The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,70
she had felt the strikes to her body and limbs, the pain of impact in her wrists and feet, knees and elbows, her shoulders, as she had struck blow after blow while the sand became stained with rust—she had managed to find a quiet place. Her breathing had become her center. Time had become meaningless. According to the Sēq, all things existed in a single shared moment. Her moment was one of agony.
Had she walked from the training ground? She remembered Qamran’s expression, torn between admiration and contempt. There was a recollection of walking. A fugue haze of concentration. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. The color had faded from the world. Everything had been shades of gray or vivid white where the light played in contrast to the bottomless pitch of shadows. Her head had felt like it was filled with wool. She was uncertain when she had accepted the invitation to the warm velvet of unconsciousness.
Mari’s eyes cracked open. They felt gritty. Sore. As if she had been crying in her sleep. Vivid brightness shone through a patterned shutter. A butterfly-drake prowled the foliage of a potted weeping fig tree, its translucent wings half-furled against the iridescent bronze-yellow scales of its body.
She pressed her face deeper into the lavender-scented sheets. They were a rich cotton, soft against her skin. Her fingertips tingled. She felt the constriction of bandages about her torso, her right wrist, and shin. Mari felt the distant echo of a pain she knew should have been far worse than it was. She had been healed often enough by scholars to suspect what had happened. The questions were: How had she been brought to wherever she was, how long had she been there, and who had healed her?
Mari sat up. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence when there was no pain. She poured herself a goblet of water, quietly satisfied to see her hands did not shake.
A robe had been folded on the bed. Mari wrapped it around herself and padded across the plush rugs on the floor to open the door of her room.
The corridor outside was cool and quiet. Oil lanterns burned on small wrought-metal frames on the wall. The gleaming floorboards were bleached to a near white. Tall vases were spaced on narrow tables, the flowers carefully arranged in subdued colors. In the distance a clock chimed brightly, once for the half hour.
She came to a wide entryway, which led into a high-ceilinged room hung with lengths of pale-yellow and white silk, as if the room were actually a large marquee. One wall was dominated by stained-glass doors that had been opened to the sun-drenched garden beyond. A small stream flowed down a formation of worn red stone into a series of narrow ponds, where black swans drifted on the water’s mirrored surface. The perfume of lavender and gardenia drifted about her.
People were gathered on wide couches around a table of blue-green quartz. Ziaire sat at the far end of the table, exquisite in repose. Femensetri sat slumped in her chair, booted heels on the table, crook nestled up against one shoulder. Nazarafine leaned forward to pour herself tea from a large iron pot. She reminded Mari of a favored aunt, ample and red-cheeked. Siamak of the Family Bey, the marshland sayf with the muscles of a blacksmith, sat darkly tanned in his worn oranges and browns. The last person was a Tau-se male in a loose jerkin and kilt of plain felt. His long mane glittered with silver and gold fortune coins, while bracelets of gold and polished lapis beads encircled his wrists. His tail swished idly. Kembe, the High Patriarch of the Tau-se prides.
Ziaire caught sight of Mari and gestured for her to join them. There were a few moments of awkwardness as she took her place among some of the most influential names in Shrīan: names who had made no secret of their antipathy for the Great House of Erebus.
“Your Feyassin comrades bid you something less than a fond farewell,” Femensetri croaked. “Was your father such a gold-dipped bastard he ordered you back to them?”
“Setri!” Nazarafine admonished. The Speaker for the People poured a cup of tea, which Mari took gratefully. “I doubt Mariam appreciates you talking about her father.”
“Why?” The Stormbringer narrowed one opal eye at the Speaker.
“I’ll leave you to your discussions, so I won’t hear anything else sende requires me to shed blood for…” Mari rose from her chair. She swayed, light-headed.