The Garden of Stones

chapter FIFTEEN





“Do we regret more those things we have done, or those we have not?”—Yaidekin, Zienni Scholar and philosopher, 325th Year of the Awakened Empire


Day 319 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Corajidin related to the others what Mari had told him.

“You believe her?” Thufan mused. The old kherife’s clothing was stained, crumpled from too many hours of wear. He leaned back and drew on his pipe. Smoke poured in an oily gray stream from his mouth and nostrils as he exhaled. Corajidin suspected Thufan would smoke in his sleep if he could.

“Of course.” Armal’s eyes never left the floor. “Pah-Mariam is—”

“I don’t,” Farouk said as he glared at Armal. “With respect, I’ve never trusted her, Rahn-Corajidin. And as usual Armal isn’t thinking with his brain.”

“You don’t like her because she is everything you’re not, Farouk.” Belamandris gestured with his wine bowl. He looked to Corajidin. “Mari can’t go back to who, or what, she was. Don’t you think a change of heart is possible?”

“After her beating at the hands of those she called friends, she could’ve done many things.” Armal loomed large. “There are many who’d wallow in self-pity, yet she sees only duty.”

Farouk rolled his eyes. “She’s not here to hear you blather, Armal. Surely this drivel isn’t for our benefit?”

“Armal, you know my opinion on your feelings for Mariam. Best if you forget them entirely. When a suitable match is evident, Mariam will marry to the advantage of her House.” Corajidin shifted in his chair. It hurt to sit for too long in one place. He had to concentrate on what the others were saying, lest their words get lost in the din in his head. “As for trust? Mariam gave me the information willingly. She could easily have withheld it. Or embellished what she knew of Femensetri’s plot.”

“You think the plot is the Scholar Marshal’s?” Armal asked. “I would’ve thought the Speaker for the People—”

“Femensetri has everything to gain by leading insurrection,” Corajidin muttered darkly. “The Sēq have a very tenuous hold in Shrīan, held through their alliances with the Great Houses of Näsarat and Selassin and with Far-ad-din. Supporting an administration sympathetic to the Sēq would serve her best, which she knows she will never have while I am in control.”

“The day of the scholars and their restraint is over, if Shrīan is to have the power it needs to survive,” Wolfram added. “Since the Scholar Wars, the covens of the witches have remained docile, yet we’re stronger and greater in numbers than the scholars know. Rahn-Corajidin is only the first to benefit from the power we can wield.”

“Kasraman will be the first in a dynasty of witch rulers—the mahsayf, as they were known before the Scholastic Orders were formed. Before the word rahn had been invented.” Corajidin felt his hearts swell with pride. Kasraman had proven to be a prodigy, thanks to the potency in his mother’s blood. He would return the Great House of Erebus to the heights of glory, once Corajidin had rebuilt it and set them on their course.

“Ariskander?” Thufan asked. “Sēq support the Näsarats more than any other Great House.”

“Teymoud procured an Angothic Spirit Casque for me,” Wolfram said. “It will be at his mansion at the Hour of the Scorpion tomorrow night. The rites of imprisonment will take some preparation, though it could all be done within a day or so. Brede has returned from the Rōmarq to assist me. Until now we’ve been using combinations of Somatic Trawling, drugs, and physical coercion, with no effect. Once Ariskander’s soul is imprisoned, I can find what we’re after. The line of the Great House of Näsarat ends with Ariskander. Once he’s in the Spirit Casque, he’ll not be Awakening anybody. Ever.”

“Good.” Corajidin breathed a sigh of relief. He had his suspicions as to how Wolfram was assisted by his apprentice. Though he was unsure what the various esoteric tortures Wolfram mentioned were, they sounded unpleasant enough. “Thufan? Make sure that thing gets to the ruins as quickly as possible, but be cautious.”

Thufan drew on his pipe. Corajidin caught his nod amid the plume of smoke. “Need to pay the Fenlings and the puppeteers.”

“Give them what they want.” Corajidin felt uneasy about the price the marsh-dwellers exacted for their permission to travel and loot the Rōmarq, yet they would not be swayed by either riches or political favors. Their needs were simpler, more lurid, though unavoidable.

“What of Pah-Mariam? Will she be joining us?” Armal asked tentatively.

“Mari acted out of conscience, Father,” Belamandris said. “It’s more an indictment on us that we don’t. She wants to help.”

Belamandris was right, though Mariam would need watching. Her liaison with Indris might have challenged her already-questionable sympathies. First it had been Vashne she had sympathized with. Then those who wanted to disband the armies in Amnon. It was not too far a reach to see her empathize with Ariskander, who was cut from a similar cloth as the late Asrahn. Or Indris, the kind of hero who had always inspired her.

Over the years Mariam had as often as not proven herself to be ambivalent to the demands of her family. A traitor, though? The thought trickled across his mind like ice water. Where had it come from? Corajidin’s jaw clenched against the sudden pressure and pain behind his eyes. Mari needed him! Where else could she go? Her options were now limited to whatever uses her House would find for her. She needed his indulgence if she was to continue enjoying the privileges of the Avān royal caste. Mariam needed her father.

“Mariam will be brought into the fold,” Corajidin stated.

“That wise?” Thufan’s eyes narrowed. “She’s trouble.”

“She’s what she was raised to be.” Belamandris laughed.

“The topic is closed.” Corajidin heard the fatigue in his voice. He raised shaking fingertips to massage his temples. “Unless there is anything else, you all have duties to attend to.”

The others bowed as they filed out, except for Thufan, who remained in his chair, pipe cradled in the palm of his hand. The little spy watched the others go from under lowered brows.

Corajidin gestured for Farouk to close the door on his way out, which left the two men alone for the first time in a long while. Thufan had served the Great House of Erebus all his life. The man was well over one hundred and fifty years old, which was not old for an Avān, but Thufan did not wear his years with grace. He had fathered sons and daughters over the decades, though only Armal had survived. There was a time when Corajidin and Thufan would spend hours poring over information. Sowing rumors, forging evidence, buying and selling favors to get what they wanted. Their history was filled with as many corpses, falsehoods, and deceptions as it was acts of patriotism and glory. Corajidin doubted their future would be much different.

“You have a problem, my friend?” Corajidin asked.

“Worried.” Thufan took his feet off the stool. He leaned on his arms, hook gleaming. “About you. About Wolfram’s prophecies. About where it will end.”

“In the short term, with me as Asrahn.”

“You’re getting sicker. Can’t be Asrahn if you’re dead.”

“Sedefke’s works elude me. The ruins in the Rōmarq are showing promise, but we need more time. What Kasraman suspects is a Torque Spindle is in pieces. If they’re right and they’ve also found a Destiny Engine…it could change everything! If I could trawl all my possible futures, I’d find one where we achieve everything we want. Even Erebus’s diaries would have been a boon, given he was the very first of my House to Awaken. But without these things, I need Ariskander’s memories. I am doing what needs to be done, but can only work with what I have while I have the time.”

“Vashne’s death?”

“What choice was there?” Corajidin pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He could feel them tremble slightly. His skin felt dry as old paper. When it was not dry, it was sodden with fever sweat. “The Teshri was going to vote to make him Asrahn for another term, if not for life! We had invested too much to wait that long. It would ruin us to wage such a political campaign again.”

Thufan’s cough was a moist rattle in his old lungs. He wiped the phlegm from his mouth with his sleeve. The old man drew on his pipe and exhaled a thick cloud of pungent smoke, followed by another racking couch that doubled him over in his chair. “I’m getting tired. Might retire soon.”

“Do not underestimate yourself,” Corajidin said cheerily to cover a moment’s panic. The thought of being without the old spy’s advice left him feeling hollow. “Of all the Hundred Families, yours is the one we have relied upon the most. I need you, old friend.”

“Want to send Armal home. I’ll stay if you let him go. He’s different than us. My only surviving child. My family deserves a chance.”

“He knows too much for him to ever be free of us, Thufan. Besides, he is still too rough around the edges to be given too long a leash.”

“Please?” Thufan seemed shrunken with fatigue; pipe smoke settled into the creases of his skin, giving the old man a yellowed glaze like old parchment. Armal was no replacement for Thufan. Armal, with his melancholy. Armal, with his infatuations set so high above his station.

Corajidin stood. “You are and have always been loyal, Thufan. I know you have suffered in your service to the Erebus, yet you have also been richly rewarded. Armal can look forward to the same rewards. While he is useful, there is much I will forgive Armal for.”

“But?”

“Loving Mariam will never be one of those things.”





A frigid wind howled across sodden grasses of Ast am’a Jehour, as biting and fierce as the wolves the plain was named for. Corajidin’s banners—their black-and-red rearing stallions shredded against a mustard-tinted overcast—streamed like tattered plumes of smoke. The weight of his armor, dented and drenched in blood, bore him down. His arm ached from fingertips to wrist, his hand numb where it held his notched amenesqa. He was surrounded by the war-lean figures of the Anl ki, while wild-eyed witches in their flapping robes circled the sky above, stentorian voices calling out to the powers that dwelled in the shadows between worlds.

Across the rain-flattened grasses of Ast am’a Jehour, the banners of his enemies seemed to ignite as the sun streamed through a rent in the clouds: lotus blossoms of silver and white, orange and brown, and blue and gold. In the uncertain light a mist boiled over the nearby hills, etched with the spectral forms of warriors long dead. At their front was a figure armored in scales forged of stars, his shield shining like the dawn and his sword a brilliant recurved shard of moonlight.

The figure raised his face, eye blazing with—

Corajidin started upright, his jaws snapping shut around his scream. His hearts beat out of time, his head felt light, while the breeze from the fan overhead chilled the fever sweat on his skin.

He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office. The moon cast a spectral light through the light silk curtains, which twitched in the breeze. He seemed to fall upward into the hypnotic patterns of light and shadow, where they played on the vault of the domed ceiling above. Glass tiles caught the light, like blurred stars in his very own sky.

His mouth tasted sour from too much wine. His tongue and teeth felt furry. To stay on the edges of intoxication was one of the few ways he could find release from the fragmented voices of his Ancestors in his head. Did they not know he could not understand them? Were they not supposed to see all, hear all, know all? Yet they could tell him nothing, at the time when what he needed most was everything. Even Yashamin’s libidinous enthusiasm had not been enough to drive him to slumber. He had come to his office to work. Concentration had eluded him. He did not remember falling asleep.

Of late there had been little respite from the pain. It felt as if a spike had been driven behind his eyes. He stared at his hands, curled into claws that took an effort of will to straighten. The muscles of his thighs ached as if he had run all day, while his ankles felt stiff and swollen. In the quiet shallows of the night, his breath wheezed, each laborious inhalation almost too much effort.

Corajidin rose from his couch. There was little left in his wine bowl except the dregs, which he upended into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste. He shuffled to the door.

“Wolfram’s quarters,” Corajidin muttered to the guards who stood outside as he left his office. Two of the Anlūki took point, while the other two followed behind, matching Corajidin’s hobbling pace.

He made his torturous way through long, lantern-lit corridors until they came to a part of the building that was mostly unused by the Erebus. It was musty. The floorboards were bare, in need of polish. They sang underfoot, worn in a long pale track from years of traffic. Old cobwebs clung, wispy as an old man’s beard, in the corners of walls and cornices. Doorframes were chipped and dented, the plaster walls stained long ago by dirty hands.

Corajidin nodded for one of the Anlūki to knock on the door. Though he would have paid none other than his own family the same courtesy, Corajidin wanted to give Wolfram notice. There was no telling what manner of unsavory practices the Angothic Witch engaged in behind closed doors. The less Corajidin knew, the better he felt.

The Anlūki was about to knock again when Corajidin heard bolts drawn. The door opened to reveal Brede’s pale face framed by rumpled blonde hair. She wore a long robe of tapestry fabric, open at the front as if hastily donned. Her collar gleamed black in the lantern light. Her drawn kindjal was in her hand.

“I am here to see your master.” Corajidin’s voice was stern.

Brede cocked her head to one side, as if listening. Her eyes seemed slightly out of focus. After a moment she nodded. “Please come in, Rahn-Corajidin. The Anlūki must remain outside.” Brede opened the door, head bowed, to allow Corajidin entry.

When two of the Anlūki attempted to join him, Brede interposed herself between them and the door. The soldiers tried to go around her. The Angothic apprentice tapped one man on the chest, which caused him to reel backward into the opposite wall with a crash of armor. The other Anlūki’s hand dropped to his sword, though Brede’s hand was faster. At her whispered words, the hilt began to bubble, to hiss and spit, as if acid burned it away. The soldier swore as he pulled his hand back, reaching for the long-knife thrust through his sash.

“Remain outside,” Brede repeated as the four swordsmen spread out in the corridor. “You won’t be told again.”

Corajidin gazed at the blonde apprentice. There was no point in dooming the four Anlūki to their deaths.

“Remain here,” Corajidin ordered the Anlūki.

He watched as the four guards retreated to the other side of the corridor. Corajidin then walked past Brede into Wolfram’s room. Wolfram had installed a large bed, a long couch with worn upholstery, and several wide tables covered in crates, artifacts, books, tablets, and scrolls. Several Angothic tapestries lined the walls, scenes from bacchanals and profane rituals in broad clots of colored wool. A door led to an underground stable, which would have housed carriages, carts, and horses for guests who stayed in this section of the villa under its previous occupants. The air reeked of the overpowering smell of incense, so many rival scents as to make any one of them indistinguishable. It made Corajidin sneeze. The chamber was overly warm, almost stifling.

Brede led Corajidin to where Wolfram pored over several crystal tablets. Graceful Seethe characters seemed to float there in shallow translucence. The witch did not bother to look up as Corajidin approached.

“What brings you from your bed, my rahn?” Wolfram asked.

“It is getting worse.” Corajidin gasped as he settled into a chair. He fell the last few centimeters, his aching legs unable to support his weight. He recounted his dream to Wolfram.

Wolfram poured three fingers of lotus milk into a small glass. Corajidin gulped it down, anxious to be free of the pain for a little while. The witch peered into Corajidin’s eyes, prodded and probed and asked the same questions about how long and where and how sharp the pains were. “Your soul is becoming more toxic. Visions aren’t uncommon in this state, though whether it’s a true foretelling or a fever dream I can’t say. My allies among the hidden covens know of another, more extreme remedy—”

“In time, perhaps. Right now I need to know more,” Corajidin whispered. Brede stood by her master as she sheathed her kindjal. She seemed indifferent to the immodesty of her open robe. Her skin was white as milk. It looked soft to touch, despite the shadows that outlined hard muscle. Corajidin tore his eyes away. “If this is a vision—”

“We’ve discussed this more times than is healthy. Wouldn’t your time be better served making decisions based upon what you do know?”

“What point of my destiny has changed and am I to die before I can be raised to the Asrahn’s throne?” Corajidin snapped. “As for what we know? Let us discuss what we know! Have you found Sedefke’s library or his laboratory? No. Has Ariskander given over his secrets on how I can master my Awakening again? No. Am I the Asrahn of Shrīan yet? No. Have you found my weapons? No.”

“We’ve found relics which might be weapons,” Brede offered. “Though we’re unsure as to their operation or use.”

“You say you have part of a Torque Spindle, but you can’t operate it even though it could change everything! What about Salamander Jars? Dilemma Boxes? Or Sunfire Orbs or one of the infamous Havoc Chairs?”

“You’d be best served by using what you have now,” Wolfram countered.

Corajidin fumed. “Knowing something of the future will—”

“Avail you no more than it has!” Wolfram slapped his large hands down on the table. “Won’t you abandon your reliance on the works of history? Brede and I can summon the arcane power you need for victory, my rahn. Concentrate on a future of your own devising, on a now you can see and influence, rather than a tomorrow you can’t.”

“I see tomorrow very well, Wolfram. I may be dead! Two years ago you came to me with your dreams and set me on this path to the monarchy of Shrīan.”

“Then let me help you work toward that goal, rather than assuming it’s a foregone conclusion, which—”

“Give me what I ask, or I will find another who can!” Corajidin snapped. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Brede kept her head lowered, though Corajidin saw her change her grip on her kindjal. Surely she would not strike him? Then he remembered she had been trained as a Sēq before she had fallen from their good graces. Scholars did not recognize any monarch above themselves, except for the Mahj in Mediin. Now she was a witch’s apprentice, her loyalties given over to whatever profanities Wolfram demanded of her spirit, mind, or body. Corajidin jabbed his finger at the witch. “If you deny me, you deny any chance of finding a way to fix your ruined legs. The Sēq will only obey a Mahj. Until the day comes when I can order them to open the vaults at Amarqa, we will need each other, you and I.”

Wolfram remained silent for a long moment before he turned to face Corajidin. The strength of his look was terrible, his wolf’s eyes bright.

“Then let’s go round on this carousel one last time.”





Wolfram unrolled a long rug, embroidered with intricate geometric and angular knot work patterns. There were faces woven into the borders. Half-seen, possibly imagined terrors lurked in its depths. They lay in wait amid the weft and warp. Corajidin had a faint sense of vertigo when he tried to unravel the designs with his gaze. Brede took a bag and began to mark out a line of sea salt around her master. When Corajidin asked why, she replied it was to ensure no unclean spirit could escape. His lips curled in an uneasy grimace. Brede’s face was a study in gravity. She asked Corajidin to kneel on the rug in front of her master. Brede took her place beside Wolfram, her kindjal across her lap. Wolfram began a sonorous chant in his beautiful voice.

The Angothic Witch’s voice drummed across Corajidin’s skin. He felt the vibrations on his face, his temples, his chest. Wolfram’s voice, the cloying incense, the unexpected heat, his infirmity, and fatigue took their toll. The intricate designs on Wolfram’s meditation rug began to blur. Dark-blue and gray lines seemed to sink, became water-and shadow-filled valleys of some woven netherworld. Warmer browns, reds, and greens drifted, took on substance as frayed serpentine shores, hills, and forests lit with points of fire. White-and-yellow threads rose in knotted clouds and beams of sunlight. The patterns of the carpet rose about him, surrounded him, enveloped him.

His breath rasped. His hearts beat like drums. The sound of his blood rushing in his skull roared in his ears. Tired as he was, there was part of him that wanted to speed naked and alone through the elder darkness, hungry for the taste of flesh as his forefathers had been. For blood, for the sweet, sweet, sweet flicker of life’s candle, extinguished by fang and nail.

Disoriented, Corajidin raised his eyes. He knelt on long grass made of woolen strands in the shadow of woven trees. Knots the size of boulders, faded from wear, surrounded him. Folds in the carpet became long hills of frayed green, high above the still threads of blue-gray rivers. A pack of flat wolves, their features blurred to ragged slits for mouths, mismatched black stitches for eyes, were caught midleap amid the trees. Hooded women and men lurked in the shadows around heatless renderings of flame, featureless round hands clutched about the curved strands of sickles. Above him a ragged hawk hung still in a static sky of burned umber. There was no breeze, or motion, or sound, or scent, or any sign of life.

The world stretched. The long lines of interwoven cords that made land, rivers, and sky flexed. Corajidin felt the tremor through his knees as the tableau shook. Then he was being dragged through the fibrous diorama. Caricatures of flora and fauna sped past like two-dimensional cutouts, daubed with colors never to be found in nature. He expected there to be wind in his face, for his eyes to tear as they did when he stood at the prow of his wind-frigate. Yet there were only the visual cues of movement without stimulation of his other senses as he flew across the carpet.

He was ushered to a circle of black stones, carved like curved stairways that led nowhere. The wool had faded to a dirty gray, the edges of the stones rough, frayed, the dullness of the undyed wool smeared like bird droppings and the abuse of the years. In the center of the circle stood a dolmen, likewise woven of dark wool. Upon its flat surface there was an arched sundial, a fang aimed at the world above.

The wide cords at Corajidin’s feet began to tremble. Strands wrapped themselves around his ankles, lashed up to bind his thighs and stomach, his wrists and arms. Corajidin struggled, screamed for help, but could not break free. A face appeared from the weft, long skulled with lobeless ears and a cluster of glossy, deep-set eyes. Noseless, its mouth and jaw were hidden by waving tentacles of various lengths and thicknesses. Slowly, the betentacled skull rose from the folds. Malformed at first, it swelled into shape. It was followed by a neck, then wide shoulders that popped into place above a prow-shaped chest and narrow hips—a skeleton of cartilage rather than bone. Long arms and a disturbing mess of tentacles for legs. Webbed, trifingered hands and double-toed lower tentacles capped with pallid horn. It grew as it stepped free. Writhed in ways no Avān or Human could, its tentacles flailing for a few seconds. Eight horizontally slitted pupils, almost hourglasses, fixed their chill gaze on Corajidin and would not look away.

It stood before Corajidin, to look upon him in much the same way Corajidin would look at a trained monkey. The tentacles that were its lower face, some of which reached past its waist, flicked out, caressed Corajidin’s face. They were warm, dry as a serpent’s belly.

The tentacles wrapped themselves around Corajidin’s head until all he could do was stare into the thing’s timeless eyes. He raised his hands to pry the tentacles apart, yet he had more chance of tearing open prison bars. Filaments of fire coiled in his brain, lashed about, lit his passions, fears, pains, lusts, and shames. Touched on desires that flickered before his mind’s eye faster than he could take them in, until all he could see was the rapid flutter of images, legion and meaningless.

“So this, this fragile, weak, feeble vessel, is what will walk paths trod by mightier feet?” The voice was little more than a rasp. “My masters would weep to see how far the vitality of Īa has withered, though perhaps they knew. For they saw all things which were, are, and to be. You have been sent, and it is my geas to speak, whether I would or no. Hear these portents, oh would-be master of masters, you who would be prince of the world, for these signs will see the undoing of all you have wrought. Mark the day a mirror beggars you of your reflection. Beware the hand of a dead king who will bring you to your knees. Fear the phoenix where it rises from a garden of stone flowers—”

“Am I to survive, then?” Corajidin demanded.

“You will know power, though for the children there will be naught, for you are the harbinger of the Thrice Awakened, who will both do and undo all you strive for.”





Corajidin’s eyes flicked open. Wolfram had shrugged his robe over his shoulders, where the skin was slack where once there had been heavy muscle. Brede, her own robe trailing behind her, went to fetch wine from the bottle by the bed. Corajidin’s sinuses felt as if they had been filled with tree sap. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth; to swallow seemed an impossibility.

“I hope you found what you were looking for.” Wolfram’s voice sounded ragged, near broken, its strings frayed.

Brede offered a dirty glass, filled with a wine so dark it was almost black. Corajidin could not smell it over the thickness of the incense and reek of his own sweat. There was the faint hint of urine in the air. His thighs were damp where he had wet himself. Corajidin quaffed the wine. He dropped the glass on the floor, then moved to a chipped basin filled with water to wipe the urine from his legs and genitals with some torn rags.

Corajidin looked over his shoulder at his witch and the apprentice. He could feel the anger burn in his belly. He had not come so far, sacrificed so much, to be supplanted by anybody or anything. “Tell me all you know, or even suspect, about this so-called Thrice Awakened! Tell me who he is. Tell me where to find him, and tell me how to kill him!”