The Garden of Stones

chapter SEVENTEEN





“Too often our morality is based upon a multitude of factors of circumstance, rather than the singular factor of principle. How then can morality be consistent, how can it be a guide, if that which decides it is forever in flux?”—Sassomon-Omen, philosopher and artist to the Sussain, 27th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Day 321 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Mari’s eyes lingered on Indris as he walked away. If things went awry, it might be the last time she ever saw him. She shrugged to herself in an attempt to lighten the ache in her chest.

“He’ll return, girl,” Femensetri opined. “Always does. He’s a hard one to kill, and, believe me, there’ve been plenty who’ve tried.”

Nehrun tried to rise from his chair and was once more set back down by Roshana’s firm grip on his wrist. “Try it again and I’ll break it. We’re not done with you, Nehrun.”

“You’re my sister!” he hissed. “I’m in command in Father’s absence. Let me go!”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll not sit here and be interrogated in front of her!” Nehrun thrust his chin in Mari’s direction. The muscles along his jaw clenched. “This is family business.”

Mari stretched out one leg under the table. She ground her booted toe into Nehrun’s groin. The Näsarat prince grunted in pain. “You made it my business when you became involved with my father. Let’s not forget you waylaying me in the Astujarte. Or have you forgotten that little bump in the road?”

Rosha shook her head with disappointment.

Nehrun held his hands up in a gesture of self-defense. “The Great Houses of Näsarat and Erebus have been at war for—”

“Keep your tongue behind your teeth unless you’re answering my questions, boy.” Femensetri sipped at her drink, then spat it over the side with a grimace. Mari smiled. Femensetri took Nehrun’s drink, sipped, seemed content since she kept it. “And before you bleat about how you demand this, that, or the other, understand you’re in no position to demand a thing. You know me, know my reputation?”

Nehrun nodded nervously. Mari was sure she heard him swallow convulsively, even from across the table.

“Then you know I’ll kill you where you sit and there’s bugger all you, or anybody else, can do about it?” Again Nehrun nodded. “Then talk, boy, and hope you tell me enough that’s useful so I don’t find a reason to scorch the flesh from your bones. The best you can hope for now is incarceration.”

His voice faltered at first, as he choked on a combination of pride, guilt, and fear. He spoke of his years of disagreements with his father, whose progressive Federationist attitudes were in stark contrast to Nehrun’s Imperialism. How his reading of Corajidin’s insights in Our Destiny Made Manifest had changed Nehrun’s perceptions of both the Avān and Shrīan. Mari detected an undercurrent of resentment in Nehrun when he admitted he was the child of a monarch who had never actually been intended to be the rahn-elect of the Great House of Näsarat. She was surprised to learn it was Delaram, Indris’s mother, who had been rahn-elect until she had taken her place with the Sēq Order of Scholars. Ariskander had been chosen after his brilliant elder sister had made herself unavailable.

Nehrun had traveled in different orbits than the rest of his family. Through his friends from university, as well as the various clubs and associations of the privileged he belonged to, Nehrun fell into the company of like-minded women and men. And into the habits of gambling, drinking, smoking, and courtesans. In the parlors of wealthy political reformists and half-baked philosophers, the high-minded discussed how a world could be remade over snifters of mulberry brandy kissed by clouds of pipe smoke.

“I didn’t know it was Yashamin who was buying information…at first,” Nehrun said, his gaze distant. Rosha’s glare was sharp as a chisel, her hand trembling around the hilt of her long-knife. “Though I hated Corajidin, still do, I couldn’t disagree with his perspective. Father’s insistence on protecting Far-ad-din and his nest of freethinkers and foreigners in Amnon was…misguided. Far-ad-din needed to be removed from power, or else the Seethe were going to be in a position to rebuild an empire of their own.”

“You were lied to, boy,” Femensetri countered. “Many of us argued against coming to Amnon in force, yet Corajidin had bought the vote and neither the Asrahn nor the Speaker for the People could do much to fight it.”

“Be that as it may, my father had outlived Shrīan’s need for him,” Nehrun insisted. “Though we were enemies, Corajidin and I agreed on where we thought Shrīan needed to change. That the Teshri could be manipulated showed us how weak it is. We need a single monarch to govern Shrīan, and it’s possible it could’ve been me. After all, aren’t the Näsarat, the Great House of the Phoenix, descended from the blood of emperors? The Empress-in-Shadows in Mediin is herself a Näsarat.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Rosha breathed. “Do you mean to say you thought you’d be Mahj?”

“One day. Why not?” Nehrun shrugged.

“Because you’re the weaker son of greater sires, Nehrun,” Femensetri growled. “Did you know what Corajidin had planned for your father?”

“Not the extent of it!” he said, panicked by Femensetri’s grim tone. He looked across at Mari. “My arrangement was for Father to be killed in battle. It didn’t happen. I needed to improvise to get what I wanted. I’d no idea he’d abduct Father, or do…what he’s doing.”

“And after Corajidin became Asrahn?” Rosha whispered.

Nehrun looked at his sister, his smile cold. “I’d be the new Rahn-Näsarat, with a bold new vision. But whatever Corajidin is doing, he’ll have to do it without me. I doubt it will be me wearing the Phoenix Crown now.”





Mari cantered her giant mountain-hart through the open gates of the villa to find her father and brother standing in lantern light outside the stables. Mari rode up to them, smiling as she dismounted. Thankfully she had had the foresight to take saddlebags with her, which held an old tunic, breeches, and the leather-wrapped length of a wooden practice sword. Her father eyed her suspiciously as one of the stable hands took her mount away.

“I did not realize you had left the villa.” Her father’s tone was suspicious. “Where have you been, and why did you not tell me you where you were going?”

“I’ve been training, if you must know,” Mari lied with good cheer, to mask the hammer in her chest. “Since I lost my post with the Feyassin, I need to find other people to train with.”

“Why not train with me or the Anlūki?” Belam asked as he checked the saddle girth on his hart. “I’d be happy to fence with you.”

“So you should be.” Mari threw her arm around her brother’s wide shoulders, then mussed his golden hair. “You might learn a thing or two.”

“Oh ho!” Belam gave chase as Mari dashed away. She leaped over potted shrubs, dashed around the edge of the fountain, and ducked under harts, which stamped their split-toed hooves. She and her brother laughed all the while, even after he tackled her, which sent them both headlong into the grass. She wrestled Belam to the ground in a headlock, pushed him aside, sped away.

“Enough, you two!” Corajidin clapped his hands, grin wide. The years fell away from his face when he smiled. Mari had not seen her father look so relaxed in months. “Belam has somewhere to be, and I cannot have him put in hospital by his younger sister.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” Belam smiled wryly. He pointed at Mari. “Your day will come!”

“If only we could both live so long.” She gave her saddlebags to a porter. “Where are you off to, Belam? Want company? I can help.”

“Not this time.”

Her father and Belam excused themselves to exchange a few words. Thufan and some of his ruffians waited nearby. Corajidin hugged Belam, then headed inside. Thufan smiled at Mari through his customary cloud of pipe smoke, a grotesque contortion of wrinkles on his hollowed cheeks and thin lips.

“Belam?” Mari caught her brother by arm.

“Later, Mari,” he murmured.

“Amre yaha, big brother,” she called out as he walked his hart to where Thufan and the others swung into their saddles. It was something they used to say often to each other. Not so much anymore. It seemed their lives had taken such different directions of late. Belam stopped, then looked over his shoulder with a surprised smile.

“Who doesn’t?” He gave her a friendly smile, then was gone along with Thufan and his men.

With Thufan gone and her father occupied, now was the perfect time to seek Armal out. It took her almost half an hour, but she eventually found him in the villa’s library. It was a tall, three-tiered chamber, golden with lamplight. Bookcases lined the walls, their doors paned in stained glass. Ivory scroll cases, like a honeycomb, held ancient maps and scraps of knowledge. There was also a collection of more recent printed material, coarse reed paper pressed between thick card covers layered in velvet or coated with lacquer.

Armal overfilled a large leather chair, his wide, plain face creased by a slight frown. Mari smiled. When he read his lips moved. One blunt finger traced the words on the page, as if he deliberately searched out each one as some kind of wonder. She entered on quiet feet. Armal caught her movement, looked up from what he was reading, face flushed.

“Pah-Mariam,” he murmured, bashful as a boy.

“What are you reading?” Mari came across to join him. She would have to have been a fool to not see his infatuation. It happened. People desired her, or admired her, which sometimes led to an affair that rarely, if ever, ended well for either of them. It had been her experience that people loved the thought of her rather than the reality. Perhaps love was too strong a word. It rarely got beyond lust before feelings withered on the vine. Not so with Indris, who was secure enough to see her for all of what she was and was not.

“I enjoy the library, Pah-Mariam,” he said in his quiet voice. “If that’s not a problem.”

“Problem?” Mari laughed. “Why? Books are to be enjoyed.”

“I never used to read much before…”

“Before Maladûr gaol?”

He closed his eyes for a moment in what appeared to be genuine pain. “It’s an old palace, you know? Stuck out there in the Marble Sea, surrounded by water. It’s filled with cracked old statues, vandalized paintings, and hundreds of rooms. Very rarely did we see anything new, and we had a lot of time on our hands.”

“I take it there were books there?”

“Few were complete,” he said ruefully. “Even so, I learned what I could. It was humbling to know how wrong my life had been, living solely for my father’s good opinion.”

“Ah, yes. We all seek the approval of our parents. At least for a little while. It’s a trap I think we are both ensnared in.”

He read to her from the book in his hands.


Though the moments passed me by,

along with dreams I thought I’d lost,

I wondered where my heart had gone,

your forlorn child of future past


Mari looked at him in wonder and finished the passage from memory.


Scars no memories forget,

I had gone missing on the way,

stopped to think I seemed to be,

hints of promise waiting yet.


She leaned forward to take the book from his hands. Steps Along the Feyassin’s Road. She had written it only a year ago. “I’d no idea there was a copy here.”

“There isn’t, Pah-Mariam. It’s mine.”

Mari looked at him with raised eyebrows. Clearly Armal’s still waters ran deeper than she suspected. He had shown compassion, even sorrow, at some of the things he had heard their respective parents speak about. If she could rely on his compassionate nature, he might well be the ally she needed.

“Armal, may I ask you something in confidence?”

“Of course.” Not a moment of hesitation in his voice. Using his affection seemed dishonest, yet what choice did she have?

“The work you and your father do for my family,” she said tentatively. “Is it something you’re entirely comfortable with?”

He dropped his gaze to his lap. For a moment he wrung his hands as some inner debate raged. Without raising his head, Armal replied, “It’s not my place to question what the Great House of Erebus wants of me. I’m your father’s loyal man. My family has proudly served yours for generations.”

Mari leaned forward to rest both her hands on Armal’s leg. She heard his sharp intake of breath, yet the giant did not back away. She took another gamble. “I don’t question your loyalty, Armal. You spent four years in Maladûr gaol because of what our fathers had you do. You were lucky enough to be pardoned, but you know such good fortune will only come once.” With one firm hand she reached out to touch his chin. Armal raised his head to look her in the eye.

“In confidence?” he whispered. Mari nodded her encouragement. “There’re some things that make me uneasy. Things that give me trouble sleeping. I do them because I’m expected to. To speak of these things might get me, or both of us, killed. My father…your father—”

“I want to help my father, Armal, before he goes too far. If my father falls, so do we all.”

“Please, I need to think—”

“You don’t need to say anything you don’t feel comfortable saying, Armal. These are dangerous times for us all. My father is ill, Armal. Though I love him, we’re not always of the same mind.” Mari leaned forward conspiratorially. “Allies can sometimes be found in the most unlikely of places. Know that if you ever need to speak to anybody, I’ll always listen. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Armal?”

She looked about, as if ensuring they were not being watched. Mari needed to push him further. “I know what’s going on, Armal. I can help you.”

The man gasped in surprise. He avoided her gaze as he nodded his large head, eyes fixed on the closed book in his lap, where Mari’s name was stamped in plain, precise letters.





It had been a long time since she had the time to pursue art, something the warrior-poets prized as an alternative to their lives of physicality and violence. At the Lament, her teachers had encouraged all their students to remember that being a warrior-poet was a path to enlightenment. Theirs was a sacred calling of the one, who strove for the perfection of body, mind, and spirit, to protect the many.

She took up her old leather folio. Some of its sheets featured sketches, many only half-complete. Rough outlines of life study, simple charcoal lines with neither shade nor texture. The halfhearted efforts of a dilettante with other things on her mind. But the few finished pieces hinted at some promise in her as an artist: the watercolor of a chrysanthemum; a brightly colored lizard on terra-cotta tiles; the faces and bodies of women and men she had loved, her way of immortalizing the few among the many.

It was a blank sheet she worked on now. High cheekbones. A tangle of dark hair. A long jaw. Delicate eyebrows, unusually so for a man, and a small mole on the left temple. In the flickering light of the candles and oil lamps, his face came somewhat to life. Except for the eyes, which she had not the skill to do justice. They remained blank, lifeless in the otherwise complete portrait.

She stared at the portrait, ran gentle fingertips over it. Indris was out there somewhere. There were so many rumors about him. About his years as a commander of the Immortal Companions. About how he had volunteered to fight behind enemy lines to rescue others, then been captured and spent years bound in slave pits. About how his wife had died of her longing for him. Yet what to believe? Both fame and infamy often grew in the telling.

Hungry, Mari went to the kitchens. By the time she got there, they were mostly empty. The cooks eyed her obliquely as she picked out some choice morsels of leftover food. She filled an ewer with more water than wine to take with her.

When she returned to her room, she could not miss the massive man who stood, obvious as a mountain, directly under a hanging lantern outside her door. Mari slowed as she approached, intrigued as to why Armal had chosen such a late hour, though more so why he had come to her chambers. The guards on duty kept their eyes forward, yet their expressions did not fool Mari. There would be talk.

“Good evening, Pah-Mariam—”

“What are you doing here, Armal?” she asked brusquely. The man’s expression crumpled. As much as it pained her, she needed to drive him off for both their sakes.

“My apologies,” he said quietly. He bowed his head, so as not to seem forward enough to look her in the eye. “I wanted to express my thanks and return this to you. I found the landscapes of Amnon, particularly the Awakened Empire houses in the Artisan’s Quarter, quite beautiful. I see why you were interested in them. My apologies for the inappropriate hour. I should’ve waited until morning.”

Mari put her food and drink down on a hallway table. Armal held a book out in both large hands. She had never seen it before. She flicked through a few pages of oil paintings, though most were sketches done as intaglio prints on cloth sheets. Between two pages was a narrow piece of paper. Mari quickly turned more pages, ultimately closing the book to place it beside her plate.

“It’s late and I’m tired.” She opened the door to her room, then took up the tray and book. “I didn’t expect company. Thanks for bringing this back.”

“My pleasure.” Armal bowed before turning on his heel to walk with his long strides down the corridor. The guards tracked him as he left. Mari only hoped there would be no embellishments of Armal’s visit. She knew as much as anybody how much soldiers loved to talk, particularly if there was something scandalous involved. Mari already had enough mud on her name without adding a completely fictitious tryst.

She closed the door behind her, then hurriedly found the page Armal had marked. In careful, almost childlike letters, the man had written “three” and “seventeen.” Mari frowned. The page showed an illustration of a many-storied house with tall keyhole windows and what seemed to be a tiled frontage. There were balconies on each level, hidden behind climbing plants and fretwork screens. People in traditional Shrīanese knee-length coats and wide-legged trousers were caught forever midstride, their shadows fragmented in the weave of the cloth. There were awnings at ground level, to shelter customers, stalls, and wares from the sun. The print was of Treadstone Street and the famous Ghyle, the markets of Amnon that bordered the Artisan and Mercantile Quarters in the Old Town.

Mari took the slip of paper in her hand. Three, seventeen. She looked at the tile-fronted house.

What was at level three, number seventeen Treadstone Street that Armal wanted Mari to see?