In the Shadow of Swords (9 page)

A messenger reached the door; his eyes were downcast and his hands were folded together before him in respectful sympathy. He’d just informed her that her husband Hiril was dead.

Marin had been at their home in Steffra when she’d received the news. What had been a pleasant evening alone had turned into the longest night of her life. The next morning, sleepless and still in shock, she was almost happy when another messenger arrived with a summons from the Rassan Majalis. Traveling to Ruinart was better than doing nothing.

After her ship arrived from Eliës, she was greeted in Cievv as a hero’s widow. Officials and functionaries consoled her, invited her into their homes—but told her little about the hero’s murder. Despair followed disbelief, and Marin grieved in solitude for days before agreeing to see any visitors.

It was weeks before Hiril’s remains reached Cievv, and he was not cremated until some months after his death. Marin was, of course, puzzled by this, but all anyone would tell her was that it had something to do with how the assassin had marked Hiril’s body. The Rassan Majalis’s alchemists came and went, murmuring among themselves but saying nothing to anyone else. Finally, Hiril received the funeral rites reserved for a member of Ruinart royalty, although he was not a citizen of the kingdom. It was a sad and solemn occasion, and still no one discussed the circumstances of his death.

After the funeral, Hiril’s ashes were kept for weeks in the royal family’s citadel before Marin was permitted to take them away.

Meanwhile, she lived in two worlds at once—an inner realm of abject blackness where her spirit withered away, and a city of flowers basking in the glorious light of an early autumn. That world belonged to someone else, even though she walked through it every day. Her inner darkness grew; some mornings, despite the rich golden sunlight, she lay in bed as if waiting for a dawn that never came. The burden of staying in Cievv without her husband had become too much to bear.

At last someone arrived to offer her hope.

Torre Lavvann.

It was as if both suns had finally burst through the clouds. Lavvann’s rugged face and gruff smile reminded her that she still had a place with the Four Banners, and that there was always work to do; and they could certainly use her help again. That was hope enough for Marin. The next day she left Cievv with her captain and returned to her company.

In the months that followed, Marin pursued dangerous paths with her brothers in arms. She rode north into Keafel beyond the Soller Mountains, to a gently rolling landscape of green and golden fields crisscrossed by strips of woodland. She hunted down ruffians and dark things without mercy, and fought fiercely in battle, no longer caring for her own safety.

Her company met with worried officials in the royal city of Hohnn, and at their bidding rode southwestward into the Tarkh Hills, a desolate region of high, rounded tors, broad ridges, and hidden vales. There, above the city of Limmún, Marin helped rid the area of a
behrraun
, a vicious predator that stalked and killed livestock and farmers. She nearly died in this fight, yet it seemed as simple as a child’s game.

The Four Banners company boarded a ship to Cevar and lingered a while in the crown city of Enneri, its walls set on high cliffs overlooking the sea and the nearest of the Seven Islands. The rumored pirate attack never came, and Lavvann joked that Marin’s fierce reputation had frightened them away.

The company sailed east to Nórra and then south to the island realms of Laval. They had no reason to make landfall on Aeíx this time, and Marin looked on the accursed island with bleak fury as they passed, hoping the outlaws and the kayal were busy slaughtering one another. Torre Lavvann saw the look on her face, and ordered her to take a furlough when they reached the kingdom of Falasan. There he knew a healer who might offer her help.

The healer’s treatments relaxed and strengthened Marin’s body but did nothing for her spirit. She craved a return to her company and its dangerous missions, but her next journey would be to Ruinart and Cievv.

The year of mourning was coming to an end.

12

MARIN LEFT her bed at dawn.

Beyond her window, the cityscape gave way to green hills that rose toward mountain peaks shaded violet in the early light. Other travelers had assured her that this road led to the shrine of
Sey’r an-Shal—the
Falls to Heaven. Many people came this way; the shrine was a source of drinking water for the lands below, as well as a place of pilgrimage.

The morning was clear and hot as Marin climbed the hills and wandered through forested valleys. Although she knew it was less than a day’s walk, she became worried as the suns passed noon and the shadows inched westward.

At last, rounding a bend near the summit of a steep hill, she saw the source of the stream that her road had followed for much of the day. Water sparkled as it flowed from the mouth of a small cave and tumbled down several steep falls, each issuing from the pool above it. The shrine was a larger cave cut into the hillside beneath the highest waterfall. A long flight of stone steps led from the road to the shrine and the promontory above.

Marin climbed the steps as they curved around the topmost pool. It seemed like a sacred place, yet she felt no peace. One year ago today, Hiril had died. She had lingered in mourning until this moment. Something was supposed to change—exactly what, she still had no idea.

The shrine was cool after her day in the hot sun, its floor and walls smoothed and polished, echoing with the gentle splash of water. Cut into the stone floor were five shallow channels running the width of the cave. Five springs gushed from the rock wall to Marin’s right, one into each channel. The water trickled across the cave toward the far wall. There, each trickle left its individual channel to join a wall of water that flowed upward as if ascending to heaven. Was it magic? Was it an illusion? Marin felt as if she should stand in awe of this miracle, and feel inspiration or be at peace.

She felt neither.

No matter. It was time.

The silver urn was cool in her hands, though it had spent the hot day under her cloak. Kneeling by the nearest channel, Marin drew a deep breath; it came out a sob. Her powerful, slender body curled around Hiril’s ashes and slumped to the floor. A broken, breathless keening shook her. She’d wept often throughout the past year, but never like this, never with the desolation of a widow who finally knows—with the shattering of her heart—that she is truly alone.

The storm of emotion swept through her and was gone. She was empty again, her world filled with the noise of the inverted waterfall and the rapid beating of her heart.

She straightened and drew another long breath.

It was done.

As was the custom in most of Mir’aj, her period of mourning was at its end. Hiril had been born in a small village not far from this shrine, and Marin was carrying out his wishes that, should he fall, this should be his final resting place.

She tipped the urn, pouring the contents into the running water. Each particle of ash seemed to represent a moment they had spent together. All too soon the urn was empty—just as their time together had run out. With tears streaming down her cheeks and splashing into the channel, she watched as the water swirled his ashes away toward the far wall and into the waterfall that rushed up to heaven.

Even as a silver urn full of ashes, Hiril had been a presence in her life.

Now she was alone.

13

“SPEAK TO ME.”

Marin pleaded beside the waterfall within the polished walls of the shrine, in the scent of wet rock, as if Hiril’s voice could come to her just once more. Please… could he not whisper just a word?

She had carried out his final request, and according to custom, life would return to normal a year after his death—or at least move forward with some new purpose. Marin wanted to believe that here, in this place, at this precise moment, her pain could perhaps be transformed into something else.

But there was nothing here for her. Only the empty silver urn at her side. Only the watery silence of her solitude. Only her grief.

“Maybe Ala’i is not the one,” Marin said aloud to the shrine. “There are other gods in this world that I can seek.”

Though holding vast sway, Illam was not the only divinity in Mir’aj; there was also Jovah, Njambe, Himnnaríki, or Vijayu. Their practices might seem strange to her, but she had seen much on her travels; and she knew there were many ways in which people could worship and find solace. But in truth she knew this was an empty challenge to Ala’i—that professions of strong or waveringfaith were nothing more than words intended to appease her loneliness, to justify the emptiness that Hiril’s loss had left in her heart.

“There is no life for me,” Marin said to the shrine. “Not anymore.”

The water merely continued to rush by her. It could not react to her sorrow; it moved on without any care for her loneliness or despair.

Marin remained for another hour, thinking about everything—and nothing. The chamber darkened as the afternoon suns waned and shadows crept over the hills. She had spent enough time here. She would return to Messinor and wait there for her orders. Everyone knew where she had gone, and sooner or later someone would find a task for her. That would be her life from now on.

Then a chill came over her—and it had nothing to do with the cool breeze blowing past the waterfall as the heat of day diminished. It was something else.

Her hunter’s instinct told her another presence lurked nearby.

Marin turned slowly, surveying the entrance behind her. She’d left her weapons in the city, along with everything else, and she felt trapped when she saw a man’s shadow on the waterfall at the cave’s mouth. Someone was standing outside, waiting for her to leave the shrine.

Let him come
, she thought.
Today I welcome death with open arms
.

The shadow moved away.

A silhouette passed on her side of the bright waterfall, and a gray-clad figure came toward her. He was tall and thin, and he carried something in his hands that was clearly not a weapon. His movements suggested cautious respect, not battle readiness.

Their eyes met. His were as gray as his cloak, and his dark hair and thin mustache were shot with gray as well. Marin saw sharp intelligence in his face, but also the weakness of one who happily issues commands and lets others do the work.

“My condolences,” he said in the formal tones of a bureaucrat. “May peace be with you.”

As he moved closer, Marin could see that he held something in his arms.

Four books.

14

“WHO ARE YOU?”

Marin studied the man with the strange offering.

“My name is Nabeel Khoury,” he said.

“And why do you trespass on my rite?”

Khoury hesitated, and then sighed. “It is a long tale—and one that I must tell you, Marin Altaïr.”

“How do you know my name?” she asked. “And how did you find me here?”

“It is my business to know many things.” Khoury made a gesture of apology at Marin’s glare. “Ah… the timing of my presence is suspect, I admit, but I knew of no other moment when I would find you alone. Away from eyes that spy from afar—whether you know of them or not. You are not safe. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Marin rose to her feet, stifling a grimace at the stiffness in her legs after kneeling for so long. “A woman I am, but most capable,” she said, staring into the man’s face. “This I can assure you, Nabeel Khoury.”

Khoury gave her a polite smile. “Hiril Altaïr was even more capable than you, my good lady, and he is dead nonetheless.”

Marin bristled. “As if I am unaware!” She picked up the silver vase from the floor and shook it in his face. “Who are you to follow me into the hills, interfere with my pilgrimage, and warn me of phantom dangers?”

“I am the
Rais
of—” Khoury began.

“So? How does this concern me?” she demanded, her anger cutting his words short.

“May peace be with you, my good lady,” he said quickly. “I did not come here to anger you. Hear me out, I beg you.”

Marin breathed in and out, mastering her anger. “I am listening.”

“I come from Havar—and I bring you proof of the danger that follows you.”

“Havar?” The word caught in Marin’s throat. The place where Hiril had been murdered.

“Yes, Havar. As I told you, I am the
Rais
of the sheikdom, and…” Khoury faltered.

“And?”

“I watched your husband die.”

15

AN ECHOING roar filled Marin’s head, louder than any waterfall.

“You… let him die?”

“Yes.”

“And did nothing to stop it?”

Khoury lowered his eyes, his face burning with shame. “I did nothing,” he whispered.

Marin’s hand whipped forward, smashing him in the head with the silver urn. Khoury cried out and fell, the books scattering across the floor. She stared down at him, her chest heaving, thinking to kick his ribs until they broke and pierced his heart, or maybe to crush his throat with her foot.

Instead, she paced back and forth across the shrine, channeling her rage into each step. Of course she knew many ways to kill without a weapon, but this man was a witness to Hiril’s murder, whatever role he had played—or had refrained from playing. Suppressing her urge to commit murder, she relaxed her grip on the urn, scooped a little water from the nearest channel, and splashed it on Khoury’s face.

“Wake up and speak to me, Rais.” Marin’s voice was cold and level.

He sat up, grimacing. He touched his left cheek, sucked in a pained breath, and stared at his fingers.

“No blood,” Marin told him, “but by tomorrow you will see a glorious bruise.” She shook her head and gave him a mocking grin.

“I deserved nothing less,” said Khoury in a low voice. “I am a coward.”

“And yet you command the city guard of Havar? And does the sheikh know that you stand about doing nothing while men are murdered before your eyes?”