"We've also sent envoys to High Palatine Navaar of Oragon." Nazarafine stood to stand beside the window. Mari followed her gaze to where gorgeous women and men in short pearl-gray tunics knelt, meditating, on the sculpted lawn. Each one had a curved wooden knife at their knees. An older woman knelt in front of the group, her mouth moving, though Mari could not make out the words. At a clap of her hands, the students stood, paired off, then began the slow, stylized moves of the complex knife dances. "Like the empress, Navaar has been content to watch and wait. As our neighbor, his position might change if Corajidin becomes Asrahn of Shran."

Navaar, a half-breed Avn, was a mercenary commander of common birth. He and his Silver Company of elite cavalry had served in the Conflicted Cities in Tanis, then as a unit of heavy horse for the Serpent Princes of Kaylish against the corsairs of the Ebony Coast. He had been called home to his home country of Ygran to support the ruling family in a civil war. However, when the fighting stopped, the royal family was all but destroyed. The aging Prince Cervanto had adopted Navaar as his heir and left him his legacy of a nation of racial tolerance. In the past decade, Navaar had wrestled his nation into a state of peace, though he still commanded a large, experienced, and blooded army.

"My father and the Imperialists will like an alliance with Ygran even less than one with the old empire," Mari muttered. She thought of Kasra and his belief that he had unearthed a Torque Spindle in the Rmarq. If Corajidin could make his own soldiers, what would he do if he was cornered? "My father believes Shran can be made strong enough to resist any enemy. You need to convince him-"

"Your father is wrong about a great many things." Kembe's deep voice was like the echo of an avalanche. "Corajidin needs to be stopped. Permanently."

Mari recoiled from the ma.s.sive Tau-se monarch. "I love my father. Misguided as he may be, I'll not help you kill him."

"We don't want to kill him, Mari," Femensetri countered. "There's been enough death already. We want to stop him from making corpses of us all."

"You don't understand what motivates him...the desperation that drives him beyond where most others would falter." With each word she felt the floodgates open. Each word a step further away from any redemption she might have with her father, for he would not appreciate her betrayal of his secrets. "He's had his political aspirations since my grandfather died, but his current state only makes things more immediate. My father is losing his mastery of his Awakening."

"Why hasn't he said anything?" Nazarafine gasped.

"Once a rahn has lost mastery over their Awakening, it's the beginning of a long descent into agonizing death." Femensetri chewed on a ragged fingernail. She spat a fragment onto the floor, at which Ziaire cursed quietly. "I've seen it before. Similar things happen to scholars and witches. As for Corajidin? The ahm, the disentropy all living things produce, will become like venom coursing through his veins, corrupting everything. Mari, how long has this been happening?"

"Almost a year now..." She was not certain. Her father might well have suffered longer without telling anybody. Mari had always expected he would be cured, yet to hear Femensetri's words she feared otherwise. "I know it's why he and Kasra spent months searching for Erebus's diaries. It's what drives his obsession with Sedefke's lost works, which he believes are hidden in the ruins of the Rmarq. He'll do anything to find a solution to what's killing him. He sees himself as the instrument of destiny, his head filled with the words of Wolfram's oracles."

"Oracles?" Femensetri's expression was sour. "Fakirs preying on the desperate. But it's impossible for the effect to come before the cause. Wolfram's oracles can't know what's going to happen."

"Unless they've experienced the effects of tomorrow," Ziaire argued. "They simply plot the causality you Sq love so much as a string of effects, then theorize the causes. Even the Sq have admitted the Time Masters could travel through time."

"Hypothesized." Femensetri shook her head. "Never admitted. Truth is we've no idea what the Rm could or couldn't do."

Mari leaned forward in her chair. "But does that mean Wolfram-"

"Wolfram's reckless, dealing with powers better left alone." Femensetri lanced Mari with a look. "I've created a Possibility Tree of my own. Given what you've told me, your father's involvement in Ariskander's disappearance takes on new meaning-"

"The Nasarats have unbroken knowledge of Awakening, from the first of the Scholar Kings to now. Why do you think he wants Ariskander in his possession?"

"To steal the most ancient knowledge of the Awakening process?" Femensetri's lip curled in revulsion.

"How does he expect to have allies"-disgust was etched on Siamak's face-"if he's willing to betray his peers and his people?"

"I fear for my father, as much as I love him." Mari looked the others in the eye, one by one. "I also fear more will suffer unless he's persuaded to stop. If you're willing to help him, I'm willing to help you."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Do we regret more those things we have done, or those we have not?"-Penoquin of Kaylish, Zienni Scholar and philosopher, 325th Year of the Awakened Empire Day 319 of the 495th Year of the Shranese Federation It had been another restless night, Corajidin's mind littered with half-heard chatter and the blurred visages of the long line of his Ancestors, ephemeral, pale, and swirling like milk in water.

No matter what he had done, no matter where he and Wolfram had searched, there had been no solution to his waning mastery of his Awakening. Without access to Sedefke's works, he needed the answers that were locked somewhere in the memories of the Nasarats. It was they who, guided by Sedefke, had been the first to Awaken. They were also the only Great House whose lineage had not been broken in the millennia since their first Awakening.

Corajidin struggled with the sheets as he rose from bed. His skin was warm from neck to groin, where Yasha had been curled in the curve of his torso. With a smile he looped a strand of her hair about his finger. It was soft as silk and black as night, tinted with blue in the predawn light trickling through the balcony doors. He traced the gentle curves of her face. Lingered over her large eyelids with their long, sooty lashes. High cheekbones. A tapering jaw. Then down the length of her neck, to the deeper shadows of her collarbones, leading to light again at the curved muscle of her shoulder. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell on her long, slender torso. The ivory of the silk sheet was rumpled around her hips, though one shapely leg dangled free off the edge of the bed. Strands of pearls were wound about her ankles. Golden rings encircled her fingers and toes. He touched the small mole on her hip, the one she hated so much yet he adored: as small a flaw as the way she snored, or frowned when she read, or snorted when she laughed too loudly after she drank more than was good for her.

It was moments such as this, when she was still, at peace, uncontrived, and artless, he truly appreciated her. He did not fool himself. Many had shared just such a sight of her. Possibly hundreds in her years as a nemhoureh for the House of Pearl. Likewise he suspected she currently had lovers other than him, though they did not speak of it. They both had their appet.i.tes. So long as she loved only him, he cared little about with whom she indulged her pa.s.sions, pleasures, and perversions.

The most powerful man in Shran leaned down and kissed his wife tenderly, lips lingering on her temple. Corajidin breathed deeply of her fragrance: spikenard, coconut oil, and frankincense. Tempted as he was to slide back beside her, duty called. The world would not bow at his feet without encouragement.

He folded a robe around his body as he padded across the plush, colorful rugs of the chambers he shared with Yasha. A deep pain in his abdomen gave him pause for a moment. It felt as if a rock had shifted in his guts. His legs spasmed, threatened to send him to the floor. He wiped away the sweat beading his brow. It came hand in hand with a shiver that caused his teeth to chatter despite the warmth. Such things were becoming more commonplace since he had started to lose control of his Awakening. Wolfram had yet to provide a stronger draft to settle his symptoms. The challenge was to ease the pain without numbing the mind. Corajidin leaned on the back of a couch for several minutes until the episode pa.s.sed.

Two of Belamandris's crimson-and-black-armored Anlki fell into step behind Corajidin and followed as he strode to the small Ancestors' Shrine he had ordered be installed in a small garden of the villa. Beyond the quiet haven of his own chambers, the apartments he had commandeered were busy. Bound-caste servants were at work preparing the villa's numerous rooms for the day ahead. Finishing touches were being applied to polished floors, antique furniture, and flower arrangements. Lanterns were filled with gently scented oils. Shutters were being opened to allow the fresh morning breeze to circulate through the maze of chambers and corridors.

Aides rushed from place to place as they carried all manner of information between field officers, administration staff, and the small intelligence community Thufan commanded on his behalf. Though the old man was the Kherife-General of Erebus Prefecture-and now of Dar-See At Prefecture and the Rmarq as well-he continued to serve ably as Corajidin's spymaster. With Wolfram to a.s.sist Thufan, there was little the two men could not do to make problems conveniently disappear.

Corajidin doubted he would have such a relationship with Thufan's giant son, Armal. Perhaps it might be better if he spoke to Thufan and had Armal sent away. The Great House of Erebus had interests outside Shran. It might soon become time for Armal to take some additional responsibilities, as far away from Mariam as he could send him. It was a shame, for Armal was effective enough when he was not moonstruck over the girl.

His thoughts wandered to Mariam. Corajidin had tried to find the time to go to Samyala to see his daughter, yet with Vashne and Ariskander gone it seemed his day never ended. There were always those who wanted his time. Part of him was furious with Mariam for her opposition at Iron Street Park. To a point he could understand her position, even respect her values. What he would have trouble forgetting was her interference with Farouk in the execution of his duties. Better had she done nothing at all than hinder his efforts. Indris might well have been apprehended had she not confounded Farouk's soldiers. Hamejin might have lived. Ekko might not have survived to bear witness to what had occurred.

Tempted as he was to make a detour to break his fast, he had allowed his spirituality to fall by the wayside of late. His beloved Ancestors watched him from the Well of Souls. They roiled in a miasma of turbulent vapor, individual voices lost like raindrops in a cyclone. Between the garbled voices in his head and his worsening symptoms, it was becoming too much to bear.

It was a refreshingly cool morning as he stepped outside into the small garden. The gra.s.s was damp under his feet. The distant cries of gulls and sea eagles were faint over the clatter of traffic that drifted over the high garden wall. Made from alabaster and marble, his portable Ancestors' Shrine faced west, the direction of the spirits-of those things that had come before and seen their ending as was proper, for nothing was meant to be eternal. The best a mortal could hope for was to be remembered by those who came after, to be celebrated by their Ancestors when they finally joined them in the Well of Souls.

Corajidin knelt before the shrine and bowed his head on the cool stone dome. With reverent hands he opened its doors. Within were a small soapstone incense burner and a plain wooden box with sticks of black-lotus incense to aid the process of communion. Once was a time when he could speak to the hallowed dead without the need for such trappings.

A guard filled a small wooden bowl with water. Corajidin washed his hands and face, dried himself with a rough cloth. He lit the incense, settled himself on his knees as he breathed in the smoke. Were he at home in Erebesq, he would have sat in the large Garden of Stones at his palace, surrounded by the impa.s.sive faces of his Ancestors rendered flawlessly in backlit amber. Here he had only their names etched on small cartouches of red marble.

It did not take long for the black lotus to blur his perceptions. Sound became indistinct, as if he heard everything through a swarm of giant bees. He fancied he could feel the impact of dust motes on the skin of his face. His blood raced through his veins at the behest of hearts that beat so heavily Corajidin imagined his torso rocked back and forth with the force of it.

Apparitions coalesced behind his closed lids, figures in a glaring spring mist, ripped by gales. Fragments of voices came to him from dizzying heights, the susurrus of the wind through pine needles. Though he was not sure, he thought he felt the tentative, loving touch of hands on his face. His shoulders. Perhaps even on his hair, as his mother had done when he was young. This far from Erebus Prefecture there was a heartrending absence of the loved, the familiar. Rahns were always strongest in their own lands.

No matter how he strained, he could not hear what his Ancestors had to say. The source of so much history lay distorted and useless to him; memories of those who had come and gone before were out of his reach. The answers to so many questions lost to antiquity, knowledge unwritten in scrolls or books. It was if the ahm, the energy that fueled him, was drying up, and, like a ship at low tide, Corajidin had no way of sailing free of his moorings. After a long, frustrating effort, he opened his eyes in defeat.

It was with the same reverence, overlaid with numbness, he packed away the relics into the shrine. His eyes were warm with the unshed tears of his failure, yet it seemed crying, like feeling the love of his Ancestors, was something Erebus fa Corajidin was incapable of doing anymore.

Corajidin snapped awake at the roar of the crowd at the Namyeset, the great stadium of Amnon. He must have dozed off shortly after the game had started. He blinked rapidly, rubbed at his gritty eyes and the dried saliva around the corners of his mouth. The hysteria of the crowd poured over him, washed away the remnants of the incomprehensible voices in his head. Yashamin was by his side, her face lit with joy. Some of Corajidin's supporters had joined them.

Corajidin had paid for the event from his own coffers, inviting spectators to attend for free. He knew it was a bribe, yet the ma.s.ses needed a distraction from their troubles. Word had reached him of how his representatives had executed his orders with a heavy-handedness he had neither ordered nor wanted. Regardless, Thufan, Wolfram, Armal, and Farouk got results. Corajidin could make amends to the people later, once Amnon and the Rmarq had delivered what he needed.

From his seat in the shaded private box, Corajidin watched a score of women and men pelt across the sandy arena. They played leqra, a team sport where the players moved a leather ball around the hexagonal field using their feet or long bats shaped much like the oar of a canoe. The object was to strike the ball into the goals suspended from each wall.

Golden Belamandris led his team of crimson-garbed Anlki against the quick-footed team of nahdi who competed with them. The nahdi's lower faces were swathed in cloth. All the players were bloodied, bruised, streaked with sand and sweat. Some limped, while others favored one arm or the other. Leqra was not a game for the fainthearted.

"Rahn-Corajidin." Teymoud pa.s.sed Farouk to seat himself beside Corajidin. Corajidin raised an eyebrow at the man, yet took the bowl of wine Teymoud offered him. Condensation had formed on the metal, cool and damp against his palms. When Corajidin did not speak, Teymoud continued, expression gray, voice monotone. "It's come time to discuss the payment of debts."

Corajidin put his bowl down. "Is this the place?"

"You've either declined or canceled our previous appointments."

"The Asrahn-Elect has many demands on his time, Sayf-Teymoud," Farouk offered by way of explanation. The scars on his face were pale against his sun-darkened skin. "The Asrahn-Elect will see you when he has the time."

Teymoud gave what Corajidin suspected was his version of a smile, the press of thin, almost colorless lips against slightly too-large teeth. "The Mercantile Guild has extended you considerable generosity, Rahn-Corajidin."

"You will get your money, Teymoud." Corajidin turned his attention back to the game. Belamandris had leaped over one of his fallen teammates to fell one of his opponents with his bat. As the man was driven to the sand, Belamandris flicked the ball into the air with his toes and fired the ball like a bolt through the goal. Yashamin screamed with joy. She rose from her chair, lifting her gla.s.s in salute. A splash of wine trickled down her arm. Corajidin smiled at her, then turned to the merchant. "I need more time."

The Mercantile Guild was glad to lend money and even happier to take it back with their exorbitant interest payments. Between his bribes, as well as the costs of bringing such a large army to Amnon, the Erebus coffers had suffered badly. Corajidin had no other choice than to borrow.

"There are more personal debts to be paid."

"Teymoud." He smiled as sincerely as he could. "There are few things I am unable to do. To elevate your family to the status of Great House without an a.s.sembly of Peers is one of them. Have I not promised you my support?"

"From what I hear," Teymoud said flatly, "you promised the same thing to a lot of people."

"Patience, Teymoud." Yashamin reached over Corajidin's lap to touch Teymoud's cadaverous hand. Corajidin looked down to see the way she caressed Teymoud's skin with her thumb. "You shouldn't listen to rumors."

"If you're unable to help me, then I'm unable to-"

Corajidin took a long drink from his wine bowl. He needed the Mercantile Guild and the armies of nahdi it could procure, at least until he could muster a large enough force loyal to himself. If only Kasraman could get the Torque Spindle working. Or if he was right about the Destiny Engine he thought had been found. With a Destiny Engine, Corajidin could mine the future itself for the gems he wanted. From thousands of possible events, he could safely walk the most improbable, successful futures. Yet neither artifact was at his disposal. He still needed his allies. "I will give you what you want, Teymoud, but you need to wait. Patience will serve us all in the long term."

"Then it's settled!" Yashamin's smile was dazzling. "Twenty-two days from now we'll be in Avnweh for the a.s.sembly of Peers. My husband will be declared Asrahn, with the help of our loyal friends. Twenty-two days from now, Teymoud, you'll ascend to the rank of rahn of a Great House. There's nothing to worry about."

Teymoud gave a rictus grin. "Many...unforeseen things can happen in twenty-two days. With Far-ad-din gone, Dar-See At Prefecture is there for the taking. With respect, I'll continue to worry until I've been Awakened and the prefecture is mine."

There came the sharp retort of leqra bats from the arena in front of the viewing box. A fight for possession of the ball had broken out. The scores were even, with only a few precious minutes of play left. Belamandris landed an elbow in another player's face, then tripped a second with his bat. As he lunged for the ball, one of the nahdi stabbed down. The blow almost took Belamandris's toes. The nahdi kicked the ball behind him, then leaped backward, Belamandris in pursuit. There was a flurry of blows: hands, bats, elbows, knees, feet. The crowd had risen to its feet. A wave of noise broke, flew into the hundred little pieces of applause, cheers, hooted derision.

Corajidin watched as Belamandris felled the nahdi, a strike with one fist where it was clutched around his bat. The nahdi fell back into a cl.u.s.ter of his teammates. With only seconds left to play, Belamandris scooped up the ball to swat it dead center through the goal. The clock chimed. The game was over.

Belamandris's expression was exultant. He and his team clapped their opponents on the back, then began their victory lap, bats held high in the air. All was chaos. Shouts, the sound of hands which drummed on the stone walls of the arena, those who jumped, those who raised shrill whistles to their lips. Corajidin rose from his seat with difficulty, allowed the goodwill of the crowd to wash over him. Surely the people would forgive him some of their pains, if he could also bring them their simple pleasures?

Corajidin looked down at the players. The nahdi Belamandris had bested raised his bat in a jaunty salute, the tattoos and brands on his arms obscured by sweat-streaked sand. He bowed once before jogging from the field with his teammates.

"You are safe so long as you are my ally, Teymoud," Corajidin said with little enthusiasm. Fatigue tugged at his limbs. Yashamin looked on, tongue resting upon her lower lip. Corajidin's voice was low, little more than a whisper. "Remember I am the man who convinced the leaders of a nation to depose a rahn because he stood in my way. If you give me the time I need to do what must be done, you will share in a future so clear, so bright, and so beautiful there are few who could appreciate it. I am who I am, Teymoud. Destiny has shown me I can do whatever I must do, because I can. If you want to soar to the same heights, you had best remember it."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"True friendship is a wonder rarely matched in nature for its beauty, or its rarity. Born of love, admiration, and affection, it is the place where wrongs are forgiven and we see with the heart, not the eyes. I know that in the hearts of my friends, my lapses might ultimately be forgiven. It brings me comfort that, perhaps, I am a person worth loving."-Imradhan, master dramatist and painter to the Ivory Court of Tanis, 12th Somundarthan Dynasty (356th Year of the Shranese Federation) Day 319 of the 495th Year of the Shranese Federation Indris walked into the cool of the evening. Samyala and its grounds were dotted by the will-o'-the-wisp glow of ilhen lamps hung from trees and bushes.

He took a seat among the apple blossoms, where the dim apparitions of orange-and-yellow carp idled in a large pond. Shar had decided to remain inside, where she a.s.sumed the role of troubadour for the evening. Indris could hear the jangling tones of her sonesette, as well as the breathiness of her voice raised in song. Ekko was with her. Indris doubted the ladies of Samyala had the chance to meet a Tau-se very often. As such Ekko had become something of a fascination to them. Hayden and Omen had left to scout out Indris's residence and see whether it was being watched. They would find the opportunity to secretly enter, gather what was necessary for their journey, then return. Tonight would be a night of peace and- "Am I disturbing you?" Mari's voice thrilled him. He masked what he suspected might be an idiot grin before he turned to gesture to the seat beside him. She nodded in thanks as she seated herself.

"I'd heard you'd been brought here," he said. "How do feel, Pah-Mariamejeh?"

"I'd prefer you called me Mari," she offered with a lazy smile. "I feel the worse for wear, though better than I should given the circ.u.mstances. The Scholar Marshal is a gifted healer."

"We both owe her a debt of grat.i.tude. As for names? You're right. I think we're past formality, neh?"

Mari threw her head back and laughed. It was a low, throaty sound, rough edged and raw. She crossed very long, athletic legs. Looked at him from beneath her s.h.a.ggy blonde fringe. "I knew you were trouble when I first set eyes on you. If I'd known how much, I'd have found you earlier."

"If you'd known I was a Nasarat, would it have made a difference? I imagine your father would hardly approve."

"Ha! If I thought you were half Seethe, it wouldn't keep me away. Why would I care what Great House, family, or worker's cottage you were born in? Would it have mattered to you if you knew I was an Erebus?"

Indris shrugged. "It doesn't now, why would it then?"

"That's the correct answer. You're indeed as wise as they say."

"Oh, that's what they say, is it?"

She leaned against him. It was little more than the playful brush of her arm against his. There came the faint cuc.u.mberlike scent of comfrey oil rubbed into her skin. The heady smell of the jojoba in her hair. Gone almost as quickly as it came, it brought back the memory of shared pa.s.sion. "They say a lot of other things, too. Good and bad."

"Aah." Indris rocked back on the chair to give himself some distance. His desire for her unsettled him. "There's always the bad, isn't there? I suppose that's why you're famous and I'm infamous?"

Mari snorted with good-natured derision. "I'm a daughter of the Great House of Erebus and you talk to me about infamy?"

"You've a reputation-"

"I can imagine." Her tone was bitter. She looked away, eyes unfocused across the shimmering breadth of lantern-hazed Amnon.

"The definitions of ourselves aren't always so clear-cut. Neither are our decisions."

"Sometimes. It was my choice to work hard so I could succeed as a warrior-poet, rather than continue my education with the House of Pearl. I never wanted to become a trophy bride for my House's advantage." Laughter trilled across the night. Mari looked wistfully at the warmly glowing windows set in Samyala's white marble walls. "Sometimes one wonders..."

"Doubts?"

"Almost never. You?"

Indris laughed. "My mother was Sq, as well as being good friends with Femensetri and Far-ad-din. I was born in Mediin, in Pashrea, but raised in Amnon until I was five. I was sent to the Sq Chapterhouse at Amarqa before my mother...was murdered. I even spent two years at the Nilvedic Libraries at Eshmir. And another two at the Zienni Monastery in High Arden. I've spent most of my life in public service. There wasn't a great deal of choice in it."

"Oh."

"I don't regret it." He shrugged. "Much of the time. I'm daimahjin now, so the days of putting myself in danger at other people's convenience are over. I've only myself to blame if I get killed now."

Mari laughed, then sobered quickly. "You can lay some blame at my father's feet this time. You're lucky to be alive."

"Yes." He drew out the word speculatively. "I've been shot, stabbed, or otherwise wounded more times than I care to count. I've yet to feel lucky about it."

"Well, I'm sorry."

Corajidin had shot him with salt-forged steel. The black-rock salt caused what the Stone Witches, the earliest coven, called the Entropic Scar. Entropic Scars acted like boulders in a stream. They literally scarred the energies in a person's body and had the potential to be life threatening. For the Ilhennim-the Illuminated, or mystics-the effects could be devastating. Yet somehow Indris had managed to survive, though for the life of him could not remember how or why.

Ever since Indris had returned from the Spines with Changeling, he had been physically and mentally stronger than at any point in his life. He healed more rapidly. Thought more rapidly. Then there was his left eye, his jhi-the stigma of power-something rarely seen in mystics since the early days of the Awakened Empire. His eye looked normal most of the time, but when he channeled floods of disentropy, or was threatened, something woke inside him. A strength that had not been there before he went to the Spines. Something happened to him in the three years he was with the Dragons, though he remembered almost none of it. He knew he had arrived, had spoken with the Dragon Sage Mnesseranssuen, and had been asked to fulfill a quest on their behalf. What the quest was, or what else happened to him at the Spines, was lost. No matter what he had tried, the memories of his time with the Dragons were locked away so deep he could not find them.

"So your father tried to kill me," he mused. Indris shook his head then grinned at her. "Should I feel special?"