“Behold,” said Samnirdamnus, Morgant’s black coat stirring around him, “the concrete.”
Caina stood a short distance away. She looked just as she had on the day they had met again in the Sages’ Tower of Study, wearing a blue gown with black trim, the neckline cut just low enough to entice. Silver glittered on her ears and around her neck, and her black hair had been arranged in an elaborate crown. Her eyes were like blue pools in her pale face, calm and steady and clear. He had thought her beautiful then, but knew it was a perilous beauty. She was a dangerous woman, and death often came to those around her.
He had been right, hadn’t he? Here he was in Istarinmul, following Caina’s vision to stop the Apotheosis. For Caina drew others around her, made them into her allies, and then led them against her enemies. He might have thought her manipulative, but he had sensed her emotions far too often for that. He knew the pain and rage that pushed her on, that drove her to defy powerful enemies.
Kylon understood such pain better after Thalastre and the Red Huntress.
Caina stepped towards him, her blue skirts rustling against the dusty ground. She smiled at him, and brought her hand to his right cheek. Kylon felt something within him tighten, and Caina leaned up on her tiptoes, her mouth reaching for his. He had thought about doing this a dozen times in the last few weeks. Every time his better judgment had stopped him. They faced deadly enemies. She had lost Corvalis. He had lost Thalastre. More accurately, he had failed to protect Thalastre. He might fail to protect Caina too…
Kylon caught Caina’s wrist in his hand and very gently pushed her away.
“Stop,” he said, looking at Samnirdamnus.
The Knight of Wind and Air looked amused. “I thought you preferred concrete reasons for your actions, stormdancer.”
“This isn’t real,” said Kylon. “That’s not Caina.” He stepped back, and the image of Caina watched him, still smiling. “This is a dream, and that’s an image you’ve pulled from my memories. Stop playing games with my head. You said I had a choice to make. Tell me what the damned thing is already.”
“The same choice you have made before,” said Samnirdamnus. “Like Morgant, you will get to choose whether the world lives or dies.”
“How helpful,” said Kylon. “Morgant saved the world by finding a damaged Maatish relic, is that it? What am I going to do? Save the world by finding a broken wagon wheel in a ditch?”
“Not at all,” said Samnirdamnus. “A choice, my stalwart stormdancer. Soon you shall face a choice. You will hold the life of Caina Amalas in your hands. Save her life, and the world dies. Let her die, let her sacrifice herself, and the world will live.”
Kylon stared at the djinni for a few heartbeats.
He did not remember making the decision to move, but suddenly he was standing over Samnirdamnus, the djinni sprawled at his feet, his fist throbbing with the pain of a recent impact.
“You hit me,” said Samnirdamnus, astonished.
Kylon blinked, trying to throttle back the rage that burned through him.
“You hit me,” said Samnirdamnus, scrambling back to his feet. “Morgant never hit me.”
“If this is dream,” growled Kylon, “then I didn’t really hit you.”
“An excellent point of logic,” said Samnirdamnus.
“Are you trying to get me to kill her?” said Kylon. “I won’t.”
“Of course not,” said Samnirdamnus. “There is a choice before you. I merely hope to prepare you for it.”
“No,” said Kylon. “I thought Caina said you intended to help her.”
Samnirdamnus smiled. “She might be the one I have been looking for all these years.”
“I’m not going to let her die,” spat Kylon. “Not even if it means letting the world die.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he realized that they were true.
“The choice of the Balarigar’s life and death are in your hands, my stalwart stormdancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “Think well upon my warning.”
Kylon awoke in his room in the Inn of the Crescent Moon, reaching for his weapons.
But his room was deserted, and only a faint ray of moonlight leaked through the shutters. From below he heard two teamsters arguing over the right-of-way, their horses snorting with impatience, but he did not sense any threat.
A dream. It had only been a dream.
A dream with a message.
Kylon lay back down.
Sleep did not come again that night.
Chapter 7: Traps
Caina tossed aside the last of her clothing and sank into the hot water of the stone tub.
It felt glorious.
Hot baths were common in the Empire, but they were a rare luxury in the more arid climate of Istarinmul. The heat spread into her tired, aching limbs, and she rested her head against the back of the tub, closing her eyes. It had been such a long time since she had been able to rest. She could just close her eyes and relax, and maybe…
The door banged open.
Caina surged to her feet, hot water cascading down her body, her wet hair slapping against her shoulders and back. She snatched up the dagger she had left next to the tub, fearing that the Teskilati or the Kindred had found her. Just once, just once, she had let her guard down, and her enemies had found her…
Kylon walked through the door.
“Kylon?” said Caina. “What…”
She remembered that she was naked, started to cover herself, remembered that she was holding a dagger, and for a moment froze in a combination of embarrassment and confusion.
In that moment of hesitation, Kylon stepped forward, seized her arms, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard upon the lips.
Caina went rigid with surprise, and then melted against him with a little moan, throwing aside the dagger and pulling him closer. Her feet slipped for purchase in the tub and she fell against him, and his arms coiled around her, lifting her from the water with ease. She kissed him again, harder this time, her hands pulling at his shirt to get it out of the way. He helped her remove his clothes, and she pressed herself against him.
“Now,” she whispered, “now, Kylon, Kylon, don’t make me wait, now…”
He obliged, lowering her to the floor. Caina reached up and pulled him down after her, heart hammering against her ribs as she opened her arms and legs to…
A blade of shadow and purple fire exploded from Kylon’s chest in a burst of gore. His eyes went wide with shock, and Caina screamed. The blade stabbed into her, through her, and into the floor, agony erupting within her as she was pinned to Kylon like a bit of meat upon a skewer. She felt him shudder with death, felt his hot blood pool against her breasts and stomach even as the blade of shadow and dark fire sank deeper into her.
A breath of hot air touched Caina’s neck, and a familiar voice filled her ears.
“You should have let me kill you,” hissed Kalgri the Red Huntress, “at Silent Ash Temple. I told you it would have been easier that way.”
She laughed, wild and mad, and Caina screamed.
###
Caina jolted awake, sitting up so violently she almost pitched off the cot. She looked around wildly, certain that Kalgri was standing over her, that the Red Huntress was about to sink her blade into Caina’s heart…
But the Sanctuary was empty and quiet, the glass spheres still giving off a gentle glow from their iron stands. A wave of dizziness went through Caina and she fell back against the cot, sweat rolling off her.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
“Oh, hell,” she whispered. “Hell, hell, hell.”
She had never experienced frustrated lust and raw terror at the same time before, but they were not a pleasant combination. Caina had vivid nightmares on a depressingly regular basis, but that…that had been something else.
Caina waited until her arms and legs had stopped trembling got to her feet, taking slow, deep breaths.
At least one pa
rt of the nightmare had been irrational. Kalgri would come back someday, Caina was certain of it, but not for a few years. The Huntress had endured catastrophic injuries at Silent Ash Temple, and even a nagataaru would take time to rebuild a human body from those kind of wounds. Granted, Kalgri had recovered much quicker when Kylon had knocked her from the top of the Tower of Kardamnos, but the Red Huntress had taken far greater wounds at Silent Ash Temple. Caina at least had a few years before the Huntress came after her again.
Perhaps if Sulaman’s prophecy was correct, if Caina died in the attempt to retrieve the Staff and the Seal, perhaps she would die before Kalgri found her. That was its own small mercy, really.
A very small mercy.
It was only two or three hours past midnight, but Caina knew there was no way she could sleep again. Not after a nightmare so vivid. She still felt the heat of Kylon’s body against her own, the taste of his lips against her mouth. She wondered if they felt like that in reality.
She could also still feel the hot blood pooling in her stomach, the blade plunging through her torso.
Caina spent the next two hours practicing the unarmed forms, moving through kicks and punches and blocks until her limbs trembled with fresh fatigue and a new coat of sweat rolled down her face. After that, she washed herself and chose a disguise, dressing herself as a mercenary with a studded coat of leather armor, ragged trousers, heavy boots, and a worn brown cloak. Her hair she raked into a greasy veil over her face, and since she could not take any makeup with her to Rumarah, she did not bother creating fake stubble. A short sword went on her belt, along with her ghostsilver dagger, and she slipped more daggers into her boots and throwing knives up her sleeves. She hung a money pouch from her belt, holding copper coins mixed with a few silver pieces, and concealed more money in strategic pockets inside her armor.
Caina pulled a pack from one of the chests and loaded it with a change of clothing, along with the case of throwing knives Malcolm and Nerina had given her. In her satchel she put more valuable items. Her shadow-cloak, wrapped in a tight, light cylinder. Some lockpicks, a collapsible grapnel and a light, slender rope, and several smoke bombs. Within the shadow-cloak, tucked within a pouch lined with lead foil, went four crystalline vials of Elixir Restorata. She had stolen the Elixirs from Grand Master Callatas’s laboratory a year past, and when ingested the Elixirs healed any wound or injury taken within the last year and a day. She had already used one vial to save Kylon’s life below the Craven’s Tower, and while she hoped not to use the other vials, she would bring them nonetheless. Caina could not use them herself. The same scars that let her sense the presence of sorcery, the same damage to her aura, caused the Elixir to react to her presence with violent, explosive force, summoning more power than the Elixir’s physical structure could contain. Even if one of the crystalline vials touched her skin for too long, the Elixir would explode.
If she ingested it…
Caina stared at the leather pouch. If she ingested it, the resultant explosion would be impressive. Morgant liked to mock her for the number of buildings she had burned down, but if she consumed the Elixir the explosion would reduce any nearby buildings to rubble. It was something to keep in mind if she was captured. If her foes took her, or if they were about to slay her, she could take them with her in death by ingesting a vial of Elixir.
Perhaps that would be the instrument of her death. Caina checked her clothing and equipment one last time, looked around the Sanctuary, and closed and locked the door behind her. None of the other Ghosts knew where it was, but Caina did want the knowledge to die with her. The letter she had left with Agabyzus revealed its location, and if she did not return he would put the Sanctuary to good use.
When she did not return.
Caina took one last look at the House of Agabyzus, said a quiet prayer to any gods who might be listening for Damla and her sons and Agabyzus and all the other Ghosts she had recruited, and set off across Istarinmul for the Alqaarin Quarter. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten, and traffic started on the streets as laborers went to their tasks and blacksmiths started their fires, merchants unlocking their doors and raising the awnings over their booths. Caina avoided the crowds, a pang of regret growing over her. When she had first come to Istarinmul two years ago, she had hated the city, hated that she saw so many slaves, so many beggars in the street. Now, two years later, while she would never love Istarinmul as she did Malarae, she had come to respect the city. She did not want to see Istarinmul destroyed, did not want to see its people burn in the wrath of Callatas’s sorcery.
And Caina would never see Istarinmul again.
She said a silent farewell to the city as she walked.
Soon she came to the Alqaarin Quarter. The Quarter was not as impoverished as the Anshani Quarter. The richer cargoes coming into the Alqaarin Harbor, where Talazain’s ship waited, likely had something to do with that. Caina turned into a side street, taking care to avoid both the main Bazaar of the Quarter and the grim stone mansion that housed the Umbarian Order’s embassy. Most of Istarinmul still thought the Balarigar was a man, but the Umbarian Order knew who she really was. Best to avoid them entirely.
She came to the Desert Maiden in short order, a tavern of whitewashed brick and stone. Caravan guards and merchants that preferred a quiet rest stayed here. Caina herself had spent the better part of a month lurking in the Desert Maiden soon after she came to Istarinmul, preparing to investigate the mysterious disappearance of slaves in the Widow’s Tower. She had discovered that Callatas had been murdering slaves to create wraithblood, and that had set Caina upon the path that had led her back to the Desert Maiden today.
The path that would lead to her death, if Sulaman was right.
Caina thought of the corpses in the wraithblood laboratories, of the half-mad wraithblood addicts begging for coins in the street, and her lips thinned in anger.
If her life was the price to stop such evil, so be it.
She just wished that Kylon…
Caina shook her head, pushed aside the black thoughts, and walked into the common room of the Desert Maiden.
There was work to be done.
###
Kalgri crawled along the rooftop, the shadow-cloak pulled tight around her, and watched Caina disappear into the Desert Maiden.
The shadow-cloak ensured that the Voice could not use its otherworldly senses to perceive the world around her, yet the nagataaru lord could see through Kalgri’s eyes, and it went mad with fury at the sight of Caina Amalas, thrashing and hissing like a maddened serpent in the vaults of Kalgri’s mind. The Voice’s rage filled her, demanding that she kill Caina at once, that Kalgri strike down the woman who had so badly wounded the Voice at Silent Ash Temple.
Not yet.
But soon. So very soon now.
Kalgri took a deep breath, like a woman pausing before a great feast.
A lot of people were about to die, and both she and the Voice would gorge themselves.
The time to act had come at last.
Kalgri sprinted across the rooftops with inhuman speed, the Voice driving her forward like the wind, the shadow-cloak billowing behind her like black wings. No doubt a few of the people going about their tasks happened to see her, but Kalgri did not care. So few people ever bothered to look up.
And the people of the Alqaarin Quarter were about to see much worse.
Kalgri leaped from a rooftop and plummeted to an alley four stories below. The Voice’s power gave her the strength to absorb the leap, and she straightened up, the shadow-cloak rippling behind her.
It was a bit showy, but it did impress the men waiting in the alley.
The Adamant Guards stepped back, swords in hand, watching her. Kalgri thought the steel plates grafted to their torsos and arms made them look like walking metal turtles, though they were formidable enough in battle. The Silent Hunters looked ridiculous in their loincloths. Still, they made effective distractions. Kalgri knew that well, having used up a dozen of them trying
to kill Caina at Drynemet in the Kaltari Highlands.
The towering dark shape in the midst of the Adamant Guards, Kalgri had to admit, was much more impressive. It looked vaguely like a man standing eleven or twelve feet tall, draped in a misshapen black cloak, the features concealed by a massive cowl. An absolutely vile stench came from the creature, and the Adamant Guards standing near the hunched shape looked slightly ill. The Voice could not sense anything with the shadow-cloak’s cowl raised, but if Kalgri lowered it, she knew the Voice would detect powerful necromantic spells around the thing.
For a moment the Adamant Guards and the Silent Hunters stared at Kalgri, weapons raised. She grinned at them, contemplating what it would feel like if she killed them.
“That was,” said a deep, sonorous voice, “a rather showy entrance, wasn’t it?”
Cassander Nilas strolled past his troops, clad in his black greatcoat. The leather had been enspelled to resist weapons, and was as strong as plate armor. The bloodcrystal upon the black metal gauntlet covering his right hand flickered with crimson light. The Umbarian master magus wore a sword belt, a sheathed broadsword and a long metal fork hanging alongside a variety of other powerful sorcerous implements.
Cassander had come prepared for war.
“And that thing,” said Kalgri, jerking her chin at the towering hulk behind Cassander, “is not overkill?”
A deep, watery rumble came from the creature, and a few of the Adamant Guards edged away from it. Kalgri giggled in amusement.
Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) Page 10