The Garden of Stones

by Mark T. Barnes

  “The flowers have fallen, my friend. There is no putting them back on the tree now. I still need to do this.”

  “As you say. You look awful. Should rest.”

  “Should, but can’t until tonight’s task is finished.”

  Mariam had tried to speak with Corajidin as they made their way back to the villa, but he could not look at her. Though he understood why his daughter had chosen not to act on his behalf, Corajidin felt the wound nonetheless. It was his fault, in a way, for encouraging her independence. Mariam had ever been a willful creature, with gentler sensibilities than Corajidin had been raised with. It should have come as no surprise to him she would have been softened by her association with Vashne.

  “What now?” Thufan asked. The old kherife thumbed tobacco into his pipe.

  “What do I want to do, or what do I have to do?” Corajidin gestured for Thufan to follow him inside. “The Teshri will send their people for me. I need to bathe and change for when they arrive.”

  “You sure they’ll come?”

  “I am counting on it.”

  A squad of tense, white-clad Feyassin had arrived at Corajidin’s villa as he was sipping spiced coffee in the atrium. Their Knight-Lieutenant had politely, yet firmly, insisted Corajidin join them at the Tyr-Jahavān. Feigning surprise, Corajidin had joined them without fuss. A few quick orders had seen his personal guard assembled—slick blood-shadows compared to the stark whiteness of the Feyassin.

  The carriage ride was taken in silence. On arrival, Corajidin scaled the broad steps circling the rock upon which the Tyr-Jahavān was perched. Glass-paned lanterns cast overlapping pools of light. From the top of the stairs, it was a short walk through the ring of faceted crystal columns to the small amphitheater that served as the public forum of government in Amnon. As he grew nearer, Corajidin saw many of the columns bore the ghostly apparitions of members of the Teshri from across Shrīan, summoned for the emergency session. Their voices sounded brittle, like ice cracking in the distance. He counted quickly, gratified there were enough to make a quorum, with many of those placed deeply in his pocket.

  Already seated were Nazarafine and Narseh, the leaders of the Great Houses of Sûn and Kadarin. The aging Narseh was a severe woman, thick from the shoulders down, her steely hair pulled back from her angular face in neat braids. Military commendations glittered on her breast and on chains about her neck. One of Far-ad-din’s detractors, she had made the long journey from her northern prefecture for no other reason than to see the Seethe monarch fall from grace. Nehrun was there in his impeccable dark blue and bright gold, the phoenix crest worked in sapphires and amber amid ruby flames on his sleeves. He eyed Corajidin darkly. Ziaire of the House of Pearl remained standing, deep in conversation with Femensetri. The Stormbringer leaned on her crook, its witchfire blade bright with a tracery of jade light like a sliver of the moon. Near Femensetri and Ziaire sat a fine-featured, nut-brown man in worn finery of umber and orange. One of the sayfs from the Rōmarq, judging from his sun-darkened skin and poor appearance. He was tall, improbably broad in the shoulders and chest, with large hands knotted with muscle and muddy reed sandals on his feet. A gold-and-black wasp pin, the crest of his family, was pinned to his over-robe. Corajidin dug through his memories to attach a name to the face: Siamak of the Family Bey, one of the sayfs who flew Far-ad-din’s colors. Thufan had complained that Siamak’s warriors had been a constant threat to their smuggling efforts in the wetlands. On the upside, their tireless vigilance against the Fenlings had proven quite useful.

  Seated on the opposite side of the amphitheater were the greater number of those sympathetic to the Imperialist faction, if not to Corajidin himself. Teymoud of the Mercantile Guild, spear-thin on his cold stone seat. Portly Zendi, a luminary among the entertainers who also dabbled in bordellos for those who could not afford the expensive pleasures of the House of Pearl. There were other sayfs of the Hundred Families, hopefully there to support Corajidin in his moment of need.

  In the middle of the amphitheater floor stood ten figures in bloodstained white robes. They surrounded two long figures under white shrouds. Corajidin suppressed a smile at the sight, pretending at an expression of curiosity.

  Femensetri uttered a string of words. The shrouds fluttered away to reveal the corpses of Vashne and his younger son, Hamejin.

  “What happened, Corajidin?” Femensetri snapped in her crow’s voice. Corajidin felt oddly compelled to talk, something about the timbre of her voice. The casual power of command. Yet he shook his head, jaws clamped shut. He would talk when he was prepared to talk, tell them only what he was prepared to tell them.

  “What do you mean?” he said slowly, mastering each word to ensure it was his own. He was not sure, though he imagined he could feel her long nails rake across his brain. Peeling back. Prodding. Picking. “I do no—”

  “What happened to Vashne and Ariskander?” She strode forward, cassock snapping. Fractals of light flared into incandescence in the curve of her crook. They snarled. Hummed like fiery bees.

  “Why would he know?” Nehrun stood, drawing Femensetri’s baleful gaze. The young man wilted under her scrutiny. Sweat beaded his forehead. Nehrun wrenched his gaze away and glared at the Knight-Lieutenant who had been sent to bring Corajidin to the Teshri session. “You! Where did you find Rahn-Corajidin?”

  “At his villa, Pah-Nehrun,” the Feyassin replied. Corajidin detected a hint of disappointment in the man’s tone. “With his family.”

  “And before you went to Rahn-Corajidin’s villa?” Nehrun continued. Femensetri, Ziaire, and Nazarafine looked at the young man with incredulity. “What did you find?”

  “Signs of a Seethe ambush, at Iron Street Park.” The Feyassin took a deep breath. “Asrahn-Vashne and Pah-Hamejin were—”

  “Assassinated,” Nazarafine snapped. “On their way here. Eight of their Feyassin escort were killed. Mehran, a newer recruit, was found unconscious nearby. Of Mariam, your own daughter, there’s no sign. Convenient, don’t you think?”

  “And my father, missing…” Nehrun added, eyes narrowed.

  “We’re sure they were Seethe?” Siamak’s question was tinted with accusation. “It’s odd they’d risk this after the Asrahn pardoned them.”

  The Knight-Lieutenant gestured to his troops, who dropped captured weapons on the ground.

  Femensetri grunted. She turned to whisper something in Nazarafine’s ear. The Speaker for the People nodded, her expression thoughtful. The Speaker cleared her throat. “Where’s the Asrahn’s heir? Was there any sign of Pah-Daniush?”

  “None that we saw, Speaker,” the Knight-Lieutenant responded, clearly uncomfortable with his response. “We searched, but—”

  “He was taken.” Mariam trudged down the stairs to the center of the amphitheater. Her white armor and robe were tattered. Stained with blood around the hems as if she had been wading through wine. Her demeanor was miserable. “As was Ariskander.”

  “Where have you been, Knight-Major?” Nazarafine snapped. Mariam stiffened at the Speaker’s tone. She flicked her glance to Corajidin for a moment before meeting the Speaker’s gaze.

  “I tried to follow those who had abducted Pah-Daniush and Rahn-Ariskander—”

  “Your comrade Mehran says you disabled him.” Femensetri leaned toward Mariam, balanced on her tall scholar’s crook. Corajidin felt the air around the powerful Stormbringer crackle with energy, like caged lightning. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Why didn’t you die defending your Asrahn?” Narseh demanded.

  “Were the ones who abducted my father Seethe, Knight-Major?” Nehrun asked quickly, covering the beginning of Mariam’s reply to Femensetri. The other Teshri members nodded, clearly interested in her answer to Nehrun’s question. Corajidin caught Femensetri’s scowl.

  “The ones who attacked the Asrahn’s battlewagon were armed and armored in Seethe fashion,” Mariam replied. Corajidin hid his smile behind his hands as he rubbed his face. “There were fifty or so th
at I could count. Veterans by their approach and skill.”

  Nazarafine dropped to her seat, face buried in her hands. She sat there for a long moment before she looked up. “First Far-ad-din was accosted, based on suspicions quite a few of us thought too convenient. Now Vashne and Ariskander, our preferred candidate to be the next Asrahn.” Corajidin felt his face flush.

  “We need to act rather than become mired in our misfortune.” Nehrun stepped forward, much to the surprise of the others. His glance settled for a moment on Corajidin before it slid away again. “Though I mean no disrespect to Vashne, who’s gone on to be with his hallowed Ancestors, or my father, who I know is still alive, as I have not been Awakened, we’re a nation in crisis. We need to maintain strong, experienced leadership. We must bring Amnon under control.”

  “The law is quite clear in this regard.” Rahn-Narseh of Kadarin stood. The images of the absent Teshri members flickered in crystal. Heads nodded. Voices crackled their assent. “Corajidin must take Ariskander’s place as governor of Amnon. He is the only one with the military strength to do so.”

  “And after Vashne and Ariskander, Corajidin was the favored candidate to be Asrahn at the last Assembly of Peers,” Teymoud proclaimed. “It is he who should be taking control of Shrīan!”

  One by one Corajidin’s supporters lent their voices to Teymoud’s idea. Corajidin’s lips flickered with a smile. Across the amphitheater, Nehrun’s expression was glacial.

  “Third in line is far from—” Ziaire began, to be cut off by fat Zendi, the bordello keeper.

  “Yet better than anybody else we have—”

  Siamak stood, a great wall of muscle in his ocher and orange. “If Ariskander has been abducted, surely his captors will have ransom demands for his safe return?”

  “We must search for him!” Ziaire said. “He is the Asrahn-Elect and the one we wanted to govern us after Vashne.”

  “Isn’t there an old law”—Nehrun held his hands up for quiet—“where the Teshri can appoint a new Asrahn-Elect? But wasn’t it a temporary granting, with certain limitations on its power, for times such as this?”

  “Isn’t there also a law that allows for the Speaker for the People to take control of the country, when both the Asrahn and Asrahn-Elect are gone?” Ziaire pushed back.

  “I…” Nazarafine mumbled, her cheeks apple red as the others all turned to her. “There is such a law, but, once again, the Teshri needs to—”

  “I nominate Corajidin!” Teymoud was the first to pledge his support of Corajidin’s immediate ascension to power. Narseh followed before the echoes of Teymoud’s voice had faded. Nehrun. Chanq of the Family Joroccan, suspected of being the leader of most organized crime in Shrīan. Thufan, the ever-loyal kherife and Master of Assassins. Assent pattered like a summer’s rain, slowly at first, yet it gained momentum, volume. Voices hissed and crackled from crystalline, fractured images. A tug-of-war of assent and dissent.

  Corajidin closed his eyes. It seemed as if Wolfram’s oracles had been right after all.

  Before half the members had voted, Nazarafine moved to the center of the amphitheater. She raised her hands for silence, which eventually settled. Corajidin scowled.

  “The Teshri has spoken,” Nazarafine said. She looked sourly at Corajidin, clearly aware of what her hesitation had cost her. “It would seem you are hereby the Asrahn-Elect of Shrīan, as well as the governor of Amnon. Might I remind us all that we lost a great man tonight. I will be visiting the Garden of Stones to commune with my sacred Ancestors, to wish Vashne all speed to the bliss he’ll find in the Well of Souls. I recommend you do the same.”

  The Stormbringer led Nazarafine, Ziaire, and those others loyal to Vashne from the Tyr-Jahavān, to the mutters of those who remained. Their guards took Vashne’s body with them. One by one, the crystal pillars that had shone with the frosted visages of the distant members of the Teshri went dark.

  A score or so sayfs remained, voices muted in quiet discussion. In ones and twos they left, passing Corajidin to offer both their congratulations and promises.

  Corajidin listened, his chest tight with wonder. His hearts hammered against the prison of his ribs. Beat so hard it almost hurt. It was hard to breathe. Clearly destiny had accepted his sacrifice. He would give it more, much more, to ensure it continued to deliver on its promises.

  Corajidin forced his weakening body along the corridor toward Belamandris’s rooms, Mariam in his wake. The ride from the Tyr-Jahavān had been one of uncomfortable, hostile silence.

  Yashamin was already there. She had cleaned Belam’s wounds as best she could. Water steamed in an urn on a nearby table, which was also covered with piles of white silk bandages, a flagon of wine, and what Corajidin saw were a handful of small bottles of lotus milk, such as Wolfram had prescribed Corajidin for his own pains.

  Corajidin recounted the night’s activities to Yashamin while Wolfram inspected Belamandris. He watched with morbid fascination as the witch removed shimmering bottles and colored crystals from a battered wooden case.

  Corajidin looked down at his perspiring son. “I did not believe Indris could defeat Belamandris,” he mused. “I did not think anybody in Shrīan could beat him.”

  “Other than me, there are few who can.” Mariam held Belamandris’s hand. Her voice sounded as flat as her expression. “Gloriano, the Knight of Roses from Ygran. Or Revael, the Tall Horseman of Darmatia. Delfyne, Poet Master of the Grieve, and my teacher, Bensaharēn, the Poet Master of the Lament. There is also Saphyr-Aram, the Knight of the Eclipse from Mediin—”

  “Silence, girl,” Corajidin growled. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stem the pain in his head. “Your brother was—”

  “Beaten?” Mariam lifted her chin in defiance, though Corajidin saw her sorrow in the lines of dried tears that streaked her face. “Pour as much honey on the word as you like, it changes nothing. There’s a Dragon in your city of snakes.”

  Wolfram looked up at them testily. “Would you either take your blather outside or wait until I’m finished tending to Belamandris’s wounds?”

  The others fell into an uneasy silence. Corajidin made himself comfortable as the witch took a large, curved needle from among his tools. With his other hand he took a string of polished beads hung with a teardrop ruby that flickered with inner radiance. He chanted under his breath. Though Corajidin heard the words, they vanished from his memory almost immediately. It was as if he were listening to the hiss and roar of the surf.

  The Angothic Witch rubbed the Reflex Needle between his thumb and forefinger. As he rubbed, strands of vaporous white, like wisps of spider silk, coalesced. They threaded the eye of the needle, then grew longer until they formed a writhing filament. Wolfram took the needle and began his work. Both needle and Wolfram’s hand passed through the flesh of Belamandris’s arm, easily as light through a window. Corajidin watched Wolfram’s hand make sewing motions. Wolfram seemed to see through skin, muscle, ligaments, and tendons. The witch worked for almost an hour to repair the damage from the inside out. When he had finished, there was only the faintest seam of angry red where the puncture had been.

  Wolfram took a length of ivory as long as his forearm and placed it beside Belamandris’s shin. After cutting it to half its size, Wolfram chanted once more. This time he inserted both his hands into Belamandris’s leg. Corajidin heard the faint grinding sound of the bone being set. The witch withdrew one hand to grasp the ivory splint. He pushed it inward through the flesh. His chant became deeper in pitch, solid, deep as the bones themselves. Belamandris’s leg started to glow. The veins became silhouettes, the skin shone alabaster white, shot through with pink. Within moments the light faded.

  The witch withdrew trembling hands from Belamandris’s leg. Perspiration beaded his sallow skin. It shimmered on the backs of his hands where the veins protruded, thick and ropy.

  “Wine?” Wolfram choked out.

  Thufan poured wine into an onyx bowl. Wolfram drained it in several gulps.

&n
bsp; “Will my son wield a sword again?” Corajidin asked.

  “It would’ve been better had I access to one of the Sēq’s Differential Baths.” Wolfram’s large-knuckled hands shook until he clenched them into lumpy fists. “I could’ve laid him in the regeneration milk and his body would’ve healed itself in hours. As it is, it’ll take him a couple of days before he’ll be fully fit, though he will be.”

  “My thanks to you.”

  “We’ll have the opportunity to settle our debts to one another soon enough.”

  “Why was Indris there?” Yashamin demanded of Mariam.

  “He said he was there to escort Ekko to the Tyr-Jahavān. Ekko was going to reveal what he knew of who was digging in the Rōmarq.”

  “By the Ancestors’ withered balls!” Corajidin swore. “It would have been better if you had killed Ekko when you had the chance!”

  “Wouldn’t that have been a touch obvious?” Mariam shot back.

  “Do not push me, tonight of all nights, Mariam,” he warned. “Have the guards brought the bodies of Indris and the Seethe woman back?”

  “Nobody’s returned,” Farouk reported.

  “You bring me bad news as often as not,” Corajidin said, exasperated. “It was one mostly dead daimahjin, stuck through by salt-forged bolts!” He pantomimed being struck by the bolts. “And a single Seethe! How hard—”

  “Does it matter, Jidi?” Yashamin interjected. She fidgeted with the hem of her heavily embroidered robe. “The question is, how do you manage things from here? You need to stay focused, love.”

  “You’re Asrahn. Do what you like,” Thufan suggested.

  “I am Asrahn-Elect. There is a significant distance between the two,” Corajidin countered.

  “Then act before they do,” Yashamin said flatly. “Who cares what the others do or say? They’ve been sheep until today. They’ll be sheep tomorrow.”

  “You have the votes in the Teshri. Even that of Nehrun,” Wolfram said shakily. The old man rubbed a hand across his brow, skin waxen.