The Garden of Stones

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 Shrīanese 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 Näsarats. 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 breasts 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 appetites. So long as she loved only him, he cared little about with whom she indulged her passions, pleasures, and perversions.

The most powerful man in Shrīan 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 passed.

Two of Belamandris’s crimson-and-black-armored Anlūki 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 Rōmarq as well—he continued to serve ably as Corajidin’s spymaster. With Wolfram to assist 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 Shrīan. 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 grass 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 impassive 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 masses 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 Rōmarq 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 Anlūki 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 passed 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 glass 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 Assembly 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 Avānweh for the Assembly 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 cluster 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.”