The Kingdoms of Dust (26 page)

Adam raked a hand through his hair; it was long enough to cling in disordered spikes. “This place is slow death. Or a very quick one, from some of the things Mel’s said. But she swears that what they do is needful.”

“The things they keep bound here might destroy the world. Or at least make things very unpleasant in Assar. There’s always work that must be done, no matter how distasteful.”

“I’ve done plenty of it. Is this worth it to you, binding yourself to this place?”

She stirred her beans again and chewed another spoonful before answering. “I don’t know. In Ta’ashlan I would wear the white veil and watch people sign themselves against me. At least this is a more honest exile.”

His brows pinched together. “Or we could get out of here. Go north and not worry about veils or prisons.”

Isyllt laid down her spoon. Her last bite of egg tasted like paste, and every bone in her body ached, not just the broken one. “Would it really be any better there? I’m so tired, Adam. Tired of all of it.”

“That’s this place talking.”

“Maybe so. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Don’t worry,” she added when his frown deepened. “I won’t let you be trapped here too.”

“Good.” His chair scraped as he stood. “I don’t like watching suicides. Especially pointless ones.”

With Adam gone and Asheris not yet returned, Isyllt returned to the front step and its watchful sphinxes. The tattered shade of a palm tree protected her from the sun, and the warmth eased her aches and pains. She was scraped hollow, the worst she’d felt since the blood-sorceress Phaedra Severos had nearly exsanguinated her, since she’d woken in the hospital to the knowledge that Kiril was dead.

Would it be worth it to spend her life in solitary service here, if it meant never feeling another heart stutter and stop under her helpless hands? Her eyes ached with sleeplessness and tears she couldn’t shed. The desert sun had baked all the moisture out of her—she had none left to waste.

Moth found her there, stewing in doubt and grief. The girl wore riding boots and a vest laced tight over her blouse; her hair was streaked dun with dust, and the smell of horse and sweat clung to her. She walked with a pained gait that spoke of stiffness and chafing, but her color was high and her eyes bright. Isyllt was glad to see her learning—horsemanship was one of the few things Kiril had neglected in her education.

Moth sat on the far side of the broad steps, wincing and shifting her weight. Isyllt waited for the inevitable question, but that wasn’t what followed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

That penetrated her lassitude and stiffened her spine. “I would never have abandoned you. Although,” she admitted wryly, “if Melantha hadn’t left a note, I’m not sure what I would have done.”

“I thought maybe it was Adam you came for.”

“I wouldn’t leave him either. But I meant it when I promised I’d take care of you. Mekaran would know if I failed.” But she’d meant it when she swore her vows to the Crown too, and that hadn’t kept her from breaking them. Nerium didn’t know about those broken oaths—once a mage forswore magical vows, they found little trust with their fellows.

It took a moment to nerve herself to the next question. “Are you happier here?”

Moth frowned. “In Qais? No.” Her voice lowered. “It’s lonely, and I have bad dreams. But Melantha wants me. As an apprentice, I mean.”

Isyllt bit back an automatic denial; she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a lie. “Do you want her as a teacher?”

“She’s the best I’ve seen with a knife. Better than Adam. And her shadow magic—” She picked at the stone between her knees. “I remind her of herself, I think. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.”

“You did the same for me,” Isyllt admitted, “when we first met.”

Moth shot her a narrow sideways glance. “When do I become myself, and not these shadows you cast on me?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to say that’s when you grow up, but I clung to Kiril’s shadow long after. I hope you have better luck.”

After she’d said it, she realized she hadn’t flinched at his name. Maybe the wound was finally closing. Or maybe Qais made all other sufferings look small beside it.

“If you want to stay with Melantha, I understand.”

“Just like that? You wouldn’t fight for me? Or for Adam?”

Isyllt tried to hide a wince, but doubted she had. “You can’t fight for someone’s affections. I thought you could, once, but I was wrong. And if I kept you against your wishes, what kind of company would you be? Adam knows that.”

Moth gave her another measuring look. “I thought maybe he loved her, at first. But I’m not sure. He looks so sad when she isn’t watching.”

“Love and sadness aren’t exclusive.” She smiled, but it was crooked. “You’ll learn that.”

The girl snorted. “Maybe I should have been a hijra after all. I thought I wanted choices, but choices just make you miserable, don’t they?”

That night Melantha found Nerium in her private study, sitting at her desk with a pot of tea and a book. A familiar scene, but not quite right. A moment later she recognized the discrepancy: Nerium wasn’t frowning. The book wasn’t a thaumaturgical text or history, or missives from agents, but a slender volume of poetry. Aisha had been one of her mother’s favorites since Melantha was a child, but she couldn’t remember when she’d last seen Nerium reading for pleasure.

Melantha’s mouth dried as she approached. Nerium had finally found a moment of peace, and she was sure to ruin it. She remembered Khalil entombed in salt and forced herself on.

Nerium looked up when her feet touched the rug beside the desk, folding a faded ribbon between the pages and raising an expectant brow. Melantha swallowed and bent her knees stiffly onto the carpet.
Say it
, all her collected voices urged.
Say it and be done
.

“Mother, I…I want out. If Iskaldur agrees—when she agrees—you won’t need me anymore. Let me go.” Familiar lines creased Nerium’s brow, and she pressed on. “I’ll keep my oaths of silence, I’ll protect your secrets as I always have, but I can’t keep doing this. It’s been nearly thirty years—I want to be myself again.”

Nerium tilted her head. “Do you even know who that is?”

“Please, Mother. Release me from my vows. I’m no use to you as a mage, and if your plan works you won’t need me to steal secrets and stones.”

“No,” Nerium said slowly. “I suppose I won’t.” The lines around her mouth deepened. “If she agrees. And after I’ve taken her vows and the transference is complete. I need you here until it’s finished, in case Iskaldur balks, or anything goes awry. After that…” She trailed off, frowning, and Melantha’s pulse beat hard and fast in her throat. After a long moment, Nerium nodded.

“Thank you.” Her vision blurred. On a wild, childish impulse she leaned forward and laid her head on her mother’s knee. “Thank you.”

Nerium flinched from the sudden contact, but didn’t push her away. After a moment her hand landed on Melantha’s hair, a trembling, uncertain caress.

“Save your thanks. Neither of our service is over yet.”

L
onely dreams chased Isyllt through the night and she woke with a stiff spine and a sharp ache in her shoulder. By the time she washed and dressed it was nearly noon, the sun high and hot in the flat dusty sky. Dust devils twisted in the streets outside; their dance was beautiful, but Isyllt had no wish to join them.

The Chanterie’s corridors looked equally lifeless, but if she paused she could feel the patterns silent feet had worn. No visible track, neither scent nor sound, but a faint tingling hum inside her head. She nearly laughed—and she’d thought the Court of Lions lonely. Erisín had its share of empty places, but at least they were haunted.

She hadn’t seen Asheris since the day before, nor spoken to Adam since yesterday’s argument. With a curiosity bordering on desperation, she followed the trails. Where did the living go in Qais?

The first trail led to the library. It made a tempting refuge from heat and unhappy questions, but even the lure of strange books wasn’t enough to ignore the two mages sleeping in salt coffins. If Isyllt did agree to stay, it would be contingent on Nerium moving her morbid experiments elsewhere.

The thought settled through her, becoming an unpleasant weight in her stomach—it was the first time she’d acknowledged that
if
, even to herself. She turned away from the library and the sleepers and chose another corridor.

This hall ended in a garden. The inner gate stood open and a damp green breeze sighed past her; her mouth watered at the sharp sweetness of water. Jujube trees and sprawling tamarisk shrubs grew inside the walled enclosure, beside wormwood and poison-pink oleanders. A fountain trickled lazily in the center, drawing scores of tiny brown birds.

Isyllt paused in the doorway, hearing familiar voices from the green shade. Metal flashed in the sun, followed by the
thunk
of steel striking wood. She hesitated only a heartbeat before wrapping herself in a concealing shadow and creeping forward.

“Keep your wrist stiff,” Melantha said, “and your elbow higher. Follow through when you release. Again.” Through a screen of branches, Isyllt saw her crouch to retrieve a blade, which she handed back to Moth.

“Right foot back,” she said, correcting the girl’s stance. “Elbow up.”

The knife flashed again and stuck—hilt up and quivering—in a trellis post for a moment before falling to the grass. Moth cursed.

“Better.” Melantha drew a knife of her own, holding the blade between thumb and forefinger. This one flipped end over end faster than Isyllt’s eye could follow and sank deep into the wood. Moth cursed again, shaking her head.

“What about you?” Moth asked, turning her head. “Do you have any advice?”

A shadow below a sycamore tree stretched and resolved into Adam. “My advice is, hold on to your knife in a fight. That way you can use it more than once.”

Melantha snorted. “And my way, you never have to get that close.” She moved in a black blur, pivoting toward him to throw another blade. It stuck in the tree a handspan from his head. “You see?” the woman asked, turning back to Moth. “It saves scrubbing other people’s blood out of your clothes. Go clean up—you’ll just settle into bad habits if you keep trying today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Melantha agreed, smiling. “If you keep improving, you can start aiming at Adam soon.”

Moth laughed, short and bright. The sound was a knife all its own, twisting under Isyllt’s sternum. She wished she could hate Melantha for it, but this was her own doing. Moth thrived under the attention, and she’d been too caught up in her own misery to give any.

Moth left the garden, passing an armspan from Isyllt. Her cheeks were flushed and damp, hair sweat-tousled, and grass clung to the knees of her trousers. Her brow wrinkled as she brushed the edge of Isyllt’s obfuscation, but she walked on with only a heartbeat’s hesitation.

Adam and Melantha lingered in the green shade. Isyllt knew that eavesdropping further would bring nothing but misery, but she didn’t move.

“Feeling nostalgic?” Adam asked, tugging the knife out of the tree trunk. “It’s been a long time since you threw knives at me.” He hefted the blade lightly to check the balance, then tossed it in a slow tumbling arc. Melantha plucked it neatly out of the air.

“A long time, but you still don’t flinch.” She wiped the knife on her sleeve and sheathed it at her belt. “You still have the same frown when you’re brooding too. What’s wrong?”

That frown deepened. “I said something stupid to Isyllt yesterday.” He shrugged, and leaf-shadows rippled across his face. “I was right, but I shouldn’t have said it.”

Melantha turned away to collect another fallen knife. “Do you love her?” she asked, too casually.

Adam laughed humorlessly. “Lady of Ravens, I hope not. But…she’s not a bad partner. For a spy.” Isyllt’s hands tightened on her folded arms and she bit back a retort.

Melantha’s shoulders rose and fell with her breath. Adam stood beside her, not quite touching. “Now it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong.”

“I’m leaving,” Melantha said. “I spoke to my mother. When this is over, I’ll go. Far away from Qais.” Her breath caught as she turned to face him. “Come with me.”

Isyllt’s chest hitched, and the cost of keeping silent made her jaw tighten and throat ache. She had witnessed far more intimate conversations than this, but none that had made her stomach churn so much.

“We’ll be mercenaries,” Melantha continued, before Adam could speak. “It’ll be—” She swallowed. “It won’t be like the old days. It will be different. Something new. I’m tired of this life—I need to start over.”

Adam laid a hand on her shoulder. “How many times have you started over already?”

“I’ve lost count.” Her chin lifted. “I have to get it right eventually, don’t I?”

Isyllt turned away, her nails carving hot crescents into her upper arms. She couldn’t stand to hear his answer; she’d learn it soon enough either way. Her bad shoulder clipped the doorway as she retreated and a single hiss of pain escaped. She fled into the darkness of the Chanterie before she could be discovered.

That afternoon, the heavy silence was broken by a clatter of voices and dishes in the kitchen. Qais rarely saw guests, and any new face was cause for a proper meal. Soon the halls smelled of oils and spices, fresh bread and roasting meat. The scents and noise and occasional laughter lifted the oppressive gloom—by the time dinner was laid out that evening, even Nerium was nearly smiling.

Asheris returned from his wandering with no more peace than he’d taken with him. The soothing power of sun and wind faded in the shadow of the prison-temple. The smell of roasting garlic lured him into the dining room, however, a reminder that he’d neglected his flesh for days, and still felt the wounds the manticore had dealt him.

The food was excellent: spiced tomato soup and stewed chickpeas, followed by tajines of mutton with nuts and fig sauce and platters of pearled couscous and vegetables. Asheris tasted every dish, but could never wholly banish the bitter aftertaste of myrrh. However well they fed him, he was a prisoner here.

Food couldn’t cure everything, though. The meal was strained and awkward, full of shifting tensions and things loudly unspoken. He traded barbed pleasantries with Nerium, while Isyllt held to chilly tact. Adam and Nerium’s daughter sat together, hardly speaking, and Isyllt looked everywhere but at Adam, despite his attempts to catch her eye. The apprentice Moth rolled her eyes so often that the necromancer finally kicked her ankle under the table. Asheris would have laughed, had not Ahmar’s curse burned against him like a coat of nettles.

After custard and the last bottle of wine, Melantha and Moth retreated. With one last inscrutable glance at Isyllt, Adam followed, leaving Asheris alone with the sorcerers. He would have fled as well, but Nerium invited Isyllt into the study, and Isyllt took his arm as she acquiesced.

The room was nothing like cozy, but less sepulchral than the rest of the Chanterie. Statues and paintings lined the walls, engravings and friezes and parchment—styles from all across Khemia and the north as well, and some he recognized from university texts as civilizations long vanished. So much wealth and knowledge here, locked away from the world. To keep them safe, he supposed, but that was the reason the mad emperor Altair had given for walling his wife and children in a tower.

He accepted Nerium’s offered brandy, though he longed to fling the glass into the fire. It was a rare luxury, costly to import from Erebos, and a childish gesture would accomplish little. But it would burn prettily.

Isyllt and Nerium spoke of magic and travel, carefully avoiding the subject that hung between them like an odor everyone was too polite to mention. Though well versed in politic conversation, Asheris couldn’t bring himself to join in. It was difficult for him to become intoxicated, but he might have managed it tonight. The women’s voices were too sharp, the room too bright and slightly distorted, as though he watched through a crystal lens. Something jagged and ugly crouched in his throat, waiting for a chance to strike.

He remembered his conversation with Isyllt in the desert, and wondered if he should have chosen selfishness over friendship after all.

He was young for a jinni—only seventy years had passed since his fire-opal egg hatched in a glass-walled rookery. His friendships among jinn had been shallow, childish things. Little wonder he was foolhardy enough to disregard the prohibitions against the world of flesh and seek out men. Asheris-the-man had been more mature by human reckoning, but still reckless and curious. Years of slavery had tempered them both. If that incautious young jinni had realized how much he would miss his home—

Asheris threw back a swallow of brandy. Grief was a blade transfixing his chest, and he would be damned a dozen times over before he would weep in front of Nerium. He collected himself in time to hear Ahmar’s name. Not a pleasant topic, but one that let him focus his wine-soaked wits.

“Why the church?” he interjected. If he was trapped here, he might as well learn something. “Why not put your people on the Lion Throne instead?”

“There were attempts,” Nerium said, wry as ever. “But the duties of kings and emperors too easily oppose the goals of Quietus. We want the empire strong—order against chaos—but it’s better for all involved if whoever wears the crown doesn’t know we exist. Which doesn’t mean we haven’t sought out candidates who would be…amenable to suggestion.”

“Like Rahal.”

“Yes. As for the church”—she shrugged—“we built it.”

Asheris stiffened, sloshing brandy over the rim of his glass. Isyllt leaned forward and spoke before he could. “You what?”

Nerium chuckled. “I shouldn’t say
we
, I suppose. I may be old, but not as old as that. But yes, Quietus helped shape the sun church. My predecessors feared that the ancient spirit-worshipping tribes would turn their faith to Al-Jodâ’im, and that would put an end to the seals. When Aaliyah and her sun cult began preaching, the Silent Council decided the Unconquered Sun would serve their purposes. Light and order and separation from the Fata were exactly what they needed. So they supplied the sun-worshippers and taught them warded prayers. We’ve had members close to the Illumined Chair for centuries.”

She spoke casually, but Asheris marked the cool glitter of her eyes as she watched him. She spoke of secrets that would never leave Qais. His hands tightened around his glass, aching with the effort not to shatter it. Not to incinerate the room, to burn Qais to the ground. He wasn’t tipsy enough to think he could succeed.

Isyllt changed the subject, trying to ease the tension, but Asheris excused himself quickly. She glimpsed some of the misery beneath his careful mask, and wondered if she should follow. But a moment alone with Nerium was an opportunity she meant to take advantage of.

“I have a question.”

Nerium’s mouth quirked. “And I imagine I should dread it. You’ve spoken to Kash.”

“I have.” Isyllt rolled the brandy’s burnt-sugar heat across her tongue. “He told me to ask what happened to your daughter.”

“He would.” Nerium sighed. “I should be glad he didn’t tell you himself. But for all his spite, I doubt he could make the story any worse.”

“Is this Melantha, or another?”

The woman blinked. “That is her name now, isn’t it? She’s had so many I forget them. But yes. I only have one child.” She lifted her glass, staring into it before she drank. “Kash told you, I suppose, about his capture.”

“About Onotheras, yes.”

The woman nodded. “Onotheras was my grandfather. I wasn’t alive yet. By the time I was born, Kash had been a prisoner for fifty years. My father had learned to use him as a weapon, and I would be taught in turn. But when I was a child he was merely a curiosity. A pet monster, and something like a friend.

“I spent years as an agent abroad. My daughter—Melantha, if you prefer—was born in Anambra during my assignment there. We of Quietus learned the hard way that the presence of Al-Jodâ’im can lead to complications in birth. When she was ten years old, my father died, and I returned to take my place on the council.

“After I returned, I became…closer to Kash. Though I now controlled his bonds, he was still my childhood friend. The other mages shunned him, but we were comfortable together. He begged me for his freedom, and I wanted very much to grant it.” She smiled ruefully. “There is little true happiness in Qais—I was still young and foolish enough to wish for some. But despite my wishing, to release him would have been a loss to Quietus, and a potential danger. My oaths forbade that.

“Kash’s time in the oubliette had bonded him with Al-Jodâ’im. Through him, we could harness their powers, the void itself, but his service would always be under duress. If we could repeat the experiment with a human, someone willing and loyal to us, the possibilities might be limitless. If I could replace Kash with a better tool, I could free him with no danger to my vows.”

“Not yourself?” Isyllt said, cocking an eyebrow.