Bound to the Eye (World of Ghost Exile Book 5)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “To be free of this imprisonment,” she whispered, “to be free at last.”

  “You are a slave?” said Morgant.

  “I was free before mortal men ever walked this world,” said Shalifa, tears rising in her eyes. “I danced through the desert winds and spoke with the burning sun and the freezing moon. Then Azif found me.” Her face twisted in hate. “He bound me to his accursed Eye. Since then I have been slave to his whims. He sends me to slay his enemies, and I obey. He commands me to slake his lusts, to humiliate myself before him, and I must obey. I loathe him!”

  “You would be free of him?” said Morgant.

  Shalifa tensed. “I must go. He will punish me.”

  “Wait!” said Morgant.

  She vanished, leaving him alone. Morgant tried to focus his will, tried to follow her.

  He had a brief vision of a ramshackle inn slouching in Istarinmul’s slums, its wooden walls splintered and crackled. He glimpsed Shalifa through a window, kneeling before Auraelis’s pet occultist, her shoulders shaking with fear. The occultist reached down and struck her across the face, and Morgant felt a surge of rage…

  ###

  Morgant awoke with a groan, lying flat on his back in the alley. His muscles ached, and for a moment he could do nothing but lie on his back and twitch. Some time and much concentration later, he managed to stop the shaking and climb to his feet.

  “The inn,” he muttered. He knew the inn he had seen in his dreams. It was called the Dire Haven, a den of thieves and whores. Auraelis and Azif must have taken refuge there. They would only need to wait as Shalifa drained away his life. After she had finished, they could emerge, take his head, and claim the reward.

  Morgant managed a grin, though it made his face hurt.

  He took a step forward, then another, and another, moving towards the Dire Haven.

  ###

  The place stank. Though Morgant suppose he stank as well. He would pass unnoticed among the Dire Haven’s denizens.

  The inn had a common room filled with trestle tables. Men in ragged cloaks sat over drinks and food, watching each other with hooded eyes. Most kept one hand inside their filthy garments, no doubt clutching a knife or a dagger. Morgant bought a cup of brandy and leaned in a corner. The drink helped steady his hands, ease some of the fog filling his mind.

  He listened. Some rich young lord, it seemed, had rented the inn’s entire top floor. Speculation about his activities abounded. One rogue thought the young lord planned to kidnap every pretty girl in the slums and sell them to the slavers’ brotherhood. Another thief opined that the young lord was a sorcerer, or in league with sorcerers, and had rented the floor to perform a dark and terrible spell in secret.

  Morgant had heard enough. He climbed the stairs, hand keeping a firm grip on the rail, lest the dizziness send him plunging to the floor. He heard a cacophony of sound coming from the inn’s rooms, groaning, thumping, and the occasional curse.

  As he reached the top floor, the noises faded away. A simple lock held the door shut, but it still took Morgant’s aching fingers three tries to pick it. He stepped into a deserted hallway, light streaming from a doorway at the far end. Morgant started towards it, managing to move with some stealth, and stopped as voices reached him.

  “It’s taking too long, I say,” said a voice. It was Auraelis. “Too long. He should be dead by now. Suppose he has obtained some sort of arcane protection?”

  “Fear not,” said an old man’s quavering voice. “He is stronger than most. It is to be expected. Yet he will die in the end, as they always do.” He wheezed laughter. “My Shalifa is a useful pet, no?”

  “She’d best be, Azif,” said Auraelis. “I’m paying you enough.”

  “Bah,” said Azif. “There is no reward, no profit, without risk. Think of the rewards you will gain with this assassin’s head. And look at me. The foundation of my fortune is pretty little Shalifa, imprisoned in this ruby Eye. I took such risks to capture her. Yet now I am wealthy and respected.”

  “Perhaps it is as you say,” said Auraelis.

  Morgant slipped a dagger from his belt. Auraelis and Azif did not expect trouble. He could ambush them, kill one before they reacted. Morgant decided on Auraelis. With his patron dead, Azif would most likely lose interest. If not, Morgant would just have to kill him, too.

  Morgant closed his eyes, trying to still his shaking hands. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and sprang into the room.

  Auraelis stood by the window, pacing, while old Azif sat at a table, a glass of wine in his hand. The uncut ruby, the Eye, hung from its chain around his neck. Auraelis turned and gaped. Azif sputtered and almost dropped his wineglass.

  Morgant flung the dagger with as much force as he could muster. It jerked from his fingers, bounced off the table, and clattered to the floor. Auraelis and Azif stared at him, at the dagger, and then back at him.

  “Damnation,” croaked Morgant. A wave of dizziness washed over him. It was all he could do to keep from falling on his face.

  “You said he couldn’t track us here!” said Auraelis, yanking his longsword from its scabbard.

  “Shalifa, damn her,” said Azif, taking another sip of wine. “She must have let him know. Treacherous little bitch.” He smiled in anticipation. “I’ll have to discipline her for that.”

  “Kill him!” said Auraelis, almost shrieking. “Use a spell, kill him now!”

  “I’m not being paid for that,” said Azif.

  For a moment Morgant could not believe that such a pair of utter fools had brought him to the brink of death.

  “Besides,” continued Azif, “look at him. He can barely stand on his feet. Do you think he can possibly kill us in such a state? Kill him yourself. Then you can claim the glory of having defeated the great Morgant the Razor in battle.” He took another sip of wine. “I still get full payment, though.”

  “Yes,” said Auraelis, smirking. “Yes, indeed. I rather like that.” He advanced, his longsword raised in guard. Morgant growled another curse and managed to get his crimson scimitar free from its scabbard.

  Auraelis’s feinting thrust and following swing were crude. Yet Morgant could scarce get his scimitar up in time to block. Any other time he could have killed Auraelis in a heartbeat. Now his vision blurred and doubled, his head spun, and his hands threatened to drop his scimitar.

  Auraelis reversed his swing. Morgant saw it coming, but could neither dodge nor block in time. The young lord’s pommel connected with Morgant’s forehead. Morgant stumbled back, his head ringing from the blow.

  “You’ll make me rich, assassin,” said Auraelis. “I wonder how many bounties rest on your head in Istarinmul alone. Lord Commander of the Imperial Guard? Bah! I’ll be a Lord Governor before I’m finished, maybe even a member of the Imperial Curia.” He kicked Morgant in the gut. Morgant grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling. Azif watched with amused interest, the ruby Eye sliding against his white robe.

  The gemstone caught Morgant’s eye.

  Then Auraelis’s longsword exploded through Morgant’s stomach. Pain blasted through him, a gurgling scream bubbling from his lips.

  “Damnation,” said Azif, “you’ve gotten blood on my robes.”

  Morgant stumbled, toppled, and snatched the Eye from Azif’s chest. He fell back against the wall, his tunic soaked with blood. Auraelis raised his blade for the kill and stopped when he saw the gemstone in Morgant’s hand.

  “He’s got the Eye!” said Auraelis.

  Azif laughed long and hard. “My dear sir, pray, just what do you plan to do with that? Do you think to call my pet djinn to your aid? The spells binding her to the stone are such that I, and only I, may command her. The best course for you, I believe, is to simply die with some dignity.”

  Morgant managed a grin, blood trickling down his chin. “You didn’t listen,” he whispered. He dropped the Eye to the floor, underneath his sword hand. “I told you. I claim no right to hold anyone as a slave.”

  He brought
his scimitar up, and with all his remaining strength, hammered its pommel on the Eye.

  “Stop!” shrieked Azif, his smug mask vanishing. “Stop! What are you doing? Stop at once!”

  Morgant felt something tear within his gut, but brought the pommel down again. The Eye’s gold setting bent, a crack showing in the stone itself. Morgant slammed the pommel down again. His vision began to gray out.

  Yet the Eye cracked as Azif wailed and clawed to his feet.

  A heat filled the room, like the blasting sun of the desert, and for a moment Morgant had a brief vision of endless sand dunes, gleaming like piled gold. There was a flash of ruby light. Shalifa stood in the middle of the room, resplendent in a golden gown, her eyes blazing with scorching fire.

  “Free!” she said. “I am free!” Shalifa knelt, cupped her hand behind Morgant’s head, and kissed him, his blood rubbing against her lips. A blast of heat and strength shot through him, the pain vanishing. She pulled back and smiled at him, her eyes full of such joy that Morgant’s heart soared as it never had in his life.

  Azif gibbered in terror and shuffled towards the door.

  “And you, my master,” spat Shalifa, rising. “You took so many embraces from me. I shall give you one more, as a parting gift.”

  “No!” said Azif, throwing up his thin arms. “No, please, I beg, mercy, mercy…”

  She pulled him close. Azif wailed and pawed at her arms. Shalifa pressed her mouth against his, cutting off his screams, and kissed him.

  Azif began to shake, his eyes bulging. His skin withered like burning paper, and his eyes shriveled and vanished. His robes crumbled away as his body shrank to a skin-draped skeleton. Shalifa sneered and threw it away, the dusty bones rolling away across the floor.

  She smiled at Morgant once more and vanished.

  Morgant sprang to his feet with ease. The pain had vanished, and the wound in his stomach had healed. The dizziness and sickness had passed. He felt himself again. In fact, he felt better than he had in years. It seemed Shalifa had given him back what she had taken.

  Auraelis howled in fear and fury and charged, longsword swinging. Morgant ducked, sidestepped, and slashed his scimitar.

  Auraelis’s head flew in a graceful arc from his shoulders, hit the wall, and rolled away. His longsword clattered against the floor, and Morgant looked down and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished steel.

  “By all the gods,” he whispered. He knelt and picked up the blade, examining his reflection.

  It seemed as if twenty years had departed from his face. Much of the gray had vanished from his hair, which had thickened. He still looked sandblasted and weary, but many of the lines had disappeared from his face, and his faded eyes were no longer bloodshot.

  “By all the gods,” whispered Morgant again. It seemed Shalifa had given him back more than she had taken. The thought of such reward had never even crossed Morgant’s mind. He had freed her simply to free her. He could not bear to make himself master over anyone.

  Yet he missed her. And he suspected he would desire her until the end of his days.

  Morgant smiled once more and vanished into the night.

  ###

  Centuries later, one of the Padishah of Istarinmul’s most prized treasures was a masterwork by the famed painter Markaine of Caer Marist, The Djinn of the Desert. It showed a woman of haunting beauty dancing amongst the fire of a desert sandstorm. Many would view it, entranced by the woman’s beauty, and would wonder what had inspired Markaine to such a vision of haunting desire.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading BOUND TO THE EYE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page. Turn the page for the first chapter of Ghost in the Cowl, a novel set in Morgant's city of Istarinmul.

  GHOST IN THE COWL Chapter 1 - Istarinmul

  Two weeks after she lost everything, Caina Amalas stood on the ship’s deck and threw knives at the mast.

  It was a way to pass the time and keep herself from thinking too much. To distract herself from the memories that flooded her mind if she was idle for too long. Sometimes she locked herself in her cabin for hours and performed the exercises of open-handed combat she had learned at the Vineyard long ago, working through the unarmed forms over and over again until every muscle in her body throbbed and spots danced before her eyes.

  But if she stayed alone too long, her thoughts went to the dark places. To New Kyre and the blaze of golden fire above the Pyramid of Storm. To Sicarion laughing as he drove his dagger into the back of the man who had raised Caina. To the Moroaica, weeping as the white fire blazed behind her.

  To Corvalis, lying dead upon the ground of the netherworld.

  And when her thoughts went there, Caina found herself gazing at the veins in her arm, thinking of the knives she carried.

  She retained enough of her right mind to realize that she was not thinking clearly, that her mood was dangerous.

  So when that mood came, she went to the deck and threw knives at the mast.

  At first the sailors were alarmed, but they soon grew accustomed to it. They had been told that she was a mercenary named Marius, a courier for the Imperial Collegium of Jewelers, delivering contracts now that trade between Istarinmul and the Empire had opened up again. An important passenger could be forgiven an eccentricity or two.

  That, and she never missed the mast.

  Soon the sailors ignored her, even without Captain Qalim’s orders. Caina suspected that the sailors would have reacted rather differently if they knew that beneath the disguise “Marius” was actually a twenty-two year old woman, but she did not care.

  She could not bring herself to care about very much.

  So she threw knives at the mast, the blades sinking into the wood. Compensating for the motion of the waves and the wind kept her mind busy. Pulling the knives out of the mast and sharpening the blades anew kept her hands occupied.

  The sailors ignored her, but Caina nonetheless attracted an audience.

  When the Emperor had sent her on a ship from New Kyre’s harbor, she had expected to share the vessel with cargo. Kyracian olive oil, most likely, or perhaps Anshani silk. The Starfall Straits had been closed to trade for nearly a year, and cargoes had piled up in New Kyre’s warehouses.

  She had not, however, expected to share the ship with a circus.

  More specifically, Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels.

  Caina flung another knife, the blade sinking into the mast, and Master Cronmer himself approached.

  Cronmer was huge, nearly seven feet tall, with the shoulders and chest of a titan. He was bald, with a graying mustache cut in Caerish style, and wore a brilliant red coat. She saw the dust on his sleeves, and knew he had eaten bread and cheese for breakfast, along with the vile mixed wine the ship carried.

  “Master Marius,” boomed Cronmer in the Caerish tongue. “You should come work for me.”

  Caina shook her head. “I am already employed.” She made sure to keep her Caerish accent in place, her voice gruff and raspy, as Theodosia had taught her to do.

  “Bah,” said Cronmer. “Fetching papers for those dusty old merchants? You should join my Circus. We’ll use your talent to create a stupendous knife-throwing show, my boy.” He grinned behind his bushy mustache. “Aye, you’ll throw knives at some lusty Istarish lass, your blades will land a half-inch from her skin, and she’ll melt into your arms in the end…”

  “Working for the Collegium,” said Caina, “pays better.”

  Spending the voyage throwing knives at the mast and brooding had likely been a poor idea. A spy needed to remain inconspicuous, and Caina had not bothered to do so. If she was to rebuild the Ghost circle of Istarinmul, she would have to take greater care.

  But she could not bring herself to give a damn.

  “Mere money,” said Cronmer, striking a pose. “What is that compared to the roar of
the crowd, of a woman in your arms, of…”

  “Cronmer,” said a woman with a heavy Istarish accent. Cronmer’s wife, a short Istarish woman named Tiri, hurried to his side. She looked tiny next to her massive husband, and they bickered constantly, but they had been married for twenty years and had six children. “Leave the poor man alone. The life of the circus is not for everyone.”

  Cronmer rumbled. “But the Traveling Circus Of Wonders And…”

  “Can’t you see?” whispered Tiri into Cronmer’s ear. Caina heard her anyway. “Can you not see that he has lost someone? Likely when the golden dead rose. Do not pester him.”

  Caina wondered how Tiri had figured that out. On the other hand, Caina had spent the last two weeks throwing knives into the mast and staring into nothing. It was hardly a mystery.

  “Yes, well,” said Cronmer, a hint of chagrin on his face. “If you ever get tired of working for fat old merchants, Master Marius, come see me. The Circus shall be at the Inn of the Crescent Moon for the next week, and then we shall perform before Master Ulvan of the Brotherhood of Slavers.”

  Caina had no wish to visit the home of an Istarish slave trader, but it caught her curiosity. “What does a slaver want with a circus?”

  “A celebration,” said Tiri. “He has been elevated to a Master of the Brotherhood, endowed with his own cowl and brand. Traditionally the newly-elevated Masters throw lavish celebrations, and he has hired the Circus for that purpose.”

  “Just as well,” said Cronmer. “The Kyracian nobles were humorless folk. Too enamored of their own traditions to enjoy the Circus. Well, Master Marius, if you change your mind, the Inn of the Crescent Moon is in the Cyrican Quarter.”

  Caina nodded, barely hearing him.

  “We had best gather the others, husband,” said Tiri, “for we shall put in before noon.”

  Caina blinked and looked over the ship’s rail.

  Istarinmul rose before her.

  She yanked the knives from the mast, returned them to her belt, and walked to the prow.