Laksha bint Anaga followed the light of the glass lamps across the stone-paved courtyard in the darkness of the early morning toward the masjid, her sandaled feet keeping time to the beat of the single drum high atop the minar calling the people to morning prayer. If there seemed a haste to the pace of the drum this morning, it was not unexpected, for all the residents of Fort Darwapur Shukri and the surrounding city of Qaragarh eagerly awaited today's arrival of the Concord Jewel. Around her, in the silence that darkness always seemed to impose, she heard the slap of countless other sandals as they made their way across the courtyard and into the high iwan fronting the masjid. In the darkness, she could not tell whether the people next to her were in darkly colored abayas, homespun kameez, bejeweled kurtis, or full skirts intricately embroidered with golden threads. Only by the shadows of their widely brimmed hats, fringed all around with the dangling amulets and ta'wif that acted to veil their faces, could she distinguish the women of Shuddh. Laksha gave them a wide berth, lest they choose this morning to find some fault with her.
She passed through the iwan into the huge open space of the masjid and the multicolored light cast by countless Ribhus Elven glass lamps hanging from the ceiling high above her. Already the masjid was filled by the residents of the fort, and she counted herself fortunate that the kitabkhana where she worked was within the fort walls, giving her and her colleagues the privilege of attending prayers under its vast golden dome rising improbably above the rows of slender columns. Even as she wound her way to the front, Laksha could see through the long horizontal opening in the curved niche of the east wall that the sky was lightening, and she had only a few moments to scribble her prayer before the sun would pierce the Eye of Iwa.
Quickly, Laksha tore a small piece of paper from the leather strap-bound stack of sheets she wore hanging from her black sash and dug in her pouch for the bit of cloth-wrapped charcoal she always carried. She scribbled her prayer on the paper, surrounded by others doing the same, and dropped it into the low bronze brazier between the Eye of Iwa and the first of the many rows of rugs for prayers. It was the same prayer she had written every day for the last five years.
May he be with you, Iwa, and may he forgive me.
Her slip of paper drifted down into the large brazier with the others, like snowflakes – each one different and each one precious.
Shouldering her way through the last minute scribblers, Laksha found a corner of a rug and lifted her skirts to kneel, joining the shared prayer of the others, their voices becoming one. With her head bowed, she didn't realize she'd knelt next to Tanysh until he nudged her with an elbow.
"Were you up late with your nose in a book?" he teased her.
"At least I can read," she said, elbowing her fellow painter back. "Who writes your prayers for you? Your ammi?"
"I'll have you know…"
Out of the corner of her eye, Laksha spotted the disapproving gaze and furrowed brow of Alim Nurrudin, his bejeweled kufi-topped head turned to look at them from several rugs ahead and to the left. "Shh. It comes."
Thankfully, Tanysh abandoned whatever he had been about to say and added his voice to hers and the others as they sang their thanksgiving to Iwa. Through the slit in the east wall, the golden sun rose quickly higher until its fullness pierced the opening, its rays striking the polished surface of the Eye of Iwa set high in a metal rod positioned to catch its light and direct it to the brazier. Focused by the lens, the sun set the pile of prayers to smoldering, a wisp of smoke beginning to rise to the ceiling. And then the papers flashed into high flame, turning quickly to ash.
"What was your prayer today?" Tanysh asked as they walked out of the masjid and across the bright courtyard by the fountain. Only a short while ago, darkness had reigned. How quickly the sun moved in the morning to dispel the darkness, Laksha thought to herself.
Around her, the residents of the fort dispersed to start their day. Shamsherbaz headed to guard duty or training, imperial administrators headed to their halls, diplomats already with their heads together, cooks and builders, functionaries and dignitaries. She and Tanysh were headed to the house of books, where they would break their fast before beginning work.
"My prayer was that you'd finally paint something that Alim Nurrudin would like," Laska said to him in mock condolence.
Tanysh ignored the jibe. "I wonder how many of this morning's prayers were about going to the Radiant Citadel?" he pondered.
"Phaugh," she scoffed dismissively. "Is that what you want?"
"Don't you want to go to the Radiant Citadel?"
Laksha waved the question away. "No. I don't want to go and you're never going."
No one would, if Empress Firuzeh and the Tayyib Empire did not come to concord with the Radiant Citadel. It had been eight months since the Concord Jewel had first arrived in Qaragarh, after an absence of over 700 years, finally settling the matter of whether the Citadel was simply an ancient myth.
As real as it appeared to be, though, Laksha had no interest in going, concord or not. Qaragarh was her home, it had always been her home. And as painful as her childhood had been, she couldn't imagine ever leaving it. She knew every street and alley, every balcony and dome, each stall in the bazaar, and every store in the city. The farthest she had ever gone was the edge of the Jangalee Ghodon River south of the city, down to the Pradani cremation shore. And even then, she had never crossed the bridge to the other side. As an orphan and an urchin, she had been forced to learn the city very quickly and very thoroughly. Her life had depended on it.
Very few people knew that, and Tanysh wasn't one of those people. It wasn't a part of her life she wanted to share.
Laksha knew that in the silence of his walk, Tanysh was disheartened by her words. He wanted to go to the Radiant Citadel and to the worlds connected by it. Many Suristhanami did, their imaginations refueled by the return of the Concord Jewel. What had once been fantastical stories of other lands were now possibilities and realities. But there were others who opposed concord altogether, for fear it would unsettle a Tayyib Empire that was still trying to recover from a devastating civil war. And others like her, who just had no interest in the Radiant Citadel at all. All she wanted from the Radiant Citadel was…
"Books," she said aloud.
She and Tanysh had passed outside the masjid courtyard walls and were crossing the fort grounds to the collection of buildings that housed the kitabkhana. Other scholars and craftspeople of the house of books were converging around them. Beyond the kitabkhana, the lush greenery of the charbagh broke the monotony of the reddish stone out of which all the structures of the fort had been built. It looked cool in there, with its fountains and water channels and shade, much cooler than the sun-heated stone all around them.
"Books," Tanysh grunted.
"All I want from the Radiant Citadel is their books," she clarified. "Their stories."
Laksha was a voracious reader, even though she had only learned how a few years ago, when she'd been conscripted to work in the kitabkhana. Even surrounded by mountains and shelves and cubby holes of books and scrolls, she wanted more.
Tanysh shrugged. "It's Pehli Sabah in a month. Maybe someone will give you a book," he said offhandedly.
Him. He meant him. Not turning her head, she peeked up at him with a quick eye. He was a tall young man, which made her shortness even more pronounced. Everyone was tall to Laksha. She knew Tanysh liked her; he'd made little secret of it. But at least he hadn't forced the issue yet. Instead, he'd tease her and follow her, give her tiny gifts and sit with her at meals. If she had at all been interested in love, she would have fallen for Tanysh. Anyone would. His black beard was coming in full, and he was actually a talented painter, despite her teasing. He would make a good husband and father. To someone else, not her.
A part of her wished he would express his love for her so she could gently reject him and be done with it. His coyness about the matter left her in an awkward limbo. In the absence of his declaration and her response, she settled for remaining aloof. Aloof was one of the things she did best.
Still, she wouldn't mind getting a book for Pehli Sabah. "As long as someone doesn't go to a lot of trouble," she mused as they passed through the main doorway of the kitabkhana.
Laksha used her mage hand to dip the brush into the red pigment in the oyster shell next to the paper before her. Whispering her mantra again and again, her own fingers poised in the mudra, her invisible hand raised the brush to the painting before her. The color of Gurkhani Tayyib's robe wasn't quite as she wanted, and a little red would make it just right. Delicately, precisely, she guided the brush to the miniature painting and applied the pigment. Gurkhani gazed at her magnanimously from the page, as if in thanks for the color adjustment, but his gaze had been the work of her mage hand as well. She was quite proud of the expression she had managed on his face with the stroke of a few squirrel hairs and some paint and her little wizardly hand. None of the other painters could match her mastery of facial expressions on such tiny figures, using either their mage hand or their own fleshy fingers.
The skill had not come quickly, and she'd spent the first few months of her nearly two years at the kitabkhana practicing pictures that Alim Nuruddin brutally critiqued and then casually consigned to the flames. Her mage hand mastery of the materials was unquestionable – the best he had seen in ages. But her painting skills were initially rudimentary, and she'd spent countless hours, hands cramping from the mudra, to develop a style that comported with the important images she was recording. She had worried in those early days that, tiring of her ineffective efforts, they would release her back to the streets of Qaragarh. She did not want to return to that desperate life she had been forced to live.
She glanced up when Alim Nuruddin walked into the painters' room but kept up her chant. The kitabkhana master circled the room, examining the work of the five other other painters, including Tanysh. He would nod, or make a comment, and then move on to the next. When he neared Laksha, she directed her brush to rest on one of the oyster shells.
Nuruddin leaned in to examine her painting, his bejeweled kufi glittering in the sunlight that rained down through an opening in the roof. His beard had grayed since the day that he, Alimah Karamsi and Imam Hamida had caught her in the bazaar trying to steal a bracelet. She shook out her fingers while he looked at her painting.
"Hmm," Nurrudin grunted. He pulled out his polished glass lens and looked again at the painting. "Fix it."
"Fix what?" she feigned.
"My dear Laksha," he said grandly, straightening up. "Emperor Gurkani Tayyib did not have a wyvern tail."
"He lived a long time ago. How can we know for sure?"
His frown was indulgent but serious. "You are painting for the Book of the Empire," he chided her, "not a book of children's stories."
She looked closely at her painting, at the wyvern tail peeking out from under Gurkani's robe. "Perhaps there is a wyvern behind him," she suggested.
"Perhaps," he said, putting the glass away in his robe, "you would like to go back to cleaning brushes."
"No, Alim," she conceded, lowering her eyes modestly. The playful wink that Tanysh furtively gave her out of view of Nurrudin curled her lips mischievously, though.
As she raised her fingers to the mudra again to paint over the tail, the sound of feet running in the hallway interrupted them all. The chanting painters paused, brushes in midair, as they all turned to the doorway.
"It's here!" Merena blurted as she stuck her head into the room. "The Concord Jewel is here!"
All eyes turned to Nuruddin, seeking his approval. At his brusque nod, the other painters flew into action. Not a one of them would leave the room until their pigments had been safely stored, their brushes cleaned and dried, and their workspaces tidied, all of which had to be done by mage hand so that no hands of flesh would touch the materials. When Tanysh noticed that Laksha was still holding her mudra and painting, he waved to get her attention and waited until she lowered her brush.
"You're not coming?"
"I've seen it," she shrugged. "I want to keep working."
She was relieved when they had gone. The muttering of a half-dozen mantras grew droning at times, and when she was alone, she could focus. Sometimes even the presence of other people exhausted her.
Empress Firuzeh bint Tasneem al-Tayyib waited in the shade of the arcade fronting the vast paved courtyard extending below Darwapur Shukri Fort, blinking into the bright sky past the arch. Anticipation silenced the crowd of advisors and subahdars ranged in a semi-circle behind her. She took the silk of her sari lightly in hand to give it a discreet flutter to move the air close to her body and especially around the heavy weight of the baby that seemingly refused to come out into the world. Beads of sweat trickled from under her shayla, down her neck and along her spine. Impatient, she leaned forward past the protection of the arch to measure the sun's location. Why wasn't the portal in the Concord Jewel opening?
The empress, resplendent in Roshani yellow silks and gold glittering on her head, hands, and neck, looked over her shoulder to her first husband, Ghiyas. Equally resplendent in a blue and silver sherwani, but seemingly unfazed by the unrelenting heat, he shrugged his elegant shoulders.
"Perhaps it is a good omen," he offered hopefully.
Firuzeh nodded, though unconvinced, and then roamed her flame-corona dark brown Tayyib eyes to the others around her. For such a formal greeting, and one fraught with uncertainty, she had gathered around her a formidable but fair assembly. Amir Tordain, master of Kestrel Mahal that the dwarves had carved into the face of the plateau rising north of the city simply grunted noncommittally. Sameer, subahdar of the pugnacious and powerful Bazikwahi, frowned toward her. Or was it at her? When was he not disgruntled by something? Bhima, at least, smiled at her, cousin on her Pradani side and Raj of Jharoda. He'd come through the Hall of Doors at her call for reinforcement against the diplomats. Smooth as silk, he was. Several alims and alimahs were also among her assembly, from sects found closest to Qaragarh: the Roshani in their characteristic yellow, as she was; Alim Hamida from Ilm, his black sash marking him out; Shandaar, their wealth evident from the elaborate embroidery at the edges of their kurtis and skirts. Even a silent alim of the guarded Taarik was among them, in full taqdis – the fingers of his hands pierced by wires and then woven together to keep him from transgression, and his mouth gagged with a device that clamped his tongue lest unholy words find voice. He met her look with a vacant one of his own, unblinking.
She was grateful, then, that Alimah Karamsi, head of the Ulema, drew her eye away from the stern Taarik alim with an encouraging smile. Though they did not always agree on matters – empress and chief alimah of the Muwahhid - Firuzeh still thought of Karamsi as an auntie. Well, technically, Firuzeh's sister Miram's mother Shakr's sister, but Auntie nonetheless.
Truthfully, she wasn't sure what she hoped would be revealed by the delegates when the Concord Jewel returned. Bhakkari had been chosen as the first Speaker for the Ancestors for the Tayyib Empire at the Radiant Citadel only six months ago. And while the woman had had decades of experience as the subahdar of the cosmopolitan and economically vital port city of Churapoor, that could hardly compare to the worlds-spanning, complex web of cultures and economies woven together by the Radiant Citadel. As idealistic as the Radiant Citadel was, its members could not always be counted on to deal fairly with one another where coinage and power were concerned, Firuzeh had quickly learned. And though Bhakkari had saved her life by arriving with her army in a pivotal moment of the civil war, she was Bazikwahi by birth, and Firuzeh doubted that the new Speaker's allegiance was to her alone. Nor had Firuzeh forgotten—though many had—that the last Speaker for the Tayyib Empire had been from Bazikwahi, 700 years ago, and it was his actions that had led to their expulsion from the Concordant Civilizations.
She felt again that rush of awe she had felt the first time—and each time thereafter—that the sard vessel had appeared in the sky above Darwapur Shukri Fort and had come to rest in the fort's courtyard. Then, so soon after the dreadful civil war with her brothers for the security of the empire had ended with her victorious, Firuzeh had feared that the vessel was some new trickery, bearing soldiers to her very door to take her throne from her. She had quickly ranged her palace urdubegis and imperial shamsherbaz around the oval jewel, poised to take down any forces within as they might spew forth. But it was a lone man who had stepped forth, as an opening appeared in a portion of the vessel wall that dissolved. A man with skin a few shades paler than her own, with a thin, sharp nose, and a posture so erect that she unconsciously straightened her own spine even more. In robes covered in green and orange feathers, he had opened his arms wide like the wings of a bird and said, "Greetings from the Radiant Citadel" and changed her world. Now she stood, gravid and sweaty, on the verge of even greater changes.
Ahmad, her third husband, leaned close to her from behind, the metal amulets woven into his Shuddh beard jangling near her ear. "Do you want to lay down in the mahal until the Concord Jewel opens?" he whispered solicitously in her ear.
"We're fine," she whispered back. "Look at them," she gave a slight nod of her head to her Akrani aunties gathered in the imperial household entourage, "just waiting for me to show any sign of weakness so they can replace me with one of my cousins." Still, she held out her hand and Jagat, her second husband, placed a cup of cool water in it. She looked for, but didn't find her fourth husband, Sanjar. He was probably in the stables. He had not yet grown accustomed to such imperial pageantry, and she hoped he never would.
At the sudden muttering from the crowd, she looked over to see a portal opening in the Concord Jewel. Relieved, she squared her regal shoulders as the cup was taken from her hand, and watched the opening grow larger. From the darkness of the interior, six people emerged – the first, Bayram, her emissary to the Tayyib Speaker for the Ancestors. Of course Qiang Lu was back, the Yongjing woman leading the delegation. Her thick black hair was coiled and pinned atop her stately head, and flowers were embroidered in golden threads on her green tunic. Firuzeh hoped that a time would come when she and Qiang Lu could sit and talk as friends over tea, instead of as diplomats deciding weighty matters. She was not surprised to see that Eladio Tenoch Quetl, the young San Citlàn dwarf, representative for the Trade Discal, had returned, in his wide-brimmed woven hat. Trade was necessarily a significant part of their ongoing negotiations, and Eladio and Amir Tordain had become quick friends. Seong Ji-Won of Yeonido, her iridescent scales scintillating in the sun, towered over the diminutive Bulan Bahasalang, from Dayawlongon, whose long, straight gray hair hung down to her waist. The dragonborn representative of the Shieldbearers and the Palace of Exiles representative seemed unlikely friends, but Firuzeh had come to think of them as a unit. It would have struck her as strange if one had come without the other. The middle aged ebony human man with tightly curled black hair, carrying a staff tipped in gold, was new to her. He had not been a part of the earlier delegations.
Firuzeh stepped out from under the sandstone arcade and into the sun, walking with a stately, if somewhat pregnant-wobbly, step to the vessel. The crowd of counselors, palace officials, imams and pujari followed, moving to take position again in a half-circle behind her. Even from where she stood, Firuzeh felt a cool breeze rush from the inside of the vessel outward, rustling the sari around her legs and sandals, bringing a fleeting moment of relief from the heat.
Bayram bowed low before her, the griffon feather in his turban quivering at the motion. Firuzeh could tell by his countenance that he was not pleased by the news he brought from Bhakkari at the Radiant Citadel, but she would wait until they were alone to hear his tidings. Instead, she greeted the delegates.
"Welcome back to the Tayyib Empire and the realm of Suristhanam," she said, one hand on her belly. "May Iwa bless your visit with bounty and peace."
Qiang Lu stepped forward with a bow, the silk of her robes rustling around her. "Greetings, Empress, you honor us with your hospitality."
"The honor is mine, Ambassador Qiang. It is good to see you again. Let us retire," the Empress said, "to the Diwan-i Aam for refreshment and some comfort, so that we may talk more intimately."
The child within her kicked, and Firuzeh placed a calming hand on her belly as she made her way to the colonnade that led from the chowk up the long stairs to the fort proper. On side walked two of her urdubegis, the female warriors charged with protection of the empress. Maham and Shimaz kept their paces slow to match Firuzeh, but they were poised and vigilant in what otherwise might have seemed a leisurely stroll. Firuzeh knew that both women – all of the urdubegis – would spring to action and give their lives to protect her.
She led those following her up the steps, aware as she did so that her slow pace caused them all to walk haltingly behind her, so that they would not pass her. With wide-legged steps, she reached the top and crossed the long platform of the fort, casting a longing look at a bench in the charbagh shaded by citrus trees.
Firuzeh was grateful when she reached the shade of the Diwan-i-Aam, nestled against the wall that separated the public areas of the fort from the private, imperial domain. The single-story, wall-less building consisted of a flat roof held up by a series of red sandstone colonnades, leaving the structure open to the light and breeze atop of the fort. The horseshoe-shaped arches ran symmetrically in both directions, creating a visual harmony. Lamps of Ribhus Elven glass hung from the pointed domes between each of the columns, casting colorful light throughout. The front of the private audience hall was decorated with sandstone carvings of dragons, apsaras, leaves, vines, and especially griffons and especially suns – the symbol of the Tayyib Empire. At the back, Firuzeh lowered herself with an audible sigh at last on a raised platform covered in cushions as her guests settled on plush rugs. Her four husbands took the quarters of Firuzeh's platform, her advisors arranged around them, Sameer closest to her. Why must he be so forward?
"Your time must be near," Qiang Lu smiled at her obvious relief.
"Past," Firuzeh groaned.
"May the child be a source of pride to your ancestors," Lu bowed.
"Speaking of ancestors," Firuzeh began, but she paused while attendants brought vessels of water to each of the guests and laid out fruits and bread on low tables. "What tidings from Sholeh?"
"Continued joy," Qiang said after a sip of water in thanks, "for the reunification of the Tayyib with the Radiant Citadel. The hold of the Concord Jewel is rich with goods from the Concordant lands, and ready to receive those you would transport. The Speaker for the Ancestors of Akharin Sangar rejoices at the blossoming of this union."
A pain seized Firuzeh low in her belly, and she grimaced, taking deep breaths. Jagat, concern writ his face, leaned low towards her, but she waved him back.
"We equally rejoice at the union," she said in a measured tone, between hissing breaths, "such as it has become. But its blossoming depends on matters yet to be resolved." The pain subsided a bit.
Qiang Lu lowered her eyes to some dates and plucked one from the dish. "I am certain that tomorrow's conference will…"
"She said no," Firuzeh cut her off. She was uncomfortable and impatient, and she didn't want to talk around the subject. She turned to Bayram for confirmation. "She said no?" Bayram returned a curt nod.
"Freedom of movement is a condition of participation." Qiang Lu gestured to her colleagues. "All of our lands are open for your…"
"We will not let miscreants and vagabonds overrun us," Sameer cut her off angrily. "Our land belongs to the Tayyib. We do not need meddlers from…."
"Amir Sameer!" Firuzeh rebuked him, the sard-orange circling the pupils of her eyes flashing in warning.
It was only with visible effort that Sameer held his tongue. His gloved fists clenched, but he did not speak further on the matter. Nor could Firuzeh apologize for his outburst without conceding the point, something she wasn't ready to do. For, as much as she knew in her heart that Sameer could not be trusted, she didn't completely disagree with him on this point. Her empire had been heavily damaged by the war, and her people were only now beginning to escape their impoverishment and hunger. The ills of the land had not yet wholly been cured, and in redoubts scattered throughout the land, remnants of the Risen still practiced the necromantic perversion that had nearly destroyed the empire. To throw open her lands to prospectors could easily disrupt the slow but steady progress they were making to restore life in the empire. Some day, yes, she imagined welcoming new citizens from other lands and realms. She just wasn't convinced that now was the time.
Qiang had not reacted to Sameer's vitriol – the woman was a seasoned diplomat. The ambassador nibbled on a date while Sameer gathered himself. Eladio Tenoch Quetl from San Citlàn, though, had risen to his feet angrily, his short thick legs planted widely apart, his fingers flexing as if seeking an axe. The dragon-scaled delegate, Seong Ji-Won from Yeonida, no more than squinted and straightened her back, but Firuzeh knew the woman's claws had extended. It was Bulan Bahasalang from Dayawlongon that Firuzeh watched closely, though. As a representative from the Palace of Exiles at the Radiant Citadel, matters of migration touched her most deeply. Sameer's words would have cut her most of all.
The delicate, small woman swept her long, straight, gray hair back from one shoulder slowly in a gesture meant to draw attention and display her displeasure, but she didn't rise or speak. She, too, had spent years as a diplomat. That gesture said more than mere words would have. With a slight movement of her hand, Bulan returned the place of speaking to Firuzeh, who took it gratefully. Any talk of migration was delicate for them all, too delicate for Sameer's heavy hand. Her own Muwahhid ancestors had not always dwelt in Suristhanam, something that her Pradani ancestors rarely spoke about among others but had not forgotten. She'd rather not inflame that centuries old acrimony. She was certain that Bulan had done her grace by not raising the issue to Sameer.
Firuzeh took a steadying breath. "Thank you Lu for conveying Sholeh's message. I will confer with my advisors on the matter." She shifted her hips to ease her discomfort. "We will convene tomorrow to continue our negotiations. Hopefully in the two weeks before the Concord Jewel departs for the Radiant Citadel again…"
Pain seized her belly as she was overcome by a contraction. She reopened her eyes after a few moments of teeth-clenched breathing to find everyone on their feet, looking about warily.
"Just a contraction," she said, fanning herself with her hand.
"La Catrina!" Eladio snorted. "Do all your contractions make the ground shake?"
Ghiyas knelt and took Firuzeh's hand. Why did they all look so worried? What was the dwarf talking about? "You didn't feel it?" Ghiyas asked.
"The contraction? Of course I…"
"The earth shook and rumbled."
Nodding heads confirmed what her husband said, but she had been so overcome by the contraction that she'd felt nothing else. Ill timing, perhaps, but they'd had ground shakes before. She chortled low as she assured Eladio and the others, "No, ambassador, I can assure you that was not me. Could you imagine what childbirth would be like? It would level cities!" Thankfully, they laughed along with her. "I must retire now to attend to other matters." Other matters, indeed.
"We are at your service," Lu bowed.
Firuzeh waved to some attendants. "Your haveli awaits your return. Please take advantage of the fort's hammam. The baths are quite relaxing after a long journey. And should you wish to continue your explorations of the city, the urdubegis will gladly escort you." It was a polite way of reminding them to not leave the fort proper without supervision.
Again, Lu bowed. "You are most gracious. We will leave you to your…other matters."
Qiang Lu turned to go, as did her companions, but Firuzeh stopped them. "The man with the staff, a new delegate? We have not yet been introduced," she said.
The tall man turned back to her with a deep bow. "I am Deland Longully, empress. From Godsbreath," he introduced himself in a low, sonorous voice. "I am a Proclaimer of my people."
"A man of letters," she nodded. "I hope you will take some time to visit our kitabkhana."
"Nothing," he said, "would give me greater pleasure."
When the delegates had followed the attendants out of the Diwan-i Aam, Firuzeh let out the groan she had been holding. Awkwardly pushing herself up off the cushioned platform, she reached for the nearest hand. "It's time," she hissed through her teeth. "Fetch the birthing women to my rooms."
In the largely forgotten lowlands to the south of the Undra Ghatta Range and a day's journey west of the Undra River across from Basti Sadiq, the sloping hills of the mountains descend to a somewhat barren and lonely region known as Ganraala. Scrub trees struggle to thrive in the unrelenting heat of the region, and spiky grasses emerge like pincushions from the rocky soil. Far to the north, the marshes and swamps of Vargit are lush and teeming with life, both malevolent and indifferent, but its waters run into the Neela Sea, and do not penetrate down into Ganraala. Copses of twisted cedars provide shelter in some areas, both to the limited wildlife and to the sparse inhabitants. It was not always so, and the crumbling remains of once vital villages dot the landscape, their wooden roofs collapsed inside the stone and mudbrick frames that once supported them, the bright colors of their paint sunbleached to echoes of rainbows.
It was within this harsh landscape that Ruqaiya ibnat Galhuddin followed the tracks of three humans hauling a stumbling fourth person between them. Tiny drops of blood gave mute testament to the injury the fourth one bore–perhaps only lightly wounded, or heavily wounded but bandaged. By the faltering and dragging step of the fourth, she judged it to be a significant injury.
Ruqaiya and Vikrim Kumusapura had been following their trail for a day now, from the village of Pagesh further south of them on this side of the Undra River. It was there that they had learned about the four men wearing gray and silver sherwanis who had attacked in the night, only to be driven away by the villagers before they could claim any victims for their foul rites. The hard life of the few villagers in Pagesh made them poor targets for an assault.
Ruqaiya reached a finger down to touch a drop of blood that had formed a miniature crater in the dusty road. The sun had quickly baked it into a scab on the earth, but she could gauge its age even under those conditions.
"One hour ago," she said over her shoulder to Vikrim standing hugely behind her, his vast shadow giving her a reprieve from the sun.
Vikrim raised the thick fingers of his large hands to shade his eyes and gaze ahead of him, but the rolling, rocky hills hid the land from view. "The sun will be set by the time we reach them," he said. He handed Ruqaiya a waterskin as she rose, wiping her hands against her leather pants. "Here."
"It had better be wine," she glared at him.
"Drink the water," he laughed.
As a Gayakuta from the Southern Plateau, Vikrim was unbothered by the sun and heat. The dark skin of his large, shirtless body seemed to bounce the light off of it. An open cotton vest was the only protection he wore, along with an elaborate short lungi with the colors of his kingdom, and heavy boots. That, and the great mace he carried in the crook of his arm, and the long blade hanging by his side. But the paler Ruqaiya kept as much of her skin covered as possible, wearing the cotton and leathers of a tracker, with the orange and red pagri of the Sewangurak company wound atop her head.
She drank from the skin with a shrug and handed it back.
"It has been a while," Vikrim said, stowing the skin on the wide belt that circled his waist. "Should you…" He held up one hand and wiggled his fingers meaningfully.
The long groan Ruqaiya issued was one of resignation and frustration. "Probably."
She grasped his large right forearm to steady herself and then closed her eyes. With the sun still in the sky, there was little chance that she'd find anything, and she did not relish the virulent pain she would feel if she did. But better to know than to blunder into danger. She felt Vikrim place his other hand on top of hers, dwarfing her grip in his. Sunwarmed and vital, it gave her strength to reach out.
Warily, she opened herself and extended her senses, reaching out with a part of herself that wasn't so much her mind but her heart. Seeking wasn't looking but making herself vulnerable. Ruqaiya focused on her mother, on her delicate hands as she washed her as a child, playfully rubbed her hair dry with a towel while humming a prayer. She wrapped herself in that memory like it was that towel and then began to push it outward from her, offering it up for consumption to any demented unnaturalness that might be in the area. An irritant, a reminder of the goodness of life to provoke their jealous depravity. She grimaced as she reached her limit, awaiting the cold touch of evil she was pressing her memory out towards. Her mother's long, unbound hair falling about her face. The flicker of lights in the room dancing shadows on the walls. The smell of camphor and sandalwood and carrots. But her memory faded at the edges, running up against nothing.
With an explosive sigh of relief, Ruqaiya reached up to pat Vikrim's high shoulder. "Nothing. We should be good for a while. At least from the unliving."
Wordlessly, they set off at a jog on the trail, an unlikely pair across the barren landscape–she, a taut and lithe ghazi raised among the farms of Tamidabad, deadly and grim; he, a great bulky Gayakutan from the Southern Plateau whose tusked lower canines and imposing frame belied his gentleness and ready laughter. War had made enemies of these strangers for a short time, as it had for thousands more. On the bloodied fields of Sherpatta surrounded by the fallen, by the bodies of the lives they had taken, their shared remorse had made them allies in grief and purpose.
The sun lowered into their eyes as they hurried over the rocky terrain. Cresting a rise, they watched the sun sink behind a line of low hills of crumbled granite. A sikhara, worn by age, lifted its elongated domed head over the hills, the structure mostly concealed behind them. The light at the horizon was not simply the orange fire of a setting sun. It mingled with a bluish green light that rose from below, creating a prism of color that should have been beautiful but instead felt like an infection.
"If they kept to their pace," Ruqaiya said, "they'll be just over that hill at the temple."
"And not alone," Vikrim added.
She called forth a comforting memory of weaving weeds into a garland with her father and began to extend it outward. Stung as if by a scorpion almost at once, her skin growing hot with the poison of insatiable, ravaging hunger, she stifled a scream that pressed against her clenched teeth and shook the memory loose.
"Ghûl," she spat.
Vikrim swung his mace in a wide arc and slapped the head of it in his palm. "Death for the dead."
"Death for the dead," she intoned grimly.
The darkness of the Nandali Ghatta was complete, as mountain clouds veiled the stars. But it was not silent. There in eroding peaks of the ancient mountains, crumbling even as they continued to rise, scavengers ranged through the dry scrub, searching for the remains of those that had not survived the harsh day. Their furtive steps scratched against stone and scree nonetheless, warnings of creatures that called the mountains home. They had seen bear spoor two days ago, and the tracks of a single troll. But there were also creatures who left no tracks that dwelt in the beautiful and deadly mountains.
Many Muwahhid had died in the Nandali Ghatta, and not just those who recently, mysteriously met their ends—the reason Fazil and the rest of Puruzam Company had trekked here across the miles this dark night. The spirits of the Muwahhid who had not survived the crossing a millenia ago to reach Suristhanam from their homeland still haunted the passes of the mountains that had taken their lives. Their crossing cut short, in bitterness they torment those who manage to stay alive amidst the perilous pathways through the peaks. He rubbed his thumb over the ta'wiz suspended from a chain around his neck at the thought.
He had not been there when the ragged, weary remnants of the Muwahhid travelers stumbled out of the mountains so long ago. No one had. The land of the Northern Plateau had not yet been inhabited. But his grandfather told him the tale they had related to him in the days after their arrival, after Rhibus scouts had first discovered the starving, weakened Muwahhid nevertheless using their flagging strength to cobble together a mosque to give proper thanks for their survival.
Fear of the mountains was now in their blood, a generational memory. Though daily they looked back east to the rising sun as part of their prayers, the mountains represented a hell that even the sun must escape to reach them, mirroring their own journey westward.
"Do you see anything, baalak?" someone whispered behind him.
Baalak. They called him lad because only he among them could not grow a beard. Few among his people could. It was a name that, after two centuries, had lost any real sting.
"I see the fleas in your hair and I smell wild onion seeping from your skin. You need a bath, Purdil."
The shamsherbaz ranged behind them chuckled at their companion. Fazil shushed them.
Alone among the Puruzam capable of piercing the ebony night with his eyes, Fazil peered down the long pass between the arm of the mountain they perched upon and the rise of a high hill leading up to a cliff face. Hope's Gorge, the Tayyib called the pass. Not because it inspired hope, but because it was so terribly long, with only one way in and out, you'd better hope that there was nothing at the other end waiting for you. Travelers who reached the northern end would be within reach of the Himilbad Necropolis and then all of the Northern Plateau.
"Nothing," Fazil reported in a whisper.
Frustration rustled behind him. "What if Sameer's information was wrong?" Pinar asked, the normal tone of her voice breaking the stillness.
"Then that's what we report back to Amir Tordain," Fazil whispered, reminding her to keep her voice hushed.
Pinar was the newest of the company, having been commissioned into it only two months ago. Fazil and twelve of the other eighteen shamsherbaz were seasoned and familiar with each other, having survived the bloody, brutal battle of Sherpatta in the civil war. The others were commissioned shortly after the war, honored to replenish the company, but knowing they would never replace those who had been lost.
Behind Fazil, the company settled down to wait through the night, if necessary. They checked their weapons and mail, careful to not make too much noise. A fire would have given their position away, so they worked by the faint glow of the moon that silvered the overhanging clouds.
Fazil kept his eyes on the pass for any sign of movement. Reports from the hunters said only that their scouts were disappearing, not what was attacking them. Word had reached Amir Sameer that the Khaar hobgoblins were preparing for a move on the eastern edge of the plateau and that they were scouting Hope's Gorge as a way to move their forces northward. If they gained the plateau, then the Tayyib clan's home city of Menabad was vulnerable.
It had taken Fazil and his company three days to reach this vantage point, trekking on foot through the Nandali Ghatta using paths little known. From this high point, they would be able to see a long stretch of the pass as it moved southward and downward toward the lowlands and the Maaph Desert.
He couldn't see the desert from where they encamped, still high in the mountains. And for that, he was grateful. He did not want to be reminded of his home, of what he had left behind among the Rhibus Elves. Better that they forget him, as he had chosen a new life among these humans over three centuries ago. His will was to do Iwa's will, and it had not wavered once over those long years. But he missed his father, his family. Better to not think on what he could not recover.
Instead he inhaled the smell of the scrubby pines that clung to the rocky slope they perched atop. From afar, the staccato caw of a chukar disturbed from its nest echoed down the pass, the partridge's wings rustling the leaves of its tree as it escaped some unknown predator. Someone behind him yawned, and the snort of a snore he heard could only have come from Purdil. It might be a long night.