Ghost in the Razor

by Jonathan Moeller

  Though on the day he had destroyed Iramis, Caina did not know how old he had been. Perhaps no more than fifty, though his alchemical sorcery had kept him from aging much.

  Callatas lifted a glowing blue gemstone the size of a fist, its sides rough and uncut. Tremendous arcane power radiated from the stone, sorcery strong enough to rip mountains apart. It was the Star of Iramis, and along with the Staff and the Seal, one of the three instruments of power that Callatas needed to cast the Apotheosis. Caina didn’t know what the Star was or how it worked, but she knew it was a relic of tremendous power.

  The Grand Master lifted the Star, the gem burning brighter in his fist.

  And Iramis burned.

  Fire erupted from the city, consuming the walls and the towers in a colossal storm of raging flame. The inferno rolled across the plains, turning the fertile fields into smoking, lifeless ash. The crystal pillars Caina had seen in her earlier dreams of the Desert rose from the earth, rough and irregular, shining with the same pale blue glow as the Star in Callatas’s hand. The ground heaved and shook, and a terrible storm roiled through the sky overhead. Caina watched as Iramis died, as the farmlands withered into the Desert of Candles in the grip of Callatas’s terrible spell.

  “Behold,” murmured a voice, a sardonic drawl that Caina had come to know quite well.

  The world shifted around her, and suddenly she stood at the edge of the plain, gazing up at Callatas’s hill. People fled from the farms, all of them running to the west in an effort to get away from the firestorm Callatas had unleashed. The Iramisians, Caina remembered, had not used slaves, had forbidden the practice in the Prince’s lands. Perhaps that was why Callatas hated them so much.

  One of the figures at the edge of the plain was not moving, a thin man in the brown robe and turban of the nomadic tribes of the Trabazon steppes. His face was lean, and he stared up at the hill with stunned surprise in his pale blue eyes.

  Morgant. He looked exactly the same as the man Caina had met earlier today. Yet here he somehow seemed…younger, far younger. Not as old and hard and weathered.

  “Yes,” murmured the drawling voice.

  The world shifted around her again, and Caina stood in the bleak, barren plain of the Desert of Candles itself, the wind moaning past her like a chorus of damned souls. Thousands of the blue crystal pillars rose around her, rough and jagged, their inner glow seeming to flicker in time to the moan of the wind. Caina had seen this place before, though never in the flesh.

  The fountain was new, though.

  An enormous fountain of white marble stood nearby, its basin thirty yards across. The moaning wind blew dust and grit past it, yet the fountain remained pristine, untouched by erosion, though no water bubbled within it. A wide stone plinth rose within the fountain, and upon it stood eight statues wrought of the same blue crystal as the jagged pillars. Seven of the statues were children, and the eighth was a woman of stunning beauty, clad in an ornamented gown. Her expression was tight and hard, her hair thrown back from her head as if caught in a wind. Her arms were thrust before her, as if to ward something away.

  The statues were fashioned with unearthly skill. Caina could almost feel the terror of the children, the woman’s grim determination to protect them.

  “The star is the key to the crystal,” murmured Caina, repeating the words that had haunted her ever since she had first heard them in the netherworld. “The star is the key to the crystal.”

  “It is,” said the drawling, sardonic voice, and Caina turned

  Kylon of House Kardamnos walked toward her, but not as she had seen him today. He looked as he had the first day they had met during the battle of Marsis, the day he had tried to kill her and she had tried to kill him. He wore the gray leather armor of a stormdancer, a blue-green cloak the color of the sea streaming from his shoulders. His sword of storm-forged steel hung at his belt, ready to kill. His eyes…

  His eyes were wrought of smokeless flame, piercing and hot.

  “Samnirdamnus,” said Caina, speaking the djinni’s name.

  Samnirdamnus, djinni of the court of the Azure Sovereign, the Knight of Wind and Air, offered a mocking smile through Kylon’s face. “My darling demonslayer. It has been too long.”

  “Silent Ash Temple,” said Caina. “The day we found the valikon and fought the Huntress. That was months ago. I thought you had forgotten me.” Not that she would have minded. Samnirdamnus had aided her more than once. Yet Callatas had bound Samnirdamnus, and she was not sure why the djinni had taken an interest in her.

  “I made sure to forget you,” said Samnirdamnus. “You rather annoyed Callatas when you slew the Huntress. He gets terribly annoyed every time she is slain, and he called up many spirits to locate you. He even diverted me from his Maze to try and find you. Of course, I had forgotten your location, so I could not report it to the Grand Master.” He made Kylon’s shoulders shrug. “Alas.”

  “Sophistry,” said Caina.

  Samnirdamnus smirked in a way that Kylon himself never had. “Between my kind and yours, my darling demonslayer, there is not the spirit of the law, merely its letter. If the Grand Master wished me to act otherwise, he should worded his request more carefully.”

  “Truly,” said Caina. She considered him for a moment. “Why appear to me wearing Kylon’s face?”

  Again the djinni shrugged. “I have appeared to you wearing many forms. Your mortal mind cannot comprehend my reality, so I therefore construct a form.”

  “Fine,” said Caina. “You’ve never…constructed Kylon’s form.”

  “The constructed form is based upon the forefront of your subconscious mind,” said Samnirdamnus. “Presumably Kylon is currently in your thoughts. It seems your latent attraction to him is much stronger than you…”

  “Or,” said Caina, “he saw his wife murdered in front of him by the Huntress, who also tried to kill me. Perhaps that is why he is in my thoughts.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “Why are you here now?” said Caina.

  “Because,” said Samnirdamnus. “It seems increasingly likely that you are the one I have sought.”

  “Fine,” said Caina. “Don’t tell me the real reason.”

  Kylon’s face raised an eyebrow. “I just did.”

  “You and Morgant,” said Caina, remembering the assassin’s story of the djinni he had freed. “You would have a lot in common. You both enjoy games with words.”

  “So do you,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “One day I’ll get a straight answer out of you and the world will crack in two,” said Caina. “Tell me this, if you can. Did Morgant truly encounter a djinni? Is that why he’s still alive after a century in a half?”

  “An occultist of Anshan,” said Samnirdamnus, “did a favor for Callatas. In return, Callatas bound a djinni of the Azure Court for him, and the occultist used it to kill his victims. Eventually the occultist sent his slave against Morgant, and he freed her and slew the occultist. In repayment, the djinni granted him long life.” His smirk returned. “A gift, yes…but also a tool for the Azure Court. Ensuring that Morgant would still be alive when the time came to keep his word.”

  “And what time is that?” said Caina.

  “Why, the time when I find the one I have sought,” said Samnirdamnus. “Perhaps you are the one.”

  “Clear as mud. As ever,” said Caina. She shrugged. “Can you tell me where the Staff and Seal are?”

  “I cannot,” said Samnirdamnus. “For I do not know. In all of eternity, in all of the cosmos, the only one who knows where the Staff and Seal of Iramis are hidden is Annarah, the last loremaster of Iramis. She hid them so well that not even the great elemental princes of the netherworld can find them.”

  “So where is Annarah?” said Caina.

  “The only one who knows,” said Samnirdamnus, “is Morgant the Razor.”

  “Fine.” Caina sighed. “So I play Morgant’s game, and if I win it, he tells me what happened to Annarah, and if I find her, th
en I can hopefully locate the Staff and Seal before Callatas.”

  “You summarize the matter with admirable logic,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “I knew all this already,” said Caina. “Worked it out on my own with that logic you allegedly admire so much. So why are you speaking to me now? Not just to tell me things I already know, I assume.”

  “Perhaps I simply wished to enjoy a conversation,” said Samnirdamnus. “Callatas lacks your skill as a conversationalist, alas.”

  “No,” said Caina. “There’s always a reason.” She thought for a moment. “That little speech you gave at Silent Ash Temple when I was about to let Kalgri kill me. It gave me the idea to work with Claudia, to use her spells in the battle. I never would have thought of it otherwise.”

  “Perhaps you have put your hatred of sorcery behind you,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “It’s not my favorite thing,” said Caina.

  “Nor will it ever be,” said Samnirdamnus. “Yet you overcame enough of your hatred to work with the Lord Ambassador’s wife. You overcame it enough to see me appear in the form of Kylon.”

  “What does Kylon have to do with anything?” said Caina.

  The djinni smirked. “The form your mind constructs is based upon your thoughts, not mine. You hate sorcerers, Caina Amalas of the Ghosts, and Kylon is a sorcerer. Not a strong one, true, but still a sorcerer. Yet you think of him favorably enough, are attracted to him enough…”

  “For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “The poor man is widowed.”

  Samnirdamnus continued as if she had not spoken. “Enough that you construct my form based upon your thoughts of him. A man from your past who has returned to your present. Perhaps you should think further upon your past.”

  “Why?” said Caina, cautious. She suspected Samnirdamnus was coming, at last, to his point.

  “Who shaped your past?” said Samnirdamnus.

  “My father,” said Caina.

  “Until he was murdered,” said Samnirdamnus. “Who made you what you are?”

  “Halfdan,” said Caina, a bitter pang of grief going through her at the mention of her teacher, murdered in Marsis by Sicarion. Gods, but she hated Marsis.

  “Halfdan was the second step upon your path,” said Samnirdamnus. “He shaped you into what you are today…but the fuel of your hate came from somewhere else. Who gave it to you?”

  She felt a chill. “Maglarion.”

  “The necromancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “The first foe, but not the last, you would overcome. Yet he, too, was shaped. Who created him? Who taught him?”

  Her chill got worse. “Jadriga. The Moroaica. The creature who was once a girl named Malifae.”

  “Indeed,” said Samnirdamnus. “How do you know so much about her?”

  “She was my enemy,” said Caina. “She killed Corvalis.”

  “And she wept over his corpse,” said Samnirdamnus. “Why?”

  “Because she had all my memories,” said Caina. “She had been in my head for a year, and had a copy of my memories.”

  “She possessed you, then,” said Samnirdamnus.

  “Yes,” said Caina.

  “Then why are you not the Moroaica?” said Samnirdamnus. “Why does she still not wear your flesh as you might wear a gown?”

  “Because she possessed me, could see through my eyes and hear through my ears,” said Caina, “but she could not control me.” She frowned. “Is that what you wanted me to remember?”

  “Do you not know how rare that is?” said Samnirdamnus. “Maglarion’s spells scarred your flesh and gave you the sensitivity to sorcery that you carry to this day. Yet it also scarred your soul, fractured and marked your aura. A wound, yes…but one with a blessing Maglarion did not intend. You can be possessed, but you cannot be controlled. Not by the spirit of a mortal necromancer, not by the spirit of an undead creature like the Moroaica…”

  She followed his train of thought. “And not by an elemental spirit? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “Tell you?” said Samnirdamnus. “I tell you nothing. Merely conversing, that is all.” Kylon’s smirk widened, the eyes of smokeless flame flashing brighter. “What conclusions you draw from this conversation…well, I cannot control that, can I?”

  He beckoned, and the dream ended.

  Caina sat up on her cot, breathing hard, and looked around the Sanctuary. Kylon was still asleep in his alcove, and she lay back down.

  Sleep did not come.

  ###

  The Sifter stood alone in a street in the Alqaarin Quarter, observing the destiny lines that composed the totality of the city.

  It still could not find the demonslayer’s destiny line. This was frustrating, but not altogether unexpected. Even a cursory glance at her destiny line, at the other threads she had crossed and defeated, confirmed that she was a clever woman. One of the threads she had defeated went back twenty-five centuries to the destruction of ancient Maat. It was a remarkable feat, especially since the demonslayer had no ability to wield arcane forces herself.

  Yet she must have allies who did. The demonslayer had concealed herself from arcane observation, which meant the Sifter’s ability to perceive time and destiny could not find her. No matter. Such spells did not last forever, and the Sifter had all the time in the cosmos.

  Her allies might not have such protections, and the demonslayer had been with two men. A Kyracian stormdancer, with a limited mastery of air and water sorcery. The Sifter might have feared a true stormsinger, but the stormdancer lacked such power. The second man had been…peculiar, marked by the djinn of the Azure Court, his destiny thread extended to unnatural length by their touch. He carried a weapon of significant power, but still insufficient to defeat the Sifter. Yet the stormdancer’s thread had been intertwined with that of the demonslayer for years, and the assassin’s had crossed her path. Their threads might lead the Sifter to her.

  It could not find their threads, either. The Sifter hissed in annoyance, the sound coming through its stolen body’s lips. The demonslayer had concealed them as well. Annoying, but clever.

  It would make consuming her all the more pleasurable.

  The Sifter considered its next course of action. It inhabited a material body, which meant it could employ the senses of sight and sound and touch. Additionally, all three destiny threads, the demonslayer and the stormdancer and the assassin, had crossed and intersected many other paths. The demonslayer might have concealed herself and her two allies, but she could not possibly have concealed everyone they knew.

  One of them would lead the Sifter to her. If it had to kill a score of people to find Caina Amalas…well, they were simply the appetizers before the main course.

  It stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the tapestry of time and destiny that made up Istarinmul, countless threads weaving back and forth to create a totality beyond the ability of any one mind, even the Sifter’s, to comprehend. Yet there were patterns within the tapestry, if one knew where to look, and the Sifter did.

  There.

  A group of threads terminated when they touched the stormdancer’s and the demonslayer’s. They had killed a group of men earlier today. Yet others had fled and survived. The Sifter considered the configuration of threads. Someone was hunting for the stormdancer, and had chanced upon him when his path crossed with the demonslayer’s.

  Someone was still hunting for him.

  The Sifter was not adverse to the thought of someone else doing the hard work of finding Caina Amalas. Yet the thread of one of the stormdancer’s hunters was…odd. Darkened, somehow, pulsing with a harsh purple light…

  A nagataaru. One of the stormdancer’s foes was possessed by a nagataaru.

  The Sifter contemplated the possibilities. The ifriti and the nagataaru were not friends, but they were not necessarily enemies, either. The nagataaru feasted on pain and torment and life force, feeding it back to their mortal hosts in hopes of harvesting more. The ifriti devoured mortals as well, but consumed them in flames. For a
n ifrit, pain and torment were side products of the feeding, not the main point of it. Yet for all that, the nagataaru and ifriti were rival predators feeding upon the same herd. Normally the Sifter would not have considered an alliance, but Cassander’s binding compelled it to seek out and destroy the demonslayer.

  The Sifter would use any tool that came to hand.

  It made its way through the darkened streets of the Alqaarin Quarter. The only men upon the streets at this time of night were thieves and those with illegal business, yet they took one look at its stolen body and fled. The Sifter wore the flesh of a dead Adamant Guard, and the mortals feared the servants of the Umbarian Order. Evidently they had required a reputation.

  A short walk took it to a house not far from the gate to the Alqaarin Road. Two soldiers in black plate armor stood guard at the door, their faces concealed beneath helms of black steel wrought in the likeness of grinning skulls. Their eyes glowed with a pale blue light in the depths of their helmets. The men were Immortals, the elite soldiers of the Padishah’s personal guard, created by the Alchemists of the College.

  Both men drew their scimitars as the Sifter approached. It stopped a few yards away and lifted the right arm of its stolen body, crimson fire snarling around the dead fingers.

  The Immortals regarded the Sifter in silence for a moment.

  “Identify yourself,” said one of the Immortals.

  The Sifter forced its host’s dead lips to move and form words.

  “I wish to speak with your master,” said the Sifter. “I propose an alliance. I know your master hunts for a foe, and I can aid him.”

  One of the Immortals went into the house, and returned a moment later.

  “You will come with me,” said the Immortal.

  For a moment the Sifter considered killing them both and devouring their lives to fuel its fire, but restrained itself. Diplomacy was required here. It could always return and kill them after it killed the demonslayer.