Emperor u’Hadn had been a man who greatly mistrusted his subordinates, and so ruled his empire with an iron fist. Of the Sisters of Najihar, u’Hadn had hated and feared them the most, though he had no reason to do so. To him, the merest potential that they could serve as the spies of his enemies meant that they should be eradicated.
Prince Edaer Kilvar, before he became the First King of Aradan, had also had his troubles with Emperor u’Hadn, his uncle. Like u’Hadn, he saw the potential in the Sisters of Najihar’s collected wisdom, but they refused to aid him in his struggle to break free of the bonds of the empire … at least until Emperor u’Hadn began a campaign of annihilation against the near defenseless Isle of Rida, to which the sisters had fled soon after u’Hadn had grasped the reins of power in Geldain.
As the prospects for the survival of Rida and the Sisters of Najihar grew dimmer, Edaer’s offer became more palatable, and the sisters finally agreed to trade their abilities of gathering information for Edaer’s protection. As it happened, he had not needed their counsel then. But in the years after his rebellion caused the Suanahad Empire to fracture into scores of rival kingdoms, he wisely used their insights to build Aradan into a great and rich kingdom, so much so that it eventually rivaled the past glories of the fallen empire that had given it birth. Edaer ultimately convinced the Sisters of Najihar to secretly produce a number of spies from among their order, which he directed against his enemies. And so it had been for near on a thousand years between the Ivory Throne and the Sisters of Najihar.
Though she had been trained in all ways of her order, Ellonlef served the Ivory Throne strictly in the capacity of an advisor to Lord Marshal Otaker, having spent nine of an allotted ten year term. Nine years. Such a long time it seemed since she had gained the white robes commonly worn by her order. While she had learned much about Aradan in general, and the desolate border fortress and the man who commanded it in particular, she desperately longed to return to the rocky shores of home, to hear the cries of gulls gliding over the fish markets, to stride the twisting alleys and streets between the white-walled buildings and colorfully tiled roofs of Rida. But home had to wait a little while yet, as did the future husband that Mother Eulari had picked out for her.
Sadrin Corron was the man’s name and, not surprisingly on the Isle of Rida, he was a fisherman. Mother Eulari claimed the young man was kind, wise, and astonishingly fair to look upon. Ellonlef had no reason to doubt her mistress, nor did she fear the woman’s choice. Mother Eulari, among other talents, had a gift for choosing satisfying mates for her daughters. Among the Mothers of the Sisters of Najihar, that was a rare blessing indeed.
Another year at Krevar would feel like an eternity, but Ellonlef would be sad to go. After a fashion, she had made Krevar her home. When she came to the fortress, she had been excited by the prospect of all the new things she would learn; it had been a generation since one of her sisters had served here. Upon reflection, she understood why the writings of Sister Fira, the last woman to have resided at Krevar, had been so impossibly dry. The very aridness of the landscape seemed to desiccate all life and emotion and desire from the folk who populated the massive fortress and the surrounding wastelands. Even the constant Tureecian and Bashye threat, and the kingdom’s internal machinations, held little interest for the folk hereabout. To them, Ellonlef had deduced with a deep measure of sympathy, life was naught but sand and dust, followed by death. If the latter came sooner, so much the better.
The people of Krevar are as hard and uncaring as the scorched red stones that pave the desert floor, had been the first words she had written in her journal. She stood by those words, save that she now understood that, in their own way, the people cared deeply for each other, if for few others. All she would add to the original assessment was that there was also a deep, underlying anger in these people, and that discontent was rising. They felt abandoned by the Ivory Throne, and she could not disagree with that carefully buried sentiment.
Ellonlef stood, stretched up on her toes, then walked to the window overlooking the verge of land that separated the desert from the dull greenish line marking the edge of the Qaharadin Marshes. That narrow slip of terrain was a dreadful place of reeking bogs and quicksand, scrubby brush with long thorns, stinging insects beyond count, and all manner of creeping death. It was much worse within the marshes.
More than once she had accompanied Lord Marshal Otaker along Aradan’s western border from Krevar to Yuzikka to El’hadar and back, but never had she journeyed into the Qaharadin. One day she would, and in so doing would have the claim of being the first of her order to do so. That particular trek would come just before she returned home, likely in late winter, when it was not so blindingly hot. Though common folk believed Sisters of Najihar were trained mainly to study, give counsel, and serve as healers, the truth was that they were adept in everything from history to warfare to personal combat. A Sister of Najihar could take care of herself in nearly all situations, and the order rarely produced fools. Ellonlef did not count herself a fool, and surely not enough of one to leap at the chance of going blindly into the Qaharadin.
A breeze, dry as crypt bones, with just a hint of the day’s coming heat, rustled the pages of her journal. She lifted her face to the desert’s breath, eyes lidded. Through long lashes, she noted the moons again, and felt a tickle of dismay wriggle up her spine. Opening her eyes, her heart leapt into the back of her throat. A trembling hand crept to her neck, a cry of shock fighting to get past her clenched teeth.
The eye formed by the Three was rapidly changing. Memokk was sinking into the breadth of Hiphkos, and the edges of the amber moon had become a dark red-and-black aura. All across its face jagged lines were spreading, like cracks in an eggshell. By heartbeats, Attandaeus fell into the combined crumbling girth of Memokk and Hiphkos.
Far below and behind Krevar’s protective wall, others began to notice what Ellonlef was witnessing. At first only a few frightened voices rang out, then more, as the denizens of Krevar became aware that something terrible was happening. As the faces of the Three became a solid mass of what could be nothing less than fire and ash, men’s shouts and women’s screams mingled horribly.
“This cannot be,” Ellonlef said, her voice harsh with disbelief.
Something at the periphery of her vision caught her attention. On the far side of the world it seemed, a filament of blue light lanced skyward. Almost as soon as seen, it vanished. Then came a violent quaking. Out in the desert a crack split the land, rapidly spreading south toward the fortress. As it widened and lengthened, the shuddering of the earth increased, and dust churned into a rising wall. The crevasse slashed across a road, swallowing a shrieking crofter, his vegetable cart, and team of lowing oxen.
As the world broke far below Ellonlef’s perch with a snarl of rupturing stone, her hands dropped to the sandstone sill and held on for dear life. The grinding sound filled her mind and body, made her teeth ache and her eyes water. Like a blow from a titan’s axe, the gaping wound in the earth opened under the fortress’s northern wall and continued across the enclosed town, scattering terrorized folk, and consuming others. A heartbeat later, that section of Krevar’s wall folded in on itself. Sandstone blocks the size of houses shattered and crumbled, falling down and down. A yellowish gray dust cloud billowed upward, quickly obscuring the destruction. The Sister’s tower shivered like a dying animal, then began listing sideways. Ellonlef screamed, but her voice was lost under the weight of the earth’s terrible, stony cry.
A year! she thought wildly. Just a year left-