The Hidden Queen, page 20
“No weapons.” The kai in charge of the temple guards ringing the tower crosses his arms, backed by a squad of armed and armored warriors. “No bodyguards. You must submit to a search on entry and exit.”
“I fear we cannot be lenient in this,” Neven says. “Our orders come from the Deliverer himself. There are no exceptions. If you fear to enter unarmed, you should not enter.”
“I fear nothing.” It’s a lie, but I deliver it well. I take the hanzhar from my belt, wrap it in a scarf, and hand it to Neven. Then I step forward and raise my arms, empty palms toward the guards.
I tense as one of the guard pats me down, ready to break his arm if he should dare put hands where he shouldn’t. But the dal’Sharum seems more scared of me than I am of him. I am a kai, and a prince. If I killed him on the spot for touching me improperly, there would be no penalty under the law.
I look at the dark, warded archway into the tower, and worry I am making a dangerous mistake, going in unarmed and alone. But now that I am here, I cannot bring myself to leave without at least looking my brother in the eye and seeing for myself if there is madness there.
The arched entrance to the tower is carved with powerful wards, not all of them meant to keep out the alagai. I wonder if the Damajah herself designed this wardwork to keep her son contained.
The rare and narrow windows of the tower are shuttered tight, blocking out the fading evening light. I see wardwork everywhere. The sigils on my helmet grant me the ability to see magic’s flow, and my eyes follow veins of power running along the walls even now. Soon it will be true dark, and the magic will activate fully.
Mother’s keep in Hollow is much the same, letting her Draw upon immense power when she wishes. But her wardings served other purposes, as well. In addition to standard defensive wards, they warmed in winter and cooled in summer, offering permanent lighting in active halls.
The wards along the wall spiral upward, Drawing magic toward the higher floors. What’s it powering? It reminds me of Mrs. Bales’ stories about the prison they built for Alagai Ka, back in the war.
I was in the demon’s mind, and I know the shame of that imprisonment fuels his need for revenge now, every bit as much as his desire to repopulate the hive. Is Asome, too, planning his revenge inside some warded prison cell?
I am met by an acolyte in a white bido and sandals, a wide cloth of white silk draped over one shoulder. Acolytes are not allowed to speak in their first year, and this one only bows and bids me follow him with a gesture as he leads me up the winding stairs that climb the tower. Along the outer wall, the wardwork pattern climbs with us, still just Drawing power from the ground and pulling it upward. The glow brightens by the minute as night descends.
The tower has seven floors, all open and circular to make maximum use of the space. The lowest are functional, spaces for servants and visiting clerics to work. But as I rise farther, the Tower of Nothing looks less like a prison than a palace itself, with lavishly appointed visiting chambers, library, wardshop, and a bedchamber that would embarrass a princess.
Still the wards pull magic upward.
Finally we come to the seventh floor, a holy number. Each floor represents one of the seven pillars of Heaven—whatever that means. The Evejah, like the holy Canon of the Tenders, is full of long, beautiful figurative descriptions to spark the imagination without commitment in literal truth.
The acolyte bows, then turns and descends as silently as he climbed, leaving me alone atop the landing. At first my eyes are drawn by the wardwork, lit by magic’s glow, climbing from the stairwell and circling the room, creeping like vines up the wall and out onto the floor.
A bright mosaic pattern of wardwork spins out from those vines, circling the room in intricate whorls. I follow the flow of magic to find my brother, kneeling at the center of the pattern, bathed in its power.
The men outside think they are his captors? It’s almost comical. If Asome has even a fraction of Mother’s or the Damajah’s skill, this much power could set the entire Palace of the Holy Mother ablaze, or punch a hole in its walls. Asome is only a captive so long as he chooses to be.
But if the man before me has any ill intent, there is no sign. His aura is smooth. Peaceful. Controlled. Asome kneels in a perfect ward circle of polished white marble like a bull’s-eye at the center of the floor. He peers at a pile of thrown silver sticks like a dama’ting at her dice. Wards etched into the precious metal glow with power.
“Welcome, sibling,” Asome says without looking up. It’s an uncommon word in the rigidly gendered Krasian language, and telling in its use.
“You’ve heard about me,” I note.
Asome shrugs. “Nothing my sticks have not already told.”
That is disconcerting. Enough of my life has been torn apart by the dama’ting dice. Now I have male seers to contend with, as well?
“I thought men were forbidden to use hora magic,” I say.
“You of all people should understand the foolishness of that,” Asome says. “What good comes from denying men hora, or women the spear? Does it help the dama rule more wisely, to hide behind wards at night while the Sharum fight and bleed? For the dama’ting to refuse to teach warriors to heal, or for Sharum to refuse any work not done with spear and shield?”
I can’t argue with any of that. Krasian society—and Thesan—is hopelessly tangled in gendered rules that serve no real purpose save to divide. Proponents say it helps people understand their place in the world, but for those of us who do not comfortably fit in either box, it is more shackle than assistance.
“We limit ourselves with such rules,” I say.
“Just so,” Asome agrees, still staring at the sticks. “Tea?”
I don’t think my brother has motivation to poison me, but the fact I’m considering it is reason enough to refuse. “Thank you, no.” I pat my belly. “Tikka has been trying to put muscles on my frame.”
Asome laughs at that, and his mirth seems genuine. “All Tikka’s grandchildren are underfed in her eyes, and the servants and mothers take the blame.”
“She doesn’t care much for your mother,” I agree, “or mine, for that matter.”
“Her own daughters are spared no more of the lash than her daughters-in-law,” Asome says. “There is no woman Tikka respects as much as she respects herself, but she loves us all, in her way.”
I snort, again reminded of Grandmum Elona. The day with Tikka was tedious, and I had to bite my tongue the whole time, but I am glad I did it.
“And what do your sticks tell you about me?” I ask.
He turns to regard me now, eyes sharp and probing. “I will not lie like the dama’ting and tell you my seeings are Everam’s will, or forbidden for me to share. But that does not mean you are ready for the knowledge, little sibling.”
“And you decide what I am ready for?” I arch my back and cross my arms.
Asome does not appear impressed. Why should he be? I am no threat to him. Asome is a sharusahk grandmaster, said to be second only to my father. I haven’t a fraction of his training or experience. If it came to blows here in his place of power, my brother could Draw upon his tower like a well, making himself stronger, faster, more resistant to harm. If he didn’t just use the power to incinerate me.
Asome gestures to the floor before him, covered in mosaic wardwork. I trace their lines with my eyes and think of my training, trying to understand their purpose. I see wards of prophecy, but these aren’t like any patterns I recall from the books of foretelling Favah had me study in Gatherers’ University.
There are whorls of wardwork around the room with white marble at their centers, perfectly sized for a person to kneel. But I know if I step into one, I will be even deeper in my brother’s power.
“Be at peace, Olive am’Paper. You are safe in my tower. By Everam and my hope of Heaven.” Asome picks up an item next to him, a rolled carpet. In a smooth snap, he sends it unspooling, cutting across the wardnets on the floor and breaking their lines of power.
I nod and force my body to relax, moving to kneel on the carpet, facing him. Same position, same posture. Equals, though we are hardly that, even here in his “prison.” Especially not here.
“Three of our brothers will answer your challenge.” Asome speaks as if discussing nothing of consequence.
“Your sticks told you that?” I ask.
“They told me about one,” Asome says. “The other two came here to ask my blessing to kill you.”
I blink. “Who? And…did you give it?” It was clear Asome still had influence, but this…
Asome shrugs. “You made your challenge in open court. I would not dishonor you, or them, by telling my brothers they were not free to accept.”
I don’t know how to reply, so I grit my teeth and say nothing.
“Two swore an oath that they would accept your challenge openly, in front of witnesses, and offer seven breaths for you to prepare, as prescribed in the Evejah.”
“That’s something, I suppose,” I say.
“The third will attack without honor,” Asome says bluntly.
“So be it.” It is my own fault, for making that challenge. “What do your sticks say about my odds of winning?”
Asome is not amused. “All our brothers are formidable, sibling. You would not do well to underestimate them. Everam will decide the victor, but do not be caught unarmed or unawares if you hope to survive.”
It’s not the answer I hoped for, but I am not surprised. “Do you even care who wins?”
“I bear you no ill will, sibling,” Asome says. “The sons of Ahmann Jardir have ever fought like nie’Sharum in the gruel line for Father’s attention and their place in succession. There was a time that struggle was everything to me. Now…”
Asome gestures to the mosaic floor, a breathtaking pattern of precious stones and marble that rivals anything I have ever seen, even in Sharik Hora itself. “This circle, and the secrets it unlocks, has become more my world than anything beyond.”
“This is a…divination chamber?” I ask.
Asome raises an eyebrow. “Very good. It is said you were taught by the great seer Favah. What do your trained eyes see?”
Trained eyes. I want to laugh. I was a passable student in surgery, but in the Chamber of Shadows, Favah spent more time scolding than praising my work. Not a session went by where she did not remind me that, princess or no, in Krasia I would have been cast from the Dama’ting Palace in failure.
Again my eyes run along the wardwork, not so different from patterns and designs I used to stitch onto silk garments back in Hollow. But where those were common protective wardings, these are designed to Draw magic from all directions, swirling around the kneeling spaces in the chamber before flowing inexorably to Asome, perched like a spider at its center.
“People you want to foretell kneel in the circles, so you can Draw magic through them and Read it,” I guess.
“Indeed,” Asome agrees. “The dama’ting need for blood is…primitive. Neither must I bind my throws to a specific question, and thus I see things the priestesses do not.”
He points at wardwork climbing the walls like vines, then rises, gesturing for me to do the same. He backs to a wall with a heavy crank, and I find a similar wheel on my side. Together, we put our backs to work, and the wooden ceiling folds up like shutters, revealing the constellations rising above.
Seven crenels climb high above the parapet wall. I can see the wardings that flow up the walls of the divination chamber continue to rise unbroken to their points.
“The ward circles give a cleaner Read than the dice,” Asome says, “and the crenels allow me to orient my throws to the stars.”
“Who taught you this?” I ask. I’ve been around prophecy magic my whole life, but I’ve never seen anything like this.
“Clerics have attempted to find truth in sticks and the stars for thousands of years,” Asome says, “but without magic to focus the throws, it was little more than guesswork. I learned the secrets of the alagai hora from a pair of the Damajah’s dama’ting, eager to gain favor and aid me in my move to supplant her. My clerics studied their dice, but none of us could master the art. Instead, I turned to our own sacred texts and with the wards of foretelling brought some of that ancient magic back to the world.”
“What do you use it for,” I ask, “if you speak honest word when you say you do not care for the affairs beyond your tower?”
“To learn,” Asome says. “To grow. My brothers in white, and those in blood, come for Readings and advice, and when I am moved, I do my best to help them find peace and fulfillment.”
“And what moves you?” I ask.
“Untapped potential,” Asome says.
“Well that I have in plenty,” I say.
Asome laughs. “Remove the rug, then, little sibling. Kneel in a whorl, and I will cast the sticks for you.”
I smile in return. “I do not know that you are ready for such knowledge, brother.”
“You do not trust me.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Is there a reason I should?” I ask. “I did not plan to come here, and I am not seeking advice. I only wanted to look you in the eye.”
“And what did you expect to find?” Asome asks. “A gibbering madman, chained to the floor? A demon princeling, waiting to devour you? A penitent, broken by the failures of his past, forever begging forgiveness from a silent Creator?”
I shrug. “One of those, yes.”
“Ah, but Everam made each and every one of us complex,” Asome says. “Nothing is ever so simple. No one is fully villain, or hero, save perhaps Alagai Ka, and the Deliverer.”
I snort. If that is so, I am no Deliverer.
“Why should you trust me?” Asome asks. “Because Nie is stirring once more. Because our father is missing, and Alagai Ka stalks the land at Waning.”
None of these things is common knowledge, but Asome does not pretend to be in the dark. Are these things he learned from his sticks, or his spies?
“The last time Father was missing, you murdered the entire court,” I note, “in the night when all men are brothers against the alagai. You broke faith with the Majah, costing the armies of Krasia their second-strongest tribe while Sharak Ka raged. You killed the man on the Skull Throne, your uncle and father-in-law, with your bare hands, and sent assassins after your own wife and mother.”
If the words cut Asome, it does not show through the veil of calm Krasian clerics are taught to hold. I am not skilled at reading auras as Mother and the Damajah are, but Asome’s is smooth and even, a steady glow and not a crackling fire.
“I did what I thought best for Krasia, at the time.” Asome’s voice is placid as a still pond. “I watched the Par’chin toss Father off a cliff, and did not think he would return. The chin took the opportunity to rebel. My brother Jayan was recklessly charging across the green lands, pillaging without humanity and exposing our forces to greater and greater risk in an attempt to win glory enough to take the throne. I could not allow that to happen. It was my right to challenge for the throne, but instead Mother handed it to my uncle Ashan, not because he was the strongest contender, but because she could control him.”
I cross my arms again. “And now?”
Asome spreads his hands. “I was a fool. Impatient, and with delusions of grandeur no less blinding than those of my elder brother.” He gestures to his sticks. “Long have I pondered that choice, and the divergence it created. And do you know what I see?”
“Please enlighten me,” I say, knowing he is going to tell me regardless.
“If I had simply done nothing the night Jayan was killed, I could have had it all. The sticks and stars are clear about that. I had the love of the people and the loyalty of the men. If I had simply been patient, I would be heir, and not Kaji. If I had just been a little wiser, I would be on the Skull Throne this very day, not trapped in a tower, reading the stars.
“But in my impatience to see my honor satisfied, I struck out at those who would have supported me, in my turn. I killed in cold blood, and bade my younger brothers to do the same, cheating with hora in the night to ensure their own victories against the Damaji.”
I try to keep my face as serene as my brother’s, but there’s a twitch at that.
“I could have presented Father with a unified Krasia when he returned, but in my arrogance, I presented him an empire fractured, instead. What could Mother and Father do, save remove me from power and public life? I am fortunate they did not kill me. In many divergences, they do, and who could blame them? It is what I would have done in their place.”
I can’t sense a lie in his words, but they don’t ring of truth, either. “So do you regret your actions because they were wrong, or because they didn’t get you what you wanted?”
Asome shrugs. “The stars do not care about right and wrong. They only burn.”
“And that’s how you see yourself?” I ask. “A star, beyond such things as good and evil?”
My brother offers me a smile. “I oppose Nie. Even you are not so naïve as to think victory over Her can come with no blood on your hands.”
I think of drugging Wonda the night of the borough tour. Clutching the bodies of Chadan and Micha. Pressing a punch dagger into Iraven’s chest.
When I do not respond, Asome nods. “But while I was put in a tower, my cousin Asukaji was pardoned for the same crimes, and serves as Damaji of the Kaji to this day. At first he kept his bed here with me, but more and more, his own palace called him, and could I blame him? To ask him to spend his life in a cell, because his lover could not leave? No. He has wives now, and children of his own.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know if it’s worse to have a lover die or slowly abandon you.
Asome inhales deeply, blowing a long breath from his nose. “I let him go. I let everything go. And I am at peace. I took the throne, but it did not make our people stronger. If I could go back and repair the breach with Majah, or resurrect my father-in-law, I would. But we always see clearest when we look backward.”
