Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

She looked down. The tribe hated her. They would not care her body was whole. Her mind was still afflicted with the curse.

  A cry ululated through the forest, carrying her through the canopy and up to Dindarin. Spinning around the moon, Sian looked to Draykan for permission.

  “Go to her,” the Leadsman said. “She has been waiting for you.”

  Her feet were running before she realised it, making steady progress along the track to the west of the village. Out in the trees, a streak of grey loped with her.

  “Take care!” Draykan called.

  “She has the sight of an owl,” Erok replied.

  “She has the vision of spirits,” she heard Draykan reply with thoughtful depth.

  She heard no more as she ran on, around the hollow bole and up the hill to Ishoa’s cave where a hundred butterflies fluttered in the moonlight.

  The diminutive soothsayer was waiting at the entrance, feathered staff in hand, her glossy, sap-brown hair unbound. Her sightless, white eyes turned full on Sian, and Dindarin lit nothing but love in her round, nut-brown face. Sian ran to Ishoa, and threw her arms around the little woman. In her surprise, Ishoa dropped her staff. Its clatter brought her brief hug to a close.

  “The spirits reach you,” Sian said in belated greeting. Her heart was pulsing all the way to the stars.

  “And may they reach and guide you, child.”

  Sian picked up the staff, placed it in Ishoa’s hand and guided her to a bright fire. Ishoa waved her in the direction of a pile of rabbit furs while she lowered herself upon the wolf pelt and placed the staff across her lap. The scent of the earthy herbs and dried seeds brought the forest into the best home in the village.

  “You must tell me all.” The soothsayer grabbed a handful of speckled seeds from beside her and threw them on the fire. They cracked and spit in all directions as acrid smoke billowed, stinging Sian’s eyes and making her cough. “You have been gone a long time.”

  Sian bit her lip and looked at the crackling logs. Some memories were best left buried. The soothsayer smiled a close-lipped smile, as though she had divined that thought. Sian took a deep breath. Her words were halting at first, but into the still of night she laid it all bare: the vile ogres, Grandmother Vila’s gruesome death, the brutal rape. And Faradil. Most of all Faradil. The forest spoke with her in the whistling wind, the creaking branch, the whirring wing and howling wolf. It spoke to Ishoa with a depth she could not. When she had finished, Sian wiped the tears from her eyes. Rocking onto her knees, she unhooked the pouch from around her neck.

  “I brought you these,” she said, opening the bag and scattering the bones in front of Ishoa. In the firelight, they glowed with an uncanny sheen. Ishoa was silent. Sian held her breath. She would die of shame if Ishoa did not like them.

  A clack, clack, clack made Sian look up. A silhouette was framed in the entrance, its two hands gripping a tall staff adorned with the claws and teeth of bears and wolves.

  “The spirits reach you, Orin of the Pa’akerin, Guardian of Spirit Lake,” Ishoa said.

  Sian drew a deep breath. With thin hair yellowed from age and white eyes staring from brown skin stretched tight, the oldest and most revered of the Akerin looked more ancient than the hollow bole. His milky eyes caught her soul, and wrenched it from her body. Her soft cry as he released her brought a rustle from outside. Leaning heavy on his long staff, Orin shuffled into the cave. The shadow of an eagle followed his path.

  “The spirits favour your tribe, Ishoa,” he replied with formality.

  At that Ishoa bent her head, but not to the bones. She had not touched the bones.

  Tentative footfalls arrived, guided by a small silhouette.

  “The spirits reach you, Joser of the Te’akerin,” Ishoa said to the lean, greying soothsayer whose staff carried feathers both bright and grey. His hair stuck out in spikes all over his head, just like the hedgehog in the shadow he threw over the rocks.

  “The spirits favour your tribe, Ishoa.”

  In the presence of so much mystic power, Sian scrambled to her feet. Late, she remembered the gathering Leadsman Draykan had called to discuss the ravages of the drug. Before she could retreat to a corner of the cave, Ishoa placed a hand upon her arm. Another soothsayer entered, one arm upon the guiding figure who darted outside as soon as the white-haired man with the squirrel shadow had a steady footing.

  Sian sidled closer to Ishoa. This soothsayer’s eye sockets were empty. Red scars radiated from his sockets, like a sun whose rays had become crossed. He had not come easy to the calling.

  “The spirits guide you, Mun of the Su’akerin.”

  “The spirits favour your tribe.” He sat by the fire, loose in his long limbs like a much younger man.

  Only Mila of the Ri’akerin was not here. Journeying from the west arm of the Olono Range, the shrivelled woman would not arrive for days yet. Years had passed since Sian had seen her. She had been old even then, although her hand had been kind during the aftermath of a fit.

  Another man shuffled at the mouth.

  “You are awaited, Leadsman Draykan,” Ishoa said. It was a spiritual night for she was throwing the shadow of a bear.

  The leadsman came into the sparse light of the cave. He held a box in his hands. “I bring this at the request of Soothsayer Orin.” He frowned as bushes rustled outside. “Loyt, you were not invited here.”

  “The boy offered old, blind men his help,” Mun said, setting the colourful pebbles on his staff shaking.

  “The boy was curious why so many soothsayers gather at night,” Orin corrected, though mirth warmed his voice.

  “The boy should be abed,” Draykan said.

  Amid more rustling, Loyt’s cheeky face peeked around the corner. “Why are so many soothsayers gathered at night?” he asked.

  Draykan cleared his throat and shifted his weight. He seemed as much at a loss as she.

  “The Smoke of Choosing reached us,” Orin said. He spoke as to the beginning a ritual and not an answer to a question.

  “The spirits have anointed a soothsayer,” Ishoa replied.

  Orin straightened as he raised his staff. Twirling the teeth and claws that dangled from its tip, he thrilled an undulating chant that spun Sian to the heavens. Ishoa joined him, and the others, until he brought down the staff with a crack, jerking her into her body. Ishoa threw more seeds onto the flame. An explosion of smoke smothered them all. When it cleared, a wolf howled at the entrance to the cave. His keen eye held hers, before he padded down the track into the forest.

  “The spirits have chosen,” Orin said.

  “We rejoice in their wisdom,” Ishoa said, righting her staff so she could rise. She guided Sian forward. “Leadsman Draykan, a soothsayer is called to the tribe.”

  “There have never been two at once,” the leadsman said. He scratched his temple but his lips remained parted so she could not tell if he was confused or awed.

  The comment drew Ishoa’s head to Orin. Their silent, sightless exchange sent a chill down Sian’s spine.

  “The spirits favour your tribe, Leadsman Draykan,” Orin said. “The soothsayer must have her box.”

  Draykan stepped forward and held out the box. Sian’s eyes widened as she drank in the sent of sandalwood. It was perfect. The top was inlaid with derral from the shell Timak had given her, and the sides were carved with the patterns of the tribe. She looked at Ishoa, but the soothsayer made no move. With an encouraging nod from Draykan, Sian took the box. She knelt, opened the hinged lid, placed each bone inside, and closed it. Standing, she presented it to Ishoa. The soothsayer stood very still, her face still turned to Orin. Sian turned to him, but his sightless eyes held Ishoa’s gaze.

  “The spirits have chosen,” Ishoa said. Another puff of smoke shrouded them.

  A golden eagle winged through it into the cave, circled over their head and flew out into the night.

  Sian trembled. The bones rattled inside the box. She was slow, touched in the mind. A soothsayer’s bone box was present
ed by the leadsman to the soothsayer of his tribe. And she held it. He had given it to her.

  One by one, the soothsayers turned and shuffled out of the cave.

  The last to leave, Draykan looked at her. “It is good. It is very good for our tribe.” And then he too was gone, leaving her staring after him, too shocked to move.

  “Come to bed, child,” Ishoa said, walking to her pile of furs.

  A long while later, Sian placed the bone box next to Ishoa’s. She curled up on furs the hunters had added in her absence, hugging her knees tight to her chest, unable to think except for the one thought that kept repeating itself inside her mind. They had made a mistake. She did not want to be a soothsayer. They had made a mistake. Her mind was not whole. And now they were going to take her eyes.

  Chapter 16

  JUST VINSANT’S LUCK Tokver was here. The new mahktashaan was kneeling on the crimson floor before the crystal statue of Mahktos, his hood down to bask in Mahktos’s glory. Vinsant assumed a scowl he was sure outdid Tokver’s glare.

  “What are you doing here?” Tokver asked. Anybody would think he had exclusive rights to the temple.

  “Praising Mahktos. Same as you, I guess,” Vinsant said not paying him the courtesy of looking at him, and moving right past to the second face. He craned his neck to study the closed eye. Wherever it was, he had a feeling it was going to cause a great deal of trouble, the more so if he got involved. And he intended to get involved because, if the Eye was as powerful as the djinn implied, it might just be a means of getting Kordahla out of Myklaan. He dropped to his knees, removed his hood just to annoy Tokver with his mimicry, and begged Mahktos for the key to this irresistible enigma. The divine one chose not to answer on this occasion, but Vinsant hadn’t really expected Him to. He thought about throwing in an apology for sneaking the crystals, but since he wasn’t at all sorry decided against it. Mahktos would know his true feelings. Getting to his feet he reversed until he could study the closed eye without craning his neck too far.

  “Think you’re going to solve that mystery?”

  “If you’ve finished praying, why don’t you bug some other apprentice?”

  The smirk that spread over Tokver’s face made Vinsant want to slog him. “You’re the only one around for leagues.”

  “So what? You think you can find the Eye before I do? I have a direct link to Mahktos. And it’s His Eye.” A little bragging never went astray. Vinsant was sure, well fairly sure, Mahktos wasn’t about to execute him for conceit. Tokver was living proof of that with his perfect blonde hair, a robe that somehow managed to show off his athletic physique, and the ability to rise from a kneel with the grace of a swan.

  “You can’t even hold a full-sized sword. Even if you did know where to look, you aren’t about to take off on some grand adventure. Not with the minekeeper breathing down your neck.”

  “I don’t need to. Not to find out where it is.”

  Tokver moved until he was right on top of Vinsant. “What do you mean?”

  The best thing about growing up with a much older brother was that the need to shrink from a bully had long vanished. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “You will speak, apprentice.”

  The second-best thing was that he had learned to wriggle out of the heat with a spot of fast thinking. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll tell you where to get the information if you let me see it with you.”

  Tokver’s eyes narrowed. Lime was a vile colour. It suited him.

  “You will reveal everything you know.”

  “I don’t think so. If you’re desperate you could always ask Mahktashaan Fenz. He knows.”

  Tokver spun so he faced Mahktos. The scowl was still plastered over his face. He paced in front of the statue, arms behind his waist as though considering. Vinsant chuckled as Tokver grew more and more agitated. The arrogant son-of-a-djinn didn’t even notice the ruby in Mahktos’s crystal eye roll until it centred on him. Vinsant crossed his arms, shifted his weight onto one hip and tried to figure out where he had gone right.

  “Er, Mahktashaan Tokver.”

  “What?”

  “Mahktos is watching you.”

  Tokver came to a standstill. Vinsant’s relief should have been palpable. Instead, he swallowed the touch of jealousy that had surfaced now someone else was the centre of the god’s attention. He shuffled under the eye as Tokver took a decisive step out of Mahktos’s direct line of sight.

  “If I’d known I’d be serving a spoiled prince, I would never have thrown my life away.”

  This time Tokver had gone too far. Vinsant summoned a ball of light and sent it hurling Tokver’s way. Tokver deflected it with a wave of his fist and the dimmest of lime green sparks. Vinsant summoned his practice sword and charged. The mahktashaan made an upward gesture with his hand, and the sword went flying out of his grip. Vinsant kicked and punched, right into a shield. The contact sent a buzz through his body that jarred him to the roots of his teeth. With a yell, he pointed at the shield and magicked a bolt of energy. The bolt skidded sideways and fizzled out before it had reached the wall. His failure was heating his brain beyond rational. He flicked both index fingers at the shield, creating two energy bolts. They bounced off the shield and caught him in the arm. The painful impact toppled him onto his bottom.

  “Ow,” he cried, glaring at Tokver. “Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

  “It’s your own fault.”

  “What happens here?” Mahktashaan Gerosh of the navy crystal asked, entering as Tokver dispelled his shield. His deep frown was benign compared to the glares Vinsant and Tokver levelled at each other.

  “I was helping Apprentice Vinsant practice magic, mahktashaan,” Tokver said with a bow. He flicked his hood up.

  “This is not the place. Your magic is a gift from Mahktos. Sparring here disrespects his temple. Should Mahktashaan Fenz discover you, you will spend a week in the mines.”

  “Never again,” Vinsant.

  “We will offer our apologies, mahktashaan,” Tokver said.

  “Your enthusiasm for magic is commendable. You will learn the ways of the mines before long, but this I expected you to understand, mahktashaan.”

  “All praise to Mahktos.”

  Still on the floor, Vinsant watched Mahktashaan Gerosh glide out an entrance in the right wall.

  “Let me see that,” Tokver said, trying to roll up Vinsant’s blue sleeve.

  “Ah! Don’t touch me,” Vinsant complained, pulling his arm away. His biceps burned. He would have to find Padesh of the beige crystal and learn how to instil cool into muscles. Picking himself up, he glowered at Tokver. “What did you mean?”

  “Do you have the wits to explain yourself or do I have to read your mind?”

  “Touch me and I’ll have Mahktos strike you dead.”

  Tokver actually flinched. Vinsant felt a pang of guilt. Mahktashaan obviously did not joke about threats like that. “I mean you said you didn’t know you’d be serving a prince. The third job of the mahktashaan is to serve the royal family. You must have known that. So what did you mean?”

  “I don’t answer to you, apprentice.”

  “You didn’t even fight back when I attacked you.”

  “You’re a piddling apprentice.”

  “And you didn’t want to put me in my place?”

  Tokver turned aside with an angry flick of his head that neatened his near-perfect hair. Vinsant bet he used the same gesture to attract girls. “It’s forbidden.”

  “After my first hour with the majoria I could have told you it’s not. Or do you mean because I’m a prince? Because I’m supposed to be treated just like any other apprentice and every other mahktashaan knows it.”

  “Every other mahktashaan doesn’t have orders from Mahktos,” Tokver spat.

  Vinsant gawked. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve just had my induction. Figure it out.”

  “He told you to serve me, didn’t He?�
� After some incredulous staring, Vinsant broke into a smile.

  “He didn’t say I had to wait on you hand and foot,” Tokver snapped.

  “So if I told you to take me somewhere, you’d have to do it.”

  “If you ever disrespect a full mahktashaan enough to tell him what to do, you can find out what happens for yourself.” Tokver strode towards one of the arched exits. None of the columns were aglow.

  Vinsant folded his painful arms and looked up. “I’m telling you. In front of Mahktos.”

  The stone eye blinked, rolled so that it looked down on him, and moved sideways to catch Tokver. The newest mahktashaan stopped. His back arched in the grip of that gaze. He took a deep breath and turned.

  “There will come a day you will regret this, apprentice,” Tokver said.

  “Not if I find the Eye.”

  Tokver pursed his lips. He had to be hoping that finding the Eye would relieve him of his obligation. “What do you want?”

  “You’re a full mahktashaan. You can enter the locked chamber in the library, can’t you?”

  “What if I can? You’re just an apprentice. It’s forbidden to you.”

  “We made a deal. In front of Mahktos.”

  “If it will not offend Mahktashaan Fenz, I will allow it.”

  Vinsant shook his head. He wondered what would happen if he said that wasn’t good enough. Tokver looked up. The Eye was still trained on him.

  “To ask anything else will risk my position here.” Tokver strode away. When he reached an exit, he said, “Well? Are you coming?”

  Vinsant scooted after him. Plenty enough time to get the hang of the mysterious glide the mahktashaan were so fond of later. All through the tunnels to the living quarters they remained silent. There, their enquiries sent them to the armoury where Fenz was overseeing a training session.

  “Wait in the library. And for Mahktos’s sake keep out of sight. Mahktos never compelled me to lie to my superiors.”

  So Tokver was doing the absolute minimum to help him and hoped he would not succeed. Good enough reason to stick around and make sure he at least attempted to fulfil his end of the bargain.