Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  “It is.” He gave a wry half shrug and his crooked smile. “And that’s why I dare not take it, Khai.”

  “But—”

  Brother Yarit sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “Like it or not, for now my place is here in the desert. If I leave, I might never come back.”

  “You’ve Seen it?” I asked respectfully.

  “I’ve Seen … possibilities,” he murmured. “The Brotherhood of Pahrkun may yet have another role to play, and that cannot come to pass if the Seer abandons his post.” His mouth quirked. “And the truth of it is that I know my own limitations. So yes, I will remain at the Fortress of the Winds.”

  The remaining days dwindled; three, then two, then one. On the day before we were to depart, Brother Merik presented me with an unworn set of clothing: a tunic, robe, breeches, and head-scarf wrought of fine-combed white wool. “A last gift from Brother Saan,” he told me.

  Everything fit perfectly. “How did he know?”

  Brother Merik smiled. “I daresay he Saw it, or at least a vision he hoped would come to pass.”

  Among the senior members of the brotherhood, Brother Merik and Brother Drajan would accompany me to Merabaht, and Vironesh, too. Brother Tekel would tend to the horses. It shames me to confess that I do not recall all the names of the young brothers chosen to fill the remaining five places, for although they were as naive and excited as I was at the prospect of seeing the great city for the first time, the gulf that had ever existed between us had only grown more vast since I had undergone the trial.

  My last night in the Fortress of the Winds was a bittersweet affair, for it came home to me that I was leaving everything I had ever known.

  My home.

  My family.

  I knew nothing of cities; I knew nothing of courts or palaces save what Vironesh had told me. I knew nothing of women.

  I was embarking into a world that encompassed all of these things.

  It seemed at some point, Brother Yarit had succeeded in trading for several flagons of date-palm wine, and it flowed freely that last night. I drank sparingly of it, but others indulged more deeply; somewhat to my surprise, Vironesh was among them, although it seemed to bring him no pleasure. Still, he stayed long enough to drink to my health when Brother Yarit toasted me, which was convivial by his standards.

  When our final evening meal was concluded, Brother Yarit escorted me back to my chamber for one last word in private.

  “I wish I had some really damn sage advice for you, kid,” he said wistfully. “But the fucking truth is the Sight just doesn’t work that way. If I try warning you about the different crossroads that might or might not lie ahead of you, I’ll just fuck everything up.”

  “I know,” I said. “I remember.”

  “Brother Saan would have had something profound to say,” he mused. “Some piece of deep desert wisdom.”

  I smiled a little. “Let your mind be like the eye of a hawk.”

  Brother Yarit nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Listen, my cousin Amal in the Royal Guard will keep an eye out for you, but don’t risk contacting him. If you need the Shahalim Clan’s help for any reason, go to the Lucky Tortoise teahouse and ask if they carry three-moon blend.”

  “Three-moon blend,” I repeated. “I thought you called in whatever favor you were owed.”

  “I did,” he said. “But for better or worse, I am the Seer of the Brotherhood of Pahrkun, and that’s good for some credit.”

  “You’re the Seer that Pahrkun chose to guide me into adulthood,” I said softly. “You’ve taught me things that no one else could have, Elder Brother.” I brushed the nape of my neck with one finger. “You’ve given me a gift that no one else could have.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.” He took a deep breath. “I’m proud of you, Khai. And I hope I did right by you.”

  “You did,” I said to him. “I’m sure of it.”

  “How in the watery hell would you know?” Brother Yarit laughed and pulled me into a warm embrace, the first since the day he’d told me that I was bhazim. Then, I’d been small enough that he could rest his chin atop my head; today we were nearly of a height. “Ah, kid!” He turned me loose. “All right, get some sleep. I’ll see you off in the morning.”

  It was actually some hours before dawn when our company gathered and made ready to depart. In what seemed a happy omen, all three moons were overhead with Nim the Bright Moon waxing toward fullness and shedding plenty of light by which to travel. I was touched to see that even though we’d had our farewell feast the night before, the entirety of the brotherhood turned out to watch us take our leave, figures dotting the entryways and lookouts of the western face of the fortress.

  The moonlight lent Brother Yarit’s plain features an unaccustomed dignity. “Khai of the Fortress of the Winds, we send you forth to serve as a shadow to the Sun-Blessed Princess Zariya of the House of the Ageless,” he said in a formal tone, placing his hands on my shoulders. “May you attain honor beyond honor.”

  Swallowing, I nodded and saluted him. “Thank you, Elder Brother.”

  After so long, it seemed impossible to believe that the moment was upon me; and yet it was.

  Brother Yarit, the first man I’d tried to kill, the most unlikely of Seers, kissed my brow and released me. “May Pahrkun guide your steps.” He saluted me, and the rest of the brotherhood followed suit.

  I swung myself astride my horse. I was a blooded warrior. I had my yakhan and my kopar thrust through my sash, a brace of zims strapped to my left forearm, my heshkrat knotted around my waist, and a garrote tying back my hair. In my packs were a grappling hook and a length of rope and a set of lock-picks. I bore the marks of Pahrkun’s favor etched on my cheekbones and the Teardrop hidden in my flesh. I could move silent and unseen through shadows, leap astonishing heights, pick a pocket so deftly its bearer would never know I’d been there, and channel Pahkrun’s wind.

  I was ready.

  Even so, I could not help but glance backward as Brother Merik gave the command and we set out across the desert at a steady trot. Bit by bit, the figures of Brother Yarit and the rest of the brotherhood were swallowed by the distance, and I set my gaze on the western horizon and ceased looking backward.

  There was little in the way of conversation on our first leg of the journey, which I suspect may have been due in part to the after-effects of the date-palm wine, but when we resumed our sojourn after the midday rest, Vironesh brought his mount alongside mine.

  “As I have said, you’ll find the court is rife with factions,” he said without preamble. “But I fear that I cannot tell you what those factions may be. I’ve been gone too long. In my day, the princes Elizar and Tazaresh, who are the king’s first- and second-born sons, made common cause against Prince Kazaran, for it was well known the king favored his third-born son.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “However, I do not see that alliance enduring beyond Kazaran’s death, and I suspect you will find them at odds.”

  It was the first time Vironesh had spoken his Sun-Blessed charge’s name aloud. “I am listening,” I said carefully.

  He gave a brusque nod without looking at me. “I’d be surprised if one of the younger sons wasn’t angling for the throne. Not the twins, they struck me as fairly simple souls. Good foot soldiers in someone else’s campaign, not likely to spearhead their own. No, my money’s on Dozaren.”

  “Dozaren,” I repeated.

  “That’s Rashina’s boy,” Vironesh said. “Fourth-born son. A quiet type, but charming when he wants to be, and he’s not one to miss an opportunity. And his mother’s ambitious.”

  I did my best to recall the genealogy that Brother Ehudan had taught me. “That’s His Majesty’s fourth queen?”

  “Third queen, fourth-born son,” Vironesh corrected me. “Look, Khai … the truth is, your girl’s not likely to be a threat to anyone. She’s the king’s last-born, the youngest of eleven daughters.”

  I raised my brows in his direction. “Daughters aren’t a threat?”
<
br />   “Not to ascend to the throne, not in Zarkhoum,” he said bluntly. “Most of the king’s daughters are already wed and have households of their own. They received the allotment of rhamanthus seeds they were to be given throughout their lifetime as their dowry to bestow as they or their husbands choose. Most of the House of the Ageless have chosen to hold off on bearing children.”

  I pondered this, thinking about the crime for which Brother Yarit was caught and convicted. “And if they’re not content with their allotted share?”

  Vironesh smiled humorlessly. “Then they scheme and intrigue on behalf of whatever aspirant to the throne promised them more. The women’s quarter is a world unto itself and I spoke truly when I told you that I’ve very little idea what transpires in it. Even so, I can’t imagine there’s much of anything the young princess can do to influence the succession. But if your girl has enemies, it’s because she’s a member of someone’s faction. And if you can find out who it is,” he added, “I’ll do my best to convince His Majesty to assign me to a rival faction’s personal guard and help you protect her.”

  It surprised me. “You’re staying?”

  The purple man’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a heavy shrug. “If the king will have me.”

  I hesitated. “Does he … does His Majesty blame you for what happened?”

  “Not as much as I blame myself.” Vironesh’s tone brooked no further questions, and I asked none.

  Still, I thought about it as we rode across the desert.

  My mind was awhirl with the names and connections I should have memorized, abstractions that were to become real flesh-and-blood people and relationships in a short amount of time.

  Six sons, one dead.

  Eleven daughters; eight of them wed, the eldest serving as the High Priestess of Anamuht.

  Zariya.

  What was she like, the king’s youngest? Like me, she was on the cusp of turning sixteen years of age. Powerless, according to Vironesh; and like as not it was true. Yet there was one thing of which he had not spoken.

  On the third day of our journey, I broached the silence between us to ask him, “Brother Vironesh, what of the prophecy?”

  “The prophecy?” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Oh, Khai! I’ve told you, there are many pieces of prophecy beneath the starless skies. You cannot imagine this girl-child is the one to fulfill ours.”

  “Why not?” I asked stubbornly.

  For a long moment, I thought he would not answer, but then he did. “Because if it were anyone, it should have been Kazaran,” he said with unexpected savagery, the outburst provoking startled murmurs among the rest of our company. “He had a vision! He had strength and courage and nobility…” Vironesh shook his head, jaw tight. “Prince Kazaran was born to be a hero, and I would have helped him build an empire. One that would have stood against any darkness that might rise.”

  Ahead of us, Brother Merik drew rein. “Khai bears Pahrkun’s mark as surely as you do, brother,” he said in a reproving tone. “And a duty to the House of the Ageless yet to be fulfilled. I am sympathetic to your loss, but he has the right to ask such questions.”

  Vironesh took a ragged breath. “You are right,” he said, inclining his head toward Brother Merik. “Forgive me, Khai. Prince Kazaran’s death … I fear it is a wound that will never heal. As we ride toward the Palace of the Sun, I feel it anew.”

  “I am sorry,” I said quietly. “I do not mean to trouble your heart. You should not do this if it pains you so.”

  He favored me with one of his grim smiles. “There is a part of me that would like nothing better than to return to the coursers of Obid the Stern, for there is a certain stark purity in their code that I find makes the disgrace of my failure easier to bear. But there is another part that wonders … What if there is a measure of redemption in this for me?” He paused. “Unless you object, I will stay.”

  “I welcome it,” I assured him.

  For the remainder of the journey, we spoke no more of prophecy, nor of the slain Prince Kazaran.

  Merabaht had always seemed to me to be such a faraway place, it was strange to realize that in truth it was a mere week’s ride from the Fortress of the Winds. To be sure, it was a forbidding ride, but the rigors of the desert held few terrors for the Brotherhood of Pahrkun.

  On the fifth day, we reached the River Ouris.

  Never in my life had I seen such a thing! Its slow-moving bronze waters cut a vast swath through the desert, nearly as wide across as the Eye of Zar, but stretching endlessly before us toward the west and behind us toward the northeast. Moisture hung in the air. Acres upon acres of green fields of wheat and rice lined its banks, and date palms rose to curve over the flowing water; water upon which men on flat-bottomed boats called skiffs cast nets and hauled in catches of silvery fish.

  I stared and stared.

  Brother Drajan leaned over in the saddle and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Wait until you see the city!”

  For two days, we followed the river, riding along a well-graded path, a road on which other travelers and traders journeyed. Brother Merik brought forth the standard of Pahrkun, and we rode beneath the sign of the carrion beetle, folk saluting us as we passed, thumbs pressed to brows. Villages of palm-thatched huts were clustered along the river every half a league or so. When we made camp on a trampled patch of land that had been used by countless travelers before us, shy villagers came to offer us wooden bowls full of slippery noodles and cooked fish in exchange for our blessing. The fare was unfamiliar to me, but I ate it with relish.

  On the last day …

  Merabaht.

  On the far side of the river, the city sprawled before us. It occupied a hill, and atop the hill were the honey-colored marble walls of the Palace of the Sun. At the very apex of the hill was the Garden of Sowing Time, the crown-shaped fronds of the rhamanthus trees reaching toward the sun.

  I gawped at it.

  In this I was not alone, for the younger members of the brotherhood gawped, too. Even Brother Merik stared, although he winked at me when he saw me notice. “A far cry from the desert, eh, Khai?”

  I smiled at him. “Indeed, brother.”

  We crossed the river on a conveyance called a ferry, a great floating platform of wood that was drawn back and forth across the wide expanse by means of half a dozen stalwart men hauling on a great length of rope. Brother Drajan paid a fare to the fellow in charge and we led our mounts and the two pack-horses onto the ferry.

  It was strange indeed to be standing upon water, more water than I’d ever seen in my lifetime. Oh, but that was only the beginning, for as we gained the far bank and the outskirts of the city, the vista opened onto the ocean.

  Of course, I had known from Brother Ehudan’s maps that the ocean was vast, but it was one thing to know it and quite another to see it. It was as vast as the desert, but it was water. Even at a distance I could see that it was in a state of constant motion, sunlight sparkling on gentle waves, all manner of ships large and small following the course of the great western current.

  “Who are they all?” I asked Brother Drajan. “Where do they come from and what do they do?”

  “Traders, for the most part,” he said. “Some official delegations from our nearest neighbors. Others, like the Tukkani, engage in commerce wherever the four great currents will carry them. Zarkhoum is rich in gold and grain and livestock,” he added. “But for aught else, we needs must trade.”

  “Like what?” I could not think of what else one might need.

  “Iron, for one thing,” Vironesh said. “Where do you think the iron that forged your weapons comes from?”

  “I don’t know.” It had never occurred to me to wonder. “Where?”

  “Granth,” he said in a sour tone. “That’s why, like it or not, our realms need each other.”

  “Oh.” Once again, I had the sense of the world and my understanding of it growing and expanding.

  “And silk,” Brother Drajan said cheerfully
. “Heaven knows, our fine lords and ladies and rich merchants need their Barakhan silk!”

  There were no fine lords or ladies in evidence at the ferry landing. Instead there was a market where dozens of peasant farmers from the countryside along the river offered goods for purchase—wheat and rice, squash and other vegetables I did not recognize, live birds. Women in plain-spun robes and simple veils traveled in pairs or groups of three or four, perusing the selection.

  “Come.” Vironesh nudged his mount. “We’re bound for the barracks of the Royal Guard.”

  We made our way upward.

  The city of Merabaht was laid out in concentric circles. From a distance, it had looked as though it would be fairly easy to navigate. In practice, it was a complicated maze, at least in the lower levels. The cobbled streets were narrow, lined with multi-storied sandstone dwellings that leaned inward to block out the sun, and thronged with people going to and fro on foot. Many of them saluted when they saw Pahrkun’s banner and sought to let us pass, but at times we simply had to wait for the knots of foot traffic to dissolve. It smelled of sweat and spices and ordure, and I found myself overwhelmed by the crush of humanity and longing for the purity of the desert.

  Wherever the streets gave way to a crowded square, there were markets. Here were different goods on offer, items of clothing and household goods, baskets and pots and pans. I saw crippled boys begging in the squares, leaning on crutches and dragging wasted legs, and I remembered that Brother Yarit had told me of such things. Seeing the abundance that surrounded the city, it seemed shameful to me that there were children forced to beg for subsistence.

  From my mounted vantage point, I saw pickpockets and cut-purses sliding like deft shadows through the throngs, and I wondered if any of them were part of the Shahalim Clan.

  I saw members of the City Guard, clad in long black tunics and white breeches, an emblem of a wheat sheaf on their breasts. They did not carry edged blades, but a pair of kopars thrust through their sashes. The Royal Guard, Brother Drajan told me, was tasked with carrying out the king’s justice; the City Guard was tasked with maintaining order in the streets of Merabaht.