Mage's Blood

by David Hair

  Olfuss looked up at the altar. ‘It was a big step for us, to take three Rondian magi into our midst, but when the Gorgio employed a Dorobon mage to spy for them, we had no choice but to follow suit, otherwise my every action would have been known to them. Still, magi are not loved here.’

  That’s the understatement of the century. It’s a toss-up who hates us the most – the Rimoni whose empire we destroyed, or the Keshi we invaded and enslaved.

  ‘My children love you, Ella. You are like one of our family. But I wonder, are you happy here? And do you love them in return?’ His eyes, serious now, met hers.

  She felt a sudden constriction of her throat as she gave a quick nod. ‘Of course, milord.’ That’s why leaving will hurt so much.

  Olfuss smiled. ‘Buona.’ He stroked her cheek, his old face crinkling into a grin. ‘Maybe we can find you a man, Ella. Then you will settle down with us and I can stop paying your Magister Gyle his exorbitant fee.’

  ‘Olfuss, has the chancellor been nagging you to tighten the purse-strings again?’

  He laughed, but didn’t look away. ‘Ella, we pay a lot of money every month for your services, and those of Sordell and Taguine. The money we spend on you is worthwhile. Those other two … I mislike them, and so I wish to employ you directly and dispense with those others. I will double your salary, and we will both win. What do you say?’

  She froze in surprise. A part of her leapt inside: to be free, to not have to leave – wasn’t that what she wanted? And damn Gurvon anyway! But what about Tesla? Her brother-in-law did what he could, but the tuition fees for their son were crippling. She had an immense amount of money awaiting her in Norostein; but if she resigned, she would never see a krone of it, she knew that for certain. And to bodyguard the Nesti on her own might be easy enough in peacetime, but the Moontide was coming …

  She became aware that she hadn’t responded with even a facial expression, that she had frozen solid. She looked apologetically at King Olfuss. ‘Milord, I’m honoured. Your offer is flattering, but if Gurvon took this ill …’ She frowned, calculating. ‘He has control of my life-savings, which amount to more than you can afford.’

  His eyes wrinkled as he took that in, then he reached out and patted her knee. ‘Donna Elena, there are more things in life than gold. We value you, Ella – you are one of us. You are Nesti.’ He grinned. ‘Or maybe Kestrian, if you’d let young Lorenzo have his way!’

  She seized on the change of subject. ‘Poor Lorenzo! He’s sweet, but I am here to do a job, milord. I’m not tempted.’

  ‘All business, as always, Ella,’ Olfuss said, a little sadly. ‘What sort of men tempt you, hmmm? Kings, maybe,’ he added with a sly smile.

  ‘Fadah would turn you into a castrato if you even looked at me!’ Elena laughed. He was not being serious, she knew that, but she appreciated the licence he permitted her.

  He grinned in response, looking for a moment like a mischievous teenager, but he sobered quickly. ‘Ella, we had news last night that Fadah’s sister Homeirah is failing fast. The growths in her belly are killing her, and Fadah must go to her at Forensa. Cera and Timori will accompany her. Solinde insists she must stay here for the ball, and who can deny her when she loves to dance so much? You must go with the children to Forensa, and Taguine will accompany you, to protect Fadah. You will stay until – well, until Homeirah is buried, I expect. I cannot go myself. Salim’s emissary has crossed the borders and I must be here to receive him.’

  Elena nodded, her mind racing ahead. What will Olfuss tell the emissary? Surely he will pledge to Salim. Perhaps that is why Gurvon is pulling out? Not doing so would put us on the wrong side of the Crusade. And that’s another reason why I can’t accept Olfuss’ offer …

  ‘I’m sure we can find a way that works for us all,’ Olfuss said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘We Javonesi have learnt that compromise is the greatest art of all. I will talk with Magister Gyle and we will find a way that benefits both.’ Olfuss stood, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Look after my children in Forensa, Donna Elena.’

  She nodded mutely, flushed with a sudden rush of emotion, as if blood were flowing through arteries that had fallen into disuse and filling her with unaccustomed feelings. She didn’t know what to say, how to deal with feelings she had long ago cauterised inside herself.

  Olfuss seemed to understand, for he limped away and closed the chapel door behind him, leaving her alone in the echoing silence.

  The rest of the day was a blur of religious observance as the Rimoni marked Samhain Eve with a court feast that culminated in traditional dances and hymns, then solemn midnight chanting about a bonfire as the drui led the prayers for Father Sol to guide them through the coming winter. Olfuss looked as regal as Sol himself, and Fadah was as darksome and mysterious as Luna, the Moon Goddess. Cera was clad in grey-silver and sang gently, whilst Solinde wore gold and glowed, a trail of besotted young men trailing in her wake. She danced most with Fernando Tolidi, a scion of the Gorgio, one of the few who had unbent enough to leave their northern fastness at Hytel to join the festivities in the capital. Typical Solinde, to chose the partner who would most vex the gathering – though Fernando was an impressive young man, and more personable than most of his clan. Solinde would no doubt scandalise the court by dancing with him again at tomorrow night’s grand ball.

  All of the important Rimoni families were here, but no Jhafi, who were still fasting on this last day of the Amteh Holy Month. Samhain celebrations were only observed by the Rimoni; the Jhafi’s own Eyeed festivities, much more lavish – and popular – would burst onto the streets tomorrow, and the combination of the two would turn the day into one giant party.

  Elena had been fascinated by the story of Javon. When the Leviathan Bridge opened, a few Rimoni crossed to trade, and found the climate and terrain in Ja’afar (which they called ‘Javon’) similar in places to Rimoni. They purchased land and experimented with olives and grapes and other crops from their home. Over the following years they thrived and their numbers swelled quickly as tens of thousands emigrated before the Crusades, trying to escape Rondian oppression in Yuros. Many compromises had averted war with the native Jhafi, and now the kingdom was a strong one. A guru from Lakh had brokered a peace that averted civil war, and his settlement included a compulsory mixture of blood for any potential rulers. It wasn’t popular – on either side – but the desire to avoid war was great, and the guru was deeply respected. In the end the leading families of both races agreed to mixed marriages and legislation to protect both Sollan and Amteh religions. Gradually a new, unique nation had evolved, a place Elena had learnt to love.

  Though she seldom danced for pleasure, she would occasionally, just to please the children. She had no desire to be quarrelled over by the single men. Lorenzo was watching her with worshipful eyes, but she left him well alone. As she held hands with Cera and Timori and sang the bonfire hymn at midnight, bidding the full glory of the Sun to return in the spring, she felt a warm glow inside that no liquor could have wrought. It felt suspiciously like happiness.

  All the while though she was conscious of Rutt Sordell’s sour features as he lounged against the wall, and dark-visaged Samir Taguine, drinking heavily with a scowl on his face. I’m with you, Olfuss. I can’t wait to see the back of that pair either.

  She walked the children and their nursemaid Borsa back to their floor of the keep. The old woman was well gone with Rimoni wine, but her feet were unerring. Solinde looked like she could have danced all night, but Timori was nearly asleep in Elena’s arms and Cera was blinking heavily.

  ‘I’m glad I’m staying,’ said Solinde. ‘I’d hate to miss Eyeed. And the ball tomorrow is going to be the best ever.’

  Cera shrugged. ‘At least one of us should go with Mother to see Tante Homeirah before she dies,’ she said sanctimoniously.

  Elena was reminded of her own sister. Tesla had been vivacious like Solinde, while Elena herself was quiet, like Cera. Perhaps it was why Cera was like the daughter
she’d never had, though instead of the woodlands and hills she’d explored as a child, Cera explored books and ideas.

  ‘Of course I wish I could come too,’ said Solinde quickly, not wanting to appear heartless, ‘but, you know …’

  Cera pulled a face. ‘Yes, I know: Fernando Tolidi this, Fernando Tolidi that—’

  ‘That’s not fair! I danced with everyone.’

  ‘Yes you did,’ Elena interjected, ‘but now it is time to sleep. Into bed, now!’

  She carried Timori to his own room whilst Borsa chased the two girls to theirs. Timori was nearly asleep, so she left him still clothed, pulled the coverlet over and kissed him goodnight. The little prince of Javon looked tiny in the huge bed, but his face was peaceful. Thick maroon candles perfumed the rooms with rose and cinnamon and the flames set the figures in the tapestries to flickering motion.

  In the girls’ room, Cera hugged her tightly, rolled over and seemed to fall instantly asleep, though the corner of a book could be seen peeking from beneath the bedclothes. Elena left it there. Solinde just waved her away, her mind still on the knights that had crowded about her like moths.

  Borsa was waiting in the lobby. She watched as always while Elena walked to the middle of the lobby and commenced resetting her gnostic protections. She lifted her hands in gentle gestures and a web of pale white lines appeared, woven into the walls, the ceiling, the floors, thickest about the door and windows. These were the wards she had created here, and once activated, only she and those people she had authorised could freely come and go. Others would be resisted; they could only enter if they were able to overcome the physical and mental stresses that the wards would bring to bear. It was not an impenetrable defence, but when allied with stone, locks and bars, it was effective against all but an attacker who was both very skilled and very determined.

  When she was done, Elena let her Inner Eye close and her powers diffuse. Borsa was looking at her calmly, used to these wonders by now. ‘The girls are happy tonight,’ the old nurse commented. ‘Solinde is growing up so fast.’

  ‘Too fast, maybe?’

  ‘Oh, not in a bad way. It is good that she is eager to marry, and she is a good girl. Cera could take her lead and be a little more open. She will have to marry first, but she hardly notices the young men.’ The old servant frowned. ‘You feed her too many books, Ella. She thinks too much and feels too little.’

  Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a little cruel, isn’t? She is a princess, and one day she will share the rule of one of the duchies, maybe even the whole kingdom. Far better if she knows how to think and how to reason.’

  ‘Her first duty will be to have children,’ Borsa replied, ‘and she must also be prepared for the life she will lead, not the one she’d like to lead.’

  Elena exhaled heavily. She’d heard this so many times herself when she was growing up. ‘Cera is intelligent, dutiful and courageous. She has a very gentle and caring side, you know that.’

  ‘Si, si, I know.’ Borsa pursed her lips. ‘I just find her a little cold, sometimes.’

  ‘I’ve never found her that way.’

  ‘But then, many here would say you are cold also,’ Borsa replied. ‘You Rondians come from cold places; you carry that in your hearts.’

  Elena opened her mouth crossly, then forced herself to close it again. Borsa had been here so long that she had licence to say what she liked, even to Rondian magi. ‘At home in Noros I’m considered the merriest soul at any party,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Really?’ Borsa asked.

  ‘No.’ She yawned ostentatiously. ‘I’m for bed.’

  ‘Anything to escape a nagging old woman, eh?’ Borsa remarked wryly and hugged her. Then she left and Elena was free to go to her own small room.

  A turmoil of thought tumbled about her head. Wear your gems.

  But I’m not ready to leave, Gurvon. I think this is where I belong.

  She thought about poor Tesla, half-mad, wasting away alone. She thought about Tesla’s husband, Vann Mercer, who she had wanted to hate, but liked instead. A courageous, considerate man, soldier-turned- trader, struggling to stay afloat in tough times. He was hoping his son Alaron, a quarter-blood mage, could rebuild the family fortunes. Elena recalled a thin boy with lank reddish hair and an argumentative nature. He would be graduating soon. She recalled her own graduation like yesterday: the handshake from the governor, and the grudging smile of Luc Batto as she took the girl’s weaponry prize. It had been an ending and a beginning for her.

  Good luck, Alaron. It is all before you.

  3

  The Standards of Noros

  The Magi

  Blessed are the Magi, the descendants of Corineus and the Blessed Three Hundred, divinely conceived and given dominion over earth and sky.

  THE BOOK OF KORE

  Shaitan, what hast thou wrought? Thou hast blighted the earth and sky with djinn and afreet, made demons crawl beneath our feet. Thou hast blasted the soil and poisoned the wells. And worst, thy evil hath been made flesh, in thy spawn the Rondian Magi.

  YAMEED UMAFI, CONVOCATION GODSPEAKER, 926

  Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

  Octen 927

  9 months until the Moontide

  Norostein, the capital of Noros, lay on a high mountain plateau north of the Alps, set beside a cold clear lake that covered half the old city, consigned to the depths when the municipal authority dammed the river to improve the water-supply. Some said there were ghosts below, in the flooded graveyards, old revenants that would drag the unwary down to their watery graves. On days when the lake levels were low and no rains had muddied it, you could see the old buildings in the deeps. But it was no such day today: rain had teemed in to spoil the Darklight celebrations, the religious festival that the Kore had put in place of the old Sollan holy day of Samhain. Torrential downpours flooded the plazas and extinguished many of the bonfires. Pitch-smeared torches sizzled sullenly.

  The bedraggled populace gathered before the cathedral, damply sweaty and red-eyed, awaiting the midday service. The mage-born would be allowed inside, but the commoners had to keep vigil in the square, praying as much that the rain would hold off as for divine favour. Pickpockets worked the crowds and drunks still reeling from the previous night’s celebrations pissed where they stood, usually about the heels of the person in front of them. Young men strutted about, eyeing the girls pretending not to be eyeing them. The crowd was a sea of pale flesh and greasy brown hair, white bonnets and green felt hats. Spontaneous choruses of traditional songs echoed about the plaza, songs of the Revolt, songs of the mountain kingdoms, old folk songs. Some harmless fights kept the Watchmen occupied. The air was laced with perspiration and beer, the smoke of the foodstalls blended with the drizzle, but the throng was in good humour.

  Inside the courtyard of the Town Hall, the gentry waited. In a few minutes, the governor would lead them in procession through the crowd to the cathedral. Awaiting him in the courtyard were the landowners, the richest of the merchants, and, first and foremost, the magi families of Norostein, not that there were many; Noros had never attracted many of the descendants of the Blessed, and the Revolt had taken a heavy toll. Now there were just some seventy adult magi gathered under awnings. A few of the young men were showing off, using gnosis-shields to keep off the rain, and one young woman was amusing her friends by conjuring watery creature-forms out of the drizzle. There was laughter in the air, but tension too: young magi were always seeking opportunities to dominate weaker rivals.

  A small bony youth with an olive complexion wormed his way through the courtyard, flicking wet black hair from his face. His colouring marked him as an outsider. The babble of voices and the heat of the packed bodies hit him like a wave, but he worked his way past the most boisterous of the young men without attracting undue attention. He peered into the darkest recesses of the courtyard to where the lightweights among the magi-children skulked and spotted the person he was looking for. He slid in beside a gangling
figure with a drip of water or snot hanging from a long thin nose. Lank red-brown hair was plastered to a pale, morose face.

  ‘Alaron,’ the swarthy newcomer greeted his fellow, dangling a small wicker basket full of steaming sweet dumplings under his friend’s dripping nose. They both wore the robes of Turm Zauberin, the all-male gnostic college of Norostein. ‘Three fennik it cost me! Rukka Hel – festival day prices!’ He took a dumpling and swallowed it whole, then thrust the basket at his friend. ‘Bloody merchants, eh?’ he added slyly.

  ‘Thanks, Ramon.’ Alaron Mercer grinned despite himself. His father Vann was a merchant himself; he could see him just a few yards away, chatting to Jostyn Weber. Alaron wolfed down a dumpling and looked around. ‘What a waste of time. The service will be at least three hours long, you realise.’

  ‘At least we’re inside,’ Ramon observed. ‘The commoners get stuck out here in the rain all afternoon – they can’t even sit down.’ He glanced around, looking like a ferret peering out from its burrow. Ramon Sensini was a secretive young man, the son of a Rondian mage (whose identity he’d never shared) and a Silacian tavern-girl. The Turm Zauberin gatekeepers had initially refused him entry, even though he’d funds enough to enrol, but he had shown the Principal a letter and that had got him in.

  As usual, Alaron had a bee in his bonnet over the festival. ‘Did you know that every Sollan festival has had some stupid Kore ritual put in its place? I mean, could they be more brazen? There isn’t even any evidence that the gnosis has anything to do with the Kore! And Johan Corin was actually born a Sollan worshipper! Why does no one remember that? I read in a book that—’

  ‘Alaron, shush! I agree, but it’s blasphemy.’ Ramon put a finger to his lips, then pointed at a girl not far away. ‘Hey, look, there’s Gina Weber. Aren’t you and she going to be betrothed?’

  ‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’