The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,79
in a stream. They literally scarred the energies in a person’s body and had the potential to be life threatening. For the Ilhennim—the Illuminated, or mystics—the effects could be devastating. Yet somehow Indris had managed to survive, though for the life of him could not remember how or why.
Ever since Indris had returned from the Spines with Changeling, he had been physically and mentally stronger than at any point in his life. He healed more rapidly. Thought more rapidly. Then there was his left eye, his jhi—the stigma of power—something rarely seen in mystics since the early days of the Awakened Empire. His eye looked normal most of the time, but when he channeled floods of disentropy, or was threatened, something woke inside him. A strength that had not been there before he went to the Spines. Something happened to him in the three years he was with the Dragons, though he remembered almost none of it. He knew he had arrived, had spoken with the Dragon Sage Mnesseranssuen, and had been asked to fulfill a quest on their behalf. What the quest was, or what else happened to him at the Spines, was lost. No matter what he had tried, the memories of his time with the Dragons were locked away so deep he could not find them.
“So your father tried to kill me,” he mused. Indris shook his head then grinned at her. “Should I feel special?”
She shook her head with a rueful chuckle.
Ziaire had told Indris what Mari had gone through at the hands of the Feyassin. Indris had been moved by her attempt at contrition, though it would never undo her betrayal. It was always such with the Great Houses, treachery and centuries of bloodshed and none of it forgotten, since an Awakened rahn dwelled with the memories of those who had come before. Vashne, like any politician or member of the upper castes, lived a life of compromise, of easily explained pragmatism. Vashne had understood the risks he took when he assumed high office. He had to have known his decisions, his opinions, even the deeds of his Ancestors, might come home to roost one day. Even so, Vashne had been more principled, more of a visionary, than most of his peers. Everybody had flaws. Despite his, Vashne had been a well-loved and respected Asrahn. Ariskander had been his probable successor. Ariskander, too, was a good man, as such things went. Indris felt his uncle’s loss keenly, though part of him had become inured to death in all his years of service. It was almost as if he expected everybody he knew to die before their time.
“You knew Vashne well?” Mari asked.
“As well as he could be known.” Indris shrugged. “Which is to say I knew of him what he wanted to share. Maybe a little more.”
“I could have stopped it, you know.” Her voice cracked. “He was a good Asrahn and deserved better than what I gave. I should’ve died with the other Feyassin, as was my sworn duty.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked, voice gentle to take the sting of the question away. “And why the change of heart?”
“I’ve lived with secrets and lies and plots for most of my life,” Mari confessed. “I know the price of betrayal. When Ziaire and the others offered me their hand…I wondered whether I could talk to them about what I knew. Betrayal on top of betrayal, wondering whether there was an end to it. But I owed Vashne and his family the truth. More, if I’m able. I allowed him to be killed! I could have, should have—”
“Would have? To what end, once his downfall was already written? The same can be said of Ariskander. Your role isn’t over yet. Mari, your death would’ve achieved little. By staying alive you’ve helped those who want to see justice served.” Indris took both her hands in his. They were warm. The skin was calloused over ridges of hard muscle. The hands of a killer. Yet her eyes under her messy blonde hair were troubled as the sea during a storm. He smiled at her reassuringly. “Obligation and guilt are something I’m well acquainted with. Probably more so than is healthy. An Asrahn should put the interests of their people before all. Would Corajidin do that? No offense, but I doubt it.”
“How can I help?” Mari averted her eyes. She rubbed Indris’s palm with strong fingers. He did not want her to stop.