The Garden of Stones

The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes

CHAPTER ONE





“Why do we invent the monster as a metaphor? Surely all we need do is witness our own cruelty to each other to see the real face of evil.”—from The Darkness Without by Sedefke, inventor, explorer, and philosopher, 751st Year of the Awakened Empire


Late summer, day 309 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


“We going to die today?” Shar asked. The war-chanter looked out across the battlefield with hawklike intensity, her sharp features stern.

“I’ve got other plans,” Indris murmured. The jetsam of violence littered the golden grass of Amber Lake, where warriors, sunlight rippling on their armor, unleashed havoc. Above, the sky was dotted with the raggedy shadows of carrion birds, tiny beside the wind-frigates’ hulls, which flickered with pearlescent light. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“One more night of revelry then? Nice. I could use a drink and a man to play with. Today hasn’t been one of our better ones.”

“Sorry if this little war’s inconvenienced you in any way,” Indris drawled. “I’ll try to schedule the next one with you in mind.”

“Would you? Really? That’s nice, dear.” She scraped dried blood from her scaled-glass armor. “Shame Hayden and Omen aren’t here.”

“Hopefully they’re long gone by now.”

Indris had known waiting too long in Amnon was a mistake, yet the man Indris had sworn to protect had refused to leave his ancestral seat. The truth will be known, Far-ad-din, one of the six rahns of the Great Houses of Shrīan, had said. Only the innocent could muster such self-deception. This battle was the veneer over a coup, and Far-ad-din knew it, yet he played his part in the drama in the hope the truth would see him freed. Accused of treason, of trafficking in the forbidden relics he was supposed to protect, and of sedition, Far-ad-din had gambled much by staying. It appeared he might well lose everything. The least Indris could do was try to ensure the man kept his life. It was why he had withdrawn from the battle rather being in the mix. Far-ad-din had wanted Indris close, just in case. If the man had not been his father-in-law, Indris doubted all the guilt in the world would have made him bear witness to Far-ad-din’s demise.

Indris turned to look at Shar where she leaned on her long serill blade, the sword made of drake-fired glass, harder and lighter than steel. Like Far-ad-din, she was one of the Seethe—the declining race known as the Wind Masters. Shar cast a shrewd glance across the battlefield, large whiteless eyes citrine bright in the sun. She absently tugged at the feathers braided in the supple quills that passed for her hair—fine as strands of silk in all the colors of dawn. Swearing under her breath at the tide of battle, she sensed his scrutiny and turned to him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replied, keeping the worry from his voice. Indris had lost many friends in many fights, yet the thought of losing Shar after all they had been through was too much. “We can still walk away from this, if we can get Far-ad-din and his heir out of here.”

“Good luck with that,” Shar muttered.

Indris surveyed the many-colored banners of the six Great Houses and the Hundred Families arrayed against them, hanging limp and listless in the thick air. The long summer grasses of Amber Lake wavered like golden water in the haze. To the east across the Anqorat River, the wetlands of the Rōmarq shone like a blue mirror, smeared green-gray with reeds and the patchwork reflection of clouds.

The armies assembled by the Great Houses and those loyal to them lined the hills east of the wind-rippled grasses of Amber Lake. They were the Avān. His own people. Like Humans, yet not. Made by the Seethe millennia ago to be their servants. Not their usurpers. In their ornate armor of bronze-shod steel plates, with their long curved swords and crescent-moon axes, they were terrifying.

The day had not turned out as expected. The Arbiter of the Change, the government’s chosen representative to manage the conflict, had planned for the battle to be fought between two champions, the winner deciding the outcome. Indris had volunteered to fight for Far-ad-din, confident he could defeat, without killing, whatever champion was sent against him. But there were those among the Great Houses unwilling to risk all on a single combat, and instead horns had pealed, splitting the air, as the first wave of the Avān army had thundered across the field. Iphyri, giant men with the heads, legs, and tails of horses, had surged forward, leather groaning. They had smashed into the front lines of Far-ad-din and his Seethe, laying waste to those about them.

There had been no restoring order. No turning back, once the smell of blood was in the air. Mayhem now claimed the day.

Bright sunlight flashed from weapons. It seared the eye where it blazed from polished shields and breastplates, helms with their long plumes of dyed horsehair and feathers, and metal crests polished bright. Warriors flowed in complex formations like colored inks swirled in turbulent water. Arrows buzzed like gnats. The melee had one mighty voice: a rumble like the basso of thunder, which echoed, rolled, boomed without ever dying, in counterpoint to the shrieks of metal, the screams of pain, the war songs. Indris inhaled the acrid perfume of heated metal. Of sweat. The sweetness of crushed grass. The ammonia smell of urine. The copper-tang of blood.

Outnumbered as they were, the Seethe Indris commanded defied the might of their enemy. He knew it would not last. No doubt the Seethe knew it also, yet pride was ever the enemy of common sense. Their jewel-toned eyes and porcelain skin shone with the radiance of their fury. Beautiful, ageless, and all but deathless, they wore drake-glass armor that shone with bright gem colors; their weapons and shields chimed. Seethe war-troupers—artists, dancers, musicians, acrobats, and actors as much as they were killers—wove their way in formations only they seemed to understand. They vanished from sight only to appear improbably far away, to kill, to vanish again. A Seethe trouper leaped, almost as if she could fly, to land amid enemy soldiers, whom she cut down with a dark laugh. The Seethe’s drake-glass helms shifted form from leering skulls to maniacal laughing faces to the sorrowful visages of beautiful maids, cheeks bright with diamond tears. Wyvern-riders swooped to strafe combatants with arrow fire. The rainbow-hued reptiles snatched warriors from the ground and carried them into the sky, only to hurl them to the ground below. When a wyvern was shot from the air, it plowed great furrows through the ranks of soldiers as it died, poison stinger flailing.

Seeing their chance for glory, the warrior-poets from both armies sought each other out. Challenges to single combat rang clear, for such was the old way of the militant elite. Small circles or squares opened in the greater battle as the flamboyant warrior-poets met. Fought. Died. Songs would recount the glory of their lives by moonrise even as the flesh was boiled from their skulls, the bone to be plated in gold as a trophy.

The enemy had not gathered from across the breadth of Shrīan to lose. The Avān fought with ferocious tenacity, a machine of bronze and steel, resolute in their purpose. The Iphyri strode Amber Lake like blood-drenched juggernauts, eyes rolling, teeth bared in their horse heads.

Three knights of the Sēq Order of Scholars strode the sky, crow-black in their centuries-old finery. His former colleagues. Indris heard the crooning of their canto as they wove disentropy, the very force of creation, in complex formulae. It was the power of disentropy that made lanterns of their flesh. They unleashed geometries of power: spheres, arcs, and lines that scoured the Seethe ranks. Gone were the days of glory for the Sēq, yet those who remained were grievous enough. As Indris watched, one of the Sēq Knights convulsed. Her body shook, no doubt with the strain of channeling too much energy. Indris could have sworn the black-armored scholar vomited as she plummeted from the sky to disappear in the frenetic mass below.

Indris turned from the battle, Shar at his side. They sprinted to where Far-ad-din and his son, Ran-jar-din, stood with their royal guard. The guards turned their beaked helms in Indris’s direction as he approached, their feathered cloaks drooping in the hot, sodden breeze.

“You’re done,” Indris said to Far-ad-din without preamble. Shar’s eyes widened at his perfunctory tone. “You and Ran need to get away from here.”

“Is this how the legendary Indris makes war?” Ran-jar-din swept a bowl of dried emerald lotus petals from the small camp table. His sapphire eyes and clouded skin flickered with his wrath. “Why did we trust you? I’d already lost a sister because of—”

“That’s not fair and you know it!” Indris snapped. He felt the blow of the accusation in his chest. “Vashne may be the Asrahn, but even the Asrahn is answerable to the Teshri. It was they who brought this to you. You could’ve run, but pride made you stay. I’m hoping self-preservation will yet see you go. Neither of you is any use if you’re dead. Leave. Now. Fight another day.”

Ran-jar-din drew a handspan of his long glass sword. “I should—”

“Indris is right.” Far-ad-din’s amethyst eyes were sad, the light almost gone from them. “This drama is lost to us. Indris, Shar—will you and your warriors come with us?”

“It’s too late for that,” Indris murmured. He looked sideways at Shar, who nodded her assent. “This position will be overrun in an hour or so. You go. We’ll cover your retreat. Follow the plan, and we’ll meet up with you as soon as we can.”

“I’m not leaving,” Ran-jar-din spat. He took his spear from where it rested on the table, its long slender blade like a sliver of glowing topaz. Expression fixed and angry, the young heir gestured to his own guard, whose glass helms clouded, then displayed leering skulls with burning eyes. Ran-jar-din bent his knee to his father, then stood. “I’ll redeem our Great House, either by my blood or my victory. We will be remembered, Father.”

“You will do no such thing!” Far-ad-din thundered. His skin and eyes flared and then faded. “Indris…your sister’s mate…will do what needs to be done. Muster your guard. We are retreating into the Rōmarq as planned.”

“I think not.” Ran-jar-din curled his lip at his father. He gave Indris a withering glance. Without a further word, Ran-jar-din and his company of war-troupers flickered into translucency as they sprinted into the fray.

Indris did not allow Far-ad-din the luxury of delay. Within moments the Seethe rahn and his personal guard were crossing the sullen, black-silted waters of the Anqorat River. Once his father-in-law had made good his retreat, Indris gathered a phalanx of Seethe on the east bank of the Anqorat. Soon after, the army of the Great Houses was upon them. Indris’s spear flickered. He used his edged shield as much as a weapon as for defense. His eyes burned with the disentropy he channeled. His voice boomed above the din. Shrieked. Crooned. Words of power laid his enemies low. A swarm of yellow-white butterflies, spun from light, cascaded around him. Where they touched, they set off explosions that left his enemies reeling. Beside him Shar, focused and lethal, used her war-chanter’s song to bolster the hearts of their comrades, while causing their enemies to cower and turn from the sudden fear that deluged them.

All Indris needed to do was buy time. To make himself as appealing a target as he could while Far-ad-din fled westward across the Rōmarq.

Indris’s mind cascaded with numbers as he calculated the force required to raise Abstraction Wards. Layers of rotating mystic defenses, like the tumblers in a lock, formed around him and those nearby. The light yellowed inside the layered field. Sound dulled. Soon enough, the air smelled of lightning storms. Indris looked out through the sepia haze. The Abstraction Wards refracted the world beyond, much like peering through running water, though not enough for him to misinterpret the danger of the predicament they were in. Concussions from the enemy, both arcane and mundane, hammered against the geometric puzzles of his defenses. They struck with arrows, swords, axes, and disentropy, causing the wards to ripple, like a pond into which stones had been thrown. The wards would not last long against such a bombardment. But they did not need to.

After almost half an hour, the exterior wards began to crack, then puff away in motes of dirty light. The next layer followed within fifteen minutes. Facing the inevitable, Indris nodded to the Seethe to raise the unmarked blue pennon that was their signal for surrender.

Rather than anger their enemies further, Indris deconstructed his remaining wards with a thought. Unfiltered light streamed down once more. Enemy soldiers jostled about, weapons quivering in an agitated, blood-smeared thicket.

Officers in the red-and-black armor of the Great House of Erebus, riding sweat-and-gore-streaked harts, forced their way through the throng.

“I’m daimahjin-Indris,” the warrior-mage said as he stepped forward, hands extended to either side in a display of peace. Daimahjin. Warrior and mage. Scholar. Of the highest caste in Avān society. Indris wanted them to think twice about harming him or those with him. “I offer my surrender to Rahn-Näsarat fa Ariskander, Arbiter of the Change, as per the Teshri’s code and measure of sanctioned war. We’ll come with you peacefully. There’s no need for further violence.”

The officers divided the captives wordlessly. Shar frowned at Indris as she was disarmed and led away. A mounted Erebus officer with a handful of Iphyri at his side came close to loom over Indris, florid with barely suppressed loathing.

“The code and measure won’t save you, traitor!” The officer spat at Indris’s feet.

Indris stared up at him. “The Arbiter of the Change may have a few things to say about that.”

One of the Iphyri’s calloused fists smashed into Indris’s head before he had the chance to say anything else.





Indris had once promised himself he would not get involved in the internecine politics of Shrīan again, yet here he was. If he was not executed for his part in Far-ad-din’s alleged crimes, he would make sure he kept his word to himself in future. Most of those who fought for Far-ad-din had been Seethe sworn to the monarch’s service, troupers who had decided to stay by their rahn rather than desert him. As a mercenary, Indris could have left Far-ad-din’s service at any time. As the man’s son-in-law, ridden with guilt over offenses both real and imagined, the choice to stay had been made for him.

Indris gazed out the windows of the room in which he had been imprisoned, squinting against the glare of the setting sun as it rolled over the bronze-shod domes of seaside shrines and sheened the crystalline towers of vacant Seethe schools. After his surrender at Amber Lake, a barely conscious Indris had been hustled to the top floor of an abandoned villa near the sea. For the past two days he had watched many of his comrades dragged into the courtyard below. There had been no sign of Shar. Yet. Those of the middle castes, common soldiers for the most part, had been beheaded with ruthless efficiency. The lower-caste menials—and those of the middle castes deemed worthy of keeping alive—were divvied up and handed over to overseers, where they were bound into service. The upper castes—wealthy landowners, the members of warriors’ families, or other luminaries—were strangled with lengths of yellow silk, their corpses thrown onto wagons like kindling. From dawn till dusk prisoners were brought into the courtyard garden. Quickly sentenced regardless of caste, or whether they were Avān, Seethe, or Human. The one constant was the crest worn by the officers, guards, and executioners: a black stallion rampant on a bloody field. The sign of the Great House of Erebus.

Indris’s surrender to Ariskander as Arbiter of the Change should have been enough to ensure his safety and that of his comrades. He had not anticipated that the Erebus forces would disregard the policies of surrender and ransom so violently.

There had been no chance of escape. The warrior-poet’s wrists and throat were encircled by locked bands of salt-forged steel, the metal blistering his skin. Toxic to mystics, the salt-forged steel dammed the flow of disentropy in his body. Sent fever chills along his skin. The painful sensation of needling down his spine. Even the glow of candlelight was too harsh; his eyes were now overly sensitive. His head pounded to the point that he felt nauseated. Days after the Battle of Amber Lake, his limbs still twitched in reaction to the flood of disentropy he had channeled. At least the mindstorms had passed, though his mouth still tasted of bile. His skin reeked of stale sweat and old vomit.

Screams came from the courtyard below. The repeated thuds of bladed weapons cleaving necks. The desperate gasps of strangulation. Wails as shackles were placed around wrists and ankles, freedom swapped for servitude. Indris leaned against the wall, looking to the purple-and-yellow-tinted clouds, wondering whether they were the last he would ever see. Soon his captors would come to him again and ask him the predictable questions he would refuse to answer. They would tire of his silence. Seek to motivate him to talk in evermore inventive ways. Sheltered in the bastion of his mind, he had known about the pain. Acknowledged it at an intellectual level. Packaged it. Locked it away to be expressed in the moments when he could release his self-control, if only for a short while. In the presence of the torturers who wanted him to betray Far-ad-din, Indris had shown nothing but a face of stone.

Tired beyond anything in his recollection, Indris focused his mind once more. As the Zienni Scholars said, “There is no failure in falling, only in not trying to regain one’s feet and take another step.” Disentropy, the energy of creation generated by all living things, eddied and swirled about him. He could feel it, a thickening in the air that brushed across his skin. In the quiet places of his mind, he could sense the comforting warmth of his Disentropic Stain, the corona around his soul that flowed through and about him.

The basic formulae of minor cantos flickered in his mind. Causes and effects were calculated, assessed, discarded to make way for more feasible hypotheses. The various arcane cantos were built upon causality, the knowledge of one thing leading to a predictable other. Though his mind was dulled by the effects of the shackles, solutions finally, slowly, presented themselves.

Satisfied he had found the answer he sought, Indris flexed his will and—

The spike of agony pierced him from the top of his skull to the base of his spine. Bile rose, to pour in an acid burn from his mouth, which had opened in an involuntary gasp of pain. His wrists and neck burned where the salt-forged steel touched them. Indris fell back against the wall, chest heaving. The formulae simplified into a useless abstraction, then faded away.

Despite the pain, he calmed his mind and entered the trance state the Sēq Scholars called the Possibility Tree. Questions rose in his mind, a series of hows and whys that led to other hows and whys until possibility had been narrowed to a probability of either success or failure. He played scenario after scenario in his mind. Escapes. Rescues. Negotiations. Pardons. Indris smiled bitterly. As a former knight of the Sēq Order of Scholars, he had been taught the only certainty was a solitary death. Knowing it was different than facing it.

In agony and too tired to think, Indris closed his eyes for a moment, and memories of a war he would rather forget played across the dark canvas of his lids.





Indris’s head snapped up at the rattle of a key in the lock. The parquetry door opened with barely a hint of noise. He eyed his visitors with apprehension. The first man through the door was enormous, muscular, and hard, the skin of his bare arms and neck littered with tattoos. His tunic was stretched across his broad chest, and legs like gnarled tree trunks emerged from his kilt. He was followed by a smaller, older man in a soiled linen coat, his left hand replaced by a bitter hook of dark metal. Thufan, Corajidin’s Kherife-General and Master of Assassins, with his giant son, Armal. They were Corajidin’s law keepers. Those who entered next were easy to identify. Belamandris’s hauberk of ruby crystal scales and his ruby-sheathed amenesqa—the long, gently recurved sword named Tragedy—marked the man. The other two men in red-and-black silk would be Corajidin himself and his heir, Kasraman. Behind them was a squad of five Iphyri, so tall their horse heads almost scraped the high ceiling. Their hooves clopped against the old stone flagging as they settled. Their armor creaked, metal harnesses chiming. They held hook-bladed axes in their enormous hands.

Indris frowned at what he saw in Corajidin. The man was clearly very ill, his skin waxen beneath a sheen of sweat. His red-blond curls were streaked gray, lank against his scalp. His face was drawn, hollow. The stooped rahn of Erebus wrung his hands as if they were in constant pain.

Indris held his banded wrists up with a smile. “I take it the confusion has been sorted and you’re here to release me?”

“Where’s Far-ad-din?” Thufan cuffed Indris on the side of the head. The blow rattled Indris’s skull. Thufan’s breath was sour with rot and rum. Indris winced at the reek.

He glared at the rank old villain. “I surrendered to Rahn-Ariskander as Arbiter of the Change. I’m his captive. A Näsarat wouldn’t give an Erebus the time of day, let alone a prisoner who was also a family member.”

Thufan coughed, a wet rattle from chest to throat. He spat at Indris’s feet. “You’ve been hung out to dry. Your uncle has given you up. Now, where’s Far-ad-din?”

“Far-ad-din? Have you checked the Rōmarq?” Indris said helpfully. “He was escaping in that general direction when I saw him last. Now take me to Ariskander.”

Thufan rested his hook against Indris’s throat. “You’re going to die anyway. Can be easy or hard. Your choice.”

Indris felt the heat build behind his left eye, the unwilling pooling of disentropy. A wave of nausea rose in him. He blinked slowly to calm himself. When he opened his eyes, he caught Thufan’s gaze and held it. “How about not at all?”

“You know, I counseled the Teshri to issue your writ of execution years ago,” Corajidin drawled. He shook his head, his expression sad. “But the government of the time was too soft. I sent assassins myself, but they never returned. The Sēq Scholars were too lenient on you. It was your duty to die serving your people, not to take what you had learned to make your own fortune. Time has caught up with you.”

“Face facts.” Kasraman’s mellow voice was pitched to carry. “You were Sēq once. No doubt you’ve tried to escape and failed. You’ve tried your precious Possibility Tree? Surely you’ve calculated there’s no escape?”

“Don’t you have some witchery to make him talk?” Armal asked Kasraman. The man-mountain looked to the door nervously. “We don’t have much—”

“My talents aren’t meant to be discussed openly, Armal.” Kasraman’s smile was thin, the tips of his fangs showing as he held up a hand for silence. “Besides, the salt-forged steel prohibits me as much as him from anything esoteric. And I’d not want to see his shackles removed while he lived. It wouldn’t end well for any of us, would it, Indris?”

Indris bared his fangs in a smile. “That I promise you.”

“Getting nowhere,” Thufan grated. He turned to Corajidin. “We need to carry out his sentence and—”

“Sentence?” Indris stepped away from the wall. Thufan was closest. Perhaps he could snap the old man’s little chicken neck before the others stopped him. He would need to kill Corajidin next. He doubted he would be able to take a third in his current state. He flexed his fingers. “Every prisoner is entitled to a trial—”

Corajidin pointed a shaking finger. “You are a traitor to the Asrahn and—”

“Step away, Thufan, if you want to live,” Belamandris suggested. “Our friend here is almost within reach. Not the best place for you.”

Thufan blanched, then stepped back. He looked at Indris with a wary eye. Indris shot Belamandris an insincere smile in thanks.

“I’m a mercenary.” Indris struggled with his chains. “Our codes of justice—”

“If we took him elsewhere, could you torture the information out of him?” Kasraman asked Thufan.

“Maybe,” the little man grunted. “Doubtful. He’s trained by the Sēq. They don’t break easily.”

“There are too many watching eyes to move him,” Belamandris offered. His hand dropped to the hilt of his amenesqa. “If you’re not going to question him, at least let the man fight for his life.”

“He’ll kill you stone dead.” Kasraman’s expression was wry. Belamandris snorted.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Indris lied through clenched teeth. He strained against his shackles. “Think about this. If you kill me—”

“If he will not tell us where Far-ad-din is, there is no point in delaying any further. Armal?” Corajidin waved his hand in Indris’s direction.

The big man’s expression was resolved as he came to stand before Indris. His fist a blur, he cuffed Indris on the side of the head so hard he was slammed back against the wall, dazed. Armal placed his massive hands around Indris’s throat. Squeezed. “I’m sorry I can’t do this the proper way.”

In his weakened state, Indris could do little against Armal’s strength. He tried to knee the man, to no effect. Weakened from the salt-forged steel, he could not strike back effectively. Each of Indris’s blows fell on layers of corded muscle, which felt like stone. He tried to form a canto in his head, but his thoughts withered in an airless haze.

Darkness had begun to descend when the door crashed open. Armal released his grip and spun to stand beside his father. Indris, barely aware of what was happening, collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. He looked up from beneath dirty curls.

The Iphyri stamped their hooves, nostrils wide. Indris could see the light glistening in their eyes, like pools of white around wet brown stones. The hafts of their axes groaned in their grips. Sweat glistened on their skin, black, sorrel, and roan. They snorted. Backed into the room on iron-shod hooves. The smell of horse was heavy in the air.

Facing them were a dozen or so Tau-se in the blue-and-gold armor of the Näsarat Lion Guard. Faces impassive, manes braided with fortune-coins, the lion men glanced about the room impassively. Their hands were never far from the hilts of their khopesh. Indris had seen Tau-se fight. Such were their reflexes he knew the Lion Guard were not disadvantaged. If the Tau-se drew their sickle-bladed swords, it would be a massacre.

From between the Lion Guard stepped two men. The first was Nehrun, Ariskander’s heir, eyes circled by kohl and the Näsarat phoenix painted in blue-and-gold ink on his brow. His armor was an immaculate construction of polished gold and enameled blue plates, so perfect Indris doubted it had seen dust, let alone blood. Nehrun lifted his chin in an imperious gesture.

By his side was a taller man. Older and leaner. Less polished, his panoply of war showing the minimalism of a veteran. Ariskander’s face was gaunt, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a high ponytail, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were large, so dark they were almost black. Ariskander gave Indris one of his hesitant smiles. They were the only kind he had.

Two of the Lion Guard crossed the room to Indris, taking him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. The Iphyri stamped in consternation, though Corajidin shouted at them for silence.

“You’ve overreached your authority this time, Corajidin,” Ariskander snapped as he gestured for the Lion Guard to take Indris from the room.

“Ariskander!” Corajidin snarled with venom. Spittle flecked his lips. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“I’m the Arbiter of the Change.” Ariskander smiled coldly. “And my jurisdiction comes from the Teshri—who sanctioned this inane war—and both the Asrahn and Speaker for the People we elected into power. On top of that the Scholar Marshal is very interested to know why one of her scholars—”

“He left the Sēq Order,” Kasraman pointed out reasonably.

“Nobody ever truly leaves the Sēq,” Indris tried to joke through the pain. “They always want their tithe of blood…”

Ariskander held Indris’s eyes open with his thumbs. He frowned at what he saw, then raked his gaze across Corajidin. “You can raise your objections with the Scholar Marshal in person, if you like. Though I’d not recommend it. Femensetri isn’t known for either her patience or indulgence.”

“You’ll regret interfering with me, Ariskander!” Corajidin ground out.

“The rest of your captives are being released also,” Ariskander informed the red-faced Corajidin. “We’ll see whether there are any formal charges laid against you for what you’ve done here.”

“Try it,” Corajidin said through gritted teeth. “See how far you get.”

Ariskander gestured at the Lion Guard, who helped Indris out of the cell. Nehrun led them through the villa and into the large courtyard beyond. The air was thick with the smell of shed blood. Indris was placed in a carriage with Ariskander and Nehrun; the door locked behind them. Both men wrinkled their noses at Indris’s smell, though nobody spoke. Nehrun glowered at Indris as if he was an inconvenience. Ariskander’s eyes remained half-closed, deep in thought.

The carriage rattled along, the Lion Guard racing on foot beside it, from streets sided by sandstone and dome-topped marble buildings to the tiered hills where the Seethe had made their crystal eyries. Jagged crystal mansions shimmered yellow, white, blue, and rose in the evening shadows, shards of light on the ripples of a darkening blanket. The entourage passed beneath an ancient stone archway, the carvings all but worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Then through the Zephyr Gardens, where the winds hummed to themselves through stands of pale, blue-flowered reeds. Indris was taken from the carriage then along the sweeping stairs of the Kestrel Glide, which curved around the side of Cloud Hill like the feathers of some great wing.

Perched on the summit, the interwoven slivers of sapphire and rose-colored quartz of the Hai-Ardin, Far-ad-din’s sanctuary, rose skyward. From there Indris could see Amnon’s city sprawling across the bent fingers of low hills and stream-filled valleys below. A cool breeze swept in from the Marble Sea, its caress a welcome respite from the heat. It carried on its breath the salt tang of the sea, as well as the scents of gardenia, lavender, and pine needles from Amnon’s beachside parks. Over the din of conversation, Indris could hear the mournful cry of gulls.

In Seethe fashion there were no exterior walls in the Hai-Ardin. No doors. Crystalsingers had coaxed the growing formations into seemingly random steps, chambers, and tilted columns. In some areas the high, semivaulted ceilings of the Hai-Ardin were open to the sky. Translucent beetle-shell hangings adorned the walls. Ilhen crystals shone like jagged candle flames frozen in time.

“Take him to the baths,” Ariskander ordered two of the Lion Guard. “I’ll arrange for clean clothes. Leave the collar and wristbands on. Don’t let anybody talk to him until I return.” The two Lion Guard bowed their heads to their rahn, then half carried, half walked Indris to the baths.

Alabaster tubs dotted the mosaic-floored baths. Steam swirled sluggishly in the thick air. The faint drip of water echoed about the cavernous room, lit by ilhen crystals. The night sky made frosted white streaks of angled quartz columns. Lavender and rosemary scented the air, so much so Indris began to doze as soon as the hot water enclosed his aching muscles. A bound-caste servant in a short tunic scrubbed the grime from his skin. Washed and rinsed his hair until the water flowed clear. She massaged oils into his skin and scalp. Indris winced at the pain as her fingers found the deep knots in his muscles, the bruises and scrapes and cuts on his skin.

He was not sure when the servant stopped her ministrations. He vaguely remembered the water in the tub being changed, new for old. Then a warm, swaddling, damp silence. All he knew was the water had cooled when he sensed somebody staring at him. Indris cracked his eyes open to see Ariskander sitting nearby, two massive Lion Guard looming over him.

“You cut it close this time,” Ariskander began. He tore off a fist-size piece of bread, dotted with the brown and yellow of bacon and cheese. “We were lucky we got to you when we did.”

Indris held up his banded wrists. He did not bother to hide the pain he felt. “Care to do something about these?”

“Why are you here?” the other man demanded. “You were supposed to get Far-ad-din and his family out of Amnon before our army got here. For the love of the Ancestors, I delayed the army enough!”

“Er, my bindings?”

“I can’t have them removed. Not yet. Are you going to tell me why—”

“Far-ad-din refused to leave,” Indris snapped. The water crashed in ripples against the ivory-hued walls of the tub. “Do you really think I wanted to be there when the fighting started? We knew the marshaling of the armies was inevitable. You assured me we’d avoid mass conflict and have trial by single combat. I told Far-ad-din we’d have the Hamesaad and he trusted me. Ancestors on a stick, what happened?”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Ariskander warned. “You’re Far-ad-din’s son-in-law! If he would listen to anybody, I thought it would be you. “

“And I’m your nephew. How much attention do you pay me?” Indris smiled.

“Not enough, it would seem,” Ariskander chuckled.

“What now?”

“You’re not free and clear yet. The others will want to know where Far-ad-din went. Corajidin in particular is anxious to get his hands on the last Seethe rahn in Shrīan. I’ve no doubt he wants to end the influence of the Seethe once and for all, leaving the Avān to govern all six Great Houses.”

Indris was wondering how much to tell of the little he knew when one of the Lion Guard politely interrupted. Ariskander and Indris had been summoned by the Asrahn. Ariskander gestured to a small pile of folded clothes. Indris recognized the faded blacks and browns of his own garments. He dressed quickly, giving care to the layers of clothing sende demanded of his caste: one for the individual, one for his Great House, and one for his nation. Within minutes, the Lion Guard was escorting him through the long crystal corridors of Hai-Ardin. Soon enough he was brought into a room crowded to overflowing.

The Exalted Names of Shrīan surrounded him, a field of flowers in their traditional layers of embroidered silk: tunics under high-collared, knee-length jackets; loose trousers; supple leather boots with upturned toes; open-fronted, hooded over-robes dyed in the colors of the six Great Houses and the Hundred Families that governed Shrīan. Voices smashed into him. The din of goblets being struck in toasts, platters clattering on tables, the metallic jangle of sonesette strings. Surrounded by noise, Indris was thrown back to the chaos of the battle. The open mouths. The wide eyes. The barrage of sound. All of it assaulted his senses. Pain blossomed behind his left eye as he was rocked by memories.

“Indris? Are you unwell?” Shar’s voice held the timbre and husk of the wind through reeds. Lamplight shone on the rainbow patina on her straight nose. “You smell pretty, though.”

“Where have you—”

“I was in chains, about to be executed, when the Lion Guard whisked me away.” She looked him up and down, yellow eyes narrowed. “What happened to you? How do you feel?”

“I feel brilliant,” Indris lied as Shar-fer-rayn leaned against him, gently butting his shoulder with her brow. “Though I think I’ve been hit in the head a little too often in the last couple of days. How do I look?”

“Like trampled rubbish,” she answered with a smile, her teeth serrated bands of white between blue-tinted lips.

“Then why ask?”

“Making conversation.” Shar looked about the chamber. “This isn’t going to be good, is it? What’s happening?”

“No idea. Have you seen Hayden or Omen?” Indris asked. Shar shook her head in response. He swore quietly. “We should’ve left Amnon when we knew which way the wind was blowing. We could’ve avoided this cursed shambles. It wouldn’t have been the first time I abducted a noble for their own good.”

“Which always led to good times.” She grinned. “But it’s not your way, Indris. You’ve a penchant for lost causes, though more often than not they’re the right ones.”

Indris jerked his chin at the crowd around them. “They’d happily argue.”

“Far-ad-din was innocent of—”

“They’re the victors. They’ll write the history. Inconvenient truths will be forgotten soon enough. We survived, though.”

“Again,” she murmured. “Many of my people weren’t so fortunate.”

“They’re my people, too, Shar.” She smiled at him. “Well, half my people, at any rate.”

“Which half would that be?” She looked Indris up and down in his stained browns and blacks, which had known a long count of days. “The shabby half?”

“I prefer to think of it as comfortable.” Indris grinned.

“Of course you do. You know, having been married to one of us isn’t the same as being one of us. You look nothing like a Seethe. A pure-blood Avān, perhaps, though you’re too young by thousands of years.”

Indris fought down the pain of his headache. He wished Ariskander could have removed his shackles. Judging from the looks in the eyes of the upper-caste people in the chamber, Indris wondered whether he was any safer here than with Corajidin.

A woman broke away from the throng. Roshana, Nehrun’s younger sister, a handsome woman with squared jaws and shoulders. She was one of Ariskander’s chief strategists and a soldier of some renown. With her long stride, she quickly covered the distance to Indris and Shar. Nehrun strolled in her wake, his expression dark.

Nehrun gave Indris a condescending sneer. “Welcome back, cousin. Isn’t it enough to disgrace yourself, you have to tarnish our family name, too? Maladûr gaol will be too good a place for the likes of you.”

“I hear it’s nice there.” Indris smiled. Roshana gave a good-natured chuckle. “Can I get a room overlooking the Marble Sea?”

Nehrun stepped forward to within centimeters of Indris’s face. “You deserve to die!”

“You’re a brave little man when your father’s not in earshot, aren’t you? You didn’t have the fire to speak like that to me when Ariskander was around earlier.” Indris leaned toward his cousin, closing what little distance there was between them. He stared into Nehrun’s eyes. The rahn-elect backed away, averting his gaze. “So…been well, Nehrun?”

Nehrun curled his lip in disdain.

“I’d heard you were in the battle,” Roshana said without preamble, her voice surprisingly deep. “It’s true what they’re saying?”

“If it’s bad, probably.”

“They say you”—she also looked at Shar—“the both of you, were fighting for Far-ad-din. Surely you weren’t so foolish? Did you seriously think you’d win?”

“You know what they say. It’s less about winning than being able to walk away afterward. Besides, it was never meant to get so far.” Indris glanced around nervously. Many of those gathered in the room were looking in their direction. Their expressions were neither amused nor friendly. “Rosha, you shouldn’t be—”

“Here we go,” Shar muttered as Feyassin spilled into the room. Conversations stuttered to silence.

Vashne entered, flanked by his white-armored bodyguards, their ornate hexagonal shields held at their waists. The elected ruler of the Avān had the gentle bearing of a man who spent his hours tending flowers and reading books. He did not wear armor or carry a weapon. A simple circlet of black leather, knotted with steel ingots, encircled his high, care-furrowed brow.

As Vashne approached, the gathered nobles of Shrīan took to their knees. Foreheads were pressed to the cold, hard floor, hands extended palms upward. Indris and Shar followed suit. At a gentle word they all sat back on their heels.

The only person who did not take to her knees was Femensetri, Scholar Marshal and Sēq Master. Called the Stormbringer by some, she was the Asrahn’s adviser and confidante. Femensetri’s tall, sickle-topped stave, like the crook of some militant shepherd, rested in the fold of her arms. Shrouded in her hooded over-robe and black cassock, with its row of onyx buttons from throat to groin, the torso bound by fraying strips of leather and iron buckles, she reminded Indris of a Dragon with its wings furled. It was an unfair comparison. Femensetri was a striking woman. Her ageless features and the startling opal-hued eyes were at once marred and enhanced by the mindstone on her brow: a lightless blemish, an absence, against the olive of her skin.

As he looked at her, Indris could sense rather than see the dark energy nimbus that crackled and spat around her. The Disentropic Stain proclaiming her a scholar to any who knew how to look.

Vashne gazed speculatively at those assembled. His disappointed gaze rested on Indris for a handful of heartbeats before it drifted away. After an almost uncomfortable silence, Vashne spoke.

“Everybody except the Näsarat, the Erebus, Ziaire of the House of Pearl, and the Speaker for the People can leave,” Vashne commanded. The other nobles looked to each other for a moment before they rose to their feet and filed from the room. Indris could hear their muttering echo down the corridors as they walked away.

Indris watched as the Näsarat and Erebus camps arranged themselves on opposite sides of the room. In between stood Rahn-Nazarafine of the Great House of Sûn, the Speaker for the People and the elected head of government for the Teshri, her eyes shining like polished brown nuts. Beside her was a poised woman, her features those poets waxed lyrical about. Unruly hair, dark as soot, sat piled atop an oval face with delicate, sculpted features. Her green eyes were vivid against burnished skin, itself striking against the layers of her fitted pearlescent robe. She looked across at Indris and Shar, her gaze measuring.

Vashne’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he glared about the room. “Ariskander? You’ve found who we were looking for?”

Ariskander nodded. “The ones who were still alive. I’ve brought you the prisoners you requested. Pah-Näsarat fa Amonindris, blood royal of the Great House of Näsarat. Former Knight-General of the Sēq Order of Scholars and once the commander of the Immortal Companions nahdi company. The other is Shar-fer-rayn, a war-chanter and last of the Rayn-ma troupe.”

Vashne nodded his thanks as he stopped in front of Indris. “We know each other, you and I.” He looked at the raised blisters on Indris’s wrists, where the manacles restrained him. Vashne’s expression was sorrowful. “We do not need these, do we?”

“Vashne—” Corajidin said.

“Speaker for the People? Arbiter of the Change?” Vashne looked to Nazarafine and Ariskander. “Do you have any objections to releasing this man?”

“You cannot be serious!” Corajidin snapped.

“None at all, Asrahn.” Nazarafine’s smile did not reach her eyes as she assessed Corajidin. “I speak for both Ariskander and myself when I say we’re glad we’ve had the chance to save some of the prisoners to whom you’d offered amnesty.”

The Stormbringer strode forward in a snap of leather and old wool. She took a master key from within the folds of her cassock, then unlocked Indris’s shackles. The salt-forged steel clattered to the ground. The Scholar Marshal kicked them across the room.

Indris restrained his sigh of relief. The pain receded almost immediately. Within moments he could feel the effects of the salt leave his system. He leveled his gaze at the Asrahn, who no doubt knew the risks involved in releasing him. Indris bowed his thanks.

“Indris.” Vashne looked at Indris, though he spoke to the rest of the room. “A man who has been a hero of our people and a savior for others.”

“Asrahn.” Corajidin bowed his head to the floor. “This man—”

“Has done much in our service.”

“Even so, he’s a traitor, in service to a traitor! We need to—”

“His weapons and other belongings will be returned to him.” The Asrahn looked hard into Indris’s eyes. “And to his comrade here. Gratitude is a powerful currency. It is worth more than its weight in gold or gems. Would you agree?”

“Thank you.” Indris felt his stomach knot.

“I trust my generosity is not misplaced. I expect it will be remembered, should I need to call on you.” With that, he turned away.

Indris allowed himself to take a deep breath. The prospect of death or imprisonment slowly unclenched its fist.

“What have you gotten us into now?” Shar murmured.

“Me?”

“You.”

Vashne walked back to the center of the room, Femensetri in his shadow. He glared at Corajidin. “What in the name of the blessed Ancestors were you thinking? This was supposed to be resolved peacefully. With as little bloodshed as possible! Do your prejudices blind you so much?”

Corajidin cocked a disdainful eyebrow. Indris noted the sheen of sweat on the other man’s waxy skin. “Far-ad-din was mustering an army. He was in discussions with Seethe Sky Realms and their troupes. He was selling relics stolen from the Rōmarq—relics he was supposed to be safeguarding! He needed to be dealt with, and we dealt with him.”

“The Seethe believed this fight would be settled through Hamesaad,” Indris said. “They were prepared to abide by the outcomes of the trial of champions. With respect, I believe the Teshri were somewhat misinformed on certain of the key facts upon which they based their decision to depose Far-ad-din. One wonders how much of their decision was based in an ancient and oft-gnawed-on bigotry against the Seethe.”

“The traitor speaks when it should have breathed its last long before now,” Corajidin snapped. He leveled an accusing stare at Indris, who shrugged indifferently. “The whole point of us coming here was—”

“Not to commit to more violence than was necessary,” Ariskander interrupted. “As Arbiter of the Change it was my prerogative to set the terms and context of our engagement. This wasn’t supposed to be a cursed war!”

“It was what it was always going to be,” Kasraman offered with an elegant shrug. “The other Exalted Names of Shrīan came here to remove the last bastion of Seethe power in an Avān nation. Surely we all knew what the outcome would be once we took to the field?”

“My houreh have access to information useful to the Asrahn and the Teshri,” Ziaire said, her voice soft like silk. The Prime of the House of Pearl was suspected in some quarters as being Vashne’s chief intelligencer; the women and men who worked for her had ready access where many did not. “Satiated women and men love to murmur across pillows and skin. We hear a great many things. Yet of Far-ad-din’s supposed treachery, there were strangely few, if any, whispers at all. I find that odd, don’t you?”

“Far-ad-din never proved his innocence,” Corajidin insisted. “We were right to remove him from power.”

And your secret excavations in the R marq, discovered by Far-ad-din, who tried to put a stop to them, had nothing to do with your haste to end him, did it? Indris thought. What are you looking for, you old fox? More interestingly, what have you found in the muck and mire of lost empires?

“We need to find Far-ad-din.” Ziaire folded her hands in the wide sleeves of her silk over-robe.

“The marshes of the Rōmarq are treacherous,” Femensetri interjected. She looked to the Asrahn. “It’s easy to lose one’s way there. Anybody we send to find him would be in danger from Fenlings, marsh-puppeteers, dholes, and the Ancestors only know what else.”

“I’ll go,” Belamandris offered. The young warrior-poet stepped forward, the light of the ilhen crystals shining on his golden head. He looked at his father. “Give me a company of heavy Iphyri and I’ll find Far-ad-din and bring him back.”

“Alive?” Ziaire asked, at which Femensetri cackled. “I applaud your bravery, Belamandris, but allow me some skepticism as to your motives, given it was the Great House of Erebus that brought us all here.”

“In more ways than one,” Ariskander muttered. He pursed his lips. Glancing at Nehrun, he scowled, then looked to Indris. “Vashne, with your permission I’ll take a company of the Lion Guard and Nehrun. It should be enough, if we’re careful.”

“I don’t think—” Nehrun protested.

Vashne waved Nehrun’s objection away. “I appreciate the offer, Ariskander, but I’ll need you here to govern Amnon as the Arbiter of the Change until—”

“Vashne…Asrahn…” Corajidin stiffened, his face betraying his outrage.

“Corajidin?”

“With respect, you need somebody to bring this city and prefecture under control. I lead the only Great House with the military strength at hand for such a task.”

“What he says makes sense, Asrahn.” Nehrun’s voice was weak. Indris’s head snapped around in shock. Rosha looked as if she was willing to murder her brother. Ariskander scowled at his heir. “Though I love and respect my father, Amnon needs a stern hand now. My father brought only two companies of the Lion Guard, with slightly more in numbers of the Phoenix Army. Even with my personal guard company and Rosha’s Whitehorse Cataphracts, we still only number some eight hundred soldiers. Rahn-Corajidin, what’s the current fighting strength of your army?”

“Nehrun! Are you insane?” Rosha hissed. “How can you—”

“I have somewhere in the order of fifteen thousand Erebus troops at my disposal.” Corajidin’s smile was gloating. “Rahn-Kadarin fe Narseh also lent me another three thousand of the Sarat, her elite heavy infantry.”

“Enough!” Vashne held up his hand for silence. “I need somebody seasoned to restore order, but not an army to loom over a people already fearful for their lives. Ariskander, I need you here, not risking your life trying to save your friend.”

“As you say,” Ariskander replied softly. “I’ll begin the necessary preparations for restoring order to the city. I can send Knight-Colonel Ekko with the First Lion Guard Company into the Rōmarq in my stead.”

“Very well.” Vashne’s smile seemed forced. He gazed at Indris and Shar. “It has been a trying couple of days for all of us. Why do we not join our guests and celebrate the lives of those we lost at Amber Lake? Perhaps we can find joy somewhere.”

Vashne rose from his seat. With Ziaire on one side and Femensetri on the other, he led the other nobles from the room. Belamandris grinned at Indris on his way out. He whispered something to Kasraman, at which both brothers laughed. Corajidin’s face was florid, his stride stiff-legged as he left. Indris could see the veins protruding from the stretched skin of his brow.

Indris needed to show his good grace and attend the evening’s bacchanal. Lotus wine would flow. Enough food for a small village would go to waste. Words would be spoken, regretted, remembered. Sende, the strict codes defining Avānese behavior, demanded honor be satisfied and blood spilled.

Indris cared little for their posturing. He cared he was alive.





Indris found himself dancing the flamenon with a woman who reminded him of sun-drenched beaches, with her wide sea-tinted eyes and hair the shade of where the breakers met the shore. Her skin was smooth, the color of honey, and she moved her body with the strength, the suppleness, of a warrior-poet. Her hands were calloused, ridged with muscle. When she smiled it was a slow, lazy thing that exposed the tips of white fangs. Her hair was scented with henna, honey, and milk.

Indris had seen her earlier in the revelry; she had been seated, legs akimbo. He had watched her talk and laugh and dance all night. Time and time again they found themselves watching each other over glasses of dark wine.

After the dance they made their way to the gardens. He had not felt such desire in too long. They never spoke. Guilt warred with lust, eventually overcome by the heat of her kiss and the surety of her touch. Her laugh vibrated across the skin of his throat as she tore the buttons from his old worn jacket. She straddled him, used a long curved knife to slice away the laces on her tunic to expose the skin beneath. She kissed the tattoos and the brands on his arms. Hands wandered. Mouths teased, pleased, wordlessly urged…Her breath tasted of mandarins.

He did not know who used whom. When he woke, she was gone.