The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,78

dim apparitions of orange-and-yellow carp idled in a large pond. Shar had decided to remain inside, where she assumed the role of troubadour for the evening. Indris could hear the jangling tones of her sonesette, as well as the breathiness of her voice raised in song. Ekko was with her. Indris doubted the ladies of Samyala had the chance to meet a Tau-se very often. As such Ekko had become something of a fascination to them. Hayden and Omen had left to scout out Indris’s residence and see whether it was being watched. They would find the opportunity to secretly enter, gather what was necessary for their journey, then return. Tonight would be a night of peace and—

“Am I disturbing you?” Mari’s voice thrilled him. He masked what he suspected might be an idiot grin before he turned to gesture to the seat beside him. She nodded in thanks as she seated herself.

“I’d heard you’d been brought here,” he said. “How do feel, Pah-Mariamejeh?”

“I’d prefer you called me Mari,” she offered with a lazy smile. “I feel the worse for wear, though better than I should given the circumstances. The Scholar Marshal is a gifted healer.”

“We both owe her a debt of gratitude. As for names? You’re right. I think we’re past formality, neh?”

Mari threw her head back and laughed. It was a low, throaty sound, rough edged and raw. She crossed very long, athletic legs. Looked at him from beneath her shaggy blonde fringe. “I knew you were trouble when I first set eyes on you. If I’d known how much, I’d have found you earlier.”

“If you’d known I was a Näsarat, would it have made a difference? I imagine your father would hardly approve.”

“Ha! If I thought you were half Seethe, it wouldn’t keep me away. Why would I care what Great House, family, or worker’s cottage you were born in? Would it have mattered to you if you knew I was an Erebus?”

Indris shrugged. “It doesn’t now, why would it then?”

“That’s the correct answer. You’re indeed as wise as they say.”

“Oh, that’s what they say, is it?”

She leaned against him. It was little more than the playful brush of her arm against his. There came the faint cucumberlike scent of comfrey oil rubbed into her skin. The heady smell of the jojoba in her hair. Gone almost as quickly as it came, it brought back the memory of shared passion. “They say a lot of other things, too. Good and bad.”

“Aah.” Indris rocked back on the chair to give himself some distance. His desire for her unsettled him. “There’s always the bad, isn’t there? I suppose that’s why you’re famous and I’m infamous?”

Mari snorted with good-natured derision. “I’m a daughter of the Great House of Erebus and you talk to me about infamy?”

“You’ve a reputation—”

“I can imagine.” Her tone was bitter. She looked away, eyes unfocused across the shimmering breadth of lantern-hazed Amnon.

“The definitions of ourselves aren’t always so clear-cut. Neither are our decisions.”

“Sometimes. It was my choice to work hard so I could succeed as a warrior-poet, rather than continue my education with the House of Pearl. I never wanted to become a trophy bride for my House’s advantage.” Laughter trilled across the night. Mari looked wistfully at the warmly glowing windows set in Samyala’s white marble walls. “Sometimes one wonders…”

“Doubts?”

“Almost never. You?”

Indris laughed. “My mother was Sēq, as well as being good friends with Femensetri and Far-ad-din. I was born in Mediin, in Pashrea, but raised in Amnon until I was five. I was sent to the Sēq Chapterhouse at Amarqa before my mother…was murdered. I even spent two years at the Nilvedic Libraries at Eshmir. And another two at the Zienni Monastery in High Arden. I’ve spent most of my life in public service. There wasn’t a great deal of choice in it.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t regret it.” He shrugged. “Much of the time. I’m daimahjin now, so the days of putting myself in danger at other people’s convenience are over. I’ve only myself to blame if I get killed now.”

Mari laughed, then sobered quickly. “You can lay some blame at my father’s feet this time. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes.” He drew out the word speculatively. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, or otherwise wounded more times than I care to count. I’ve yet to feel lucky about it.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

Corajidin had shot him with salt-forged steel. The black-rock salt caused what the Stone Witches, the earliest coven, called the Entropic Scar. Entropic Scars acted like boulders