Narseh

Only a couple of days after the envoys departed from Eranshahr, Narseh realized that he had forgotten to tell Ardashir about an odd little conversation he had with Khosrow after the meeting of clan leaders. He had been somewhat reassured by the Prince’s words that Justin would not die during the negotiations — which meant Narseh’s worries were unfounded, right? The negotiations would go as planned...

Moreover, he hadn’t figured out how to even bring it up. “You see, my Prince, Khosrow of the Rubythroats expressed his condolences to me regarding the massacre of the Kestrel clan in a kindred way and, well, he keeps his thoughts unusually well-guarded...?” Like that?

Narseh knew that excessive secrecy could be attributed to many, including himself. Firstly, because of Ardashir’s leniency toward non-Arya, many foreigners, like Justin, had settled on the Owl clan’s land. Not all of them were unrolled scrolls — some people could hide their thoughts very well even without having any connection to the Other Side — but many were exactly that, and what was written in those scrolls was often something Narseh would have preferred never to read at all. The more foreigners that arrived in Eranshahr, the more often Arya would shield their minds — not because they wanted to hide their intentions, but simply to avoid seeing too much themselves...

And secondly, Narseh had long ceased to be the smiling, open-hearted youth of the Kestrel clan, eager to embrace all aspects of humanity. The war had scarred the souls of many Arya. Almost everyone had lost relatives, friends, or loved ones, and even those who had only been in battle once could no longer sleep without nightmares. But others had not completely surrendered themselves to the Other Side as Narseh once had. And he wasn’t sure that the thoughts that sometimes came to him were worth letting others hear. Like the time he saw the scar on the Prince’s neck and realized he would have killed Anahita with his own hands without hesitation. It was no coincidence that the Kestrel clan had a law: anyone who surrendered their soul to the Other Side, even if it was somehow returned to their body, could not be allowed to live...

It was no surprise that Khosrow found Narseh’s guardedness suspicious. Narseh would have thought the same in his place.

But indeed, if he were Khosrow — and assuming Khosrow was plotting a rebellion (though it would be not only despicable but awfully stupid) — who else in Eranshahr might seem disinterested in peace? There's Ormizd, for example. He also always avoided mental contact. Or Mandana, who had lost both her sons in the war. Perhaps Kurosh... None of them seemed particularly enthusiastic about the upcoming negotiations and were clearly angered by Anahita’s death...

Let’s assume Khosrow — or someone else — had spoken to them the way he spoke to Narseh, and they didn’t say "no"... What then?

In the following days, as worry gnawed at him, Narseh decided to observe all three of them and even visited their homes in their absence. Their behavior revealed nothing suspicious—but in Kurosh’s house, Narseh saw a suit of armor that had recently been repaired or refurbished.

That was the moment he should have gone to Ardashir and told him everything. But Narseh was still not entirely sure and hesitated, the fool that he was.

On the evening of the third day, the envoys were supposed to reach Iron Pass. A night of rest — and the meeting with the Bizanth ambassadors would take place in the morning. If everything went as planned, they would soon return with good news.

That night, Narseh couldn’t sleep. It alternated between being too cold and too stifling, and the blankets felt stale despite being washed as often as possible. The moonlight pouring through the skylight in the ceiling was too bright; he tossed and turned, drifting in and out of half-sleep. Finally, frustrated with himself, he got out of bed and dressed.

Narseh always wore three rings on each hand; after some thought, he added another one to each side. Once, Prince Ardashir had designed these eight rings for him from something that only appeared to be cold-forged black iron — Narseh hadn’t wanted to ask what it truly was. The rings worked like the nets, chains, collars, and chrismon pendants of the hated Bizantines: they severed the connection to the Other Side. But the rings operated in stages. Six were usually enough to use mainyu and perceive the world as living, as Arya did. If healing required the intervention of the farn, Narseh would leave four. If he needed to fight — which hadn’t happened since he started wearing these rings — he would remove two more. The last two rings Narseh was never to remove.

The eight rings clamped down on him with a disgusting, suffocating sense of helplessness and disconnection from the world. But now his twin was hidden from any prying eyes.

Narseh became completely invisible... and the shame of it burned him, even though he planned no wrongdoing. He just needed to check... what exactly? Did he truly intend to skulk through the city at night and peer into others’ homes like... a thief — a word from Bizanth, for the Arya had no concept of such a thing? They had no doors or locks. The very idea of coveting another’s possessions was utterly alien: if your skills and knowledge allowed, you would eventually create or acquire what you wanted. If they didn’t, it only meant you had to grow...

And yet — yes, that was exactly what he was about to do: skulk through the city and peer into others’ homes.

He slipped out onto the street and quietly made his way to Ormizd’s grotto. Because of the extra pair of rings, he could no longer see the Other Side’s shimmering shadow, so from a distance, he couldn’t tell if anyone was inside the grotto. He would have to look with his own eyes. Loathing himself, Narseh silently entered.

The house was empty, and the bed looked as though its owner hadn’t slept in it tonight.

Well, so what? Narseh told himself. This means nothing. Ormizd could be out on a night hunt. And not everyone sleeps in their own grotto — he likely has bedmates...

Yet his legs, defying reason, carried him quickly toward Mandana’s grotto. It was dark, but even before entering — damn it, how hard it was to be half-blind! Do ordinary humans always feel this way? — he heard faint voices inside.

As far as he knew, Mandana lived alone. The woman who used to be her grotto companion had died, as had her sons. Yet there were two voices. They seemed to be arguing. Narseh began creeping into the grotto, hoping to catch their conversation...

He wasn’t very good at eavesdropping. Narseh tried to move as silently as he would on a hunt, and his twin was hidden by the additional rings, and his thoughts were tightly closed — but still, he must have done something wrong. The conversation abruptly stopped. A moment later, a shadow loomed in front of him. It was... It was that man, Khosrow from the Rubythroat clan.

"You!.. Have you changed your mind after all, kinsman?" Khosrow said with a smirk.

"No!" Narseh exclaimed indignantly. "What are you doing here? What are you planning?"

"No?" Khosrow shook his head irritably. "Fine, it doesn’t matter. There’s no time. You’re coming with me."

Narseh didn’t even have time to react — Khosrow grabbed him by the shoulders and...

A twin on the Other Side might resemble its owner from This Side, or it might not resemble anything at all. But the farn of an Arya was always unmistakably a part of them. When Prince Ardashir transported Narseh through the Other Side, the world folded and unfolded like a scroll, always leaving him breathless. This time, it felt like being dragged through thorny bushes, stripping away all his skin.

Narseh didn’t even need to look around at the unfamiliar mountains rising around him to realize he was at Iron Pass.

There was a battle raging.

And as the pain of the transition subsided enough for Narseh to straighten up, and the nausea-inducing blur before his eyes began to clear, he was seized with horror: Arya were fighting Arya. Huge black shadows of dark twins tore into one another. It was impossible to tell who was who: Narseh hadn’t fought anyone since avenging Juniper Land, so he had never seen the fravashis of those he now lived among, except for the Prince’s.

Khosrow had not yet switched places with his twin. He was pale and looked as though he had been climbing a mountain under the noonday sun for an hour: bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. For a moment, a faint darkness clouded his vision, but it quickly passed. He must have transported several people here before Narseh — there was no strength left for battle.

A shape resembling a giant, swift spider glided toward them and turned into Roxhana.

"Is that… Narseh?!" she exclaimed. "Why did you bring him? You were supposed to bring Mandana!"

"Mandana chickened out! And what else was I supposed to do with him? One more moment and he’d have called the whole city for help!"

It was an excellent point, and Narseh cursed himself for not thinking of it first.

"Now they’ll converge on Mandana’s mainyu!" Roxhana continued angrily.

"Mandana won’t tell the Prince anything — she’s not suicidal," Khosrow countered, though without much confidence. "If you care so much, take her yourself. I’m too drained — but she won’t be of any use!"

Rokshana gave Narse an irritated look.

"As if he’ll be of much use... He’s as loyal to Ardashir as a dog!"

Roxhana... Narseh’s heart felt as though it was clutched in claws. They hadn’t been friends, but from what he’d known of her, she was generous, honest, and fiercely brave.

Almost like Anahita.

What a fool he was not to realize that for such a plan to work, the rebel would first need to conspire with one of the envoys. With the only one of them who possessed the skill to leap through the Other Side!

"I never expected you to use those words as an insult, Roxhana," Narseh said. "You were once loyal to the Prince, too. What’s it like — to be a traitor?"

By now, he had more or less made sense of what was happening: some twins were protecting a group of people huddled in a corner of the courtyard — likely the unfortunate Bizanth delegation and the residents of Iron Pass. Many of them were unconscious; some were already torn apart by the twins, while others were still intact, like the terrifyingly thin and pale young man in a blood-red dress lying nearby. But he also was clearly, hopelessly dead.

It was like a fever dream: fravashi protecting Bizantines... No, of course, dark twins could not willingly protect anyone — the Other Side unleashed on This Side was capable only of ripping and destroying. But the Arya controlled them, preventing them from attacking these unfortunate souls and allowing them to fight only their own kind. This was how Narseh identified the envoys of Prince Ardashir.

But where was Justin?