The Garden of Stones

by Mark T. Barnes

  Since that time, those mortal Avān who lived under the empress’s reign no longer adhered to the prohibitions about extending their life spans. After all, master scholars had been doing it for millennia. Bargains were struck between the Nomads, some of whom sought mortal shells so they could experience once more what it was to be alive, and willing mortals who could experience eternity. There were the eshim, the insane ones who took possession of others against their will; the ephim, who lived symbiotically with a host; and the ebrim, like Sassomon-Omen, who took artificial simulacra in which to interact with the world. Then there were the ephael, who took no hosts at all. The ephael were the purest of the Nomads. Only able to interact with the physical world through great effort and control, they formed the Sussain, the empress’s Parliament of Immortals. Along with the undying empress herself, they still governed the tattered remnants of the empire.

  Indris had been awed by Mediin, the capital of the old empire. Made of carved quartz and white marble, Ishuajan—the empress’s palace—cascaded down the side of a dark mountain like the frozen, backlit waters of a cataract. The small hills and valleys of the city and its surrounds were dotted with white stone buildings, where verdigris domes hunched like parts of the moon fallen from the sky. Broad streets of polished blue stone stretched in gentle curves around ornate statues. There were gardens and parks, lush with dark-leaved trees and beds of blue, red, white, and silver lotus flowers. Silver and glass fountains gurgled. During the day the streets were quiet, though not still. It was when the first evening shadows stretched from the Mar Siliin that the mist-and-starlight forms of the Nomads took shape. They were always there but could not be seen in sunlight.

  Indris’s hearts had almost broken as he passed the armored bodies of Wraith Knights, their spirits encased in Wraithjars of jade, gold, and steel, sworn to defend their people beyond death. Beyond pain, or sleep, or happiness. Beyond even the remembrance of why they had become what they had become. He and Shar had sat for hours in the shade of a Wraith Knight who had simply stopped. Rust streaked its towering form, armor that was perhaps centuries old or more. It was stained with the tracks of rain. Grasses had entwined its legs. The metal surface, once polished to mirror brightness, was dented, scratched, scored with the marks of old battles won. Driven by an extravagance of passion, of patriotism, even of love, the Wraith Knights had sworn themselves to an unending count of years. As those years passed, the notion of what mortality meant slipped away. In some ways the Sēq were not dissimilar.

  “Seeing the Wraith Knights and the other Nomads brought to mind the idea of eternal commitment,” Indris whispered. “I know the Sēq Masters have the knowledge to prolong their lives. But to serve countless people, for countless years, is too abstract. I don’t want to think in terms of thousands. In the tens or hundreds of thousands. After Sorochel, after Anj-el-din, I had to think in terms of the people I could see and love. I was happy when I was in love. Without love, what does any of it mean anyway?”

  “We Sēq love in the abstract, Indris. The temptation to give in to anger and vengeance is far too dangerous. You learned that yourself. It’s why—”

  “Most of us don’t have friends? Why we, all of us, die alone?”

  “Everybody dies alone.” Femensetri’s expression was neutral. Indris had no idea whether his words had reached her at all. “It’s what you do before you die that matters.”

  Femensetri had argued with him for almost another hour, though neither of their hearts were in it. When she left, he listened to the solid thump of her crook against the floor as she walked down the corridor.

  Indris rose from the bed. Femensetri had healed him of the worst of the damage, but the residual aches, pains, and fatigue would take a little longer to disappear. His Disentropic Stain swirled around the vortices of his wounds, leaving him with a slight sense of vertigo. He rummaged through the cupboards in the room. His own well-loved clothes had been cleaned, repaired, then folded. Somebody, he presumed Shar, had also placed his kit bag there. Among his possessions was his armor, his round shield with its sharpened edge, and the serpentine shape of Changeling, wrapped in folds of black silk and tied with thick cord.

  Changeling seemed to sense his scrutiny. A gentle croon came from within the bag. Shar knew how he felt about Changeling, the power his mind blade gave him. She was his guilty affair, the lover he at once loved and loathed.

  Lips pursed, he took the cloth-wrapped weapon from the cupboard. The psédari—the mind blade—purred in his hand, a familiar, contented vibration. It took a few minutes to undo the knots, which had been pulled tight. Indris unfolded the silk to reveal what he had made in his time with the Dragons…though he remembered nothing of it. He drew a hand span of the blade. Witchfire burned in her depths with a jade radiance, alloyed with the nacreous kirion. All the psédari were made this way, to help the Sēq to channel disentropy. Other metals decayed too rapidly, yet psédari of witchfire and kirion—the steel mined from fallen stars—alloyed together, could last for millennia. The Great House of Sûn used the same techniques to forge their rare and precious Sûnblades, given as gifts to heroes of the Avān people.

  “We’re not done yet, you and I,” he murmured to Changeling. The weapon vibrated with pleasure as he slung her across his back. Within moments he felt the familiar, intoxicating swell of disentropy wash through him. The entropic scars left by the salt-forged steel were lessened. His senses heightened. Colors became more vibrant, sounds more pronounced, scents richer, light brighter, and shadows sharper.

  Indris quietly left his room by the balcony door. It felt good to move his limbs. No doubt his friends would worry if they discovered he had gone, but there were things he needed to see for himself. Besides, his companions were an odd enough group to draw unwanted attention. He drew up his hood against the glare of the day, made his way through the silent gardens, then through Samyala’s open gates. The tree-lined length of Silk Lane stretched toward the center of Amnon, though Indris hailed a carriage rather than walk. He asked the driver to take him to the Ghyle, the serpentine labyrinth of the Amnon’s market precinct.

  Indris sensed the tension as he exited the cab. The Ghyle usually teemed with traffic from before dawn till long after both the sun and moon had set. People still walked the plazas and water still flowed through the fountains. There was laughter, smiles, arguments, yet the once joyous sounds seemed flat. There were mysterious gaps between the burlap canopies where street vendors had plied their trade. Some stores had their frontages painted yellow with the crooked-hand glyph for “traitor.” A small, dark-eyed child stared at Indris as he walked past, one tiny hand clenched around a slice of masticated nougat. She chewed silently, her eyes too hollow for a face so young.

  A left turn down Mariner’s Road took Indris through the tall, clustered apartments of the midcastes—the artisans, merchants, soldiers, clerks, tailors, and those others who fueled the mechanisms of industry. Tall keyhole windows looked out blindly on the street from beneath the glowering brows of overhanging balconies.

  Indris found a small coffeehouse on the corner of a fig-shaded square. The coffee, laced with cinnamon, was thick and pungent.

  All about him people spoke in voices quieter than expected. Under Far-ad-din’s rule, people had openly shared their opinions about the city and how the prefecture was run. Little had changed, though voices might have been somewhat softer than usual when soldiers passed by. There were those who lauded Corajidin’s firm, though seemingly fair, hand. Yet for every positive conversation there were three or four that told a different tale. There was talk of friends who had been taken in the night. Of the vicious melees between the soldiers of the Hundred Families who supported one Great House or another. Of the purge of the Seethe and Humans from Amnon.

  Across the road a door opened. An elderly man with a bush of wild gray hair poked his head out. He scanned the street, then ushered out four adolescents and as many figures again: tall, cloaked, too graceful to be anything other than Seethe. T
he entourage clambered into a covered wagon drawn by four tired-looking deer whose better years were behind them. People in the streets, as well as in the coffeehouse, turned their faces away as the wagon trundled down the road toward the docks, where masts swung back and forth like a forest in the breeze.

  What people could not see, they could not tell.

  Less than an hour later, as Indris walked the narrow shade of Glassblower’s Lane, he happened across a crowd of people who stood watching while Erebus soldiers, wearing the green sash of the kherife’s office, stood by the smashed door and windows of a sandstone-terraced house. Armal led them, a large iron mace across his shoulder. He wore the black-and-white knot of a kherife investigator on his sash beside his captain’s insignia.

  The soldiers dragged a mixture of Seethe and Avān from the building, toward a half-dozen ironclad prison wagons, some of which were already occupied. The Avān prisoners being escorted out of the house were sun-browned, their clothing almost a century out of date, though clean and lovingly repaired. What few had footwear wore frayed sandals made of reeds and braided grass. Their umber-and-orange clothing pronounced them to be retainers of the Family Bey. The captured Seethe wore the gold, red, and royal blue of those who had served Far-ad-din.

  Indris’s eyebrows raised involuntarily when he saw one of the Seethe captives was an elder. Most of his fine quills had grown into bright feathers. His straight nose seemed to have hardened to something other than skin, shot through with rainbow hues. The scutes around his eyes, hairline, and jaw were darker, looked harder, than those of his younger counterparts. His cloak got snagged beneath a soldier’s foot. As it fell to the ground, the Seethe’s galleon sail wings opened with a snap, to be hastily pinned down by the soldiers around him. Another, a war-composer from what Indris saw of the bird-bone bracelets around his wrists and the pale feathers of late adulthood among his blood-streaked quills, was carried, unconscious, from the building.

  As he sidled through the crowd, Indris saw this was not the only house being ransacked. Five more had yawning holes where windows and doors had once been. Another three had soot marks from the fires that had no doubt gutted them. Glassblower’s Lane was one of a dozen or so streets in the area where Far-ad-din’s favored retainers and allies had lived, along with their families.

  The taint of salt-forged steel greased his Disentropic Stain. Half a dozen soldiers stood near the wagons, their crossbows armed with the black salt-forged bolts. Changeling muttered darkly from across his back. Those nearby shot Indris startled looks, though he moved rapidly away before they could ask questions.

  There came the sound of breaking glass. An armed man in orange and brown leaped from a first-floor window, to the shouts of those inside, and landed on the roof of one of the prison wagons. With a rapid motion, he struck the locks. The doors flew open, and the captives burst out. The man leaped to another wagon, where he kicked the driver soundly in the head. He disengaged the brake and drove the Spool-driven wagon forward. The driver was dumped from the carriage as it sped away.

  Chaos ensued as soldiers tried to give chase. The crowd surged as people shoved, either for a better vantage or to flee. Indris backed away as the Seethe and Avān escapees surged through the crowd. Crossbow bolts whizzed past. Some found their intended targets. Others struck down innocent bystanders. The soldiers seemed to not care. Under Armal’s watchful eyes, the soldiers-turned-kherife flailed at any who stood in their way. Many of the bystanders were rounded up and thrust into the wagons despite their protests. Fists and sheathed swords flailed madly as some semblance of order was restored.

  Indris had seen enough. He returned to Samyala.

  From the balcony Indris watched the city where it sprawled across the river valley below. At this distance, the people were little more than currents of bright dots. It was the way the Sēq were supposed to view the world: look at the larger canvas, which is intended to last. The tiny colored dots of people, anonymous in their volume, were replaced all the time. Once cared little for the drops of water if the river itself still flowed. Such was the way the world was.

  Indris recounted all he had seen in the city to his gathered friends.

  “No place is safe.” Ziaire’s voice was melancholy. “Not really, not anymore. Do you think these reprisals are Corajidin’s idea?”

  “Does it matter?” Femensetri scratched at her scalp.

  “Indris, you’re the pah of a Great House, as well as a hero to many.” Ziaire raised a slender hand to shade her eyes. “We need men such as you, more so now than ever.”

  “I’m not the man you think I am, Your Excellency. My pedigree is…questionable.” Indris laughed ruefully. “I count among my ancestors the first Avān Awakened Emperor, who sank the Seethe high court beneath the Marble Sea. As if that’s not enough, I’m also descended from the Empress-in-Shadows.”

  “Asrahn-Vashne asked for your help before he was murdered,” Ekko rumbled. “Rahn-Ariskander trusted you. Much they hoped to avoid has seemingly come to pass. The rest does not need to.”

  “How do you propose we stop Corajidin, Ekko? Even if this isn’t his will, it’s certainly what those who follow him have interpreted as his wishes.” Indris leaned on the balcony railing. The marble was warm against his skin. “Nehrun won’t act against Corajidin while he sees a chance for his own benefit. Do you suggest assassination, perhaps? It’s not as if we don’t have enough of that in our history. Or do we flee, to muster an army elsewhere?”

  “Why not?” Hayden narrowed his eyes as he looked out over Amnon and the Marble Sea. “The Immortal Companions did just that—”

  “There were two hundred of us then, Hayden.”

  “Find Ariskander.” Femensetri leaned on her crook. “Find Far-ad-din. Bring them back.”

  “Will Ariskander be able to stop the madness?” Indris sat back against a balcony post. “Honestly? It would be like dropping a pebble to stop the tide. As for Far-ad-din, I don’t imagine he would trust any offer the Teshri might make.”

  “You know where he is, don’t you?” Ziaire asked, her gaze piercing.

  “It’s the Teshri who need to be convinced,” Indris replied. “They need to act to prevent even worse from happening.”

  “How many lies must they tell themselves, or hear told, before good people take action?” Ziaire mused. “How many times will we sit back and say, ‘It will be for the best’ before truth becomes a casualty once too often?”

  Indris looked at Shar, Hayden, and Omen. “I can’t commit you to this. You should take your fortunes and get as far away as you can—”

  “Them’s the words of a man set on getting rowdy,” Hayden said.

  “You’re going to fight,” Shar stated, her gaze hawklike in its intensity.

  “It certainly appears to be so,” Omen added.

  “I will join you, if you will have me.” Ekko bowed to Indris. “There are many of my own people who have not returned from the Rōmarq. I would have answers.”

  Indris smiled his thanks. “If you’re all set on coming, let’s bring Ariskander and Far-ad-din home. I’ve a mind to ruin Corajidin’s day.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “There is as much freedom as there is bondage in resolve.”—Kelumba, Zienni Scholar at the Inauguration Ceremony of Queen Neferi VII (461st Year of the Shrīanese Federation)

  Day 317 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation

  Mari wandered quietly through the near-monastic stillness of the Feyassin’s sanctuary, her Feyassin’s armor and weapons packed in their white enameled cases. Voices carried, always quiet, always in another room. No matter where she went, she was alone. No doubt her former comrades knew she was there. They would present themselves to her when they were ready.

  She came to stand barefoot in the training arena under lengthening afternoon shadows. The white sand had been freshly raked. It was warm beneath her feet. Soft, welcome after two days of being locked in her rooms with a guard outside the door to ensure she went nowhere with
out her father’s knowledge. The warren of hidden corridors that riddled the walls of the villa had come in handy for her escape. For all her family knew, she was locked fuming in her room.

  She clenched her toes in the sand. The sensation of the sun on her face, the sound of the breakers on the shore, made her smile. They reminded her of more innocent days. A gentle breeze flowed through the sun-bleached fretwork screens of the small training area in which she stood. Pennons snapped at the ends of tall poles. Gulls cried, seeming to hover motionless in the air over the endless advance and retreat of the small waves that lapped at the shore. The breeze smelled of scorched sand, brine, and dried seaweed. She felt perspiration trickle down her spine. Tiny prickles of moisture had sprung up across her shoulders and arms.

  She knew she was taking a risk being here. Regardless of the outcome, she needed to face what she had done. In the privacy of her room, she had wept in her grief, had railed against and bruised herself in frustration. Guilt had welled up in her, leaving her breathless at times. How had she fallen so far, to betray a man who had done her nothing but good? It was something for which she did not think she could ever forgive herself. Nor would others.

  The door to the training area opened and a dozen or so Feyassin emerged. They talked among themselves: the light banter, the easy laughter, the good-natured teasing of those who held each other’s lives in their hands. Mari attempted to smile at her friends, her only friends, though she felt the expression as little more than the halfhearted stretching of her lips. Uncomfortable under their gaze, she looked down to the cases that contained of her armor and amenesqa.