Chapter 32


    Zaidna


    The Empire of Judath


    Bakavoth Palace


    The blank sheet of paper stared up at Kirin, daring her to make a mark.  She had no idea where to begin, especially with the emperors watching her with such interest.


    “Why aren’t you writing anything yet?” Angxa demanded.  Kirin looked back at him but immediately regretted doing so.  Up close, his eyes were like hot coals, framed by the most horribly pallid skin she had ever seen.  “Well?”


    Kirin repressed a shudder and turned back to her paper.  “I—I get nervous when people watch me write,” she stammered.  “It might be better if you elucidate the nightmare from my mind instead of having me write it down.  That way you could see the symbols for yourselves.”


    “We’re not going to do that,” Ravad said from the side of the room as he lit a long, silver pipe with a spark of ormé.  “High priests don’t have the same training as priestesses do.  Besides, we don’t know what’s causing these nightmares yet.  We can’t take the chance that this is some kind of mental condition spread by thought matter.”


    Kirin furrowed her brow at this.  “I guess that makes sense.”  Batem had told her that it was premarital sin that was the cause of her nightmares, but could he be wrong?  If so, she had abandoned and hurt Javan for no reason.  She took the writing shell and placed its tip to the paper, but was so sick to her stomach that she could barely grip it.


    “Why would Xinthi be so adamant that the Dread God is involved?” Tashau asked.  Kirin could barely see him out of the corner of her eye as he paced back and forth by the window, his figure alternatingly lit and shadowed by the sunset.  She had always heard that the star emperor was good natured and laid-back, but seeing him so tense and rigid now made her question those stories, save the ones about his good looks.  He really did have the most beautiful—


    “Eyes back on the paper!” Angxa barked.  Kirin jumped to resume her writing.


    “I’m sure this has nothing to do with the Dread God,” Ravad assured with a snort.


    “Maybe not,” Tashau responded, “but there is a reason why I requested heightened security at this year’s summit.”


    Ravad’s smile flattened into a frown around the stem of his pipe.  “Oh yes.  I was going to ask . . . .”


    “I wanted to explain immediately, but there’s been no time—not with what happened during the rites and the Nassé’s death.”  Tashau circled the writing desk and bent low.  He snapped his fingers, and Kirin looked up to see that his glaring eyes were level with hers.  “Look here, Candidate Kirin.  What I am about to say is strictly for the ears of the other emperors.  If I hear that you’ve spread anything I’ve said outside of this office, I’ll see personally to your punishment, and it’ll be more than just a lashing.”


    “Easy there, Tash,” Ravad chided.  “This girl may never speak another word to anybody after today.”


    Kirin swallowed hard and immediately started scribbling as many of the nightmare’s symbols as she could recall.  What did Ravad mean by that?


    Tashau took several paces from the writing desk.  “The man who attempted to assassinate me, and who abducted my wife, is the leader of a cult that worships Anoth.”


    “You must be joking!” Ravad exclaimed.  “There are plenty of crazed cults out there, but none of them pose any serious threat to any of us.  Most of them are just misguided.”


    “Not this one,” Tashau sighed.  “This cultist claims to be the reborn Anoth—even calls himself by that name.”


    Kirin dropped her writing shell, instantly snatching it back up with both hands.  How could somebody even think something like that?


    “What?”  Pipe smoke burst from Ravad’s mouth.


    “Do you believe that this cultist is the Dread God reborn?” Angxa asked skeptically.


    “Of course not!” Tashau snapped.  “But he’s still a threat—I have the scars to prove it.  I requested extra security because he’s planning to infiltrate the summit in search of ‘witnesses,’ whatever those are.”


    “How do you know this?” Angxa demanded.


    “You’re doubting me?”


    “No.  But how do you know that this cultist is just a pretender?”


    “How?”  Tashau’s eyes bulged.  “I fought him—made him bleed!  Can a god bleed?”


    “That doesn’t matter right now,” Ravad interjected.  “Are you sure he’s coming here?  To my home?”


    “Yes,” Tashau said.  “I apologize for not telling you earlier.  I could not risk mentioning it in my message.  The last thing I want is for this to get out and cause a panic.”


    “Well, that’s great!” Ravad declared through a furious laugh.  “But considering the riot today, it’s just as well.  Entav and his men are the best we have.  Once they know what they are looking for, they should be more than a match for this cultist.”


    “I wouldn’t underestimate him,” Tashau advised.  “His skill with ormé is something I haven’t seen in a long time.”


    “I’m having a little trouble wrapping my mind around this,” Ravad said, shaking his head.  “There’s a huge difference between gods and mortals.  If I ran around claiming to be the Dread God, I’d either be laughed at or strung up in a tree.  And you’re telling me he’s the leader of an entire cult!  How could anybody possibly believe that some charlatan is a god?”


    “He claims to be a son of the tenth house, and after fighting him, I can’t dismiss the possibility.”  Tashau hung his head slightly.  “If it’s true, I can certainly see how others might be fooled.”


    Ravad scoffed.  “Impossible!  He would have been named by a priest.  His house would be recorded in church records.”


    “Not if he were born under the cloth of a cult,” Tashau argued.  “He wouldn’t be subject to any of our rites.  It’s quite possible he could have lived his entire life unnoticed by our priests.”


    “A son of the tenth house would be quite something,” Angxa mused, skulking out from behind Kirin.  “He would be able to weave patterns that we can’t even conceive of.  If he is what you suggest, this cultist could be capable of almost anything, perhaps even orchestrating an attack on the minds of the Nassé and her priestesses.”


    “That is my concern,” Tashau said.


    Kirin’s hand shook involuntarily, and her most recently drawn glyph now boasted a jagged tail.  Was this cultist the true identity of the shadow maker?  And if so, what if he had access to her thoughts at this very moment?  She gripped her forehead, her face growing hot.  The houses only grew exponentially in power and potential.  Even the ninth house was nothing compared to the tenth.  They had no chance against a son of the tenth house, especially if he was bent on destroying them.  Tears burst from her eyes, dribbling all over the paper as she began to shake with silent, restrained sobs.


    Kirin felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Ravad bending over to peel the now soggy sheet of paper from the surface of his writing desk.  He replaced the paper with a dry one.  “Don’t cry.  Try again,” he urged gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips.


    Kirin lifted her writing shell, but couldn’t think of anything but the shadow maker.  Had she known just how dangerous these nightmares were she would have never elucidated—not for the Nassé and certainly not for Tirbeth and Anji.  If the cultist were responsible, she could have unwittingly helped him to make the nightmares worse.  “That cultist,” she blubbered, wiping frantically at her still wet face.  “He could be doing something to my psyche right now.”


    Ravad scratched his head.  “Don’t worry about that now.  What we need is for you to write down those symbols so we can figure out what to do next.”


    “What if I can’t remember all of them?”  Kirin’s lip started to quiver again.


    “Unfortunately, there’s no chronicler left to write the dream for you or help you to recall the symbols.  You may need to write the nightmare down several times before you have it right.  Take your time—but not too much time.”


    “But if I’m useless, you’ll sentence me to death instead of the whipping!”


    Ravad took a slow drag from his pipe, expelling the smoke through his nostrils.  “I won’t deny that you were stupid to let my daughter con you.”  Kirin bowed her head in shame.  “But you weren’t wrong to want to help.  Besides, I’m not in the business of killing girls.  So take a breath, straighten your back, and write.”


    Kirin smiled weakly, but still felt sick.  Looking down to the blank sheet of paper, she tried to think back to what Xinthi had told her about the elucidation process.  When recounting a dream, it was most important to keep the whole thing in order.  She forced herself to relax.  Don’t think, just do it!  She then wrote down every symbol she could recall from the nightmare as fast as she could.  First there was the chapel, then the altar, the woman strapped to the altar, and then there was the wild-haired woman, the knife—and the hiding man, too!  Ugh, there were so many symbols.  When she was finished, she lifted her writing shell and sat back on her heels.


    “Are you done?” Ravad asked.


    Kirin nodded and passed the paper up to him.


    Ravad stroked his chin.  “This is unusual symbology.”


    Angxa broke off the hushed conversation he had been having with Tashau and moved toward the writing desk, holding out a gloved hand expectantly.  Ravad handed the paper to Angxa, before seating himself beside Kirin on the floor.  Tashau and Angxa settled across from them on the other side of the writing desk.


    Angxa slapped the paper down and looked it over, shaking his head.  “Three-year-old engstaxis write better glyph radicals than this.  You eshtans should spend more time drilling your youth and less time coddling them.”  He snatched Kirin’s writing shell from her hand too quickly for her to react and began to scratch dozens of annotations around her list.  His tiny handwriting was beautiful, every glyph stroke perfect and exact.  Kirin flushed with embarrassment.


    Tashau took the sheet of paper after Angxa had finished marking it.  He pointed at several of the glyphs.  “Are these the symbols that represent the cultist?”


    “Maybe,” Kirin replied, leaning over the writing desk to see which symbols Tashau was pointing at.  “The man hidden in the shadows?  I think if anybody represents that cultist, he would.”


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Angxa took the paper back and flipped it over.  “In a way it makes sense,” he sighed, drawing a circle and labeling it “cult.”  Inside of the circle, he wrote down each symbol associated with the hidden man.  “I find it interesting that the man is wrapped in shadow.  Anoth possessed control over the shadow aspect of primal matter, as did his followers.  If this cult indeed worships Anoth, then that would technically make them Anotites, even if they’re not the same as the ancient group.”


    Kirin thought again about the shadow maker in her own nightmare.  He came from the parting every time.  It must have been related somehow.


    Angxa drew a second circle, which he labeled “candidates.”  In that circle, he wrote down the symbol of the young woman who was strapped to the altar.


    “No, no,” Kirin corrected.  “That symbol there isn’t a candidate.  That’s supposed to be the star empress.”  Angxa paused for a moment, then crossed the symbol out with a single stroke.


    “This is the symbol you associate with my wife?” Tashau asked.


    “Yes.  She was tied to the altar and just lying there while the other woman held up a knife to sacrifice her, I guess.”


    “How are you so sure that it was Sorai?”


    “Um . . . .”  Kirin slid the paper and writing shell away from Angxa, looking at her original list of symbols.  Avoiding Angxa’s annotations, she drew a line from the silver diadem to the young woman.  “The woman on the altar was wearing the same kind of diadem that you wear, only it’s made of silver.”  She pointed at the band of gold that circled Tashau’s head.  “Empresses wear them for formal occasions, don’t they?”


    “Yes, but that explanation isn’t good enough.”  Tashau tapped each symbol associated with the diadem.  “You wrote that this particular diadem is engraved with a sun, moon, and star in a row.  This diadem could represent any of the empresses.  Even Ravad’s wife.”


    Ravad leaned forward with interest.


    Kirin hesitated, tempted at first to just agree and move on.  “You’re kind of right.  But I know the woman on the altar can’t be the sun empress because her skin was much too white—like yours or an engstaxi’s.  Not brown like ours.  And I figured she couldn’t be the moon empress, either, because engstaxis have pointed teeth, not blunt ones.  But really, I didn’t know that it was the star empress until after the Nassé told us it was her and that she was dead.”


    “Sorai is still alive,” Tashau said flatly.


    Kirin stiffened with surprise.  The star empress was alive?  With the way that everybody was talking about the attack, Kirin hadn’t expected that, especially after what Xinthi said about her.  “I thought she was stabbed, but I guess I never actually saw her getting stabbed.  I just looked back and she wasn’t on the altar anymore.  She was walking away with the man into the shadows.”


    “What do you mean she walked away into the shadows?”  Tashau asked brusquely.  “I don’t see that in your notes.  Aren’t all the symbols important?”


    “I’m sorry.  I didn’t think to write that one down,” Kirin apologized, collecting her thoughts.  “Xinthi made it sound like the star empress had died and been thrust to the void to live with Anoth for eternity, so I just assumed.  Given the symbols and the attack, I guess Xinthi assumed that the star empress was dead as well, but I’m glad she’s okay.”


    “This is all very interesting.”  Angxa took the paper and writing shell and drew a third circle labeled “Sorai,” writing the symbols of her skin, teeth, the diadem, and the altar inside of it.  He drew a fourth circle after that and labeled it “child.”  “So, the altar was empty for a moment, then you saw a child lying on it in place of the star empress, and a hooded priest in place of the sacrificer.  How exactly did that happen?”


    “I kept getting distracted by the man in the shadows, so I didn’t really see how it got that way.  I didn’t see the woman with the crazy hair actually stab the star empress, but the hooded man definitely stabbed the child, like this.”  Kirin raised her arms above her head and demonstrated the motion, accidentally hitting her hands hard on the writing desk.  A shockwave of pain shot up to her elbows.  “He stabbed the child three times.”


    “Hmm.”  Angxa wrote “knife” between the circles he had just drawn.  “I am uncertain where this symbol belongs.”


    “It seems important to determine who held the knife to Sorai in the first place,” Tashau suggested.  “She had every intention of following through with the sacrifice, even if in the end she was unsuccessful.”


    “I have no idea who or what she’s supposed to be,” Kirin lamented, trying to shake the pain out of her arms.


    “This knife,” Angxa muttered.  “What did it look like?  Did the woman and priest use the same knife?”


    “I think the knife held by the woman was golden, and the knife held by the priest was different—glass, maybe?”


    Angxa stiffened slightly.  “Gold carries meaning for my people,” he pointed out.  “Engstaxi children learn binding ormé by carving glyphs into soft objects with solid gold knives.  Gold is the best conductor of ormé.  This symbol is important and has meaning.”  He marked it on the paper.


    “What about the other knife?” Tashau interjected.  “What kind of priest would use a knife made out of glass?  What kind of ritual is that?  And who is that child supposed to be?”


    “I think the child represents the candidates,” Kirin ventured.  “The Nassé really focused on the color of the blood coming out of the child’s wounds.  It was glowing bright red.  Naming crystals for people born under the eighth house turn the exact same shade of red.”


    “But why kill the candidates?” Tashau pressed.  “Xinthi couldn’t possibly see herself as the priest in the symbols, the one in the ‘strange robes’ as you put it.  And she used a skylight to kill those girls, not a knife.”


    “But the skylight was made out of glass like the knife,” Ravad noted.  “I can see how they might be related.”


    “I am more curious about that woman,” Angxa said.  “You describe her as having long, wild hair but otherwise are lacking in detail.”


    “Well,” Kirin stammered.  “Her skin also looked really pale, almost like silver?  Xinthi also mentioned something about the goddess sacrificing the woman on the altar.”


    Angxa tapped definitively on the writing shell.  “Then I believe that would make her Naltena,” he proposed.  “All of our traditions represent Naltena with silver, be it our paintings, our relics, even the Goddess Forest itself.  Clearly, Xinthi was simply following the will of Naltena by eliminating the corrupted candidates.  She merely waited for Naltena to complete the necessary sacrifice of the star empress before acting.”


    “Stop talking about Sorai as if she’s dead,” Tashau demanded.  “She is fine!  You’ve all seen her!”


    “Yes,” Angxa drawled.  “I do recall her interrupting the initiatory rites and fleeing from Naltena’s Chamber.  Clearly she is fine.”


    “You bastard,” Tashau muttered, clenching his teeth.


    “Um, there’s one more thing I forgot to write down,” Kirin offered tentatively.


    Both Angxa and Tashau grudgingly leaned back on their heels.


    “When the star empress—well, the woman wearing the diadem—when she left with the man in the shadows, her whole body was glowing, but it was glowing in a really strange way.  It wasn’t glowing light; it was glowing some sort of fuzzy dark purple color—not like patches but more like lots and lots of thin lines spreading across her skin.  It was like writing, almost.”


    “Lines like writing, you say?” Angxa interrupted, suddenly sitting up straight and looking directly into Kirin’s eyes.  His pupils narrowed into tiny slits, which made Kirin’s flesh crawl.  “You say these lines—this writing—only began to show after she was sacrificed on the altar?”


    “I guess so,” Kirin answered.


    “The star empress still lives, which means that the sacrifice was not meant to take her life,” Angxa muttered, almost to himself.  “But there was clearly meant to be a sacrifice—one using a gold knife.”  He was silent for a long time, tapping each symbol on the paper in turn, before shaking his head.  “This combination of symbols is very suspicious, especially in the dream of an engstaxi.  I fear there is only one explanation.”


    Angxa rubbed at his chin and drew in a long breath, before he suddenly reached into his cowl and unveiled his face, allowing the hood to fall to his shoulders.  He looked much younger than Kirin imagined he would, and was horrifyingly handsome.  “Tashau, your wife was taken by this cultist for several weeks.  During that time, she was . . . wounded by him, wasn’t she?”


    Tashau’s eyes widened in surprise, then immediately narrowed.  “That is none of your concern.”


    Angxa’s thin, white lips curled in a frown, but his expression remained solemn and sincere.  “I’m afraid that it is.  Her wounds—they’re glyphs, aren’t they?  I would like your permission to examine them.”


    “What?” Tashau snarled in response, paling noticeably.


    “There is no need to be defensive.  The symbology of the nightmare from the perspective of an engstaxi is quite—”


    “I don’t like what you’re suggesting,” Ravad interjected.  “Binding ormé on people is forbidden.  And there is no record of anyone doing it successfully, at least not since Anoth was killed.”


    “Have her wounds been examined thoroughly?” Angxa asked.


    “Don’t even think it,” Tashau seethed.  “There is no excess primal matter in the glyphs.  I have seen for myself.”


    Ravad stared at Tashau in surprise.


    “Please reconsider,” Angxa said.  “My knowledge of the ancient glyphs is unsurpassed; I know what to look for.  I feel it is necessary to . . . make a comparison.”


    Tashau leapt to his feet, and at first Kirin thought he might tackle Angxa.  “What you imply is insane!  Naltena would not involve herself with binding ormé and Anoth is dead!”


    “Hey!” Ravad threw himself over the writing desk, extending his arms in order to keep Tashau from Angxa. “Let’s keep things civil, shall we?  Tashau’s right, Angxa.  We need to get to the bottom of this, but we should exhaust other options before we do something rash to further traumatize Sorai.  She’s clearly been through enough already.”


    “I wish only to be thorough.”  Angxa stood as well.  “If the Dread God—”


    “Blasphemy!” Tashau snarled.


    Now Ravad was on his feet, holding Tashau back.  “Angxa, you can’t make such claims without any evidence.”


    “The glyphs are the evidence,” Angxa reasoned.  “This also holds with Anoth’s pattern.  He has always shown an interest in the imperial families.”


    “You’re talking like you think he’s alive,” Ravad challenged.


    Angxa’s frown deepened.  “Was it not the eldest son of the second emperor of Judath who became the first hadir through Anoth’s binding ormé?”


    Tashau roared furiously.  “How dare you dishonor my wife with such ridiculous theories?”


    Kirin gaped at the string of obscenities that then spewed from Tashau’s mouth, while Angxa took each hideous slur in stride, refusing to flinch even as Tashau forced his way forward to the point that their faces were almost touching.


    “That’s enough!” Ravad shouted, finally managing to pry Tashau away from Angxa.


    I shouldn’t be here, Kirin thought desperately as she inched her way toward the exit, but froze as soon as Ravad spotted her sneaking away.  “I won’t say anything!” she yelped as he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her toward the office doors.


    “That would be wise,” Ravad warned as he opened the doors just enough to push her through.  “You’re free to take your daughter home,” he called to Entav, who was already waiting outside in the hall.  “I want word on her punishment by tomorrow morning.”


    Entav caught Kirin by the shoulders as she stumbled toward him.  “I’ll see to her punishment immediately, Emperor.”


    Ravad nodded once and then returned to the study.  Even through the shut doors, Kirin could hear the shouting resume, now thankfully muffled.  She was relieved to be out of there with her skin intact.  That was insane!


    Entav whirled Kirin around.  He hugged her fiercely, but then thrust her from him the next instant.  “Are you stupid or something?  You elucidated for the high princess of Judath?”


    Kirin had never seen her father so angry.  Well, at least not at her.


    “You’re damn lucky that the star emperor spoke up on your behalf, otherwise you’d be dead!”  Entav dragged her down the hall, and Kirin, surprised at their speed, struggled to keep up.  “I thought I taught you common sense.  Elucidating for the Nassé when she’s directing you is one thing, but the high princess—and the western princess, too?  You don’t mess around with peoples’ thought matter!  What were you thinking?”


    “I just wanted to help!” Kirin whined as Entav pulled her down a flight of stairs.  The main floor of the palace was filled with music and paper lanterns of all colors.


    “And how many times did you ‘help’ those girls?”


    “I don’t know.  Maybe ten?”


    “Ten?” Entav hissed.  It looked as though his remaining eye would pop from his skull.  “You elucidated ten times?  That’s a hundred lashes!”


    Kirin hadn’t considered the math.  “Oh no!  Father—”


    “No!  No sympathy from me!” Entav’s face was red, his lips set in a tight line.  He hauled her around a corner, too quick to keep from colliding with a familiar body.


    Kirin stumbled backwards, her mouth suddenly full of fluff, and found herself nose-to-nose with a very disheveled-looking sazi, who was coiled around the neck of—


    “High Princess Tirbeth.”  Entav bowed shallowly, his expression severe.


    “Kirin!” Tirbeth squealed.  She caught Kirin’s hands and jumped up and down, rattling Kirin’s innards and nearly jostling the sazi to the floor.  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!  Anji, come quick!” she called over her shoulder.


    The instant Anji stepped from the reception hall, her face flashed shock, then disgust.  She said nothing, but Kirin knew that look.  Anji hated her.


    “Come with us!” Tirbeth cried.  “Javan is dancing with a bunch of minor ladies, so we’re going to sneak off for more wine!”


    Kirin swallowed numbly.


    “I think you’ve caused my daughter enough trouble,” Entav growled, startling Tirbeth and Anji.  He bowed once more, with feigned deference.  “With all due respect, of course, High Princess, Western Princess.”  He then jerked Kirin from Tirbeth’s grasp and marched her out of the palace.