The Thousand Names

Epilogue

JAFFA

The Seal of the Grand Justice of Ashe-Katarion was a heavy, unwieldy thing, all carved marble and gold leaf. It spent most of its time in a steel lockbox at the back of Jaffa’s office, and he sealed his day-to-day correspondence with an ordinary wooden stamp. Tradition dictated that the official seal be used on a few occasions, however, and one of those was to adorn the Grand Justice’s letter of resignation. Jaffa let the gray wax drip onto the paper, waited a few moments, then awkwardly pressed the massive seal home. It left the rearing-scorpion symbol of the prince, with a decorative border of eyes that marked the Justices.

And that was the end. The job to which he’d dedicated his adult life was over. Jaffa-dan-Iln sat back in his padded chair, with the loose, squeaky armrest he’d never gotten around to fixing, and let out a long sigh.

The gatehouse bustled around him with unparalleled activity. The prince’s agents had been busy, hiring new men and promoting those who’d remained loyal during the Redemption. Those who had switched sides were being eased out. Not too ostentatiously, of course. The Vordanai commander had expressed his confidence in the Justices, and Jaffa probably had that to thank for the fact that he hadn’t been marched to a public execution as soon as the prince felt secure. But the last missive from the Palace had left no doubt as to what was expected of him.

For Jaffa, it hardly mattered. Mother was gone, vanished into the Great Desol, and with her the cause of Heaven that he had come to so late and so fervently. His newfound certainty had vanished with her.

There will be a sign. There must be a sign.

He had decided that he would try to find her. Pointless, of course, given the extent of the Desol, but at least it was a direction. He would take as much food and water as a good horse could carry, and set out into the desert. Either the Heavens would guide him, or he would leave one more set of dusty bones under the dunes.

When he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood, sand crunched under his boots. He frowned, tossed the sealed letter on his desk, and crossed the room. His official sword belt and truncheon hung from a peg behind the door, and his fingers brushed the leather before he realized he wouldn’t need them. They belonged to the prince, after all.

Something whispered through the little office. It was in the depths of the gatehouse, far from any openings to the outdoors, but it nonetheless seemed to Jaffa that he felt a faint breath of air. The great logbook of the Justices, lying open on a side table, fluttered its pages slowly, like a lazy bird. Jaffa took a breath and tasted the hot, arid wind of the desert.

There was sand everywhere. Not just on the floor, where someone might have carelessly tracked it, but on his desk and on the bookcases. It was moving, grain by grain, tiny flecks tumbling over and over as though caught in the wind. A patch of gray and brown collected in the center of the room, rose into a little pyramid, and started to grow.

Jaffa fell to his knees and lowered his head. The pile of sand grew larger, accompanied by the keening of the desert wind. As it widened, it took on shape, forming first a rough-hewn mannequin and then a recognizable human form. It was a young woman, naked and beautiful, with skin that turned smooth but remained the mottled colors of the desert. Her eyes were two chips of obsidian, black and so glossy the candles around the room glowed in their depths like distant stars.

“Jaffa,” she said. Her voice was a dusty creak, a hiss from the depths of the Desol.

“Mother,” Jaffa said, and bowed lower, until his forehead touched the floor.

“They have all failed me,” Mother said. “All but you.”

“I will never fail you.”

“I know. Rise, Jaffa.”

He got to his feet. She strode closer, mottled patterns shifting under her skin. He wondered what would happen if he touched her-if her skin would be as smooth as glass, or if his hand would pass through her like an oar through water. Her full lips twitched in what might have been a smile.

“I have a gift for you,” she said in her ancient voice. She pressed one hand to her stomach, the flowing sand of her fingers melting into her belly as though she were rummaging in her own innards. She withdrew an object, skittering grains rippling around it like water. Its surface glistened as if it had been oiled.

Jaffa took it from her outstretched hand. It was a blank mask of raw steel with two rectangular holes for eyes. Jaffa hefted it in his hand, feeling the weight of it.

“What would you have me do?”

A ripple passed across Mother’s face, like the crest of a dune shifting in the breeze.

“First,” she said, “you must find us a ship.”