The Kingdoms of Dust (23 page)

“I would love nothing more, but I’m afraid not.” She couldn’t see his face, but his voice was strained. “The manticore’s tail isn’t the only place it keeps its poison.”

“How bad is it?”

“I’ll recover, but the venom is in my blood. Wounds from the Fata’im last longer than ordinary injuries. It may take a few hours to heal.”

“I’ll try to keep my balance that long.”

The manticore paced below them, growling and chuffing angrily, before it finally turned its attention back to the camels. Isyllt closed her eyes as their mounts bleated and wheezed and fell silent. The sound of ripping flesh that followed was almost an improvement.

The wind died and the dust settled, giving Isyllt her first clear view of the manticore. It had the body of a lion, but closer in size to a draft ox. Its head was neither cat nor man—maned in black, with saucer-size lantern eyes and a mouth thrice as wide as any human’s. Blood-red hide glistened in the afternoon sun, and a scorpion’s barbed tail arched behind it. Isyllt had only seen its like in illustrations, none of which had prepared her to be caught in its yellow stare.

The lull also let her study their surroundings. Columns rose from the sand like broken teeth. The desert had worn away their carvings, but a few ghostly engravings remained: stylized figures, some human, others winged and bestial. Here and there a ridge of wall broke the surface of the erg, suggesting a wide courtyard, and to the north she saw a shattered cupola. The sand itself glowed in the heavy amber light, strewn with glittering shards of glass, darkly iridescent as beetles’ wings.

“The Sea of Glass?” Isyllt asked. Her dry tongue scraped over chapped lips and she spat metallic grit. The manticore’s ears twitched at her voice, but it didn’t lift its head from its meal of camel innards.

“Yes.” Asheris’s face was drawn and ashen. He kept his torn, bloody back turned away, but she had glimpsed the four deep rents in cloth and flesh; dark stains dried on the stone beneath him. “And these must be the ruins of Irim.”

She had expected more from his stories, some sense of destruction or magic gone awry—Erisín was full of such places. Here, though, nothing pricked her outstretched senses. The ruin was silent, empty. Even the sounds of the manticore’s meal and her own breath fading into the stillness echoing from Irim. A perfect desolation.

Isyllt shuddered as her awareness snapped back into her flesh. Too perfect. This place would erase her if she let it.

When it had licked the last scraps of camel from its face, the manticore rose and sauntered closer. Its shadow was red, thinner than those cast by the pillars; it would grow more solid with each kill, Isyllt guessed. Its pupils shrank to pinpricks in the light.

“I can reach you up there, you know.” Its voice reverberated through its chest.
His
chest, Isyllt supposed, from the mane. He splayed one man-killing paw and chewed delicately at the webbing between his toes.

“I’m sure you can.” She wasn’t sure, but also wasn’t about to antagonize him. Her pillar was twice her height—the manticore might be taller if he stretched.

“I’m full, you see, and neither of you looks especially tasty. But I wouldn’t want you to think yourselves
safe
.”

“Rest assured, the thought never crossed my mind.” She’d pried a fist-size chunk of sandstone from the cracked architrave. It would be a ludicrous weapon against such a monster, but its weight steadied her.

“Although—” The manticore circled Asheris’s perch, rubbing his massive head and shoulder against the stone; the pillar held, but sand sifted from its cracks. “I smell the fire in you. A taste of that might be worth a little effort. Why are you wearing that ridiculous ape-suit?”

Asheris lifted his head from his knees. “We all have our prisons. Our peoples have no quarrel, man-eater.”

The manticore snorted, and a growl rumbled inside him. “I have no people, jinni. I have been trapped for centuries, and when I am allowed out to hunt and feed I find no trace of my kind on the wind.” His segmented tail couldn’t lash, but swayed menacingly over his back.

“We could help you search,” Asheris said, “if you were to let us down.”

The manticore chuffed again. “I don’t trust bone-stealing mortal witches, nor anyone who hides in a man-suit. The wretched ape who holds my prison ordered me to slay you or trap you. Having done so, I wait for him. If you tire of waiting, come down and I will eat you, but spare me your pleas and pathetic bargains.”

With that, the beast threw himself down in the sand and closed his eyes.

The light deepened, as did Isyllt’s thirst, and their shadows stretched farther across the sand. Perhaps two or three hours of daylight remained. The heat left her brittle and light-headed, detached from her own limbs as if she stared down at a broken doll. She felt the loss of the camels more keenly than anything, and would have wept if she’d had moisture to spare.

Despite Asheris’s reassurances, he looked no better. Isyllt didn’t relish the idea of a night spent perched like a wing-clipped bird, and neither did her bladder. She wasn’t quite uncomfortable enough yet to brave the manticore, but that might happen soon.

The sight of their water skins tangled in the dead camels’ tack mocked her. She’d been happy at first to realize the other three mounts had escaped; now all she could think of was the wealth of water in their packs, vanishing into the desert. She was considering increasingly ridiculous plans to reach the supplies—most involving daring acrobatics that she couldn’t have managed at fifteen, with two good hands—when movement on the horizon distracted her.

A line of camels ambled toward them through the heat-shimmer, carrying a dozen riders. From the glitter of metal, Isyllt guessed them all armed. The manticore’s ears twitched and his broad nostrils flared, but he only rolled over to follow a shifting stripe of sun.

Distance was deceptive in the desert. The riders vanished behind dunes and appeared again, constantly in motion but never seeming any nearer. By the time Isyllt heard their creaking harnesses and whuffing breath, she’d begun to think them an elaborate mirage.

They reined in a safe distance from the manticore, which lay still save for the sullen click of his tail. One man, apparently the leader, knelt his camel and dismounted. At his gesture, two others followed, reluctance showing in every stride. Behind them, a handful of men leveled rifles and waited. Isyllt recognized none of them, but from Asheris’s sharp indrawn breath she guessed he did.

“What’s this?” the leader asked, pulling his veil aside. The face below was weathered bronze, creased now in amusement. A patch hid his left eye—from the ridged scars trailing from brow to chin, Isyllt doubted anything remained beneath it. He wore a sword across his back, and a heavier scimitar hung from his saddle. “Pillar saints? I didn’t know you were an ascetic, al Seth.”

“And I never knew you were a lackey of the church.”

“Don’t be silly.” He touched a rayed sun charm hanging against his breast. “I’ve always been a pious man. I was a loyal soldier, too. A pity your empress didn’t understand that.” His dark eye flickered toward Isyllt. “But who’s your companion? We haven’t been properly introduced.”

“Where are my manners?” Asheris drawled. “Isyllt, this is Samael Hamad, formerly a general in the imperial army. Now a bandit and petty thief. And this is the Lady Iskaldur—you’ve tried to kill her once already.”

Hamad swept a bow. “Don’t make it sound so personal, al Seth. You know it’s nothing of the sort.”

“An interesting pet you have. A present from Ahmar?”

“Yes. Beautiful, isn’t he?” He lifted his eye patch and something glittered in the hollow beneath his brow. Isyllt pressed her tongue against her teeth as she recognized the sharp-edged tingle of a diamond.

“Who knows how long he sat in Ahmar’s jewelry box.” Hamad tossed the diamond and caught it one-handed. The stone was a fine one—large as the iris of his missing eye and yellow as a citrine. “He was eager to stretch his legs.”

The manticore didn’t move, but Isyllt caught the flicker of his eyes as he tracked the stone’s movement. A clever sorcerer could wield a stone without touching it; despite the powerful charms thrumming around Hamad’s neck, she didn’t think he was a mage. Not for the first time, she wished her magic had manifested in psychokinesis.

“Now that you’ve exercised your pet, are you going to leave us up here till we desiccate?” Isyllt asked. From the effort the words cost her, desiccation was already well under way.

Hamad smiled. “Actually, I planned to have my men shoot you down and feed you to the manticore.”

She tilted her head wryly. “That is a more practical solution, yes.” Her fingers tightened around the rock. She would only have one chance.

Hamad lifted his fist in a signal, the diamond still clenched in his palm. Asheris stirred, but Isyllt didn’t watch him—instead she released a breath and a prayer and let her stone fly.

Her aim was true. Hamad shouted in pain as the rock struck his upraised fist. His fingers opened and the diamond traced a glittering arc through the air, vanishing into the glass-strewn sand. He dropped, rolled, and came to his feet with his sword drawn.

The manticore rose in a sinuous stretch. Muscles clenched along its blood-red sides as it began a slow
chuff-chuff-chuff
.

“Fire!” Hamad cried.

Fire answered. A wave of flame rolled across the sand, eclipsing the sunset sky. Isyllt gasped as its heat rolled over her. The thunder of guns carried through the crackling flames.

Her breath left in a rush as a hammerblow struck her left shoulder. She rocked back, and the world became a hot orange blur. Blinking, she looked down to see blood soaking the white cloth on her shoulder.

She reached, unthinking. Bone grated against bone and her vision washed white. Vertigo ripped the world out from under her—a heartbeat later she realized she was truly falling. Then she wasn’t. She was no longer conscious either.

I
syllt woke to the sound of teeth on bone.

She couldn’t decide if the bones were hers or not; she didn’t want to open her eyes to find out. The air stank of blood and burning, but the wind was cool against her skin. After a moment the growls and splintering crunch paused. Slow footsteps crunched the sand. The wind stopped, blocked by something large and warm.

“I know you’re awake, bone-thief,” the manticore said, hot charnel breath wafting across her face. “I hear your heart speeding.” It must have been a conversational voice for him, but every word rumbled through Isyllt’s bones. The vibration woke the pain in her left shoulder, and tears rinsed the grit from her eyes.

The manticore’s face hung over hers, yellow eyes narrowed lazily. Whiskers flattened against his cheeks as he bared his teeth—more teeth than Isyllt had ever seen in one place, and she’d once dissected a shark. Her bladder cramped in terror before she realized he was smiling. A low rumbling chuckle shook his mane.

“I was going to eat you,” he said casually, lowering his head to his paws. She could taste his bloody breath. “Out of principle, you understand. But a pair of jackals came and asked me not to. They were very polite.” He licked his paws with a barbed tongue as broad as Isyllt’s face.

“As you said before, I doubt I’m very tasty.” She wanted very badly to sit up, but the manticore’s white claws flexed in the sand only a finger’s length from her arm. His tail arched over his back, the poison tip gleaming in the starlight. “What about my friend?”

His nostrils flared. “Since when are jinn and witches friends?”

“For several years, in our case. I can’t speak for others. Is he—”

“I didn’t eat him, if that’s what you’re asking. The jackals were very insistent. And I’m full of foolish ape soldiers. They attacked me, you know, with their bullets and little steel fangs. It was charming.”

Isyllt glanced at her shoulder. Turning her head woke fire across her sternum and crazed the blood dried across her chest and shoulder. Thinking of the wound too long left her queasy; she could feel the lead lingering in her flesh, poisoning her and weakening her magic. “I’m sorry I missed it. And Hamad?”

“I ate him first.” His eyes narrowed, pupils flashing like embers. “If you search for the stone, not all the polite jackals in the desert will save you. Do you understand me?” His paw fell on her right hand, grinding it into the sand. Muscles flexed in his pads and one claw-tip pierced her skin. He could take her arm off at the shoulder before she could scream.

“The stone is yours,” she said, voice steady. “I am in your debt, after all. Besides—I only bind my own kind.”

He snorted, ruffling her tangled veils. “Witches. Vile creatures, all of you.” The beast stood, stretching and shaking his mane. “And speaking of witches and debt…The one who bound me is likely bones and dust by now, in the manner of your kind. But should you find the one who gave me to those soldier apes, kill her. That will resolve the debt you owe me.”

“I’ll make every effort to do so.”

With another derisive snort, he turned and loped into the darkness.

When he had vanished, Isyllt let out a heavy breath. Instantly she regretted it. She tried to inspect the wound, but turning her head was agony, and moving her right shoulder fanned the pain in the left. Her magic broke and died against the shards of lead when she tried to numb the wound. She would need a second set of hands to remove the bullet, and a bottle of strong whiskey.

“Asheris?” Her voice cracked on his name, and the effort not to cough nearly made her faint again. He didn’t answer. Nothing answered, save the soft keening of the wind over broken stone.

The somnolence of Irim surrounded her, seeping into her skin. She wanted nothing more than to lie in the cooling sand and sleep. But dawn would bring the killing sun, and likely vultures. Would they be as polite as jackals?

Sit up, rig a sling, find Asheris: It was a good plan, soothing in its simplicity. Now she just needed the strength to implement it.

Before she gathered her resolve, a shiver spread across her skin. Magic was coming. Powerful magic. Something wrenched, a snag in the fabric of the world. The sensation echoed in her chest and she shuddered. The wind shifted, rushing past her toward the intrusion. Pain blinded her as she tried to look; through a blur of tears she saw a deeper black eclipse the stars. It vanished with a pop she felt instead of heard.

“Saints,” a woman said, dry-voiced and sharp. “What happened?”

“A fight, it seems.” If the woman’s voice was dry, this was a drought. The hair on Isyllt’s arms prickled—she knew that voice.

“Something ate these men,” said a second woman. “Ate them and burned them, though maybe not in that order.” Footsteps paused. “I found al Seth.”

“Alive?” the first woman asked.

Isyllt held her breath in the pause that followed. “Yes. Saints only know how, with this many bullets in him. He’s unconscious.”

“Good. We’ll need to restrain him before he wakes. Kash, you aren’t to speak to him. What about Iskaldur?”

“Here.”

Isyllt couldn’t stop her flinch. The dry voice was right beside her, but she’d heard no one approach. She risked a glance through her lashes, but couldn’t make sense of it. The shadow standing above her was tall and gaunt, but the head wasn’t right, or the number of limbs. It chuckled once, a sound like gravel breaking, and she knew it saw through her feigned sleep.

“She only collected one bullet. There are no other survivors.”

“Bring her. Gently, if you please. We can come back for their supplies—no point in leaving them for the vultures.”

Cold hands slid beneath Isyllt’s legs and shoulders. A moan scraped through her gritted teeth.

“Is she awake?” the first woman asked.

“I don’t think so,” the shadow—Kash?—lied. “She’s lost too much blood and water for that.”

Why did he lie for her? A memory rose, dream-faded.
We have so much in common.

The wrenching magic came again. A sundering like she’d never felt before. A knife through the skin of the world. Cold bled from the wound, numbing her deeper than her magic ever could. It stole pain, stole thought, and left only darkness behind.

When the dark receded she was supine once more, on a bed instead of sand. A wet cloth wiped her face and throat, leaking rivulets of moisture that soaked into her hair and puddled in the hollows of her collarbones. Her mouth opened automatically as the water brushed her lips, desperate for any stray drops.

“Easy,” a woman said. The woman from Irim. Beneath the white brilliance of witchlight, she was a grey-and-white blur. “Don’t move—I haven’t taken the bullet out yet.”

That was all the caution Isyllt needed. “Where—” The word was an ugly croak, unrecognizable as speech.

“Here, chew this. Slowly.” The woman pressed something against her lips. A bit of date, shockingly sweet.

Isyllt obeyed, careful not to bite her swollen tongue. Her shoulder objected to chewing as much as it did to breathing, coughing, and moving, but the relief of even the slightest moisture was stronger than the pain.

Water followed the fruit, a teasing trickle that was still enough to make her choke. The woman held her good shoulder down when Isyllt would have lunged for the cup.

“Carefully,” she cautioned. “Drinking too fast will make you retch.”

“Thank you,” Isyllt whispered after three proper mouthfuls. Her vision cleared enough to make out her rescuer—an older woman, white-haired and robed in white. Another necromancer? “Who are you?” The shape of the words felt strange, and she realized they were speaking Selafaïn.

“Nerium Kerah. You’ve come to Qais, though not as intact as I’d wished.”

“Qais. Moth—”

“Is here, yes, and safe. And you’re due an explanation for that, and an apology. But first I need to take this bullet out of you.”

It seemed impractical to argue with that. “How bad is it?”

“The ball cracked the clavicle and lodged there. If it had turned down, it would likely have severed the artery here.” She tapped the hollow below the bone, and Isyllt winced. “Once I remove the lead, setting the bone should be simple. Do you want to watch?”

Isyllt snorted. “Not particularly.”

“Then close your eyes. This won’t be pleasant.”

“This would go better if you’d stop fighting me, you know,” Kerah said later, as she wrapped Isyllt’s shoulder to hold it straight. The movement tugged the neat black stitches tracing her clavicle.

Isyllt coughed and wished she hadn’t. “I’m not fighting. I don’t think I could.”

“Not effectively, no. But I mean your magic.”

Frowning, she closed her eyes and turned her attention inward. Sure enough, the other woman’s magic lapped at her skin, spiraling toward the wound and the fracture below. She sensed no malice in it, but her own power responded automatically, trying to force the intruder out as it would an invading illness or infection. The confrontation itched and tingled unpleasantly—in her daze she’d mistaken it for the injury’s natural discomfort.

“What are you doing?”

Kerah’s eyebrow twitched again. She was very fair for a Khemian; from the shape of her cheeks and nose Isyllt guessed she had northern blood. Her hair was white and silver, cropped close to a square face. Age softened her throat and creased her skin her skin fragile as crepe, but she must have been striking once. No, Isyllt corrected herself as the woman’s pale eyes met hers—she was still striking.

“I’m healing you, of course.” The eyebrow climbed higher as Isyllt blinked. “I know they have healing mages in Erisín.”

“Yes, but I mostly only saw anixeroi physicians.” Her left hand twitched—an Arcanost healer had overseen that surgery, but provided no miracles. “I’m…resistant to healing magic.”

“You’re resistant to many things, I’m sure. It’s instinct. And like any instinct, it can be overridden.”

“Oh,” Isyllt said cleverly.

Nerium snorted. “And the Arcanost calls itself the pinnacle of thaumaturgical education. If you can keep your magic from interfering with mine, the bone might heal in a few decads. Otherwise it will take months.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Nerium turned to wash her hands, and Isyllt tugged her sheet higher over her chest. Her shirt had been cut away, and the thin linen bedding did little to ward off the chill. The room was high and wide, the door decorated with brass. The furniture was expensive, but everything but the bed and table holding Nerium’s supplies was lightly filmed in dust. A breeze drifted over the casement, but a sluggish staleness lingered in the air. No one had lived here for a long time.

“Now what?” she asked, cradling a cup of water in her good hand.

“Now you rest. I’ll send someone with food and clothes. And a bath,” she added, eyeing the filthy, bloodstained ruin of Isyllt’s shirt where it lay on the floor. “After that, you can see your friends.”

A memory rose, Nerium’s voice in the darkness:
Restrain him before he wakes
. Isyllt’s jaw tightened. “Where is Asheris?”

“He’s here as well. He was badly injured, but I imagine he’ll mend. His kind tend to.”

He’d shared his fears that Quietus knew his nature; having them confirmed was still unsettling.

“You said something about an explanation, as well.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Nerium’s thin lips quirked. “That too, then.”