the well-lit streets, into the crowds and the security of their peers in the Tyr-Jahavān.
“Will you not join us, Amonindris?” Ekko asked.
“Thanks, but no.” Indris bowed to the giant Tau-se warrior. “Here’s where our journeys part. Shar and I will leave tonight. This is no place for us now.”
“Indris,” the Asrahn began. “Given what has happened…I need your help. Please.”
“Listen to him, Indris,” Ariskander added. “There’s much we’ve not had the chance to talk to you about. We’ve a lot of work to do here.”
Indris seemed about to say something when there came the thump of a crossbow. Indris whispered a word, and the air around them was filled with spinning fractals of orange light.
Shock vied with pain in his expression as a bolt struck him in the chest.
Indris jerked backward as another bolt took him high in the shoulder. Changeling dropped from his hand, her light extinguished. He would have dropped to the ground were it not for Shar. Her head darted to one side as she looked for the murderers in the dark. Her skin smoldered with light. She took his weight, deceptively strong. Without a word she slung him over her shoulder, grabbed Changeling, then dashed for the cover of darkness.
Another group of assassins emerged from the shadows among the trees. To the fore strode Corajidin. Behind him was Farouk with the arabesqued stock of his twin crossbow held in one hand. Corajidin stared at his daughter as he passed her by, expression inscrutable. Wolfram lurched beside him on creaking legs, a towering, teetering figure in his robe of tattered strips. Her father’s personal guard flanked them. Mari joined her family but kept a discreet distance. She longed to be almost anywhere but here.
The group walked past where Belam sat nursing his arm. Her father looked down at his son, concerned. He ordered his men to see to Belam’s wounds, to give him something for the pain.
Her father pointed to six of his guard. “Find Indris and the Seethe. Kill them. No mistakes.” The guards nodded before they sprinted after Indris and the Seethe.
“Good evening, Vashne.” Corajidin’s voice was sorrowful. Vashne narrowed his eyes beneath a gentle frown. The Rahn-Erebus turned to Ariskander with an exultant expression on his waxen features. “And Ariskander. A very welcome addition.”
“How has it come to this, Corajidin?” the Asrahn asked with disappointment. Mari was not surprised to hear no fear in the Asrahn’s voice. Ariskander cast his gaze about from beneath lowered brows, the tip of his sword waving this way and that.
Ekko sidled to stand at Vashne’s shoulder, but Vashne sensed the movement and held up his hand for Ekko to remain where he was. Mari could not meet the Asrahn’s eyes. His words played in her head: How has it come to this?
Doubt rose up in her like a tide. Her ears rang. She could feel her hearts hammering a staccato in her chest. What had she done? There was an old saying her mother had ingrained into her when Mari was a child. With every betrayal we wither a little bit more inside, till we are filled with nothing save the cowardice of treachery and the bitterness left by the taste of honor forgotten. Mari imagined a large part of her had already withered. It was possible she could save the rest before she died.
From beneath lowered brows, Mari counted. There were now thirteen of the elite guard on the stairs including Farouk, plus her father, plus Wolfram. Her father had been a swordmaster in his day, yet was not what he had once had been. Even so, fourteen enemies? Plus an Angothic Witch? Even with Ekko’s help, Mari knew she could not save the Asrahn from the destiny her father had forged for him. Perhaps her life might buy time for the Asrahn’s sons?
She would need to kill Wolfram first. Farouk next, then—
“I never wanted this, Vashne,” Corajidin said earnestly. His expression seemed genuinely pained. “We were friends, of a sort. At the end of the year, you would have stepped down and I would have assumed the role of Asrahn. We would have had such arguments, you and I, yet the nation would have prospered from our debate.”
“It still can, Corajidin,” Vashne murmured. “This need not go any further.”
“You do not think I have already walked a few steps too far over the line?”
Vashne shrugged.
Ariskander spat. “You’re a dead man no matter what you do, Corajidin. Even if you kill me, Nehrun is aware of what you’ve been doing in the Rōmarq. He’ll make sure the Teshri hears of it.”
“Nehrun?” Corajidin grinned, though the expression looked sickly. “I’m not overly concerned about what he may or may not say. And as for you? Your death can wait. Since it was your cursed people who’ve threatened my work in the Rōmarq, it seems fitting you make up for it.”
Wolfram scowled at Corajidin from under the jagged filth of his fringe. The witch jabbed a finger at Ariskander, but his words were addressed to his master. “What are you going to—”
“If I can’t have Sedefke’s research on Awakening to cure me, I’ll have the next best thing.” Corajidin peered at Ariskander. “The Great House of Näsarat. The First House. The Imperial House! The only Great House to have the knowledge of Awakening, unbroken, back to the very first ritual in the deep vaults of the Shalef-mar Ayet—the Temple Mount Shrine. Somewhere, locked in the memories of all his Ancestors, is the vivid recollection of the place where the blood of Īa seeped from the living rock and the leaders of the Great Houses of the Avān were Awakened to become rahn.”
“Father?” Mari said hesitantly.
“I will tear what I need from his mind,” Corajidin murmured. Ariskander’s face blanched. His eyes widened in shock and fear. “From his soul, if need be. Destiny versus destiny, Ariskander. Who do you think has the stronger hold on his fate, you or I?”
“Corajidin!” Vashne snapped. “This has to stop!”
“I…Shrīan…cannot wait for you, Vashne.” Corajidin reached out to rest his hand on Vashne’s shoulder. Mari worried at her father’s sickly gray pallor. “The time for compromise is over. If it is any consolation, I am sorry we came to be where we are. But not sorry enough to walk away.”
“If this is about—”
Corajidin thrust the krysesqa Vashne had given him deep into the Asrahn’s stomach. Vashne looked stunned. His mouth opened. Closed. Corajidin wrenched the blade upward quickly. It tore through skin, muscle, organs until the ancient metal reached Vashne’s left heart. A cut to the right and the second heart was severed.
Vashne’s face settled into a look of calm acceptance. He tried to speak. Nothing.
&n
bsp; “So easy to kill a man. I’d almost forgotten.” Corajidin gently guided the dead man to the ground, to lay him on the ancient stones. He glanced at Farouk. “Secure the others. I want them taken to the Rōmarq as soon as possible. Tonight, we make sure our secret stays a secret.”
In the moments when everybody stood transfixed, Ariskander tried to bolt. He was brutally clubbed to the ground. Daniush and Hamejin were more fortunate. Each sped in a different direction. They cut their way through the guards nearest them, then raced on fleet feet to the cover of the trees. Ekko did likewise. His long blade sliced through the throats of three guardsmen as he made his escape. There was little chance anybody could catch a Tau-se at the run. Mari’s hand curled on the hilt of her amenesqa, and she placed herself in the way of five guardsmen who tried to give chase. They swore as they tripped over her.
Corajidin seemed oblivious to it all. He simply stared at Vashne where he lay in a widening pool of blood. Mari watched her father step away from the red tide as it encroached on his booted toes.
Rahn-Afareen watched her daughter, Vahineh, as she trained. In four weeks it would be Vahineh’s twenty-fourth birthday.
Sadra, the aged swordmaster, bowed to Vahi, his brow dewed with sweat. The young woman, breathing deeply, saluted with her sword.
“Excellent!” old Sadra enthused. “Your technique improves daily.”
“So long as I can defend myself when the time comes, Sadra, I’ll count myself lucky,” Vahi said gracefully. “Truth be told, I’m hoping to have hundreds of warriors between myself and harm. By the time any enemy gets to me, they’ll be too tired to fight.”
“A fine plan, Pah-Vahineh. May you never need to use it.”
“Thank you, Sadra,” Afareen said. She rose from her chair to give the old instructor a purse heavy with coin. In his day Sadra had been a renowned warrior-poet. Age had gotten the better of him as a soldier, though he still made an extraordinary teacher. The man bowed low in thanks for Afareen’s largesse. She noticed how much his hands shook with fatigue.
Out of respect, Afareen walked Sadra to the doors of the chamber. Though Vashne had taken the Hai-Ardin as his abode, Afareen found the openness of Seethe buildings too exposed. She felt more comfortable in the elegance of Avān architecture. The colonnades, domed ceilings, tall windows of colored glass, and balconies with their fretwork screens in alabaster, timber, or bronze. Seethe crystal, for all its radiance and natural beauty, was too…inexplicable for her.
The door swung inward as Afareen laid her hand on the gilt handle. She turned away from Sadra, expecting to see the face of her honor guard.
She did not have time to blink before the sword took the head from her shoulders.
Vahi resisted the temptation to scream.
She watched, frozen, as blood geysered momentarily from the stump of her mother’s neck. The body tumbled to the ground with a thump.
“Flee!” Sadra yelled. The veteran’s blade seemed to materialize in his ancient hand. He moved to stand over Afareen’s body, the blood running against the soles of his cracked leather boots. Vahi stayed where she was. She held her blade loosely in her hand, as she had been taught.
In the doorway stood four men. Blood smeared their clothing. It drenched their arms to the elbow, spattered their faces and hair. Thufan led them, narrow dark eyes like polished stones amid an intricate web of wrinkles, a wicked curved blade in one hand, his hook bloodstained. He grinned with malicious glee. Beside him stood Armal in a corselet of well-used scale mail. Tattoos marked both heavily muscled arms as well as the exposed skin of his neck. A heavy mace almost as long as his leg rested over his shoulder.
One of the other men yelled as he rushed forward. With an elegance that belied his age, Sadra drifted to his left. He cut. It seemed a lazy gesture. Too casual to cause harm. A warning, perhaps. Yet his opponent clattered to the floor as if poleaxed.
The second man charged. Sadra stepped in. His blade floated, a bird on the wing. It dipped. Struck. Came home to roost, blooded, as another enemy fell.
Thufan stepped forward, yet giant Armal stepped past him. The mace arced from his shoulder with terrifying speed. Sadra deflected the blow, but Vahi saw the way the old man seemed to bow under the sheer force of it. Sadra stepped back, to give himself more room.
“Thufan!” Vahi yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Run!” Sadra said over his shoulder to her.
“Stay, bitch,” Thufan ordered. “Make me chase, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Armal. Kill this old buzzard.”
Armal, expression blank, pressed his attack. Sadra blocked. Parried. Dodged. Cut. Each time the towering mace fell, the old man seemed to buckle more. Each time Thufan tried to move around him, Sadra placed himself in the way.
Blow after blow fell. Sadra fought on.
Little by little, Armal wore the old man down. With each exchange, both men were more blooded. More bruised. Armal did not seem to notice, though Sadra became slower with each exchange.
Vahi knew the end before it came.
She retreated behind the heavy doors to the library before the final stroke fell. She wanted her last memories of Sadra to be of a vibrant, courageous man. Of a true champion. She locked the doors behind her and leaned a chair beneath the door handles for good measure.
It was the work of moments to open the glass-paned doors to the balcony. She removed her quilted silk gambeson and secured her sword across her back with a length of curtain tie. She stood for a moment on the balcony rail. The unlit waters of the canal seemed very far below.
The slow dark waters would take her as far as the river delta. From there she could make her escape to find her father and her brothers. She had not been Awakened, so at least one of them was still alive. There would be time to grieve after she had told them what had happened. The Erebus and their allies would suffer.
By the time Thufan broke through the door she would be long gone, their secrets carried with her.
CHAPTER NINE
“There is often a difference between a man of success and a man of principles.”—Revael the Tall Horseman, Clan Lord of Darmatia, 19th Year of the reign of Setseykin (491st Year of the Shrīanese Federation)
Day 315 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
Corajidin trudged across the courtyard of the villa. Everything smelled of blood. He needed to bathe. If he had predicted the actions of the Teshri correctly, they would be coming for him soon enough.
He had left Farouk in charge of the cleanup at Iron Street Park. His nephew was sometimes overzealous in his service, something Corajidin would rely on tonight. Farouk would comb the Iron Street Park for any evidence the Great House of Erebus had been there. The bodies of their own people would be removed, though some blood-smeared glass armor and weapons would remain as evidence. As would Vashne’s and Hamejin’s bodies, the younger son having been killed in his attempt at escape.
As Farouk had taken charge of setting the scene of Vashne’s assassination, Corajidin had glanced at Vashne’s supine form, wondering apprehensively whether his old friend might spring from his rest, a furious Nomad, to betray Corajidin as his murderer to anybody who would listen. Corajidin had expected to feel some epiphany, perhaps see some sign from either the Ancestors or oracles that he had acted to their designs. He wondered whether the lassitude he felt was partially due to the fact nothing appeared to have changed in him.
Corajidin had watched to make sure it was Daniush who had been Awakened after the death of his father. It was surreal, to watch a person’s expression when they gained the awareness of the imposing, immense consciousness of Īa and everything that existed on it. His own Awakening had been a painful, miraculous, terrifying, confusing, and powerful sensation. To have the memories of your forebears entangled with your own. To try to pick the threads of your own identity from the myriad others that cascaded into your head. Even to isolate your own heartbeat from those of the deer or the horses or the eagles that traveled your prefecture was a struggle.
Corajidin had gasped as he recognized an echo of Vashne’s haunted genius in Daniush’s eyes. The look of murderous vengeance. The shared memory of death. The impotent anger. Corajidin had immediately ordered a squad of his guard to take Daniush into the wetlands. Like Ariskander, Daniush must be kept out of the way until they could contrive a more permanent solution.
The din of his Ancestors in his head rose and fell like the tide. If only he could understand what they tried to say. Instead, they filled his head with a racket he sometimes wanted to pound out with a hammer.
Thufan waited at the bottom of the villa stairs. The old man was polishing his hook with a length of bloodied cloth. His armor was scored by recent use.
“What happened?” Corajidin pointed at the bloodstains.
“Resistance. Had no choice.”
“You were supposed to secure them, not kill them!” Corajidin loomed over the shorter man. His face felt swollen from the pressure in his head. “Did you leave any alive?”
Thufan gave Corajidin a blank stare in reply. The old spy turned law keeper looked to where Wolfram, Farouk, and the others stood. Mariam waited among them, her face stricken, eyes bright with unshed tears. The guards carried Belamandris’s body on a makeshift stretcher of spears and folded cloaks. Thufan’s voice was neutral when he asked, “What happened?”
“He was wounded, though he will live,” Corajidin murmured.
“The others?”
“Ariskander and Daniush are in custody, en route to the Rōmarq,” he replied. Fatigue settled on him like old, worn armor. “Hamejin was slain as he tried to escape. What have we started, Thufan?”
“Will you continue?” Thufan’s voice was a rattle in his wrinkled throat.
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