Braided Path 03 - The Ascendancy Veil by Chris Wooding
Thoughts of that made him consider his encounter with Kakre, when he had convinced the Weave-lord of his worth. Kakre appeared to have forgotten about it, or was pretending to. It didn’t matter. Kakre had been outmanoeuvred. Removing Avun would cause him far too much trouble, and it was trouble he could ill afford with time growing so short.
But more pleasing even than this to Avun was the behaviour of his wife. Since that day of her frankly miraculous recovery from sickness, she had seemed a different person. In public she was as quiet and meek as ever, but when they were alone she was no longer so demure. There was passion in her now, and after years of showing no interest whatsoever in him sexually she was suddenly, while not exactly wild, at least far more voracious than she used to be. In its absence, Avun had convinced himself that he did not need bedplay. He had always possessed torpid sexual appetites: he was slow to rouse and indifferent to the lures of a woman. But he had found, after so long, that the pleasures his wife’s body might provide were immensely attractive again. He was loth to admit it to himself, but he felt more of a man for it.
Tomorrow he would depart, along with Kakre, to join the Weavers’ army as their general. But first he had something else to look forward to. Until recently, he had all but needed to command Muraki to join him for meals; now, to his delight, she had asked him to come to one. She had something to celebrate, and when she told him he felt like celebrating too.
At long last, she had finished her book.
The wind whipped through the Tchamil Mountains, chasing itself among the barren peaks and valleys that formed the spine of Saramyr. The men of the desert had kept to the lower altitudes, for in winter there were snow and blizzards in the high passes; but still the ground was frosted and bitter, and they huddled in thick furs around their fires and listened anxiously to the dark. The land was cool and sharp as well-polished steel beneath the combined glow of Iridima and Aurus, and the sky was thick with pinpricks of starlight.
The desert army were seven thousand strong, all told, and they spread down the mountainside in a great clot of tents and lanterns. They had lost perhaps five hundred so far, all of them to Aberrant attacks. The cries of the beasts echoed across the peaks even now, some identifiable as ghauregs or latchjaws, others entirely unfamiliar. It was hard going to take an army through this kind of terrain, but the folk of Tchom Rin prided themselves on their endurance, and they travelled light and wore little armour. Rivalries between soldiers sworn to different families had dissipated out of the need for unity and cooperation in this hostile place, and they had made good progress. But the Aberrants’ attacks were becoming more and more coordinated now, and by day gristle-crows wheeled overhead, cawing hoarsely.
The Weavers knew they were coming, and they were watching and waiting.
Reki walked slowly back through the camp towards his tent, a lean and thoughtful figure, the wind flicking his hair about his face. His boots crunched on the lifeless, stony soil. He was running over events in his mind as he had a hundred times before, examining them, turning them to consider from all angles.
The council with the nobles of the Empire and the Libera Dramach had been remarkably quick, all things considered. For the first time Reki had really appreciated what he had taken for granted all his life, that the Weavers, and latterly the Sisters, provided something so valuable that they simply could not ever go back to the way things had been. Men and women from Araka Jo, Saraku, and Izanzai had talked to each other face to phantom face via the power of the Sisters, though almost nine hundred miles separated them. A conference had been carried out, with terms and suggestions bandied back and forth, in less than a day. Without the Sisters, it would have been a labour of months, whether by an exchange of letters or by attempting to assemble them all in one place. He understood then, truly, why the Weavers had become so indispensible to his ancestors, and how they had come to the situation they had were in now.
When the desert folk’s part in the plan had been laid out, Reki had agreed without much fuss. Unbeknownst to the Sisters, he had been intending something very similar anyway. It had become clear to him that they were fighting a losing battle in Tchom Rin. If they were content to merely defend against the Aberrants, then eventually the Weavers would come up with some way to overwhelm them, whether by new types of Aberrant, by demons, or by sheer weight of numbers. It was prudent to attack while they still had strength to do so. His scouts had traced the Aberrants from Izanzai, seeking a source to strike at. All those who had returned came back with the same news. Though they could not find the exact place, they knew the general area, and it was in the vicinity of Adderach. Reki had not been surprised.
And so, while he had been in the midst of plotting an assault on Adderach, the Red Order came to suggest he did exactly that. Yet he could not shrug an uncomfortable suspicion that the Sisters thought he and his men expendable, and that they were merely intended as a decoy.
Well, let them think what they would. He would show them how desert folk could fight. And they had Sisters too, gathered from the dozens scattered across Tchom Rin, to defend them against Weavers and to get them through the barrier of misdirection surrounding the mountain monastery.
If Reki could dispose of the threat of Adderach, then they would no longer be beleaguered on two fronts, and they could turn all their attention to Igarach in the south. If the Sisters’ intelligence was accurate, then they needed only to hold the Weavers off till next winter; and with Adderach out of the picture, it could be done.
And then there was Cailin’s assertion that maybe, just maybe, getting the Sisters to that witchstone might be enough to end this war. That was a prize worth trying for.
He picked his way between campfires, returning the greetings of the soldiers as he neared his tent. He was discomfited tonight, a subtle notion that something was amiss. Posting extra guards and sentries had not eased his fears. He tried to shake it off, to return his mind to matters at hand, but instead he found himself drifting, as he so often did, towards thoughts of Asara.
Trust is an overrated commodity. One of Asara’s favourite sayings. And she should know. For he was beginning to suspect that trusting her had been something of a mistake.
He had not known peace since she left him all that time ago, heading to Araka Jo on some secret purpose of her own. At first, he had been tormented by not knowing, mocked by possibilities; and then, when that had become too much to bear and he had sent his spymaster Jikiel to find answers, he had been racked with guilt at betraying her. But now things were even worse. He had thought his love could withstand anything that Jikiel might discover about his wife’s past, but when the spymaster returned it was with news that was entirely unexpected.
Asara had no past.
His initial reaction was to dismiss this as evidence of the spymaster’s limits. After all, he had to fail sometimes. But Reki had had experience of Jikiel’s abilities, and he could not convince himself of it in the end. The spymaster was far too good to come up blank like that. If he could not dig out the truth of any matter, then Reki was convinced that there was no truth to be had.
But of Asara, he had found nothing. Her family name, which she had said was Arreyia, yielded no answers. It was a common enough name, for it was very old and had spread widely. Saramyr names ranged from those derived from archaic Quraal, like Asara and Lucia, Adderach and Anais, to more modern ones which arose after Saramyrrhic had evolved, like Kaiku and Mishani and Reki. There were other Asaras, of course, but none matching her description, her talents and her circumstances. Jikiel had heard of a spy called Asara tu Amarecha who had worked for the Libera Dramach in recent years, but he discounted her eventually. She was not desert-born, and Reki’s Asara certainly was, unless a person could fake their bone structure, their skin colour, the shape of their eyes.
Jikiel had probed the limits of his spy network as the puzzle became more intriguing. Whispers and hints were followed up and came to nothing. He sought information from those who had met her in the Imp
Eventually, he had exhausted all possibilities and was forced, shamefully, to admit defeat. In the end, he could report only this: that the woman who was to become Reki’s wife had not appeared to exist prior to that day she turned up at the Imperial Keep.
Reki was still thinking about the implications of that when he walked past the guards outside his tent – not noticing the wry grin that one gave to the other – and found Asara waiting there.
The tent was tall and wide enough to stand up in, but inside it was bare and spartan except for a thick bed of blankets and a lamp placed on the groundsheet. The lamp threw light up and onto the curves of his wife’s face and body, capturing her as she half-turned at his entrance. The surprise at her presence and the breathtaking beauty of her robbed him of speech for a moment.
‘I promised I would be back, Reki,’ she said. ‘Even though it meant I had to track you through the mountains.’
He opened his mouth, but she stepped towards him and put a finger to his lips. The scent of her and the touch of her skin was intoxicating.
‘There will be time for questions later,’ she said.
‘We have to talk,’ he murmured, some remnant memory of his previous sour thoughts inspiring the need to protest, however feebly.
‘Afterward,’ she said. She kissed him, and he gave up any more attempt to resist. He had yearned for her every instant she had been gone, and now that she was here he could not restrain himself. Their kisses turned to caresses and took them onto the bed, where they sated their passions with one another long into the night and past the dawn.
When Avun arrived at the room where he and Muraki shared their meals, he barely recognised it. The table of black and red lacquer was surrounded by four standing lanterns, the flames burning inside metal globes with patterns cut into them to allow the light through. Exquisite drapes had been hung over the alcoves, hiding the statues there. A brazier of scented wood smoked gently in the far corner of the room, providing heat and a subtle fragrance of jasmine. No longer did the room seem cold and empty, but warm and intimate. The meal was already served, bowls and baskets steaming on the table, and Muraki knelt at her place, dappled by the light from the lanterns.
‘This is wonderful,’ he said, unexpectedly touched.
Muraki smiled, her eyes averted downward, her face half-hidden by her hair. Beyond the three tall window-arches at the back of the room, it was utterly dark: no stars or moons could penetrate the canopy now.
He settled himself, kneeling at the mat across the table from her. ‘Wonderful,’ he murmured again.
‘I am glad you approve,’ she said quietly.
‘Will you eat?’ he asked. It had become one of their rituals. At first, because she was always reluctant to dine with him, and later, as a wry joke between them at the way she had been. He began to take the lids from the baskets and serve her.
‘It is done, then?’ he asked. ‘The book?’
‘It is done,’ she replied. ‘As we speak it is being taken to the publisher.’
‘You must be relieved,’ he guessed. He really had no idea how she felt at any stage of her writing, for she had never discussed it with him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Saddened, perhaps.’
He paused in the act of spooning saltrice onto her plate, puzzled.
‘I thought you were celebrating?’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘But it is a bittersweet day. That was my last Nida-jan book.’
Avun was confounded by this. It was as if she had told him she was giving up breathing. ‘Your last?’
Muraki nodded.
He passed the plate to her and started taking food for himself. ‘But why?’
She was sliding on her finger-cutlery. ‘His journey has run its course,’ she said. ‘It is time, I think, to begin anew.’
‘Muraki, are you sure about this?’
She made a noise to the affirmative.
‘Then what will you do? Will you create a new hero to write about?’
‘I do not know,’ she replied. ‘Maybe I will stop writing altogether. Today, Nida-jan is ended, and all things are possible.’
Avun did not quite know how to gauge his wife’s mood, and was careful in his words. Though he had always found Muraki’s constant writing a source of irritation, he found himself unable to imagine her any other way, and now that it came to it he was not sure he wanted her to stop.
‘Are you doing this for my sake?’ he asked. ‘I would not have you change yourself for me.’ The hypocrisy of this passed him by entirely.
She met his eyes for a moment with something like amusement. ‘It is not for you I do this, Avun,’ she replied. ‘Too long I have lived in the safety of my own world and ignored the one that surrounds me. Today I have closed my world away, and I am ready to face what is real.’
He set down his plate, hiding his wariness. He was unsure whether to be glad or worried about her decision. Writing had been such a big part of her life for so long that he was afraid she might not cope without it. And he would not be there to watch over her; there was no way he could delay the movement of the Aberrant forces now, even if he wanted to. After all the effort he had spent to make himself indispensible to the Weavers, he could not back out. Kakre would shred him.
‘You must tell me,’ he said, to cover his thoughts. ‘How does it end?’ He poured each of them a glass of amber wine.
‘It ends well for him,’ she said. ‘He finds his son at last, in the Golden Realm where Omecha has taken him. There he wins him back after facing Omecha and beating him in a game of wits. They return to their home, and the son acknowledges Nida-jan as his father, for only a father’s love could drive him to seek his son even beyond the realms of death. And so the curse laid upon him by the demon with a hundred eyes is lifted.’
‘It is a good ending indeed,’ Avun said. And yet privately, he wondered. For it was no secret to him that she had been mourning the loss of their daughter in her books, mirroring her grief in the actions of Nida-jan, and this sudden turn to happiness made him suspect that something had happened which he was unaware of.
‘Come to the window, Avun,’ she said, picking up her glass of wine and holding out her hand to him across the table. Surprised by her uncharacteristic impetuousness, he took up his own glass and rose with her. Together, they walked across the room to the window-arches that faced out over Axekami.
In the night, the miasma overhead could not be seen, and Axekami seemed peaceful. Lights were lit, tumbling down in profusion towards the Kerryn and the River District. Not as many as there had been in days gone by, but enough. It was almost possible to believe the city was beautiful again.
Muraki turned to him. ‘While I was dreaming, you have become the most powerful man in Saramyr, my husband,’ she said. She kissed him deeply, and there was a hunger in it that made him dizzy. He wanted to have her then and there, but he did not yet dare to do so, did not trust that he would not embarrass himself by overstepping the mark. Presently, she drew away from him, her eyes searching his, and she took a sip of wine, regarding him over the rim of her glass. He slid his arm around her tiny waist. His wife’s words made him burn with pride. It was true: he had done all this, he had made this of himself. He sipped his own glass as he surveyed his conquest, the great capital of Axekami, and he was content.
It took him only seconds to realise that the wine was deadly poison, but by then it was far too late.
The first he knew of it was the awful tightening of his throat and chest, as if he was choking on a bone. His h
Wildly, in blind animal panic, he reached for his wife, but Muraki was standing by the window, her face shadowed by her hair, and she was not moving to help him. His eyes widened in horror and disbelief. That appalled gaze still rested on his wife when his body went slack and his life left him.
Muraki regarded him for a long time. She had expected tears to come, but there were none. She had expected, at least, to be consumed by remorse or guilt, but she felt none of that either. If she were writing this scene, she thought, she would not do so with such a dearth of emotion. Real life was infinitely stranger and unpredictable than the one she lived in her imagination.
She turned away from her husband and looked out over the city once again. She could smell the oily tang of the miasma, overpowering the jasmine from the brazier. She had never quite become accustomed to it. Her lips tingled where the poison wine had touched them, but she had not let it past into her mouth. Simple enough to procure poison from Ukida: she had only to order him, and he obeyed. He was loyal enough to keep her secret and not to ask what it was for.
She glanced at the corpse of Avun again, trying for some last time to stir something in her breast. The newly awakened passion for him had not been faked by her. She had wanted to enjoy what she could while she could, and she wanted to make him happy too. After all, she thought he deserved that much before she killed him.
She realised what would follow now. The Weavers would take their revenge, would scour her mind agonisingly until they knew all about her code, and about Ukida, and Mishani’s visit. They would know their plans had been compromised, and would alter them.