“An easy death does little to increase shirrasah.”

from the teachings of Shaz Vharhisti

The Sea of Bones was awake.

Subtle shifts in the airstream hinted at the change of season, bringing with it the stuff of the earth. Infused with the memories of winter death, wind and sand alike whispered at gate and pane, finding entrance where it could. Unobtrusive to most, the minuscule grains of silt and soil still sighing with the final breath of untold lives were as needles to Merejh dRiish lonn Tirehl, and he hated the land for its apparent disregard for his comfort. A breeze was a welcome distraction here; unspoken agony was not. His existence already depended too much on pain. A price he paid willingly for what it gained him.

He brushed his fingers absently against the folds of his tunic, careful not to touch bare skin. Then again, and yet again, until, yes, he was quite sure every speck of sand had left his flesh to fall against cool silk. Without touching the window frame, he peered across the shifting landscape to the northeast. Winter died slowly beyond the distant mountains, the season of rebirth replacing it with a flurry of life. Here, where the surrounding desert bled into less hospitable badlands, the seasons changed little. The rain would come, heralding the migration of sand shark and desert eel alike, triggering flash floods. And today, the air moved, bringing with it a message, and a messenger.

A wedge of violet appeared on the horizon, slicing across the eroded land, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. The brilliant sail of the sand-schooner contrasted sharply with rose-hued sand and shale that stretched for miles around this valley oasis, his most cherished—and tactically advantageous—retreat. Control of the trade route meant influence and wealth, two things long denied him, and with the Sea of Bones between them, he met with little interference from the Houses of the Seven Matriarchs or the island realms of the south.

The sail folded as the desert ship neared, vanishing between craggy towers of eroded soil before gliding into view again at the edge of the city. His city. The courier, his face veiled against the midday heat, ran the rest of the way, not even stopping for water at the well. He brought welcome news. If not, he would be skulking, as usual, slipping in through a back entrance, passing his message on to one of the household’s lesser servants to avoid his master’s wrath.

The shush of sandals echoed down vaulted hallways, the sound reverberating, pounding. He drew the curtain, returning to the cool darkness.

“Show me your face.”

The messenger bowed, averting dark grey eyes from his master’s scarred face as he removed his pale green face cloth. A coil of ash-blond hair lay pinned against his neck. “I am your servant, and Akahan’s.”

“Tell me. What news of the arjheth?" he demanded, arms folded across his chest. Flowing sleeves, teal-blue like rare deep-ocean starbeads, twisted together before settling against his thighs. A mote of sand fell to the polished floor, spinning noisily toward the fringed edge of a loom-woven carpet.

“The boy lives yet in the cold north, seeking aid. He no longer flies like a leaf in the wind.”

“Upon which perch does he alight?”

“We do not know. All we are given are whispers that he lives.”

Lonn Tirehl stepped closer to the envoy, tasting his fear, inhaling the dry aroma of the desert and the sweet tang of tantyri that clung to the very skin. A smile edged his lips. No need to test the veracity of this one…save for sport. He considered the man’s words. The Kynsei arjheth survived still after three years, now wandering the domains north of Askierran. His fingers itched at the thought, and he stroked long fingernails along the palms of his hands. Old burns remembered their pain and sang to him softly.

“Many of the northern realms share customs,” the messenger began weakly, breaking the uneasy silence, “so many noble jhernani who would honor the sea spawn.”

“Honor him, yes, but keep him? Assist him? Believe with him?”

Deep in reflection, Lonn Tirehl paced, long strides taking him from one side of the room to the other. The envoy trailed behind him, obedient as a hunting dog, bringing with him the intoxicating scent of tantyri, elevating his thoughts. He stopped in mid-stride, angling past a canopied daybed festooned with silks and fine linens and through a greater chamber toward the East Room. The envoy followed here as well, albeit slowly. His unease was deliciously palatable.

Akahan’s likeness hulked like a murderous serpent, bathed in the slash of light squeezed through a single east-facing window. Here the smell of the sacred root was keen. It bolstered resolve…promised enlightenment. He need only seek the answers.

Of all the northern lands, the people of Alwynn-Muir were the staunchest Believers. The old laird himself had ties of ancient friendship, even kinship, with the Kynseis. His House would protect one of the cursed-blood with their lives. Would risk all. But those alliances were generations old. An arjheth of Lian’s years would possess no memory of such covenants. No. His desire, a child’s desire, would lead him elsewhere. Somewhere familiar. Someone familiar. He searched the vaults of his memory, opening and closing doors he had spent years assembling. A smile inched across his mutilated cheek. He whirled upon his envoy, savoring the fear as the younger man fought the temptation to meet his gaze.

“He will find his way to Tyrian.”

“Tyrian? But, it is a land of unBelievers, my master, led by one who does not keep the Faith.”

“Not now. Not yet,” lonn Tirehl whispered. “Ah, Aralt syr Tremayne, what will you do now my old friend? Has the fish needled his way back into your weeping heart?”

Lonn Tirehl’s fingers burned again with painful memories, pulling together in a tight fist, nails drawing blood. He dragged his bleeding palm against the altar as he circled against the sun. His envoy followed even more hesitantly than before.

“Jhernani, wise master, Tyrian lies north of the Weeping Wall. They say the boy is clever, but one so soft could not have scaled it alone, and in the snow.” He stopped short when lonn Tirehl rounded on him, caressed his beardless face, then clutched his trembling chin.

“Who is to say he is alone?”

The implications being what they were, the envoy made no reply.

“It is Tremayne the little fish seeks. The families have vows. He will seek to undo past mistakes. As ever before, he will fail.”

Lonn Tirehl waved his minion aside. His jaw tightened, aching along the hollow gum where he had been struck three years prior. Not even his skills could save those shattered teeth. Once more the crashing blow of the kavistath. Once more the searing of the ancient bloodwood staff, wielded like a weapon in the hands of the young kavistra. His hand twitched again, the flesh remembering. The staff had burned into useless ashes, and in his rage he had flung the marathis capstone into the fountain at the center of the garden before narrowly escaping the arrival of a pitiful band of Kierran liberators. He might have killed them all, but it served his purpose better to watch them suffer—to watch Aralt syr Tremayne suffer—as they carried away the final symbol of the Kierran’s wretched faith.

Now, Aralt syr Tremayne commanded the allegiance of not less than two lands, as no one else could. His reputation had gained him not a few allies and no doubt the misguided admiration of many he had bested. The Wolf’s pride had also given Akahan pleasure and thrice increased lonn Tirehl’s honor in shirrasah. His gain was his enemy’s loss, whether Tremayne realized it or not.

“They will move quickly to reclaim the arjheth’s heritage,” he said softly, moving now with the resilient strength of a hunting cat toward the window. Mountain currents and rugged terrain made travel difficult around the northern great lake called Bethu. Tremayne would be forced to travel south to Alwynn-Muir to make passage by air or, if he dared, by sea. Lonn Tirehl resolved not to let his adversary get even that far.

He dismissed the messenger and barred the door. None must disturb him if he were to tap into Akahan’s sight, drawing strength enough to summon Laracae, the lesser son of his sister and his cousin. His upper lip twitched as he lit tantyri-root incense and placed it within the gaping maw of the grotesque sculpture. Smoke billowed from the figure’s snout, and eyes like smoldering embers began to glow.

Lonn Tirehl inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the rich, cloying scent. At once, a familiar spark flared to life within his mind, the delicious pain that grew with each breath and taste of the sacred root. Greater was the agony to abstain. Searing blood pounded in his ears; liquid fire swirled behind his eyes, smothering his senses until the euphoria enveloped him completely and all pain receded. The stone image before him became one with the red smoke, cruel eyes glaring out from beneath bony protuberances. He felt the breath of the beast on his face, and he stepped back, heart beating wildly against his chest. Akahan walked between two worlds, hungry. Lonn Tirehl thirsted likewise to increase his shirrasah, bolster his honor, increase his value to his god. Without value he had no purpose and it had been ages since he had last stripped an adversary of his soul and felt the screaming agony and ecstasy of casting it into Akahan’s fire.

He sank to his knees, the hot breath of the Island Burner enveloping him, bending him to its will, lifting him in a narcotic trance. He merged with the sweeping winds, far outside any mortal understanding, riding the zephyrs in search of Laracae. In search of one that would do his bidding. He pressed his hands together and his nostrils flared. Endru Kynsei had been a fool to say he could not learn to shape this powerful Gift alone.

Laracae.

dRiish?

Lonn Tirehl smiled. Laracae, cousin, you are a worthy pupil. You will surpass Tycho yet.

He sensed the young pilot’s pleasure, warmed briefly in his master’s regard, but mostly he sensed the pain. Like any gift, it was purchased for a cost.

Your praise is welcome, but I doubt you have found me only for its sake. What service shall I do you, dRiish? Winter frees us, but the spring tides come soon. Unless we take to the skies, the Kell may choose us for her next lover and as quickly cast us away.

He smiled at the plight of the southern-born cast upon the angry north. A year had passed since he himself had last journeyed from his warm lair, far from meddling men and modern machines. Better to let those he had marked seek him out, as eventually they all did. Their malice and revenge always fed his shirrasah better than if he sought the glory of a second encounter. Or, rarer still, a third.

The sea-spawn child has taken refuge in Tyrian.

The wind has whispered as much, my uncle.

Soon the Dark Night will come. Their lamps will be all that illuminate the night. A simple task I set before you: bring Lian Kynsei to me. Alive. The rest, you may have—but on your life, Laracae, you will save Aralt syr Tremayne for me.

If the little fish is in reach, I will not fail you, Uncle. But if the j’thirrin still walk the night…

You had better not.

Their delicate connection severed abruptly. Akahan was awake, grinning with hunger. Almost as an afterthought, lonn Tirehl reached out to Tycho, the younger son of his younger brother, and found…nothing, not even death. Exhausted, he lay on the cold floor, ignoring the bloody tears streaming from his eyes.