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Authors: Mark T. Barnes
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Awakening.”
Corajidin smiled at his witch. “Ariskander it is, then.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Love dies by steps. The footfalls of fear, resentment, anger, and spite kill love, little by little. It withers. It tarnishes. It passes away, poisoned, ill, and wounded beyond all power to heal.
”—Nashari fe Dar-ya, houreh and poet of the Sussain of Mediin, 7th Year of the Shadow Empire
Day 312 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
It was late afternoon. The streets of the Barouq, a seaside district of Amnon where many scholars, freethinkers, and veterans had chosen to live, were vibrant with color and movement. The smell of roast kid, hot honeyed bread, grilled barramundi, peppers, lemon, and garlic drifted on the slight breeze. Long-haired, tall-eared cats lazed in the sun, indolent in the forums and the fruited courtyards. Alabaster fountains burbled. Cockatoos screeched. Accents from a handful of nations beyond Shrīan’s borders echoed in the winding streets. There were dusky-eyed, brown-skinned Tanisians in their vividly colored jackets and long kilts, their singsong voices rich and quick. Ygranians laughing easily despite the heat, perspiring in their high-collared doublets and turned-downboots. Olive-skinned, short-haired Imreans pontificating in educated tones in austere tunics edged with geometric designs. Even a few morose-looking Angoths, long hair braided, the men’s faces obscured by dropping mustaches and full beards, were scattered among the crowd. They stood, belligerent, militant, suspicious in their iron-studded leather and shirts of polished mail.
Small factions from the Hundred Families eyed each other across sun-drenched streets. Those loyal to the Great House of Näsarat boasted the blue-and-gold phoenix of their masters as they loitered in dappled shade. Erebus loyalists with their red-and-black rampant stallion drank quickly, laughed loudly, and fondled the hilts of their swords and knives.
Indris turned from the fretwork screens of his sheltered balcony. The residence had been a gift from Far-ad-din many years ago, though Indris had lived in it infrequently over the years. It was a meandering labyrinth of rooms, corridors, and stairs overlooking a quiet garden courtyard few people even knew existed. He loved the old building with its high domed ceilings, its floors of polished wood and glazed mosaic tiles. Indris used only half the residence for himself. The rest of the rambling building had been made available as a score of well-appointed suites and a salon for the Torchlight Society of explorers, inventors, and adventurers.
It was good to be among friends. Seated at a long table that had been stripped from a half-sunken Atrean war-galley, Hayden Goode finished cleaning his long-barreled storm-rifle, a rare and precious relic of the Awakened Empire. They were sought after by nahdi and professional adventurers, though disdained by the warrior and upper castes of the Avān for their difficulty to repair. The Human drover-turned-adventurer sat,compact in his deerskins. Age had made his face gaunt, and his cheeks were sunken aside his long nose. His weathered skin had the look of craquelure on tanned leather against his salt-streaked mustache. He took Indris’s storm-pistol from its holster and began to work on it. He was careful, aware of how difficult the weapon would be to replace.
Sassomon-Omen stood motionless on the balcony overlooking the secluded garden. Three large cats rubbed themselves against his legs; the purring creatures were drawn to strong currents of disentropy. The Wraith Knight’s mannequin body was made of fitted pieces of lacquered wood. The master crafters of Mediin had fashioned the replica body in intricate detail, down to each knuckle on its carved hands and the slivers of tinted glass approximating fingernails. Sunlight picked out the bright gold and bronze of pins and screws, gears, balls, and sockets. Green-blue radiance flickered through the fine cracks in
Corajidin smiled at his witch. “Ariskander it is, then.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Love dies by steps. The footfalls of fear, resentment, anger, and spite kill love, little by little. It withers. It tarnishes. It passes away, poisoned, ill, and wounded beyond all power to heal.
”—Nashari fe Dar-ya, houreh and poet of the Sussain of Mediin, 7th Year of the Shadow Empire
Day 312 of the 495th Year of the Shrīanese Federation
It was late afternoon. The streets of the Barouq, a seaside district of Amnon where many scholars, freethinkers, and veterans had chosen to live, were vibrant with color and movement. The smell of roast kid, hot honeyed bread, grilled barramundi, peppers, lemon, and garlic drifted on the slight breeze. Long-haired, tall-eared cats lazed in the sun, indolent in the forums and the fruited courtyards. Alabaster fountains burbled. Cockatoos screeched. Accents from a handful of nations beyond Shrīan’s borders echoed in the winding streets. There were dusky-eyed, brown-skinned Tanisians in their vividly colored jackets and long kilts, their singsong voices rich and quick. Ygranians laughing easily despite the heat, perspiring in their high-collared doublets and turned-downboots. Olive-skinned, short-haired Imreans pontificating in educated tones in austere tunics edged with geometric designs. Even a few morose-looking Angoths, long hair braided, the men’s faces obscured by dropping mustaches and full beards, were scattered among the crowd. They stood, belligerent, militant, suspicious in their iron-studded leather and shirts of polished mail.
Small factions from the Hundred Families eyed each other across sun-drenched streets. Those loyal to the Great House of Näsarat boasted the blue-and-gold phoenix of their masters as they loitered in dappled shade. Erebus loyalists with their red-and-black rampant stallion drank quickly, laughed loudly, and fondled the hilts of their swords and knives.
Indris turned from the fretwork screens of his sheltered balcony. The residence had been a gift from Far-ad-din many years ago, though Indris had lived in it infrequently over the years. It was a meandering labyrinth of rooms, corridors, and stairs overlooking a quiet garden courtyard few people even knew existed. He loved the old building with its high domed ceilings, its floors of polished wood and glazed mosaic tiles. Indris used only half the residence for himself. The rest of the rambling building had been made available as a score of well-appointed suites and a salon for the Torchlight Society of explorers, inventors, and adventurers.
It was good to be among friends. Seated at a long table that had been stripped from a half-sunken Atrean war-galley, Hayden Goode finished cleaning his long-barreled storm-rifle, a rare and precious relic of the Awakened Empire. They were sought after by nahdi and professional adventurers, though disdained by the warrior and upper castes of the Avān for their difficulty to repair. The Human drover-turned-adventurer sat,compact in his deerskins. Age had made his face gaunt, and his cheeks were sunken aside his long nose. His weathered skin had the look of craquelure on tanned leather against his salt-streaked mustache. He took Indris’s storm-pistol from its holster and began to work on it. He was careful, aware of how difficult the weapon would be to replace.
Sassomon-Omen stood motionless on the balcony overlooking the secluded garden. Three large cats rubbed themselves against his legs; the purring creatures were drawn to strong currents of disentropy. The Wraith Knight’s mannequin body was made of fitted pieces of lacquered wood. The master crafters of Mediin had fashioned the replica body in intricate detail, down to each knuckle on its carved hands and the slivers of tinted glass approximating fingernails. Sunlight picked out the bright gold and bronze of pins and screws, gears, balls, and sockets. Green-blue radiance flickered through the fine cracks in
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