and shaped. Each chamber had a bond with the Deathless that used it, deepened by time and blood. The Ruby High Lord’s Gardener-smiths muttered to themselves when he arrived, clearly unhappy. It wasn’t ideal for him either, but as he had come alone, without entourage, he had no choice but to endure their moaning.
Half of the outer walls were made of glass, capturing and focusing the sunslight into the chamber, the other half was studded with rubies that the Gardener-smiths would harvest when ready. A section of the chamber had been hastily curtained off, no doubt to stop him from seeing the new armour they would be growing for the High Lord’s next lifecycle.
They fear that a glance from a Sapphire might taint the crystals somehow. Gardener-smiths are all the same, so fussy and superstitious. He knew that his own would be most unhappy that his armour was going to be touched by foreign hands.
For all that, when he stood in the ritual position, they moved quickly enough, and in a way that he recognized, taking each piece of his armour in turn, checking it for damage, before cleaning it and placing it carefully on a stand. Vasin never liked coming out of his armour, or, as he thought of it, coming down. The crystals had his blood in them, and were grown and regrown over the years just as his bodies were. When he wore it, he felt connected to his deeper self, and drew confidence and strength from it. He was elevated literally and spiritually.
Out of the armour, he felt a lesser being, like he was half-asleep. And when they unstrapped his Sky-legs, he immediately missed the sense of potency in his stride.
A bath followed, then food, drink and a sleep on scented cushions. Long flights were as exhilarating as they were exhausting. He awoke to a servant singing for permission to bring biscuits and water, and he stayed conscious just long enough to consume them before drifting back to sleep. By the time the message reached him that Lady Anuja had returned and awaited his company, the suns had set, and he felt refreshed.
He touched the ruby embedded in the nearby wall. It was warm under his fingertips, having bathed in the suns through the day. At his command it began to release the stored sunslight, illuminating the room and giving it a vermillion tint.
A servant sang for entry and was waved inside, Vasin taking an instant dislike to the way the man’s eyes darted over his things. A slightly irreverent tone of voice, too, no outright rudeness, but unmistakably souring, like a tiny piece of grit buried in a hunk of bread. The servant helped him dress, wrapping the silk tight on his arms, legs and body, before covering him with the long gown of deep blue that he’d brought. He hated that he did not know the servant. It made him feel vulnerable. What if this one is spying? They may just be displaying a fashionable dislike of the Sapphire, but what if they wish me ill? The thought was impossible to shake, particularly when the servant was touching his face with paint, and highlighting his eyes and lips in gold. It would be so simple to kill me. Poison on the face paint. A thrust of their brush into my eyesocket. I wonder if High Lord Yadavendra would be cruel enough to add such a death to my legend? I wonder if he would deign to bring me back at all?
Sixteen years ago he had been shocked to realize his own staff had been subverted and swapped for those loyal to his brother. The problem was sorted out, now, but it had left him suspicious of anyone he didn’t know. Unconsciously, the index and middle fingers of his right hand curled into a hook, ready to strike the servant at the first sign of anything threatening.
‘Does Lord Vasin wish me to do his cheeks?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘We have many visitors to the castle at present, all with different needs. Our Tanzanite guests have been dusting the cheeks, while the Opal favour bold dots. One of the Peridot Lords likes several small dots that give an angular rather than circular impression. It’s a new thing, so I’m told. I have not had the honour of serving any of the Sapphire. Would Lord Vasin be kind enough to direct me as to his fashions?’
‘The Peridot may have fashions, but Sapphire ways do not change.’ It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. The minor houses could be so strange, sometimes.
‘I see. Our own lords and ladies are the same. They only ever ask for the lightest brush upon their cheeks. What might the Sapphire way be, Lord Vasin?’
Having never been asked the question before it took him a moment to formulate an answer. ‘You know, accentuate the cheekbones, in a way that’s striking but elegant.’
‘The cheekbones. Yes, my lord. Anything else?’
‘Yes, of course there is.’ Though in that moment he couldn’t remember what it was. He was a Deathless, he shouldn’t have to think about things like this. ‘But that will do for now.’
‘Very good, Lord Vasin. Are we to be expecting any more of your noble house? Or any of your esteemed servants?’
He wants to know if it’s just me or if we’re sending more aid. Either the Ruby have become even more informal than I remember or this one is asking for a beating. ‘If any more of my kin are coming, you will be informed.’
Vasin put just enough disapproval into his tone that the servant carried out the rest of his preparations in silence. In another lifecycle I’d have struck him for his insolence. He took a moment to appreciate how his self-control had developed and ordered the servant to escort him to Lady Anuja. Not only did I not raise my hand, I didn’t even raise my voice. Mother would be proud.
Honoured Mother Chandni brushed her long hair, slowly, almost fearfully. The shutters on her window were closed, as they always were when she prepared herself, holding the room in a permanent state of grey.
Here, alone, she dared to consider how bad things were.
On the surface, all was well. Lord Rochant’s castle ran smoothly under her leadership, arguably better than it ever had. Many saw her as a hero, including High Lord Yadavendra. Thanks to her, Satyendra had been saved from assassination, and Lord Rochant’s line preserved.
Since then, under her guidance, Satyendra had grown into a fine young man, intelligent, quick, sharp eyed, a perfect vessel for the best of the Sapphire Deathless.
Except, Satyendra wasn’t perfect.
And she was no hero.
As if to prove the point, the brush caught in her hair, making her wince and curse her clumsiness. Will I never get used to using my left hand? She shot a glare at her right, sitting dead and useless in her lap. She could work the fingers, of course, even get them to hold the brush, but without feeling it was impossible to sense resistance or the shifting of the brush in her grip.
A tiny scar still remained from the assassin’s needle, a single white dot, innocent, in the centre of her palm. The poison from it had stolen all sensation, from the tips of her fingers to just below her bicep, and would have taken more had it not been for the quick thinking of Rochant’s cook, Roh, and Chandni’s own sacrifice to the Hunger Tree. On her right hand, the nails of her middle finger and thumb had never grown back.
Proof of my betrayal.
It was forbidden to deal with the Wild, but Chandni had done so twice.
The first time to stop the spread of the poison, an act of desperation. The second was even worse, an offer of
