The Garden of Stones

chapter THIRTY-SIX





“We merge the myriad mistakes and setbacks in our lives into some kind of golem, some creature of stitched-together horrors, half truths, and deceptions. We cover this chimera with the torn skin of our successes and call it Destiny. With luck, it will have the strength to kill Fate where it stands, for none shall determine my future save me!”—from The Rise of the Eclipse, by Erebus fa Corajidin, 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Day 335 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation


Corajidin sat in the morning sun upon an antique throne on the lawns of a small palace near the quaint town of Shenhe-am’a-Djin in the mountains of Erebus Prefecture. It was mostly disused, a place where old paint clung to the worm-eaten wood like scabs. From a distance the sound of his followers’ prattle was dim. The sky above was empty except for the bloated gray clouds that meandered, bellies distended with rain, across a hammered-pewter sky. The air smelled of storms.

His empty hand was curled in his lap. Dried blood had seeped into every whorl and line on his skin. It turned the cuticles into bloodied crescents, the horns of some miniature bull after it had gored its fighter. His other hand lay curled in his lap under pus-and bloodstained bandages. His chest still ached from Thufan’s attack. Though the bones had healed and the skin sealed so there was little except a faint redness, the pain would not go away. Every breath was a remembered agony.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Thufan’s maniacal face.

Corajidin turned his head at a rustling in the long grass behind him. The dry creaking of calipers, iron, leather, and wood sounded with each limping step. The stave upon which the Angothic Witch leaned was blackened and burned. Slivers of mismatched wood had fallen loose. Many of the strips of leather and crooked old coffin nails had either melted or been burned away. Swathed in a hooded cloak of hypnotic silver-and-black thread, a tall, slender figure lurked in Wolfram’s shadow. From what light passed the hood, Corajidin could see she was a Seethe woman. She in turn was trailed by three diminutive figures, who crouched at her feet when she came to a stop, their shapes obscured. The scent of perfumed rot, sweet as dead flowers, clogged Corajidin’s nostrils.

Belamandris should have been there, as handsome and straight as Wolfram was not. Yet his beautiful son lay under a Preservation Shroud, trapped between the heartbreaking moments of life and death. Wolfram could not heal him, and Corajidin could not let him go.

“Has it has happened as you told me it would, witch?” Corajidin asked.

“I told you your people would remember your name, great rahn.”

“Have my allies come to a decision?” Corajidin saw the throng of upper-caste women and men, his allies among them the leaders of business, of industry, of the Hundred Families of Shrīan. They walked from the villa, heads held low for fear of Corajidin’s displeasure.

“You’re destined to be the keeper of your people,” Wolfram’s beautiful voice intoned. “No matter what the arbiters say, these leaders of Shrīan will elect you Asrahn, as was foretold.”

“Yet for this to happen I must live, Wolfram.”

Corajidin heard a faint chittering noise. The wind gusted to reveal in part the features of the three…things that followed Wolfram’s ally. They were three small women, eyes stitched closed, twisted yellow nails clicking together like insect mandibles, where they crouched at their mistress’s feet. Their mouths split in shadowy, toothless grins. Corajidin could see their gray tongues working, pierced with rings of blackened steel. A fine yellow dust clouded their skin and swirled in the air around them.

“As to that,” the Seethe woman’s voice ground out, sounding like flecks of rust popping from a gate. She folded back her hood and cloak. Her Seethe clothing was frayed, tied together with strips of linen. Her face, which he recognized with a start, was austere in its beauty, but marred by the scabrous green stone that glowed balefully from the center of her forehead, like an infected wound. Blackened veins radiated from it, dark against pallid flesh. She produced a vial of fluid, which she held out to Corajidin. “In honor of the alliance between the Soul Witches and the Asrahn of Shrīan. Distilled from the very essence of the qua. May it serve you well.”

“I know you…” Corajidin breathed. He took the vial with a trembling hand. “You are—”

“I was Anj-el-din, daughter of Far-ad-din of the Din-ma troupe.” She smiled a black-toothed smile. “You may call me the Emissary. My masters from the Drear have shown me there are more important things than names. Such as what powerful friends can do for each other. So, why don’t you tell me what it is you want, great Corajidin?”

Corajidin opened the vial. It seemed he would live after all. “I want it all.”



CAST OF CHARACTERS



GLOSSARY OF TERMS



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


It was only once I’d written and edited the book I realized how many people are involved, not only directly in the process, but also being with me during what proved to be a long and immensely satisfying journey.

To my parents, Terry and Cecilia, who never stopped a child from using his imagination, and encouraging his love of language. To my brothers and sisters, Matthew, James, Jahna, and Lee, for supporting my passion.

To the friends who’ve been with me since the beginning of the journey, or joined me along the way. You were always supportive, inquisitive and enthusiastic, keeping me grounded and happy, while letting me fly: Glenn, Mark, Kate, Anna, Emma, Anne, Stuart, Kelly, Martin, John, Robert, Kurt, David, Tom, Eloise, Sylvie, Suzi, Karina, and Niki. You are an amazing group of people and I count myself fortunate indeed to know you. Thanks very much for being who you are.

To the organizers, mentors, and graduating class of Clarion South 2005. All these years later and I still hear your voices every time I choose a word, design a character, or plot something out. A special mention to Kate Eltham, Robert Hogue, Sean Williams, and Scott Westerfeld for their help and guidance along the way.

To my first readers, Emma, Anne, and Stuart. Thank you so much for your diligence, time, patience, and insight.

To John Jarrold, my agent and a man who never doubted we’d be published. A fantastic agent and a man generous with his time, his experience, and his wisdom. May this be the first of many books we work on.

To David Pomerico at 47North for seeing something in the first draft of the manuscript and wanting to see more.

To my editors, Juliet Ulman, Robin (Surname?) and (sorry, I don’t have any other names) who have taken what I wrote, honed it, and polished it, turning it into what I truly hope you as the reader are going to enjoy and want to keep for years to come.

And finally to the authors who inspired me as a child, through my teen years and into adulthood. It was your wonderful visions of fantastic worlds, your sense of drama and adventure, of comedy, tragedy, and romance, and the way I was inspired by tales of heroism and grace, that made me want to be a storyteller. Without your work, I’d never have known this was what I wanted to do.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark Barnes was born in Sydney, Australia, in September of 1966. A strong athlete, he was also drawn to the arts at a young age, penning his first short story as a seven-year-old. He worked in finance and advertising and eventually landed satisfying work in information technology, where he continues to manage a freelance organizational change consultancy. In 2005, when Mark was selected to attend the Clarion South residential short story workshop, he began to write with the intention of making it more than a hobby. Since that time Mark has published a number of short stories, worked as a freelance script editor, and has driven creative consultancy for a television series. The Garden of Stones is his first novel.