Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  “What’s it like when it happens, do you suppose?” I wondered aloud.

  “Splendid and terrible,” Zariya breathed, leaning on her canes. “From what I’m told.”

  I tried to imagine it, quickened seeds raining down like thousands upon thousands of embers. “They must be as hard as gems to be set in your father’s crown. How did the Sun-Blessed know to eat them?”

  “You touch upon the matter of prophecy, my heart,” Zariya observed. “This is what Anamuht the Purging Fire said to Azaria, the first of our line: ‘As I am my father’s daughter, each seed now bears a spark of the sun’s fire. Partake of them, you and your descendants, that his blessing might dwell in your flesh and blood, and lead long and virtuous lives. For one day a darkness that threatens will arise in the west, a darkness that threatens to swallow all that exists beneath the starless skies, and one of the lineage of the rhamanthus will stand against it.’”

  Hearing her recite the words with such surety made me wonder if I should not have told Sister Nizara what Pahrkun the Scouring Wind had said to me in the Mirror of Heaven, that it might be preserved in the priestesses’ records; and yet it still seemed to me that those words were meant to be held close. I resolved to think on it.

  “Surely, we have led long lives,” Zariya mused. “I do not know if we can claim to have led virtuous ones. Did you really kill that guardsman, my darling?”

  “Yes.”

  She cocked her head at me. “What did it feel like?”

  I could not lie to my soul’s twin. “I knew what he had done,” I said to her. “It felt good.”

  Zariya looked thoughtful. “I expect it would.”

  Several days passed without incident. I received word neither from Vironesh nor from Princess Fazarah.

  I learned many things, though.

  I learned from Sister Nizara that I was neither city- nor desert-bred, but had been born to a family of fisher-folk on the southern coast, a revelation that came as a surprise to me. Zariya laughed at the thought of me mending fishing nets, and promised that I might send word to my family if I wished. In turn I promised that I would do so once I’d had time to accustom myself to my new life.

  I learned that in the women’s quarter in the Palace of the Sun, one was expected to bathe every day; and that this daily ritual was just as prolonged as it had been the first time. I learned that one was expected to don fresh attire every day, no matter how wasteful or unnecessary it seemed, which meant I had to supplement my meager stores with the linen robes of the Queen’s Guard.

  I learned that the eunuchs of the Queen’s Guard served in a largely ceremonial capacity and were not highly skilled fighters. It was not their fault, for none of them had chosen their lots; all had been sold into servitude at a young age. Still, they made for unsatisfactory sparring partners.

  To his credit, Captain Tarshim did not disagree, and welcomed my offer to provide additional training; but I learned to my dismay, for I appreciated his candor, that he was enamored of Queen Rashina, who was my least favorite of the king’s wives.

  I learned that it was understood that neither the king’s wives nor his unwed daughters would venture beyond the Hall of Pleasant Accord unless it was for an affair of state.

  I learned that a night spent with King Azarkal was an occasion for preening and gloating.

  I learned that it was widely believed that the warrior Prince Tazaresh was the son that the king was most likely to name his successor.

  I learned that among her half brothers, Zariya was fondest of Prince Dozaren, who brought her a yellow bird with a sweet song to join her little friends, and I learned that Dozaren had a subtle charm I did not trust.

  It was such a strange place to me, the women’s quarter, perpetually suspended between tedium and tension, between lassitude and spite. Oh, there were aspects I did not mind, especially when there were musicians or poets or storytellers to entertain us as we idled in the baths or the great sitting room, which bore the ironic title of the Hall of Harmonious Beauty, and I liked best of all the times when Zariya and I were alone together and able to talk about anything under the sun. I began teaching her the Shahalim language of hand signs, and her facility at it delighted both of us. But she had spoken truly when she had named me a caged hawk.

  Thus it came as a relief when I received an invitation from Princess Fazarah to call upon her.

  Already, I had been in the Palace of the Sun long enough that it felt strange to escape from it; strange, too, to be on my own, and strangest of all to be parted from Zariya’s presence. As I departed the palace, I became aware of a hollowness inside me, an ache that deepened with every step I took. The ties with which Pahrkun and Anamuht had joined us were powerful.

  Still, I went, wondering if it was the same for her.

  I went on foot, for the mount I’d ridden here had returned to the desert as a pack-horse with Brother Merik and the others; and, too, it was easier to navigate the crowded streets of Merabaht as a pedestrian. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I wrapped my head-scarf around the lower part of my face to hide the marks of Pahrkun that glittered on my cheekbones.

  Fazarah and Tarkhal’s household was located in a sprawling residence in a neighborhood that occupied a space between the second and third tiers of the city. It was far lower than one would expect for one of her stature, but the location allowed his clientele among the less-fortunate denizens of the city easier access to his services. Upon presenting myself at the doorstep of the upper level, I was ushered into a parlor room with alacrity; Princess Fazarah herself welcomed me shortly thereafter with gracious curiosity. In appearance, she looked to be somewhere in her midthirties, a good ten years older than her mother. At the pulse-points of her wrists and the sides of her throat, her blood glowed beneath her skin in a steady beat.

  Khementaran.

  “Khai of the Fortress of the Winds,” she said, sounding bemused. “I must confess, I am intrigued by your presence. How may I be of service to my youngest sister’s shadow?”

  “I understand that you and your husband concern yourselves with the business of the poor and oppressed, my lady,” I said to her. “Is there aught you can tell me about the faction calling themselves the Children of Miasmus?”

  She frowned and avoided answering my question. “I do care a great deal for Zariya, you know. She’s a sweet child, and a bright one, too. But she has suffered since her illness. Zariya dreams of things that cannot be. I would rather not give fuel to her fantasies.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Which are?”

  Fazarah returned my look in a steadfast manner. “Will you pretend not to know, my sister’s shadow?”

  “You speak of prophecy,” I said. “You are aware, I trust, that the coursers of Obid have a prophecy regarding the Children of Miasmus?”

  She sighed. “You’re as young as Zariya and as easily beguiled by the romance of prophecy, aren’t you?”

  I ignored the comment and gazed at her, sensing uncertainty in the spaces between one thought and another. “You’re frightened,” I said softly. “My lady, I am not here on some childish fancy. I have been chosen by Pahrkun himself to protect your youngest sister from all threats, and I would know what manner of threat these Children of Miasmus pose. What do you know that you are reluctant to tell me?”

  Fazarah looked away. “There are rumors of a man that they call the Priest of the Black Star or the Mad Priest,” she said. “I have not encountered him, but I have heard tales from those who claim to have seen him. It is said that he walks the streets of Merabaht and preaches in the poorest quarters of the city, claiming that Miasmus comes to him in his dreams, that Miasmus shows him visions of how it will rise and swallow the world in darkness. The Mad Priest advocates … upheaval.”

  “Upheaval,” I echoed.

  She nodded. “Chaos. Mayhem. The overturning of the law of order. He exhorts them to rise up and overthrow the ruling class.”

  “To what end?” I asked.

  “To se
ize whatever they may before the world ends,” she said soberly. “May I show you something?”

  “Of course.”

  Donning a gauzy veil, Fazarah led me through their residence to a balcony overlooking a courtyard on the lower level. A long line of people snaked through the courtyard; men in ragged garb, veiled women with children in their arms or clinging to their skirts. They looked up as we appeared, many of them saluting her. She returned their salute respectfully. “This, young Khai, is the number of people clamoring for my husband’s services on an ordinary day,” she said to me. “Some of them bear grievances against each other, but most bear grievances against someone wealthier or more powerful. Many of them will sleep here overnight in the hopes of having their cases heard. Many of them will go without food.”

  “That’s a lot of people,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” she said. “We do what we can to feed them, especially the women and children, but there are simply too many. Now, look there.” She pointed toward the street to the south. From our vantage, I saw a line of men hauling the long-poled carts I had noticed before, carts piled high with wheat and rice, barrels of fish and cages of chickens, stacked pyramids of squash and fruit, the carters’ heads lowered as they trudged up the rampway between the second and third tiers of Merabaht. “All that is bound for the Palace of the Sun,” she said quietly. “Enough to feed every hungry man, woman, and child in this courtyard a dozen times over. Do you wonder that the poor of this city can be incited to violence?”

  “No, my lady,” I said. “I do not. Has it always been thus?”

  “It has grown worse as the Sun-Blessed grow more desperate,” she said. “Once, my father paid greater heed to the affairs of the realm; once, he cared about rooting out corruption in the Royal and City Guards. Would you see a prophecy fulfilled, my sister’s shadow? I tell you this: If Zarkhoum were to embrace many of the worthy and just principles of the code of Obid the Stern, there would be no uprising of the Children of Miasmus.”

  It was a startling thought, not least of all because it had merit. “Zariya said that you were a reformer,” I said. “Do you believe that is the true meaning of the prophecy of the coursers of Obid?”

  Fazarah hesitated, then shook her head. “It may be that all prophecy is merely veiled symbolism, but I cannot claim to speak for any of the children of heaven.” She held out her overturned hands, and a soft blood-glow pulsed at her wrists. “I will not dissemble. I believe my father, King Azarkal, has made unwise choices,” she said with dignity. “I believe in seeking to create a better society here in Zarkhoum. But I do not believe it can be accomplished through the weapon of chaos.”

  I looked ruefully at her. “I would that your father would name you his successor, my lady.”

  “For both of our sakes, that is a thought best kept to yourself, young Khai. This is Zarkhoum,” she said wryly. “In Zarkhoum, women do not rule.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I observed. “Among the desert tribes, each individual clan is ruled by a chieftain, but a Matriarch presides over decisions concerning life and death for each of the three great tribes.” I tried to remember what Chieftain Jakhan had said about it long ago. “In the desert, they say women bring life into this world and understand the cost in blood and suffering, so are best suited to pass judgment in such matters.”

  Fazarah gazed at me in surprise, her breath stirring the sheer veil. “Is this true?”

  “I am not given to lying,” I said with a touch of stiffness. “I was raised to revere honor, my lady.”

  She smiled. “Forgive me, I meant no offense. It is only that I have never heard such a thing.”

  Once again, I thought that the Sun-Blessed were entirely too unfamiliar with the desert; and I understood better why the desert tribes acknowledged no authority save their own. “Well, I assure you, it is true. My lady, do you know where I might find this Mad Priest?”

  “If I had that knowledge, I would share it with the City Guard,” Fazarah said. “For I am sure they have heard the same rumors. I know only the places the Mad Priest is said to have been seen preaching; at the wharves, in Three-Copper Quarter, in Kabhat Square…” She regarded me with a worried expression. “Do you mean to search for him?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Fazarah’s grave look deepened. “I would ask you to reconsider. These are dangerous places for a single young … person. You should not venture into them alone. And is your place not at my sister’s side?”

  “I am a dangerous young person,” I reminded her. “And I am doing this at your sister’s behest.”

  “That,” she said, “is what concerns me.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I made my way through the crowded streets of lower Merabaht to Three-Copper Quarter; so named, Fazarah had told me in parting, because that was what the worth of a human life was reckoned there.

  If she was trying to dissuade me, she failed. Oh, I understood her concerns. Khementaran notwithstanding, she was a member of the House of the Ageless, and she had been alive for longer than Brother Saan had been when he passed from this world. To her, Zariya and I must appear as wishful children dabbling in matters we were too young to understand.

  Perhaps we were.

  And yet … I had knelt before Pahrkun the Scouring Wind on the sands of the Mirror of Heaven, closed my eyes, and offered up the gift of perfect trust. The mark of that moment was forever etched upon my face. We had to be true to ourselves, Zariya and I; we had to trust what we were. If she dreamed of being a prophecy-hunter, well, then, I would hunt prophecy for her.

  I succeeded in finding my way to Three-Copper Quarter, mostly by virtue of the fact that I had but to go downward and south until there was nowhere else to go. Once there, I found myself hopelessly lost in its winding streets. It was a squalid labyrinth of unpaved alleys and crumbling clay-brick buildings. There was refuse underfoot, vegetable peelings and picked bones, and slab-sided dogs and scrawny boys fighting for the best scraps. Veiled women in homespun robes hurried about their business in knots of three or four, whispering to each other. Gaunt men with feverish eyes muttered offers of hashish at every corner.

  Let your mind be like the eye of the hawk …

  I slowed my steps, closed my eyes, and let my perceptions drift, drift like a hawk’s feather on the wind. I felt the breeze of a reaching hand at my side and turned to catch the wrist of the boy angling for the pocket of my robe.

  “I didn’t do anything!” he said in a pleading whine, tugging against my grip. “Let me go!”

  “I will if you can answer a question.” I lowered the scarf muffling my words. “Do you know where I might find the Mad Priest? The Priest of the Black Star?”

  “Why should I?” His eyes widened. “Watery hell! You’re the royal shadow, aren’t you?”

  Silently, I cursed myself for carelessness; Brother Yarit would have been disappointed. “Will you answer my question or shall I turn you over to the City Guard for thieving?”

  The boy spat on the ground between us. “Do what you like, I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”

  As far as I could tell, he was telling the truth. A bribe might have elicited more information than a threat, but as he would have discovered, there was no purse in the pockets of my robe. “Then get out of here before I decide to give you a lesson in manners,” I said, turning him loose.

  He pelted away on bare, grimy feet. Under covert stares from onlookers, I pulled my scarf into place. Even as I considered asking them, the way their gazes slid away from mine told me that the royal shadow would find no assistance in this quarter.

  This place, I thought, had a rhythm and a pulse all its own. I needed to learn to attune myself to it. I closed my eyes again and listened. I listened to the whispers, I listened to the muttering, to the hacking of wet coughs and the subsequent hawking of spittle. At last, I heard the distant thread of a voice that was none of these things. It was urgent and strident, a call to arms that cut through the somnolence of the
city’s most impoverished quarter.

  It was what I imagined a Mad Priest might sound like, and since I had no other leads, I followed the thread of the voice through the endless warren of cluttered streets, backtracking whenever an alley led to a dead end. I was almost close enough to make out words when I began to notice figures atop the roofs.

  “Shadow!” a voice hissed, and then another and another. “Shadow!”

  The first rock struck me on my left shoulder, and it was followed by others. The voice in the distance was cut off mid-sentence.

  Damn.

  I ran forward, following the trail of figures on the rooftops, dodging rocks and veering from side to side to present a more difficult target. Rocks. I’d never considered rocks. Trusting to my fighting skills, I had been a fool to underestimate the dangers of the quarter. If I encountered enough men with enough rocks at the end of this chase, I was in serious trouble.

  Instead I emerged into an empty square of hard-packed dirt. If the Mad Priest had been there, he was gone. There were more figures on the surrounding roofs, but they melted away. I learned why soon enough, and it had naught to do with any threat I posed. As I stood in the center of the square attempting to determine which way the Mad Priest and his protectors may have gone, a score of City Guardsmen entered the square from the opposite direction, Vironesh among them.

  “Khai!” He strode across the square and grabbed my shoulders to shake me. “Are you addled? You have no business being here.”

  “There’s a man they call the Mad Priest,” I informed him. “Or the Priest of the Black Star. He’s the one inciting the Children of Miasmus to violence.”