The Garden of Stones

chapter TWENTY-THREE





“It is through art, music, and literature we truly understand a culture. Violence and war are nothing more than the voices of childish envy.”—Emmamon-ro, painter and sculptor to the Sussain, 42nd Year of the Shadow Empire (67th Year of the Shrīanese Federation)


Day 323 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


It was the first evening of the Festival of the Ancestors. The great names of Amnon had come to the Garden of Stones where it overlooked the cloudy Marble Sea. The grass, almost impossibly green, was dotted with low granite columns, each one featuring a carved-crystal lotus flower, petals open to the sky. As the sky had darkened, candles had been lit within each stone flower. The hill became a riot of flickering gold, yellow, ivory, pink, red, and blue light against the ever-changing pattern of grasses ruffled by the breeze.

Within the domed edifice of the Lotus House with its Memorial Stones, Mari surveyed those who had come to hear her father speak. She looked down at herself in her formal robes, sheer layers of burgundy on black on white silk. She was wearing slippers, for the love of the Ancestors! She snuck an envious glance at the Anlūki in their polished armor and pragmatic clothes.

“Almost five hundred years have passed since those Avān who defied an insane and heretic empress formed our beloved Federation. Sadly we were unable to save all of our brothers and sisters, for there were those who, on that unhappy day, were misled by the promises of those who would steal from them their honor and the freedom to die. Since that day of treachery, the Ancestors have looked upon those who escaped with love. Have listened to us with compassion and protected our people from our own worst instincts.”

Mari scowled over the lip of her wine bowl. Her father was in his element. Standing atop a small marble pedestal overlooking the crowd, he looked every part the statesman, mesmerizing in layers of black-and-red silk stitched with fire rubies and onyx beads. She cast her glance around the room. The greater majority stared with rapt attention. However, the expressions of those from the Iron League nations and Ygran seemed to be cast from steel. The Lotus House was quiet as Corajidin continued.

“Yet we face a terrible legacy. The task before us is the most difficult to fall to an Asrahn in the five centuries of Federation. We are beset by those who would dictate our path for us. Those who would resort to force of arms to prevent our unity. These enemies watch us but do not see us. They listen to us but do not hear. They mimic us, without truly understanding the foundations of our culture and heritage. The time has come for a brave new age where the Avān can stand proudly before the world, without fear of recrimination or harm.

“The separation of state and government has sowed the seeds of prosperity, yet now we face newer challenges. Harder challenges. Challenges which cannot fall equally on the shoulders of the many. The time has come to heal the conflict in our leadership and settle the burden of accountability on one person’s shoulders, for it is only though national unity we will know triumph.

“We cannot cure all our ills at once. Reform takes as much time as it does the patience to see it through. We can address issues of security. Of peace of mind. Of the knowledge our people will be safe. To that end, if I am elected as your next Asrahn, I promise to secure the safety of our lands and our people. I propose the formation of the first Army of the Federation, beholden to the nation, rather to than the individual rahns who govern the prefectures. This army will be tasked with the protection of Avān interests both at home and abroad. It will stand firm against all threats, against either Shrīan or its allies.

“I consider it my mandate, my highest calling, to secure the right to live and the preservation of freedoms for our nation. People of Shrīan, give me five years of your trust, and I will give you the brightness of an unending count of years.

“May our Ancestors look upon us with kindness and charity, strengthen our purpose, and grant us the wisdom and the trust of our people, for we are fighting for all the Avān which have gone, are, and will be.”

The throng cheered. Mari wondered how many of them applauded because they believed her father’s rhetoric or whether they, like she, clapped because it was the safest course of action. It was not hard to read the condemnation on the faces of the emissaries from the Iron League nations. Qoro-asthra, the spectral ambassador from Mediin with his Wraith Knight guards, looked startled at Corajidin’s speech. His phantom’s face swirled, like smoke in the wind, at Corajidin’s reference to Qoro-asthra’s Mahj being an insane heretic.

Mari looked across at her father walking among the crowd, surrounded by sycophants. Corajidin smiled at her. She swallowed against the sharp fear that her father might have to die for Shrīan to know peace.

“You look beautiful, Mari! Enjoying yourself?” Yasha sidled closer. Though Mari disliked Yasha, she had to admit the woman was suited for such occasions. She looked transcendent in sheer layers of silk, red and black to match her mate. Or like some type of venomous snake, Mari thought. She suppressed a chuckle. There was little Yasha liked to do more than spread her venom, or shed her skin…

“I’ve not been a guest at one of these functions for years.” Mari gestured at the Anlūki with her gold wine bowl. “Like them, I was sworn to service.”

“And you still are, Mari!” Yasha reminded her. The people near Corajidin laughed at some witticism or other. Her gaze settled with avarice on her husband. “Enjoy it. Your life hadn’t begun until now.” Yasha shone a white smile on Mari, then floated forward on elegant feet, head high.

People Mari barely knew approached her to talk about her father. Clearly the stigma associated with Vashne’s assassination had faded with Corajidin’s ascension. Of Ariskander’s disappearance, there was no mention. Where Mari expected to be shunned, she was embraced. A cavalcade of faces, flushed with drink, nerves, or the summer heat, flashed past. She nodded politely. Laughed when others laughed. Offered her opinion when a lull in the conversation demanded she do so, yet to answer Yasha’s question, no, she was not enjoying herself overly much.

“You look different, girl,” Femensetri said quietly from behind her. Mari turned to glance at the ancient scholar. Femensetri had made no effort of any kind for Corajidin’s gala. Her oft-repaired cassock had ceased being elegant centuries ago. Her sickle-topped crook gleamed with the blue-green of witchfire.

“What news?” Mari asked.

“We’ll get her out of Amnon,” Femensetri replied. “Some of the Feyassin stayed against Corajidin’s orders to help us.”

Mari’s hearts skipped their beat. “How many is some?”

“Oh.” Femensetri stuck her finger in her ear. She inspected what came out, then flicked it on the floor. A pampered local gave her a look of disapproval, to which Femensetri raised a challenging eyebrow.

“How many is—”

“I heard you,” the Scholar Master muttered. “How many is some? About, oh, all of them.”

“Oh, dear sweet sugary Ancestors!” Mari cursed, then remembered where she was. To her great relief nobody seemed to have heard her. “My father will notice—”

“Nothing. He’d never think the Feyassin would disobey him.” Femensetri snatched a bowl and a bottle of wine from a bound-caste servant as he passed. She pulled the cork free with her teeth and sloshed a good measure of the expensive vintage into her bowl. “Vahineh appreciated your honesty in telling her about your involvement in her father’s death, by the way.”

Mari took a deep breath. “What does she intend?”

“How should I know?” Femensetri snorted. “The girl has much to consider. Besides, it’s Daniush you should worry about. Vahineh asked me to thank you for her rescue, should I get the chance. Doesn’t mean she won’t try to have you killed, though at least she’s being civil about the whole thing. But you weren’t asking whether there was any word about her, were you? You’re more concerned about him.”

“Indris might well hold all our hopes in his hands.” She felt her face flush. Femensetri eyed her, unconvinced.

“You barely know him, girl!” Femensetri took a deep draft of her wine. “I was his teacher and still only know what he’s shown me. How can you compete with the ideals of his memories?”

“What do you mean?”

Femensetri did not answer; rather, she gestured for Mari to follow her through the crowd toward the Memorial Stones. Femensetri rested her hand against one of the dark obelisks, her expression sour. Beneath her hand was a name, dated a couple of years ago. Anj-el-din.

“Indris was a damned fool to think it would end any differently than it did.”

Mari smiled as Ziaire approached them, along with Kembe of the Tau-se. The courtesan was a vision in layers of cream-and-white damask. She wore her dark hair piled high, with a single pearl drop in each ear to denote her calling. The massive Tau-se looked more primal in his deerskin jerkin and kilt, his mane braided with fortune coins, precious stones, and lengths of white cord.

“Who was Anj-el-din?” the Tau-se asked before Mari had the chance.

Ziaire raised a white-nailed hand and gently traced the name burned into the stone. “Anj-el-din was Indris’s wife and Far-ad-din’s daughter.”

“The ‘Lay of Anj-el-din’ brings tears to the eyes of young virgins everywhere,” Femensetri said drily.

Ziaire sang a verse from the song softly, her voice as beautiful as the rest of her.


Looking to the sunset sky,

she finds herself alone again,

and wonders where her love has gone.

Her lonely voice calls his name,

it calls across the Marble Sea.

Asks who we are and who we seem,

how fickle fortune’s whim can be.


“She’s the reason Indris felt compelled to remain in Amnon and to help Far-ad-din,” Femensetri said to Mari. “And the reason why he can’t stand to stay. He carries around so much guilt. Indris’s mother died here, too. Assassinated. So, whatever you think is happening between you two…”

Mari swallowed convulsively. She knew the story of the song, how Anj-el-din had waited years for her lover to return home. She had eventually gone looking for him, never to return. In the song, her lover spent years searching for her. Supposedly he never gave up, haunted by love. But she had never known the song was about Indris. The air in the room felt suddenly too close, making it harder for her to breathe.

“Come with me,” Femensetri ordered the others.

Mari quickly looked for her father and Yasha, but could see no sign of them. Not surprising given the hundreds of people who attended the festival. There were Anlūki nearby, though their attentions were focused more on the people they did not know than the ones they did. Mari doubted she would be missed and joined the Stormbringer, Ziaire, and Kembe as they left the Lotus House. Femensetri grabbed another bottle of wine. Contrary to her habit, Mari allowed the other woman to fill her bowl.

They walked down the hill a way, where Femensetri caught Roshana by the arm. The small group sat on the warm grass, the wind perfumed by a pending storm. The last rays of the setting sun bled slowly from the sky, streaking the iron clouds over the Marble Sea with rust. Lightning flared over the hammered, blood-hued sheet of the water. Mari remembered the lyrics Ziaire had sung. She, too, found herself alone, wondering where the man she thought she might love was.

Darkness settled in all its anonymous comfort. The stars opened their eyes in the firmament, winked down at them with a cheer the insignificant affairs of Īa could do little to ruin. The Humans told tales of how their Ancestors had sailed among the stars, until they had arrived on Īa millennia ago. Tonight her father had all but kicked in the teeth the descendants of those who had dared such a journey. The Humans might be many things, but weak, helpless, and craven were not counted among them. They would hear his words as a challenge. The question was, would they answer? It would not be the first time if they did.

“It seems as if your father has committed Shrīan to his new vision, whether the rest of us would have it or not,” Kembe offered in his purring voice. “You know the emissaries from the Iron League have decided to withdraw, pending the next Assembly?”

“What do you think they’ll do?” Ziaire asked. “My contacts in the Iron League nations all speak of heightened military activity since Corajidin took power.”

“The same news comes from Ygran. But for the Iron League to attack Shrīan, they’d need to fight wars on two fronts. I can’t see them abandoning almost twenty years of effort in trying to conquer Tanis. What are the Tau-se going to do?” Femensetri asked.

“We will honor our ancient oaths of friendship to Shrīan…provided it is to a leader we respect.” Kembe plucked a blue flower from the long grass. He sniffed at it, eyes half-closed. “Though if the Iron League attacks, Corajidin might have doomed the Taumarq, too.”

“If they come across the Marble Sea, Narsis would be a prime target,” Roshana mused. “We need more time to—”

“Roshana, what time do you think we have?” Femensetri asked bluntly. She stood, unconcerned with the grass that clung to her cassock. “We’ve no time. Never had any, not from the moment Vashne died and Ariskander disappeared. We need to act now, in case Indris fails.”

“Do you really think he will?” Ziaire asked plaintively.

“I’m brilliant at what I do.” Femensetri peered out over the sea, her expression wistful. “As is my brother, Kemenchromis. I don’t say this as an idle boast, merely to give you context. We were witches before we were scholars and the things we did…Though I’d never tell him, believe me when I say Indris is to me as I am to the students whose heads I try to cram with wisdom. He doesn’t know it yet, but the time will come when he realizes he follows in the footsteps of the greatest of the mahjirahn. But nobody is infallible, and we should plan against the worst.”

“What do you propose?” Mari asked. “I’ll not have my father harmed.”

“We could expose his illness and make the others aware of its implications. If Corajidin can’t master his Awakening, our law says he can’t be rahn. Then the Teshri would have no choice but to depose him as the governor of Amnon, Asrahn-Elect, and the Rahn-Erebus.”

“He’d go to significant lengths to oppose us,” Ziaire replied. “He all but owns the Teshri.”

“You’re talking about more than civil disobedience,” Mari breathed. “This is rebellion against a head of state! What if Nazarafine denounces you? What about all the yamir of the Hundred Families, sworn to my father’s cause? Femensetri, are you insane?”

Femensetri leaned on her crook. “Why? What’ve you heard?”

“Mari’s right,” Roshana murmured. She lay back in the grass, her forearms over her eyes. “We’ve suffered enough without plunging the nation into civil war. Knight-Marshal Kadarin fe Narseh is still our most seasoned commander, as well as a rahn in her own right and an Imperialist. I’d not want to face her on the battlefield. Besides, you heard the response in there! It seems as if a lot of people want to invest in Corajidin’s future.”

“Only because they see him as a means to an end,” Femensetri disagreed. “If they had an option, I think you’d find there are many who’d leave Corajidin’s orbit as quickly as they entered it. He’s merely the vessel they poured their hopes into.”

“Whatever we do needs to be done quietly,” Kembe rumbled.

“And discreetly,” Ziaire added.

“Then allow me to be your vehicle.” Roshana pushed herself up to lean on her elbows. Her expression was haunted, eyes narrow.

“How?” Femensetri asked, though from the smile on her face Mari suspected the Stormbringer knew what Roshana was going to offer.

“We need legal, quiet, and discreet.” Roshana grimaced. She turned to face Mari, her expression rueful. “There is only one option as I see it. I must declare a Jahirojin against the Great House of Erebus.”