The Mirror Empire (16 page)

“There’s been enough fucking in your house for eight women,” Monshara said.

“I fight better than I fuck, if that’s any consolation,” Zezili said.

“I look forward to finally seeing it.”

They traveled northeast, to the city of Cholina, and met Zezili’s second, Syre Jasoi, and three hundred of the five thousand members of Zezili’s legion. Jasoi had cleaned up for the occasion and smelled heavily of pomade. She had knobby knees and a pinched, fox-like face, but she was good with a blade and smart on the field for a Tordinian.

Monshara inspected the lines of women for nearly an hour before finally reining up beside Zezili. “They’ll do,” she said. “Some are very drunk, however.”

“We’re only killing a few dajians,” Zezili said, “not invading Saiduan.”

Monshara barked a hollow laugh. The laugh went on and on, far more laughter than Zezili thought the joke warranted.

“Will you introduce me?” Monshara asked when she recovered.

Zezili grimaced but spurred her dog forward and called to the line, “This is Monshara, my co-general. You will obey her as you would me. Disobeying her is disobeying me. I will personally mete out punishment to any woman displaying insubordination. You’ll be stripped and lashed to start, and hung if necessary. Our duty in the coming months is a simple but critical task. I received it from the lips of the Empress herself.” Zezili paused for effect. Tried to think how she’d have responded if her own superior told her what she was about to propose.

“For centuries, the dajians have been a plague on our country. Cannibalistic parasites whose cheap labor keeps you all from cozy jobs in your old age. You spent your youth on patrols, putting down petty dajian insurgencies instead of conquering land for the Empress. You’ve wasted the better part of your lives policing a people that are little better to us than pack animals. Now the day has come to put our country in order. Our Empress has tasked us with their removal. We free our country from their tyranny. We free ourselves. We march to the Saolyndara camp to the north, and we offer their blood to Rhea. Today, we take back our country.”

The cheer then was more exuberant than Zezili expected. She plastered a grin onto her face. I’m Dorinah, she thought. If there was any doubt, today will prove that.

The killing started not long after. They purged three small camps of half-starved dajians near Saolyndara, rounding them up from the local farms that rented them for day labor. Zezili killed at least forty herself, with her own hands. It was a strange, senseless sort of killing that drove Zezili to drink after. She had no trouble killing people for a cause, but this was a waste of her talent and the talent of her women. There was no honor in it, no satisfaction. It was like murdering litters of puppies.

What was the Empress trying to accomplish? She had to know how much this would disrupt the harvest next year. Half of Dorinah would starve if the dajians were dead. Zezili wanted to ask Monshara but feared the answer. Do as you’re told, the Empress would say. Don’t you trust my love for you?

Then they cleared the big camp inside Saolyndara proper. They murdered eight hundred and forty-seven dajians there.

As Zezili sat in her tent that afternoon, penning a long, laborious letter to the Empress, the muddy blood of the dead caked her boots. The day was clear and warm, but the blood had turned the field to mud.

Monshara met her in the tent after the count was made. She removed her shiny armored helm and regarded Zezili with gray eyes.

“What?” Zezili asked.

“You were right,” Monshara said.

Zezili grunted.

“You are better at killing than fucking,” Monshara said.

“You best consult with my husband before making that judgment.”

“I could consult or know for myself.”

Zezili snorted. “I don’t rent him out.”

“Not him.”

“I’m still not interested.”

“A shame.” Monshara put her helm back on, so when Zezili finally looked at her, she could not see her expression clearly. She half thought the woman was joking.

“It’s a week’s travel to the next camp,” Zezili said. “If you’re itching, Cholina has a good mardana.”

“It’s not that kind of itch,” Monshara said, and left the tent.

Zezili frowned. She heard something drip onto the page, and saw a spot of blood. She looked up. Someone had tossed a bloody severed arm onto the top of the tent. Blood had soaked through the thin hide.

She grimaced and moved to the other side of the table.

Saolyndara’s done
, she wrote.
Eight hundred and forty-seven dajians dispatched at the main camp, at your order. We begin our march to our next camp tomorrow. I will update you at its end. I do hope you will give me a more challenging campaign. My women make better fighters than butchers.

She sealed the letter.

Outside, she heard someone keening.

The cry was cut short.

She scratched out “forty-seven” and wrote “forty-eight.”

Monshara ducked back into the tent. “Are you coming?”

“For what?” Zezili asked.

“We’re opening a gate,” Monshara said. “My sovereign wants to meet you, and I don’t want all this fine Dhai blood to go to waste.”

 

 

15

Two weeks after his sister’s death, Ahkio took the title of Kai. He stood at the center of the great Sanctuary in the heart of Oma’s temple, bathed in the crimson light of the double suns streaming through the red face of Oma represented in the domed glass above him. The elder Oras were all in attendance, as well as the temple’s novices, full Oras, and their assistants, but as Elder Ora Gaiso bathed his hair in his sister’s blood, he saw that just half the country’s clan leaders sat in attendance. Nasaka had told him that before the ceremony, but hearing a thing and seeing it were different experiences. Fear and horror gripped him suddenly, powerfully, and he could not shake it. Nasaka had offered him a way out of taking up this burden, and he’d refused it. Now he was alone amid a sea of faces who saw an ungifted boy given a sacred title that few, if any, believed him capable of holding for any length of time.

He glanced over at Nasaka. Her face was, as ever, unreadable. She sat at a table with Elaiko and the clan leader of Sorai – Hona Fasa Sorai, her assistant, and another young woman, very fair, in her mid-twenties, who Ahkio took to be Hona’s daughter.

Eight letters to Meyna had gone unanswered. Still, Ahkio searched for her face among those sitting behind Nasaka at the great yellow adenoak tables. The only kin of his he saw were distant cousins, twice or three times removed. Only Liaro had written him, a letter of sympathy for Kirana’s death. Ahkio kept it under his pillow where he slept now, in Kirana’s large bed behind the Kai study, at the very top of the temple.

Nasaka rose from her place at the table and picked up the silver plate that bore what remained of his sister’s preserved heart. She brought it to the dais and offered it to Ahkio.

Ahkio took a sliver of Kirana’s heart. He had eaten most of her heart the day after she died; the act of eating her heart amid this stoic crowd was largely symbolic. He sent up a prayer to Oma then, because in all likelihood, Oma was close enough to hear him, now:
if I’m not the right person for this seat, you need to show me another path.

He swallowed the flesh of his sister’s heart and became Kai.

The funerary chefs and kitchen drudges brought in the dishes prepared from his sister’s well-salted body – blood sausage and blood pudding, fried liver, sweetly seasoned ribs and delicate finger bones dipped in lemon juice and butter. The meal was complemented by honey wine and blackberry liquor, as well as other delicacies such as roasted fiddleheads, bracken tops, and nasturtiums.

When the ceremony was finished, he made polite talk with the clan leaders and Oras. Nasaka stayed at his side, too close for his comfort, and after an hour of too much wine in the too-warm Sanctuary, he evaded her by escaping to the privy at the end of the hall.

He sat there listening to the rush of water running underneath the bank of stone seats and purling down the washing sinks, until three novices burst in, eyes bright, voices loud – already a little drunk.

Ahkio pushed out of the privy and nearly fell into Elaiko.

“Kai,” she said, and he winced. He wished he were as drunk as the novices.

“There’s a man here for you,” Elaiko said. “Your cousin?”

“There he is!”

Ahkio knew the voice. He hurried past Elaiko, toward the great foyer.

Liaro waved to him from the bottom of the stairs, a lumpy pack slung over one shoulder.

Ahkio held out his arms, and Liaro stepped into his embrace.

“Oma, cousin,” Ahkio said. “You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

“I came as quickly as I could,” Liaro said. “Sina, look at your hair! Is the ascension over?”

“I would have liked you here sooner. Where’s Meyna?”

Liaro cleared his throat. “Ah. Meyna. Well, about that-”

“What are you doing out here?” Nasaka asked, pushing her way out of the Sanctuary.

Ahkio sighed. “Can I have two minutes of peace with my cousin?” he said.

“Are you expecting Lohin to come in this late?” Liaro asked, gesturing back toward the foyer. “I passed him and some Garika militia on the way in. Seemed odd they didn’t show up sooner.”

“Kirana’s husband?” Ahkio asked. “With… militia? We invited Tir’s whole family – Lohin, Yisaoh – just as I invited Meyna and her husbands. No one responded. Are you sure it was him?”

“Could have been some dancing minstrels dressed like militia, I suppose,” Liaro said, “but I expect that’s even less likely.”

“How close?” Nasaka asked. She gripped the end of her willowthorn sword, and the branch snarled itself around her wrist. Ahkio’s stomach dropped. He knew what was coming, knew it and still tried to deny it.

“They’re just a few minutes behind me,” Liaro said. “On the plateau. What? Is that bad?”

“Blood and ashes,” Nasaka swore.

 

Roh woke in the infirmary, rattled awake by a seething tide of nightmares. The black spill of light trailing Oma clawed at him, engulfed him. The world was a sea of red rain that strangled the fields and washed away the Temple of Oma, cracking the great dome, showering jagged glass onto novices and Oras, severing limbs and making ribbons of their organs.

It was the smell he noticed first, like burnt black tea. Para’s light spilled through the glass ceiling – which he was surprised to see whole after the dream – blinding him in blue light.

“Roh?”

His brother Chali stood over him, round face scrunched with concern.

“Where’s the sanisi?” Roh asked.

“He left some time ago. Are you all right? The whole family came to see you. Ora Nasaka sent them away yesterday.”

“I need to talk to Ora Dasai.”

Chali held out a hand. Roh took it. Chali was almost thirty and acted like he knew everything, but Roh had never seen him look so scared. “Stay in bed,” Chali said.

“I feel fine,” Roh said. Hunger pinched his stomach. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in bed. “What day is it?”

“The new Kai’s day of ascension. You’ve been out almost two weeks.”

“Two weeks? The Kai… is Kai Kirana dead?”

“I’m sorry,” Chali said. “You’ve missed a lot. Yes, she passed. Her brother, Kai Ahkio, has taken her title.”

“Where’s Li?” Roh said. “Was Lilia here? My friend.” She was always in the infirmary. He had a memory of her next to him.

“You mean the girl who went with the sanisi?” Chali asked.

“He took
her
and not me?”

“You should rest.”

“I need to see Ora Dasai. The sanisi should have taken me.”

“You were nearly dead. Rest. Ora Dasai is taking a group of scholars north. He wanted to make sure you were all right before then. I think he feels responsible.”

Roh clutched at his stomach, searching for a wound that was no longer there. He pulled at the front of his tunic and realized it wasn’t his. He wore a white tunic and trousers, like an invalid, instead of his novice clothes. When he raised up the tunic, he saw no wound, no scar.

“I was hurt, wasn’t I?”

“Someone attacked you,” Chali said. “We hoped you could say who it was.”

Roh searched his memory. He remembered pain and surprise; a deep betrayal. “I don’t know,” he said. “Chali, Ora Chali, I need to go north with you.”

“That’s not my decision, Roh.”

“But you’re going,” Roh said. “Ora Dasai asked you, didn’t he?”

“If I want to be an Elder Ora, travel abroad would help my case,” he said. “In eighty years–”

“Eighty years!” Roh said. “I don’t care about what happens in eighty years. I care about
today
.”

“I’m going to get Elder Ora Gaiso,” Chali said, and stood. He left Roh’s side before he could say any more.

Roh sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. Something terrible had happened after Dasai sent him downstairs. Why couldn’t he remember?

He found a clean set of clothes on the other bed. They were drudge clothes – gray tunic and trousers, and no green apron. He expected to feel weaker, but his legs held his weight, and he did not tremble. It must have been a very skilled tirajista who saved him. He dressed carefully and waited. And waited.

Loud voices came from the hall. He crept to the door, barefoot, and opened it. The corridor outside the infirmary curved before reaching the foyer, so he couldn’t see anything from there. But he heard the strange sound of hissing weapons; the same sound two infused swords made on meeting. It was a sound he had never heard outside a practice yard.

Roh recited the Litany of Breath. He held the breath of Para close, just beneath his skin, and ran into the corridor, toward the sound of the fighting. He ran headlong into a massive clutch of whirling bodies – red-wrapped militia, green-aproned novices, and full Oras, all coming together in a violent melee. He saw the blue mist of Para’s breath suffusing the parajistas he knew, but saw no structures being built, no woven weapons. Using gifted arts against the non-gifted was the gravest of crimes. But as Roh watched blood spattering the temple floor, it seemed like a terrible prohibition.