Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6)

by Jonathan Moeller

  “We have,” said Kylon, wondering how much was safe to say. “Many times. Marsis. Catekharon. Caer Magia. New Kyre on the day of the golden dead. We…have been through a great deal together.”

  “Ciaran is a clever man,” said Nasser. “Probably one of the cleverest I have seen in a century and a half. If anyone can go into the Tomb and come out again, it is Ciaran. The waiting is hard, though.”

  “Aye,” said Laertes. “I was a centurion for a long time. When the new lads take the oath, they’re soft as puppies and dumb as rocks, and you need to train them to be men of the Legion. Then you send them into battle…and sometimes they come back, and sometimes they don’t.” He shook his head. “I would have liked a son, but sometimes I’m glad I had all daughters. I don’t have to send them off to war.”

  “Women face their own perils,” said Annarah. “Childbirth. Diseases that men do not. Women can die upon swords just as easily as men.”

  “A cheering thought,” said Laertes. “Still, if I live through this, I shall have ample dowries for my daughters. Perhaps that will finally persuade you and Ciaran to take wives.”

  Kylon laughed a little. “You are persistent, sir.”

  Laertes snorted. “I was a centurion of the Legion. We make persistence look like…”

  In one fluid motion, Morgant got to his feet, his notebook disappearing as his scimitar and dagger appeared in his hands. Kylon whirled, fearing that the undead corpses were about to swarm up the passage. For a moment he saw nothing but the flashing green light and twisting shadows of the chamber with the bloodcrystals.

  Then he saw a shadow moving towards them, something metallic in its hands, and the shadow resolved itself into Caina.

  She looked terrible, her face drawn and pale and gleaming with sweat, her eyes glittering as with a fever. She staggered a little with every step, leaning upon the staff in her right hand. The staff was made of a peculiar silvery-gray metal, Iramisian characters written down its length, and Kylon sensed tremendous arcane power in the weapon.

  “Master Ciaran,” said Nasser, a note of awe in his voice. “You’ve done it. By the Divine, you’ve done it.”

  “That’s the Staff,” said Annarah.

  Caina reached into her satchel and drew out a ring made of the same silvery-white metal, set with a large blue stone. Presumably that was the Seal of Iramis, the second of the relics Callatas needed. She stopped a half-dozen paces away and looked back and forth, and then said something in a language Kylon did not recognize.

  Nasser blinked. “I didn’t know you spoke Iramisian.”

  “I,” said Caina, her voice hoarse. “I…I don’t. I didn’t. At least, I think I didn’t.”

  “Ciaran?” said Kylon. “What happened?”

  Caina shuddered, blinked…and her eyes turned pitch black. She dropped the Staff and Seal with a groan, fell to her knees, and threw up. Something like black slime fell from her mouth, and Kylon ran to her side as she toppled over, shivering. Her cowl fell back as she did, and her emotions washed over his senses in a storm of pain and confusion and grief.

  There was something within her, something dark and cold. It was a necromantic spell, one unlike anything Kylon had encountered before. Her eyes, filled with bottomless shadows, met his.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered in Istarish. Her fingers, hot and feverish and slick with sweat, grabbed at his wrist. “I…I tried. I should have…I should have…

  Annarah knelt on the other side of Caina, lifted her hand with the pyrikon bracelet, and cast a spell. White light flashed from her fingers, and Caina screamed in agony, her back arching, the cords in her neck standing out. As she did, Kylon saw the veins in her neck and temples, saw that they had turned black, as if something rotten flowed through them.

  The white light pulsed again, and Caina slumped back against the floor with a groan, her eyes closed.

  “What is it?” said Nasser. “What happened to him?”

  Annarah let out a long breath. “It is a necromantic poison. One of Maatish origin. I think…I think it is attacking Ciaran’s mind and body simultaneously.”

  “Can you cure it?” said Kylon.

  Before Annarah could answer Caina’s eyes flickered open. They had turned blue again, though they were bloodshot, and dark circles ringed her eyes.

  “Gods,” she mumbled as Kylon helped her to sit up. “I have a headache. What happened?”

  “You passed out,” said Kylon. “You started talking in Iramisian, and then you threw up and fell over.”

  “So that’s what that taste is,” said Caina, wiping her mouth. “I think…I know Iramisian now. And ancient Maatish, too.” She blinked at the walls. “I can…I can read what it says there now. Nothing good. I…”

  “What happened?” said Kylon.

  “I don’t remember,” said Caina. “I found the library. The Staff and Seal were on a stone table.”

  “Exactly as I left them,” said Annarah, frowning.

  “Then…something happened,” said Caina. “I must have gotten sloppy, triggered a trap of some kind. I think I was poisoned.”

  “You were,” said Annarah. “There is a poison of Maatish necromancy flowing through your veins. I think it is the same formula the Great Necromancers used as an initial base for growing a bloodcrystal.”

  “Base?” said Caina. “Why does…” She shook her head. “It’s going to kill me, isn’t it?”

  Annarah hesitated. “The poison will attack both your body and mind. You will get progressively weaker, and you may start to experience unpleasant hallucinations.”

  “I already have,” said Caina. She shivered, another glitter going through her eyes. “Unpleasant…yes. But you didn’t answer the question.”

  “The poison will kill you,” said Annarah. “Unless I can cure it first.”

  “Then you can cure it?” said Kylon.

  “Not here,” said Annarah. “Even with my pyrikon’s help, it will be chancy. I will need several precious stones to focus and enhance the power I will summon. Until then, the Words of Lore can…slow the progress of the poison. They cannot stop it, though.”

  “I understand,” said Caina. She struggled to stand, and Kylon gripped her arm and helped her up. “Nasser. Take the Staff and the Seal.” She offered a wan smile. “They’re yours by right.”

  “The Prince is only the custodian of the regalia,” said Nasser, but he picked up the Staff and the Seal. “Now we must make for all speed with Rumarah. Precious stones can be obtained there…”

  Morgant snorted. “At dear prices.”

  “And Annarah can then cure Ciaran,” said Nasser.

  “Yes,” whispered Caina, and a flicker of power went through the poison in her veins. “Then we must give the regalia to Callatas at once.”

  Kylon gave her a sharp look. “What?”

  Caina blinked and shook her head. “What…what did I say? My head was spinning.”

  “You said we had to give the Staff and Seal to Callatas,” said Kylon.

  “Why?” said Caina. “Why would I say that? That is madness.”

  Perhaps it was because the poison was driving her insane. Kylon stared at her, a cold, sick fear in the pit of his stomach. Something else had happened to her. Why would Kharnaces create a poison that would bestow knowledge of both ancient Maatish and Iramisian upon its victim? Whatever had happened to Caina had given her that knowledge and poisoned her in the process…and she could not remember it.

  Kylon could do nothing for that, but he could still help her. They had to get to Rumarah as soon as possible, before it was too late.

  He would not lose Caina as he had lost Thalastre and Andromache. He would not.

  Kylon helped her as they made their way back to the entrance of the Tomb, her fingers digging into his arm as she limped alongside him.

  Chapter 18: The Accusing Dead

  “No,” said Sanjar Murat. “Absolutely not.”

  Kylon’s hilt twitched towards the valikon’s hilt.

 
They stood on the deck of the Sandstorm, a ring of nearly forty corsairs surrounding them, weapons in hand. Murat stood glaring at Nasser, his cutlass in hand. Nasser, Laertes, Annarah, and Morgant stood around Kylon. Neither Nasser nor Laertes had drawn their weapons yet, but Morgant had, and Kylon’s hand rested on the hilt of the valikon.

  Caina stood alone in the longboat as it bounced against the galley’s hull, shivering a little. In the gloom of the Tomb of Kharnaces, she had looked terrible. In the full morning sunlight, she looked far worse, her pallor taking a gray tinge, her eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles. Without even trying, Kylon sensed the necromantic poison within her, working its way deeper into her flesh. They had to get to Rumarah as soon as possible so Annarah could obtain the necessary gems for a cure.

  They were going to get to Rumarah as soon as possible.

  And if Murat refused to help, Kylon knew with cold certainly that he was going to start killing corsairs until the survivors cooperated.

  “Captain Murat,” said Nasser with his calm voice, “as I recall, our deal was to transport the six of us back to Rumarah. Why have you chosen to renege?”

  Murat scowled, his dark face tight with anger. “I have reneged on nothing, Glasshand.” He pointed at Caina. “Your friend Ciaran clearly contracted the plague while in the jungle. I’ve seen the symptoms before. Any minute he’s going to turn contagious. Have you seen what happens when plague spreads through a ship? Only corpses would return to Rumarah.”

  “He does not have the plague,” said Nasser. He had wrapped the Staff with leather, making it look like a spear shaft. “He was poisoned in one of the ruins on the island.”

  “A likely story,” said Murat. “Ciaran will remain behind. The rest of you can come, though if you show signs of plague I will throw you over the side for the sharks.”

  “Ciaran does not have the plague,” said Kylon. “You will keep to your agreement, and you will take us to Rumarah as fast as this ship can manage.”

  “Will I?” said Murat with a sneer. “Do you think to give me orders, Kyracian? Your lot might fancy themselves the lords of the sea, but you don’t have any ships with you, do you? Let’s see if you can swim back to Rumarah from Pyramid Isle.”

  “Try it,” said Kylon, “and we’ll see just who swims home.”

  Murat scowled, and it might have gone to violence, but Caina started shouting, leaning against the side of the longboat.

  “Stop!” she said. “This isn’t worth it. Send me back. I’ll fend for myself on the beach.”

  “No,” said Kylon.

  “I refuse to leave a loyal ally behind,” said Nasser.

  “I’m not important,” said Caina, shaking her head. “What we’ve found, that’s important. You have to get them to the mainland. You have to…to do as we discussed.”

  “We are not leaving you,” said Kylon.

  She offered a wan smile. “We both knew this was going to happen.”

  The thought of Caina dying alone on a beach, surrounded only by whatever hallucinations her feverish mind conjured, was not something that Kylon was going to accept.

  “He sees it,” said Murat, jerking his chin in Caina’s direction. He looked at Kylon, something that might have been sympathy on his face. “But we must do what is necessary to survive upon the sea. You know that, Kyracian. Mutineers must be killed. Those who steal more than their fair share of the food and water are killed. And those with plague…we must leave behind.”

  “He does not have the plague, you idiot,” said Kylon. Murat’s eyes narrowed. “He’s been poisoned. We can find a cure in Rumarah, but…”

  “Murat.” Caina’s voice was soft, scratchy, yet it cut through the argument.

  Murat grunted and looked at her. “Well? A dying man’s entitled to some last words.”

  She grinned at him. “Want to make a wager?”

  Murat blinked and lowered his sword a few inches. “What did you have in mind?”

  “The Kyracian’s right,” she said. “I’m poisoned, not ill. But if I die on the voyage…you can have my knives.”

  “Knives?” said Murat.

  “The throwing knives I used to win our little contest back at the Corsair’s Rest,” said Caina. “Made by the best armorer in Istarinmul. Far better than those slabs of rusty iron you were throwing. If I die on the voyage, they’re yours.”

  Murat scoffed. “Do you really expect me to accept that?”

  Caina shrugged. “I think you enjoy a wager. And if you don’t take me aboard, we’ll have a fight. You’ll have to kill all of us, and while you’ll win, you’ll lose a lot of men…and Nasser won’t be alive to pay you. So no matter what you choose to do next, you’re taking a gamble. The only question is how big of a gamble you want to take.”

  Murat stared at her for a moment, tapping the flat of his sword against his left hand. Kylon focused upon the captain’s emotions, a mixture of rage and fear and amusement.

  Amusement won out.

  “Do you always hire such silver-tongued negotiators, Glasshand?” said Murat.

  “One endeavors to hire capable associates on business enterprises,” said Nasser.

  Murat grunted. “Very well. He can have a cabin of his own. But he’s not to leave it for the entirety of the trip back to Rumarah. I won’t have him wandering among my crew and spreading the plague. If I catch him leaving his cabin, I’ll throw the lot of you to the sharks and take my chances.”

  “Very well,” said Nasser. “An equitable arrangement.” He shot a glance at Kylon. “Let us come aboard and depart this place.”

  ###

  Two nights later Caina lay alone in her little cabin, shivering.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite falling asleep. She felt hot, terribly hot, and would have taken off all her clothes had that not been a bad idea on a ship full of outlaw corsairs. Despite the heat, despite the burning sensation in her limbs, she could not stop shivering. She would have drunk herself senseless, but she could not keep any food down. She could barely keep water down. If the nausea grew any worse, she might well die of thirst before even reaching Rumarah.

  That might be kinder.

  Caina could still not remember what had happened to her in the Tomb. It seemed important. It seemed desperately important. Perhaps even more important than getting the Staff and Seal to Callatas…

  No. That wasn’t right. She needed to take the regalia to Catekharon. Giving the relics to Callatas would be madness…

  “It is over,” said a familiar voice.

  A hated voice.

  Caina’s head snapped around, and she saw Maglarion leaning against the door, clad in the black finery of a Nighmarian noble. His right eye was gray and clear, and a lesser bloodcrystal blazed in his left eye socket. He looked just as he had on the day she had killed him, the day she had shattered his great bloodcrystal and sent him tumbling from the tower of Haeron Icaraeus’s mansion.

  “No,” said Caina. “You’re dead. I killed you. I saw the body.”

  “And we have been waiting for you, Caina Amalas, Laeria Amalas’s little daughter,” said Maglarion. “You knew it would come. Sooner or later you would dare too much and come too far, and death would come for you. Now it has come at last.” He laughed. “You should have let me kill you. You should have died when you were a child. Think of how much suffering you might have avoided.”

  “No,” said Caina, shaking her head. “No, this isn’t real. You’re just in my head. I saw you die.”

  “And we,” said another familiar voice, rusty and hard, “shall watch you die.”

  Sicarion stepped next to Maglarion, his face a hideous maze of scars, as if it had been patched together from mismatched pieces of leather. One of his eyes was a harsh orange color, the other a watery green. They changed, depending upon who he had stolen them from recently.

  “The Moroaica’s empty vessel,” said Sicarion. “You should have died after she discarded you.”

  “You’re dead,” said Cai
na. “Ark killed you in New Kyre. You’re dead!”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” said Sicarion, his gruesome face spreading in a wide smile. “I never got a chance to kill you in life. So now you shall join us in death. What fun we shall have together as I kill you over and over and over!”

  Caina shook her head, and more shapes moved in the darkness. All her enemies stepped from the shadows of the narrow cabin, staring at her. Kalastus, who had burned in the fires of his own pyromancy. Naelon Icaraeus, slain by Ark in the darkness below the Citadel of Marsis. Rezir Shahan, cruel and proud in his fine armor. Ranarius, tall and austere in his black robes, at least until Caina had killed him and the Moroaica had moved him into a new body. Ricimer the Alchemist, a disciple of Callatas.

  “At the end, you have failed,” said Maglarion, “and now we come for you.”

  Caina forced herself to sit up, her teeth bared in a snarl. “I killed you all once before, and I’ll kill you again.”

  “You failed,” said Maglarion. “Istarinmul is ashes. The nagataaru will swarm over the world and devour everyone you love, and you cannot stop them.” He stepped forward, the others coming after him. “How shall we laugh as we watch you die in failure.”

  Caina shouted a challenge and forced herself to stand.

  ###

  “Hurry,” said Annarah.

  Kylon shoved the cabin door open. He almost hit Caina, who stood in the center of the small room, her face twisted in a snarl, her eyes wide and wild. She glared at Kylon, her face uncomprehending, and took a step forward.

  Then she tottered and started to fall.

  Kylon seized her shoulders and caught her, lowering her to the bunk. Even through her shirt, her skin felt dangerously hot. She slumped against the bed, eyes darting back and forth behind closed lids, her hands twitching. Annarah knelt next to the bunk, raising her hands and casting a spell. Again white light flashed from her fingers and sank into Caina, and some of her twitching subsided, her feverish skin seeming to get cooler.