The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,16
others also turned to see what was so amusing. Yasha was sitting close to Belam, laughing at some witticism or other. They were of a kind, the two of them. Bejeweled and beautiful, perfumed and smooth, their hair oiled into ringlets. Razors in velvet.
Yasha smiled. “Belamandris was telling me he plans on finding a bride, Mariam.”
Belam shook his head from behind his stepmother’s back. He pantomimed strangling himself. Mari fought down a smile.
“Really?” she replied with false interest. “Who do you have your eye on this time, Belam? Haven’t you already seduced and abandoned a good many women of note?” Including your own stepmother, according to rumor.
Belam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I don’t think you’re in any position to judge, Mari. Perhaps if I met a woman as beautiful and accomplished as my sweet sister, then I wouldn’t stray so much.”
Mari laughed and flicked her brother a rude gesture. Belam pretended to catch it, then put it in his pocket with mock wonder.
“Belamandris married?” her father interjected. “I will talk with Vashne. His daughter, Vahineh, would make an ideal match.”
“Vahineh looks like a shoe and reads too much. Nehrun’s sister Roshana is a different matter.” Belamandris frowned when Corajidin snorted, while Thufan barked his fast, false laugh. “Seriously, I don’t see why—”
“No!” Corajidin sliced the air with his hand. “Everything I have will go to your brother Kasraman when the time comes, so you must make your own way in the world. Part of that is finding a bride who can secure you position and fortune. The Näsarats will provide you with neither.”
“Roshana’s a woman of beauty and character,” Armal mused. He gazed at Mari. “She’s neither as beautiful, nor as gifted, as Pah-Mariam, of course.”
“What did the rahn say about us remembering our place, Armal?” Farouk said. “You, too, need to find a bride fitting your station. Don’t aim too high.”
Armal measured Farouk from his greater height, shrugged his wide shoulders.
“It’s been a long night.” Belam stretched, leaned forward to kiss Yasha, a touch of the lips that lingered too long for good taste. “There’s going to be a hunt today, and I’ve always wanted to test myself against a wyvern. I need some sleep first, though. My eyes feel like half the sand from the beach is in them.”
“Forget the hunt,” Corajidin said. “We have a journey of our own to make into the wetlands today. Make yourself available.” Belam nodded, expression dour as he left.
“You need to think of your own advancement, Mari.” Her father came across and rested his hands on Mari’s shoulders. She was surprised to feel him tremble ever so faintly. “Wolfram came to me almost two years ago and told me I would be the ruler of Amnon and the Rōmarq. It would bring me joy to know there were great days ahead for you. Leaving the Feyassin to form an alliance in marriage to an ally, perhaps?”
“There’s nobody on my horizon, Father.” Her thoughts strayed briefly to her nameless lover from last night. A dalliance only, no matter what girlish infatuation she felt in the echoes of passion. Mari studied her father. She had never thought he looked old until today. He was still young for an Avān, though in the uncertain light of the lanterns there seemed to be more gray in his hair. Deeper lines etched around the very dark shadows around his eyes. His brow was creased, ravines filled with too many thoughts, too many cares, and the darkness of his schemes. His face and brow were dewed with sweat. “Please reconsider. Is now the time for your ambitions? You’re ill! You should take better care of yourself.”
“My illness and my destiny seem to be entwined, Mariam.” Her father took her dry hands with his clammy ones. “The Erebus Dynasties ruled half a world during the Awakened Empire.”
“Until you became drunk on your own power,” Wolfram reminded him. “Your Ancestors were Mahj—Awakened Emperors—until they were led to ceremonial deaths—”
“By the Näsarat, who reclaimed the Jade Throne at our expense!” Corajidin slammed his fist into his palm. “Even now, six hundred years after the supposed fall of the Awakened Empire, a Näsarat Mahj still sits the Jade Throne in Mediin. We will not stumble this time. Your oracles promised me!”
“Oracles never promise anything, though I’ve seen some of what you say,” Wolfram agreed hesitantly. “The further away the future is, the harder it is to know. I’ve warned you against relying too much on the currents of the