“The mist is poisonous?” said Muravin.
“I don’t know,” said Caina. She waved a hand in front of the wall of mist, felt the painful tingles in her fingers. “But it’s a spell.”
“The work of an Alchemist,” said Muravin. “They can transmute air into poison, or into a mist that puts anyone who breathes it into a deep sleep.”
“Your trident,” said Caina. “That Guard is right at the edge of the mist. Try to drag him out. We can see if he’s still alive.”
Muravin nodded, and hooked the Guard under the armpit. He dragged the man out of the mist, the black armor scraping against the cobblestones. Caina stooped over the Guard and pulled away his helmet.
“He’s still breathing,” said Caina. “His pulse is good.” She touched his forehead, felt the tingling aura of sorcery clinging to the Guard. “But the spell is still on him. I don’t know how long it will take him to wake up.”
For the first time, she regretted that Halfdan had sent Corvalis’s sister to work with the Ghosts in Caer Magia. Claudia Aberon had once been a magus of the Imperial Magisterium, and she might have known how to lift the spell upon the unconscious Guard.
On the other hand, Claudia did not handle herself well in a crisis.
“This is Sinan’s doing,” said Muravin. “We must get inside!”
He stepped back, bracing himself.
“What are you doing?” said Caina.
“If I hold my breath long enough,” said Muravin, “perhaps I can reach the door.”
“There has to be a better way,” said Caina. “If you breathe that mist, you won’t be any good to Mahdriva.”
“There isn’t a better way!” shouted Muravin. “If we wait for Anton to arrive with more men, Sinan will do to Mahdriva as he did to Ranai and Ardaiza! If we try to do something clever to get into the mansion, we will run out of time. I am going in there. Will you help me or not?”
She could not think of anything better.
Caina nodded. “I will. Take as many breaths as you can, quickly, and then one deep breath.” She began breathing quickly and raised her right hand. “Do you remember where the doors are?”
“Yes,” said Muravin, his chest rising and falling beneath the chain mail.
“Good. Take one more deep breath, and then we’ll run for the doors when I drop my hand,” said Caina.
She took a deep breath, sucking in as much air as she could manage, and then dropped her fist.
They sprinted into the mist, jumping over the prone Imperial Guards. The strange mist did not have the cool damp of most fogs, but she felt the arcane power tingling within it. Caina scrambled up the steps, moving through the gloom by memory, and then the gleaming double doors stood before her. Two Imperial Guards lay on either side of the doors. Which meant they had still been at their posts when the mist washed over the mansion, and that in turn meant Sinan had taken them by surprise.
Muravin was right. They had to hurry.
Caina seized the door handles and pulled.
But the doors were locked.
She tugged on them again, her stomach sinking in time to the growing burn in her lungs. She had not considered that Sinan might take the simple expedient of locking the doors behind him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Muravin pushed her aside and pounded on the door, trying to kick it open as he had at the Serpents’ Nest. Caina grabbed his shoulder, trying to pull him back, but it was no good. He was going to save his daughter, or he was going to die trying.
The latter seemed more likely than the former.
Caina raced back down the stairs. An instant later she heard the thud as Muravin fell unconscious. Her chest burned, black spots dancing before her eyes. Her lungs screamed for her to breathe, to open her mouth, but Caina drove herself onward. The edge of the mist was almost there…
Too late.
She could not stop herself, and sucked in a breath of the sorcerous mist.
Yet nothing happened, and an instant later Caina staggered out of the mist and onto the street.
She turned, stunned, waiting for the spell to take effect. Yet still nothing happened. She looked at the mist, baffled. It had affected the Imperial Guards and Muravin. Why hadn’t it touched her? What was different?
She was the only one wearing a shadow-cloak, true. But that made no sense. The shadow-cloak shielded her from divinatory and mind-affecting spells, but the mist was neither.
But…what if it was?
Caina had thought the mist a sleeping elixir dispersed into the air. But what if it was actually a spell that commanded the mind to fall unconscious, to go to sleep? If it was, the shadow-cloak would protect her from it.
Only one way to test it.
She glanced over her shoulder. There was still no sign of Corvalis and Tomard, and it might take the militiamen another hour to get across the city. That would give Sinan more than enough time to claim Mahdriva’s child.
“Damn it,” whispered Caina, and stepped into the mist.
Nothing happened.
She stood in the gray gloom for a few moments, breathing in and out, and felt not the slightest trace of weariness.
If anything, she felt far too frightened to fall asleep.
She dragged Muravin out of the mist and to the street. Hopefully he would wake up in time to tell Corvalis what had happened here.
Then she took a deep breath and walked back into the mist.
The doors were locked, but there were other ways into the Lord Ambassador’s residence. The windows on the first floor stood eight feet above the ground, but Caina jumped and managed to catch the sill in her gloved hands. She pulled herself up by the strength of her arms, grateful for all the hours she had spent practicing the unarmed forms.
She smashed the window, the leather of her glove protecting her hand, and climbed into the room beyond. It was a scriptorium for the Lord Ambassador’s scribes, with a row of writing desks and shelves storing paper and vials of ink. The room was deserted and free of the gray mist.
Caina considered that. Most likely Sinan had brought allies with him, mercenaries or Immortals, and wanted them to move through the mansion without falling unconscious from the mist.
She would have to take care.
Caina hurried to the scriptorium door and opened it a few inches, peering into the corridor beyond.
She froze in alarm.
A man walked past the door, clad only in trousers and armored black boots, a scimitar and the chain whip of an Immortal hanging at his belt. His eyes had the usual blue glow, but much brighter, so bright that his eyes looked like blazing blue coals. His chest and arms bulged with a freakish amount of muscle, and Caina saw the veins in his arms and torso glowing with the same blue light as his eyes.
The man was an Immortal, or at least had been one. Sinan must have altered him in some way, giving him additional alchemical elixirs to enhance his speed and strength.
Caina waited until the deformed Immortal disappeared from sight, and then eased into the corridor. She looked up and down, the bright frescos of the wall gleaming before her eyes, but saw no one. The presence of both the ring of mist and the strange Immortal meant that Sinan hadn’t left yet. And that meant Mahdriva was still here.
Would Sinan simply cut the child from her womb and then depart?
Mahdriva’s bedroom seemed like the best place to start. Caina hurried down the corridor as fast as she dared, her ears straining for any footfalls. A pair of opened double doors on the right led to the main dining hall, and she heard movement from within. Caina stopped and peered around one of the massive doors.
The Lord Ambassador’s dining hall was a grand affair, two stories tall with an encircling balcony and an intricate chandelier hanging beneath the ceiling’s elaborate skylights. A dozen Imperial Guards lay motionless on the floor. Caina saw both Halfdan and Lord Titus sitting in chairs, heads slumped to their chests, their arms bound behind their backs. Tanzir sat next to them, likewise bound, though he was cons
cious.
Mahdriva sat tied to a chair next to him, clad in only in a shift. Tears streamed down her face, and she wept in silence, her despair plain. At least a dozen of the altered Immortals stood in the room. Caina stared at Mahdriva, trying to find a way past the Immortals…
Sinan strode into sight, resplendent in his robes of white and gold. His face trembled with rage and impatience, and in his right hand he carried something that looked like a large meat fork made from an odd silvery metal.
Caina was reasonably sure that it was not a meat fork.
“What’s wrong, Sinan?” said Tanzir, trying to take a defiant tone. “It didn’t work?”
“Be silent,” said Sinan, coming to a stop and gazing at something.
Caina inched forward, trying to see more.
Sinan stood before the massive mirror she had seen in the dining hall earlier. The thing was at least ten feet tall and ten wide. Next to mirror stood another table, laden with jars and vials and glass tubes. But the mirror itself drew Caina’s attention. She saw Sinan’s scowling reflection, yet something seemed to be moving behind the glass.
And she felt the faint pulse of sorcery coming from the mirror.
Sinan turned. “I shall have to send another one.”
“Why?” said Tanzir. “You just sent that poor man through.”
“If he was successful, he should have returned almost immediately,” said Sinan. “Time does not flow at the same rate there as it does in the mortal world. A second here can be an entire day on the other side, though the conversion is never quite precise as…why I am explaining this to you?” He beckoned to the deformed Immortals. “Bring another Guard. I shall awaken him, and perhaps he will succeed where the others have failed.”
“You have already sent five men to their deaths!” said Tanzir.
“I will send as many as necessary,” said Sinan.
“If you want those damned ashes so badly,” said Tanzir, “then go yourself, you miserable coward.”
“Coward?” said Sinan, glaring at Tanzir. “A rich choice of words from a fat sluggard who has never known want or hunger. I was born in chains, my lord emir. I clawed my way up from the dust, and I took everything I have, for nothing was given to me. And I shall take immortality as well.”
“I might never have been a slave,” said Tanzir, “but I am not about to murder a pregnant woman so I can live forever.”
Sinan scoffed. “You are weak. Little wonder your own mother wants you dead. You were born to power, but are too feeble to keep it.” He pointed at the Immortals. “Bring another Guard. I will wake him and send him through the mirror.”
The mirror? What did that mean?
Still, it seemed that Caina had some time to save Mahdriva and the others, if Sinan was preoccupied with working a spell with the mirror. That gave Caina the time she needed to find Corvalis and Tomard and bring them here…
She stepped back from the door just as one of the Immortals came around the corner, an Imperial Guard slung over one shoulder. Caina froze in shock, as did the Immortal. Then the blazing blue eyes widened, and the Immortal roared, his voice unnaturally deep and rough.
As one every Immortal in the dining hall looked at her, and Sinan’s black eyes widened.
That was bad.
“A Ghost!” shouted Sinan. “Take him alive!”
Caina broke into a sprint. The Immortal in the corridor roared again and pursued her, as did the Immortals in the dining hall. The Immortals were not wearing shadow-cloaks, and the sorcerous elixirs in their blood might not protect them from the enspelled mist surrounding the mansion. If she lured them outside, they would fall victim to the mist …
The Immortal flung the unconscious Guard like a missile.
Caina tried to dodge, but the Guard’s armored leg smacked into her back. The impact knocked her to the ground, the Guard landing atop her with enough force to blast the breath from her lungs.
She put both hands on the Guard’s cuirass, trying to shove him off. The man was at least twice her weight, even without the bulk of his armor. At last she slid out from under him and regained her feet.
A dozen of the deformed Immortals surrounded her, scimitars in hand.
“You will,” said one of the Immortals, his voice inhumanly deep, “come with us. Now.”
Caina looked at the Immortals, at their gleaming scimitars, and then gave a sharp nod. They fell around her and led her to the dining hall. Sinan awaited them, the metal fork in his right hand.
The strange mirror loomed behind them, a peculiar rippling dancing in the glass. For a moment Caina had the oddest feeling that it was not a mirror but a window.
“A Ghost nightfighter,” Sinan said. “Ah. A shadow-cloak. That explains how you eluded the mist…and how you may be of use to me. Remove your mask and cowl, or I shall have the Immortals cut of your head.”
Caina saw no choice but to comply, so she drew back her cowl and pulled aside her mask.
“Oh, no,” said Tanzir.
“I am sorry,” said Mahdriva, still weeping. “I am sorry, I am so sorry…”
Sinan’s eyes widened in surprise. “A woman? You northerners have peculiar…wait. I know you.” He pointed the fork at her. “Sonya Tornesti. The coffee merchant’s whore.”
Caina said nothing.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” said Sinan.
Caina shrugged. “You ought to surrender. The Ghosts know you are here, and they are coming for you.”
“They will not penetrate the wall of mist,” said Sinan. “The sorcery will hold for a few more hours, and given the well-known enmity between the Ghosts and the magi, I doubt you will have anyone capable of dispelling the mist.”
“You’ve also got Lord Titus Iconias, a friend of the Emperor,” said Caina, glancing at Lord Titus’s unconscious form. “The magi might bestir themselves to help him. And I doubt even you can fight Malarae’s entire chapter of magi.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Sinan. “I will be long gone by then.”
“Of course,” said Caina. She needed to delay. Sooner or later Corvalis would arrive with help. And perhaps she could trick Sinan into giving up some useful information. “With your precious vial of Elixir Rejuvenata.”
“Ah,” said Sinan. “Puzzled that out, did you?” Caina had the sudden feeling that she had told him more than she should have. “Very clever. Tell me, Ghost. How will I create the Elixir?”
“With the ashes of murdered children,” said Caina, “carved from their mothers’ wombs.”
“That is part of it,” said Sinan, looking at his work table. “There are numerous other ingredients as well, all of which I have gathered. The ashes of the children from related mothers are a key ingredient. But there is one more component I need, and then the Elixir will be complete.”
“And just what is that?” said Caina. “The endless self-congratulation of an arrogant Alchemist?”
To her surprise, Sinan laughed. “If that were true, every member of the College would have been immortal centuries ago. No, this is something else. Something rare and dangerous to claim. All the other ingredients can be obtained with some work, but this…this kills most of the Alchemists who set upon the path of mastery.” He took a step closer, and Caina wondered if she could get a knife into his neck. “Tell me, Ghost…what do you know about elemental spirits?”
A jolt of alarm went down her spine.
She knew more about elemental spirits that she would have liked. Nicasia, the slave girl of the master magus Ranarius, had been possessed by an elemental spirit of earth. That spirit gave her the power to transform anyone who looked into her eyes to stone. Claudia Aberon had spent a year imprisoned as a statue. And there were elementals of far greater power. When the fire elemental sleeping beneath Old Kyrace had awakened, it had utterly destroyed the island upon which Old Kyrace had been built. The Sages of Catekharon harnessed a greater fire elemental to fuel their sorceries. The Stone of Cyrioch, the hill upon which the city’s Palace of
Splendors stood, was actually a sleeping greater earth elemental. If the spirit awoke, the resultant earthquake would destroy Cyrioch and cause a wave that would drown a dozen more cities.
“Some,” said Caina at last.
“There is a particular kind of spirit, an elemental of flame,” said Sinan, “revered by worshippers of the Living Flame. In old Maatish and modern Saddaic, such spirits are called bannu. Among the Istarish, they are named the djinni of flame. But among your nation, the Nighmarians, they are called…”
“Phoenix,” said Caina, who had read of them in her father’s books. “I thought they were legendary.”
“They are not,” said Sinan. “They are spirits of elemental flame, and like all spirits, do not die. But when they go into…hibernation, let us call it, they revert to ashes, and from the ashes are reborn into a new form.”
“And those ashes,” said Caina, “are the final ingredient for your damned Elixir.”
“They are,” said Sinan.
“And that’s what you’re doing to those Guards,” said Caina. “You’re trying to summon up a phoenix spirit and bind it to their flesh.”
Sinan smiled. “I am afraid that you have it backward. I’m not trying to summon up a phoenix. I am sending living men into the netherworld to claim the ashes.”
“That’s…impossible,” said Caina. “A living man cannot enter the spirit world.”
“Actually, he can,” said Sinan. “To enter our world, a spirit needs a physical form to inhabit. However, a living man can physically enter the netherworld. Few know the proper spells, and of those who do, few attempt the journey. The netherworld is perilous beyond anything in the material world. Your Magisterium once had the knowledge, but lost it with the fall of the Fourth Empire. I suspect they have had little motivation to rediscover it, as visiting the netherworld offers much peril in exchange for little gain.”
“Except for Alchemists wishing to attain mastery,” said Caina. “That’s why so many of them perish when trying to brew the Elixir. Murdering slave girls for their unborn children is simple enough. Any murderous thug can do it. But entering the netherworld and returning alive with phoenix ashes is harder.”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes Page 20