The Providence of Fire

30

Morjeta’s personal chambers comprised a suite of breezy, high-ceilinged marble rooms with tall narrow windows three times Kaden’s height, where gossamer curtains fluttered with the breeze. After gesturing them in, the leina shut the heavy wooden door behind her, turned a key in the lock, then crossed to the windows, brushing aside the curtains, leaning far enough out to see the stonework on either side.

“Can we-” Triste began, but her mother cut her off with a tense shake of the head, waving them ahead into yet another room, this one away from the windows. A wide bed draped with fine silk stood against one wall. A pair of long, upholstered divans faced it across a rich, thickly piled rug. The leina shut the door behind them, slid a pair of locks into place, put her ear to the wood for several heartbeats, then finally turned.

“Please,” she said, gesturing to the divans, “be seated. I apologize for my haste in leading you here, but sometimes it seems Ciena loves secrets as much as she loves pleasure.”

“Can we talk in this room?” Triste asked.

Morjeta nodded. “There are listening holes in the other chambers, but I’ve found them here. Plugged them.”

She turned from her daughter to Kaden and Kiel, her gaze more forthright than it had been in the garden pavilion. If that look were calibrated to put Kaden at his ease, it failed. He felt like a goat sized up before the slaughter, and had to keep himself from tugging his hood even farther over his head.

“Of course,” Morjeta continued, “there are already at least a dozen people who know you’re here.” She ticked them off on a manicured finger. “The guards outside Relli’s shop, Relli herself, Yamara, who greeted you, and any of the other women or men we passed on the way here. How crucial is your secrecy? Like the scent of lilac on the spring air, word is already wafting through the temple halls.”

Kaden hesitated, then pushed back his hood. “Important,” he said.

The leina’s eyes widened as she saw his burning irises, and her lips pursed. “Oh,” she said, staring for a moment before rising from her seat and dropping into a low curtsy. “Be welcome in Ciena’s innermost heart, Your Radiance.”

“Rise,” Kaden replied, gesturing, “rise.” Again he felt the weight of that single syllable, one he’d be forced to utter the rest of his life. Provided, he amended silently, that I have a life ahead of me. “I hope, someday, to sit the throne of my ancestors, but I expect someone else has beaten me to it. For now, please call me Kaden. Any further ceremony is only likely to get us all killed.”

Morjeta paused, then nodded as she rose. “As you say, Kaden.” She hesitated. “If I may ask, how-”

“It was a trap,” Triste burst out. “Tarik Adiv took me to Ashk’lan.…”

“As a gift,” her mother said, grief clouding her eyes. “I have not forgiven myself.”

Triste waved aside the objection. “Please, Mother. Anything you could have done would have ended in more misery for us both. The point is not that Adiv took me, but why he took me. He was laying a trap for Kaden.”

“Why?” Morjeta demanded. “Why did he need you?”

“He needed me,” Triste replied grimly, “for bait.”

Kaden watched the girl, studying her face for some hint that she was lying, for an echo of the fierceness she had shown in the dark chambers of the Dead Heart. There was nothing. Just a young woman, frightened and angry.

Morjeta let out a long, slow whistle, then turned to a silver tray and the ewer perched upon it, poured out four crystal goblets of chilled wine. She passed them to the men first, then to Triste. Kaden noticed the trembling of her hand when she raised her own, the depth of her first sip.

“What is happening?” she asked, shaking her head, then tipping the cup to her lips once more.

“We had hoped,” Kaden replied, “that you might be able to tell us.”

“I explained to Kaden,” Triste said, “how the leinas hear everything, everything to do with Annur’s powerful and wealthy.”

Morjeta grimaced slightly, though the expression looked like something she had practiced in a mirror, calculated to express coquettish displeasure rather than genuine irritation. “Not everything,” she said, “but it’s true enough. Lust is a great loosener of tongues, and men and women both tend to spill their secrets in the strong grip of the goddess.” She blew out a breath and spread her hands. “Tarik Adiv returned to the Dawn Palace weeks ago.”

Kaden stared. The timing suggested that the leach could also use the kenta, although that would mean … He stopped himself, Tan’s voice in his mind: Speculation.

“How?” he asked.

“The Kettral,” Morjeta replied. “He arrived at night, and landed atop the Spear, but people saw the bird.” She looked down, smoothing the fabric of her gown against her legs as she turned to Triste, bright tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I’ve tried to see him,” she said. “Tried to find out where you were. I’ve gone in person half a dozen times, humbling myself in the Jasmine Court. I’ve sent letters.…” She shook her head. “Nothing. From what the other leinas tell me, he’s been cloistered almost constantly with the kenarang.”

“Ran il Tornja,” Kaden said. He’d suspected as much. Micijah Ut had praised the general to the stars, and if anyone was in a position to suborn Kettral and Aedolians both, to murder an emperor in his own capital, it would be Annur’s military commander.

Morjeta nodded. “He’s been serving as regent since your father’s death.”

“It fits,” Kiel said, nodding. “He can act as regent for a while, then move onto the throne itself.”

“Why not just seize the throne right away?” Triste asked.

“He couldn’t,” Kaden said. “Not until news of my death or disappearance had time to make it back to the capital. He doesn’t want it to look like a power grab.”

“And it doesn’t,” Morjeta said. “At least, it didn’t until your sister disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Kaden asked, stomach tightening. If il Tornja had attacked Sanlitun, Kaden, and Valyn, it only made sense that he’d go after Adare as well. “When? Does anyone know where she is?”

Morjeta raised her eyebrows. “Everyone knows where she is-marching north to join forces with the kenarang.”

Kiel frowned. “We have been, all three of us … removed from society for quite some time. It might be helpful if you could begin with Sanlitun’s death.”

It didn’t take long for the leina to outline the main points in the story, a story that, to Kaden’s surprise and dismay, implicated Adare nearly as much as it did il Tornja. Morjeta explained how his sister had worked hand in hand with il Tornja to bring down Uinian, the Chief Priest of Intarra, how the two of them had crafted Accords that crippled the Church, how the princess had begun sharing the kenarang’s bed.

Kaden stopped her there, demanding to know if she was sure.

Morjeta just smiled. “Regarding political gossip, my fellow priestesses and priests are well informed. Regarding romantic follies, the quality of our information approaches perfection. Besides, your sister made no effort to hide the liaison.”

Kaden shook his head. “Maybe il Tornja lied to her, manipulated her.”

“Maybe,” Morjeta agreed. “We weren’t certain what happened, because not long after, the princess … disappeared. For weeks no one seemed to know where she was, not even il Tornja, who was trying to keep the whole matter quiet while simultaneously sending out scores of soldiers to search for her. The next anyone heard, your sister was in Olon. The reports were confusing, but it sounded as though she’d had some sort of religious conversion, fully embraced the worship of Intarra, and, most shockingly, declared the regent a traitor and raised her own army.”

“That makes sense,” Kaden said, hope like a soft green seed sprouting inside him. “She learned the truth, raised an army, and fought back.”

Morjeta shook her head. There was something in her eyes Kaden didn’t recognize. Sorrow, perhaps? Pity?

“She didn’t fight back,” the leina said. “She marched her army all the way to Annur, but then she was welcomed into the city, into the Dawn Palace itself, by Adiv. It was not a long meeting, but it appears whatever differences they have were plastered over.” She shook her head. “When your sister marched north, her men were calling her a saint, and his men…” She hesitated, then spread her hands. “She’s claimed the Unhewn Throne, Kaden. Or all but claimed it. She intends to be Emperor.”

The words landed like a blow. Not that he felt any particular attachment to a massive chunk of rock he hadn’t seen since his childhood. If the Shin had taught him one lesson, it was the futility of coveting such things. Adare, though, had been his one connection to his family, to his father. While Kaden and Valyn had been struggling through their training at the ends of the earth, Adare had stayed, had lived inside the red walls, had made Annur her home. She was his link to the city, to the father and mother he’d lost, and now, it seemed, that link was severed.

“All but claimed the throne?” Kiel asked.

“There wasn’t time,” Morjeta said. “They’re marching north now, the princess and the kenarang, to meet some sort of Urghul threat in the north.”

Ut and Adiv had mentioned the Urghul back in Ashk’lan. Kaden pulled the memory to the forefront of his mind. Some shaman had united the tribes for the first time, using his collected force to test the Annurian border.

“Il Tornja won victories against the Urghul,” Kaden said. “Before my father died.”

“It was those victories,” Morjeta replied, “at least in part, that won him the role of kenarang.”

Kiel nodded. “A familiar strategy in military insurrections.”

“What strategy?” Kaden asked, trying to keep pace with the leaps in the conversation.

“Provoke a foe, then use the newfound threat to convince your own people they need a military rather than a civilian ruler.”

“It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to convince anyone,” Triste said. “He murdered Kaden’s father in secret. He covered it up!”

“But the Urghul threat helps his cause.”

“Except,” Kaden said, “it’s not his cause anymore. Adare’s claimed the throne, not il Tornja.”

“And,” Morjeta said, “all reports are that he’s supporting her claim.”

Kaden met Morjeta’s eyes a moment, then turned away. The leina’s bedchamber was not small-back at Ashk’lan, half a dozen monks could have shared the room with space to spare, and yet back at Ashk’lan he could have stepped through the door into open air, into a world of sky and snow and stone bordered only by high cliffs and the horizon. Here, one room led to another. He could leave Morjeta’s bedchamber, leave her suite of rooms altogether, only to find himself in another room, hemmed in by other walls. Suddenly it seemed he had returned not to a city but to a labyrinth, one he had faint hope of escaping.

“An alliance then,” Kiel said finally.

Kaden hauled his mind back to the present.

“Adare gives il Tornja legitimacy,” the historian continued, “while the kenarang provides her with military power and expertise, the imprimatur of victory in battle. And if they are sharing a bed once more…”

“Heirs,” Kaden concluded, shaking his head. He hadn’t expected to recognize Annur, had expected the city to seem strange, confusing, indifferent to his return. He had not anticipated, though, finding it so fully turned against him, had not thought to find the conspiracy that led to his father’s death so deeply rooted and flourishing.

Emotions buzzed inside him like wasps: anger, sadness, confusion. But he’d spent eight years learning to set aside his emotions, and he did so. He tried to remember what he knew of Adare from his childhood. She’d been an impetuous girl, impatient with the dresses and decorum that came with her station, impatient, it seemed to him now, with childhood itself. The one time he could remember his sister paying any actual attention to him was on the day he left for Ashk’lan. She had stood on the imperial docks, lips tight, eyes burning.

“Bid farewell to your brother, Adare,” their mother had said. “He is a child now, but when he returns, he will be a man, and ready to take the reins of the empire.”

“I know,” was all Adare had said before kissing him coolly on both cheeks. She never said farewell.

Kiel’s eyes were fixed intently on the air between them, as though scrutinizing some shape or pattern no one else could see. After a long time, his gaze focused and he turned to Morjeta.

“Can you paint?” he asked.

She nodded. “Not as well as some of my fellow leinas, but it is one of Ciena’s arts.”

“Ran il Tornja,” he said. “Tarik Adiv. I’d like to see what they look like.”

Kaden glanced at the man, suddenly grasping his intent. “You’re wondering…”

Kiel nodded. “As you told me back in the Dead Heart, there were ak’hanath at your monastery, which means my people are involved.”

Morjeta frowned, then nodded. “I can make a passable likeness of both men, but it will take some time.”

“I’ll paint Adiv,” Kaden said.

He volunteered as much for the excuse to plunge into something familiar as to expedite the process, and for a few heartbeats after Morjeta produced the necessary materials he did nothing but sit, brush in hand, staring at the fine blank vellum. It seemed a lifetime since he had contemplated something as clean, as straightforward as an empty page, more than a lifetime, as though he’d dreamed the endless hours seated on the rock ledges of Ashk’lan. Finally he dipped the brush into the porcelain saucer of ink.

As the bristles moved over the fine parchment, he felt the knots of his mind loosen. For the first time since fleeing the Bone Mountains, he settled into a rhythm he actually understood, the wetting and clearing of the brush, the faint pressure of the bristles on the page, the easy, fluent movements of the wrist and fingers. He let all thought of Adare and Annur drain from his mind, all worry about the Unhewn Throne, all the faint tangles of grief for his father. Instead, he filled his head with the image of the Mizran Councillor, his blindfold, the shock of hair, the angle of his chin. After the first strokes, even the sense of the man as a man faded. There was only light and shadow, hollow and form, teased out in dark ink on a light page. He found himself adding details, unnecessary details, as the painting neared its conclusion-the stiff collar, the mountains behind-until there was nothing left to draw and he reluctantly laid down his brush.

Kiel rose to consider the painting.

“No,” he said after just a moment. “I don’t know him.”

“I’m almost finished,” Morjeta said, eyeing Kaden above her own canvas. “Where did you learn to paint?”

Kaden shook his head. The effort of explanation seemed too massive, like trying to unearth a buried stone for which he couldn’t even find the edges.

The leina studied him a moment longer, dark eyes abrim with curiosity, then gave an eloquent shrug. “There,” she said, turning back to her own portrait, rotating it so that everyone could see. “It’s finished.”

She had painted a bold figure with a strong chin and high cheekbones, lips open in a partial smile revealing a row of perfect teeth. Kaden had expected a stern, severe face, on the order of Micijah Ut or Ekhard Matol, a military man with a mind for tactics and blood. Morjeta’s il Tornja, however, looked sly, almost jocular, as though he were on the verge of breaking into laughter.

Kaden frowned. “He doesn’t look like Csestriim.”

“Csestriim?” the leina asked, blanching, eyes going wide. “Are you mad?” Then she met Kaden’s gaze and dropped her eyes, bowing until her face almost touched the table. “A thousand apologies, Your Radiance…” she began.

Kaden raised a hand to cut her off, but at his side Kiel had gone utterly still.

“The expression is deceiving,” he said, voice low but certain. “Over the thousands of years, he has learned to smile.”

Kaden turned, feeling his heart kick in his chest. “You know him?”

The Csestriim nodded, but didn’t speak. For a few heartbeats, everyone just stared, first at Kiel, then at the page, then back.

“And?” Triste said finally.

“Like me, he has worn many names. The first was Tan’is.”

“Why did he kill my father?” Kaden demanded. “Why does he hate the Malkeenians?”

Kiel turned to him, eyes like wells. “Hate is a creature of the human heart. Those of us who gave birth to you are strangers to Maat’s embrace. The general you call Ran il Tornja does not hate you any more than you would hate a stone, the sky.”

“So what does he want?”

“He wants,” the Csestriim said, measuring the words as he spoke them, “what he has always wanted. Victory.”

“Victory over whom?”

“Your race.”

“Well, he’s getting pretty close,” Kaden said. “From the sound of it, he already more or less controls Annur.”

Kiel pursed his lips, then shook his head slowly, almost ruefully. “You do not understand. Victory, to il Tornja, is not a momentary matter of draping himself in garlands or sitting atop a throne.”

“It’s not just any throne,” Kaden pointed out. “Annur is the most powerful empire in the world.”

“Annur is an eyeblink.”

“Hundreds of years of uninterrupted rule are an eyeblink?”

Kiel smiled. “Yes. Il Tornja’s goals are deeper. Older. He is still fighting the war that we entrusted to him thousands of years ago.”

“When will he stop?”

“When you are gone.”

Kaden spread his hands in protest. “Why me?”

The historian frowned. “Your language is imprecise. Not just you, Kaden. All of you.”

Kaden stared. “All of Annur?”

“All of humanity.”