by David Hair
Kazim stepped forward, hugged Jai, then pushed him away gently, and tried not to see as Jai’s face collapsed. When he turned away, he moved like an old man.
When he was gone, Jamil put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Jai is weak,’ he said. ‘He would not survive the battles we will face.’
Haroun agreed. ‘Jai is no warrior.’
So true. ‘I will pray he gets home safely,’ Kazim said. He wished hard that it would be so, could almost picture Jai embracing his mother in Baranasi. Then he became melancholy again, thinking of Ramita. What more does she want of me? I freed her. She bears my children. Why won’t she see me?
Though in his heart he thought he knew.
Jamil broke into his thoughts. ‘How goes your training?’ The Hadishah warrior was warier of Kazim now, according him greater respect and caution.
For you are a mage and I am a Souldrinker … But we are still brothers-in-arms, Jamil. You are still my friend. ‘Sabele says it will take years to fully master the gnosis,’ he replied, though in truth it was coming naturally to him, this Shaitan-magic. Fragments of Antonin Meiros’ memories had clung to the energy he’d absorbed, and he found he could manipulate the raw energies almost instinctively, though they frightened him. The more esoteric abilities were locked away, but Sabele said he would learn them swiftly. If he had the stomach for it.
‘And you truly have his strength now?’ Jamil asked, his pupils slightly dilated.
Kazim nodded shortly. ‘We attain the strength of the strongest mage we soul-drink,’ he said, repeating what Sabele had told him. ‘I have Ascendant-level power now.’
Jamil whistled. ‘Then I am no longer your sparring partner, my brother.’
Kazim grunted, a half-smile, but he could not regain his cheer. This new strength frightened him. Worse still, he’d glimpsed emotions and desires before Meiros ceased to exist. He’d tasted the nature of the man, and realised that he’d not been what he expected at all: Antonin Meiros was not Shaitan incarnate. He was a man, a good man, who meant well. And he loved Ramita, as much as I, maybe even more – because I treated her as a prize and he treated her as a woman.
The memory of what he’d done, and the hatred and horror on Ramita’s face as she watched, were slowly destroying him. The two guardsmen; the young boy, innocent and undeserved – but above all, Meiros himself. He could not sleep unless drunk. Yet Sabele and Rashid expected him to take pride in the blood he’d spilled. I thought I was a killer, but I’m not …
‘What of Huriya?’ Jamil asked, his voice hungry.
Kazim scowled. Klein was a half-blood, despite his brutish looks. And she throws herself into Sabele’s training; she doesn’t fight it as I do. She is as corrupt as Sabele. ‘She is a born jadugara,’ he muttered. ‘She excels.’
‘I have asked to mate with her,’ Jamil said seriously. ‘With your permission? And Rashid’s, of course.’
‘None of us can do anything without his permission, can we?’ he snarled. ‘I don’t give a shit about Huriya. Do what you want. I never want to see her again.’
Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Junesse 928
1 month until the Moontide
Jeris Muhren sat across the table from Alaron, heavily bandaged, his face like a beaten pugilist. Even his eyes looked defeated, tired and full of sadness. Ramon was with them, though he was still groggy. It had been three days since Cym left, and Alaron had only just regained enough strength to move.
‘So the general is dead, then?’ Alaron said.
Muhren nodded heavily. ‘Yes. My men took a windskiff out to the slopes. They found Big Jari’s body. There were two other men – Eli Besko was one, but the other was too burned to identify.’
‘What about Vult?’
‘He’s here in Norostein.’
Alaron’s heart sank. ‘Then we’ve lost. He’ll find us, work out Cym has it, then he’ll hunt her down.’ He buried his hands in his head. ‘It’s all been for nothing – worse than that. If we hadn’t gone after the Scytale, it would never have been found. I led him to it, as he always knew I would.’
Muhren shook his head. ‘It’s not so bleak as all that, Alaron. You see, I’ve arrested Belonius Vult.’
Alaron stared while Ramon started grinning painfully.
Muhren chuckled at their faces. ‘I used the letter you recovered from Vult’s records to obtain a royal warrant to search his premises. We smashed the panels of his trophy room – there was some damage to the contents because of his traps, but we salvaged enough material to blackmail most of Norostein and half the court at Pallas. So I obtained an arrest warrant and surprised him with plenty of Arcanum support on the outskirts of the city. He was still exhausted from fighting the general. He didn’t even resist. He’s under Rune of the Chain in his own dungeons right now.’
‘Thank you,’ Alaron said, dazedly. ‘You’re my hero.’ Ramon nodded fervent agreement.
‘Well, that makes a change. Anyway, my arse is on the line too,’ Muhren remarked lightly. ‘We won’t be able to keep him locked away for long. Pallas will claim jurisdiction and send Inquisitors. I’ve bought us some time, that’s all.’
‘If he tells them—’ Alaron choked.
‘I rather suspect he may have an unfortunate accident whilst in the cells,’ Muhren replied grimly.
Alaron swallowed, then growled fiercely, ‘Couldn’t happen to a better person.’
Muhren ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It will mean the end of my career too.’ He sighed regretfully, then shook his mane. ‘So, what will you lads do?’
‘Sleep,’ Ramon said morosely. ‘It’s going to take me days before I’m mobile again.’ He looked apologetically at Alaron. ‘Then I guess I have to join my legion or I’ll be up for arrest too. I’d stay if I could, but I can’t see how I can without bringing the military down on top of us.’
‘It’s the only way,’ Alaron agreed. ‘If you don’t go, if a mage became a deserter, the Inquisition gets involved.’ He looked at Muhren. ‘Do you think it’s safe for Ramon to join his legion?’
‘Vult wasn’t working through official channels. I believe he’ll be in the clear.’
‘Is Fyrell dead?’
Muhren shrugged. ‘I don’t think so – but he can’t afford to come forward either. The Inquisitors would flay him.’
‘Then that’s that,’ Ramon said. ‘Keep me posted, Al. I’ll slip away and help you if I can.’
‘And you, Master Mercer?’ Muhren asked.
Alaron looked him in the eye. ‘I’m going after her.’
Muhren didn’t look surprised. ‘With what intention?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel I ought to.’
The watchman sighed, ‘Ah, young love.’
‘No, sir, it’s not that,’ Alaron said firmly. ‘She doesn’t love me – she never has. It was always all one way, all on my part, and I think I knew that deep down. But she is my friend, and she’s going into danger, so I think I must help her.’
‘Well spoken, lad,’ Muhren said. ‘You’re becoming a man – a good man, like your father, I deem.’
Alaron gripped the captain’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me, Alaron. Get the Scytale back.’ Muhren frowned. ‘Or at least, make sure it ends up in good hands.’
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Junesse 928
1 month until the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle conjured the image of the Mater-Imperia’s crest and submitted his identity codes. He held a relay-stave, which sent his call questing out powerfully. The request for contact was answered immediately. Lucia Fasterius-Sacrecour’s serene visage manifested in the smoke of his brazier.
Lucia’s motherly face crinkled and grew larger, as if she was leaning closer to his own image. Her mouth curved into a satisfied smirk.
He smiled slightly, but knew enough not to relax. The rest wasn’t going to go down so well …
She leaned even closer and purred at him,
Lucia blinked twice at the news of her daughter’s death – Coin had confided little, but he’d made that connection quickly enough; he’d been prepared for anger, maybe even some grief, but Lucia merely shrugged. she said, apparently more concerned that their plans might be disrupted than for the loss of the shifter.
The Empress’ expression relaxed.
He’s what?
He licked his lips, stunned for a moment. Belonius Vult, arrested? It was too bizarre to comprehend. He stopped himself speculating, settled for a cautious response.
He gave a small bow. She smiled warmly, but then her face changed from her warm-hearted ‘Mother of the Nation’ mask to a darker persona.
Her face contorted.
She recoiled in amazement.
Gyle lied.
As he’d hoped, Lucia was stunned.
Northpoint, Pontus
1 Julsep 928
Day One of the Moontide
Kaltus Koron watched his enemy with hooded eyes. Bluff, robust and relentlessly energetic, Echor Borodium, Duke of Argundy, sat his chestnut horse twenty feet away, surrounded by long-haired Argundian guards. All about him were the generals and legion commanders, ranks of old warriors and swarms of magi: the military wisdom of an empire, gazing out at the line of stone sixty yards wide and three hundred miles long, stretching before them, carving a path through the sea.
The tide was visibly rising, battering against the massive flanks of the Bridge, gurgling and gushing beneath the arches in white churning maelstroms. Fresh spray erupted with every crashing concussion of water on stone. Behind and above, Northpoint towered, impossibly tall. The beacon at its top beamed vivid white. It was said to be visible for almost one hundred miles over the ocean. The pounding of the sea was awe-inspiring, enough to make the very earth quiver like jelly.
Another wave almost broke over the rim of the Bridge, and spray cascaded in a mighty cloud.
Korion glanced along the line to where an Ordo Costruo mage – one of the Northpoint magi who had betrayed Meiros and allowed the First Crusade onto the Leviathan Bridge – took a sighting along a sextant, then conferred with Duke Echor. This wave had been higher than the seven before, yet it had not covered the whole of the Bridge. Korion found himself smiling. It was high tide and the bridge remained out of the water. Someone cheered and it was taken up all down the line, young men and greybeards alike whooping like children.
Echor shook the hand of the Ordo Costruo man and then turned his horse to face the generals. ‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘it is high tide and the Leviathan Bridge stands clear of the waves. The Moontide has begun!’
THE END OF BOOK ONE OF THE MOONTIDE
Acknowledgements
First and foremost a big thank you to Jo Fletcher, JFB and Quercus for believing in this series, and their expertise and eye for detail in making it the best it can be.
Also my immense gratitude to my agent Heather Adams for opening the doors for this series, and her invaluable feedback on earlier drafts.
Thanks also to the test readers on this one (a much bigger task than usual!): my wife Kerry Greig and my friend Paul Linton, who have each left their imprint on it. Also Tanuva ‘Sister Tina’ Majumdar for her guidance on Indian and in particular Bengali wedding rituals (all inaccuracies are either deliberate or down to my mistakes!).
Thanks also to Emily Faccini for the cool maps and to Patrick Carpenter, Jem Butcher and Paul Young for the cover art.