The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,141

to remove a number of smaller boxes, which in turn were opened to reveal porcelain jars, glass bottles, gleaming needles, several small books, and the large, ornate box of colored woods that held the Angothic Spirit Casque. The largest of the chests had the side panels removed to show the obsidian-and-gold bulk of what Corajidin knew to be a Sepulchre Mirror.

“Did your newfound allies give this to you?” Corajidin asked.

Wolfram nodded. “They thought this a sign of their good faith and their support of your newfound friendship. For my part, it seemed an appropriate place to keep the last rahn of the Great House of Selassin. I thought you’d appreciate being able to hang his reflection upon your wall, where his soul will wait out eternity. After all he, with all Vashne’s memories, can’t be allowed his freedom.”

Corajidin did not respond, though he stared at the tall mirror with sick fascination. Its obdurate surface gleamed sullenly, refusing to show a reflection of any kind. Corajidin waved his hand before it, but the polished obsidian stole what it saw without giving back.

He wrenched his gaze away to see what Wolfram was doing. With some ceremony the witch rested his hands upon the box that contained the casque. He chanted in a fluid, compelling language Corajidin did not understand. The witch pressed with his fingers in several places, and the sides of the box fell away to reveal a baroque visored helmet made from amber, heavily decorated with ornate designs in blue-green witchfire and gold. A single diamond, almost two centimeters across, was set into the forehead. Corajidin was reminded eerily of the black mindstones given to Sēq Masters that they, too, affixed to their brows. Light clung to the Angothic Spirit Casque. It licked the dark-yellow amber. Caressed the blue-green and yellow of the precious metals. Yet the eye sockets and mouth remained dark, the diamond lusterless.

Brede took a syringe from a brass box and removed the stopper from a porcelain vial, measuring out a careful dose of cloudy fluid. With swift purpose, she jabbed the needle first into Daniush’s neck and then into that of his father. Returning the syringe to its box, Brede then wound a handle on each frame. Both frames clattered upright to leave the men hanging from their wrists.

It did not take long for the chemical to have effect. Daniush bucked in his restraints. A low moan escaped from between his clenched teeth as he thrashed in his bonds. Veins protruded from his neck and forehead as the skin of his face flushed. Much to Corajidin’s disappointment, Ariskander’s reaction was nowhere near as severe. The old rahn’s eyes snapped open. He clenched his jaws against the hiss of pain that trickled out of him. Muscles moved beneath his skin like twisted lengths of rope. After several minutes both men settled. Their eyes rolled with fear when they saw the Sepulchre Mirror. Ariskander swore when he saw the Angothic Spirit Casque, finally showing his fear, straining against the straps that held him until the abrasions on his wrists and ankles began to weep again.

Corajidin clasped his hands together as he moved forward. Already the pain had returned. The lesions on the backs of his hands had started to color. The new drug was already starting to wear off. His breath shortened in his chest in a combination of fear and excitement. He raised his hands to his mouth and chewed on one of his knuckles, eyes wide.

“It’s not too late, Coraji—”

Corajidin’s fist stopped Daniush’s words. Blood sprayed as the young man’s head snapped to the side. Corajidin looked down at his hand, where the skin around his knuckles had split. Daniush glared at Corajidin, then hawked and spat a glob of blood on Corajidin’s expensive doeskin boots.

“Your father would have ruined us, whelp.” Corajidin grabbed Daniush by the hair. “For centuries we have been governed by a parliament of fools, more intent on appeasing petty foreign governments than making their own people strong. It is too late for you. Perhaps not for the country.”

“You suppose yourself to be the leader of a new Shrīan?” Ariskander spat. “Vashne, myself, and others, we—”

“All you ever did was talk.”

“We all want Shrīan to be strong, Corajidin,” Ariskander snapped. “Don’t be so arrogant as to think you’re the only one who sees we need to change, or that your change is the only way. We accept that the Teshri in its current form has outlived its purpose. Yet you would walk