Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  “She made no deal, Your Highness. Princess, I will be outside should you need me.” He bowed and left.

  Mariano shook out his bedroll in his usual position across the entrance to their tent. She stood staring at nothing, listening to the murmurs of the settling camp as he lay down and turned his back to her. When all she could hear was crickets chirping, she rubbed goosebumps from her arms. Mariano’s breathing had slowed. So cold had it become, his skin was blue. She wrapped a blanket around herself, and stared at the candlewick. Smoke was spiralling from the tip – rose smoke, thickening and curling into a figure. Arun’s name formed on her lips. She reached across her brother to the door flap. Frost had crept across the canvas. It numbed her fingertips as she fumbled for the edge.

  “Please don’t.”

  The rose genie was floating at the centre of the tent. She looked at Mariano, and blew. An icy stream of breath brushed his face.

  Kordahla bent and stroked his hair. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

  The genie floated down until her pink slippers touched the ground. “He’s in a deep sleep. He will wake at dawn.” She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder. “What will it take to get you to trust me?”

  “Nothing. I cannot. Please go.”

  The genie stared at the ground. “I used to be a little girl once. The whole village was glad to see me.”

  The wistfulness disarmed Kordahla. “Is there no one who welcomes you among your kind?”

  Floating up, tucking her legs under her, the shimmering genie bobbed. “Yes. But I am new and the indigo djinn is older than everyone except the Queen. They will never believe me.”

  “Please, leave me and my brothers alone.”

  “I can’t.” The genie threw a worried look over her shoulder. “I shall stay beside you until you help me.”

  It was so cold it hurt to breathe. A thin sheet of ice spread across the walls of the tent. “I will call for the mahktashaan.”

  The genie’s solemn eyes carried a depth of sadness that had never been there in the scums. “He will destroy me. Please, for Timak, don’t do that.” She whisked quill and parchment out of thin air, her crystal joints flashing a dim light. Kordahla hesitated as she held them out.

  “Just tell Vinsant I never meant you harm.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “If you tell me to go again, I will. I have left him alone too long already.”

  Kordahla’s heart constricted. She took the quill. The genie was biting her lip. The crickets had fallen silent. “I will make a pact after all. I will write my brother of the help you proffered if you swear any deal you strike with him will alter neither his past, his present nor his future.”

  The genie offered an ink pot with both hands. “I would never harm him. Please ask me to free you from Lord Swine instead.”

  “It is the pact I would make. And I set one more condition besides. You will not read this before it reaches Vinsant’s hand.” She shivered. Her breath puffed white between them.

  The genie dipped her head. “The pact is of my asking. I must agree.” Her voice was so quiet it was the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

  Hand trembling, Kordahla dipped the quill into the pot. When the letter was dry, she pulled her mother’s veil from her head and secured the paper to a corner of the fabric with a pin from her hair. “By this he will know it comes from me.”

  As the genie accepted the veil, Kordahla took a shaky breath. Were the child not a genie, Kordahla might have felt sorry for her, so insecure did she seem. But that was the way of the djinn, to deceive until they gained one’s trust. There was no better way for a child to engender tenderness than to flaunt her innocence. The rose genie looked over at Mariano, who had not stirred a muscle, and then at the canvas, as though she could see through to the sleeping men beyond. She squeezed her eyes tight and shuddered, and Kordahla knew she was thinking of Ahkdul. Her drawn out exhalation was so pensive, she seemed to have forgotten Kordahla was there.

  Ice cracked on the walls of the tent.

  The genie’s head jerked up and her eyes widened, as though she listened to a silent call.

  “Call if you need me. I will come,” she said, thinning to translucence.

  In a puff of pink smoke, she was gone.

  Chapter 18

  TIMAK’S EYES FLEW open. Lord Ahkdul’s face loomed over him, fresh from his nightmare. Stinky sweat was drying cold on his skin. He shivered. The bedclothes were damp beneath him, and tangles were poking into him. Breathing hard, he sat up and stared at the door. No one entered to disturb his fitful sleep. No one ever had, not in the week since they had brought him here, to isolated Mage Cove, where nobody except the mages would hear him scream. Each night he had lain awake waiting for one of them to enter and begin the torture. Each night his tense watch had fallen into exhausted, restless, uninterrupted sleep.

  Timak grabbed his pillow and crept to the door. Turning the handle opened up a wedge. The hall was dark and silent. He slipped through, and padded the length of the guild, down the stairs to the large room with the huge windows the mages favoured. He climbed into one of the large padded armchairs and, curling against the pillow, listened to the lap of the waves against the rock. Green Dindarin floated low in the west, but the moon ignored him in its descent.

  “I hope you no longer wish to journey with the moons.”

  Timak jumped out of the chair. Heart thumping, the pillow dangling from one hand, he stared at Master Magus Drucilamere. The mage was standing by the stairs, clad in undertrousers and wearing the crystal the princess had bartered for sanctuary around his neck. Timak’s lip trembled even as his tongue froze.

  “No one here is going to hurt you, Timak.”

  Timak didn’t move, didn’t speak. Drucilamere sighed and walked to one of the desks at the back of the room. They were piled high with books on history, geography and magic, books the mages had encouraged him to open. Timak watched the master magus light two lamps by striking a flint. In the short time he had spent with the mages, he had never seen them perform magic. Not like the cloaked and hooded Terlaani mahktashaan who had taken his pain. The mages acted just like ordinary men. Ordinary men sought to gain what advantage they could.

  A lamp in hand, the mage pulled an armchair closer to Timak. He seated himself, setting the lamp on the floor between the chairs. Timak remained standing.

  “Dindarin is chilling in his beauty,” the mage said, gazing at the waxing quarter moon, “but look at the water. What do you see?”

  Out of habit, Timak did as he was told. Dindarin’s reflection rippled large.

  “I like to think the moon’s reflections remind us their gifts may be savoured on this earth.”

  Timak had kept silent all these long days. He kept silent now, but he turned his head to the mage.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  Timak stared. It was easier not to think or wonder, easier to accept the food and clothes they gave, their gentle words and quiet tasks. Dindarin’s sword no longer lured him, but neither did the joys and heartache of the living.

  Drucilamere placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and clasped his hands. “You set the crystal ablaze. It is my belief you carry magic in you, lad. I want to test you. If it’s so, you can apprentice to the guild.”

  Timak didn’t want to be a mage. Didn’t want to be anything, really. Not his father’s little soldier or even his mother’s brave captain.

  “Would you like that?” the mage asked.

  Timak stared. Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t remember.

  The mage removed the crystal from around his neck. It dangled on the strap. “Can you spark the light?”

  Nerves hollowed out his chest. He didn’t ask his hand to move, but his fingers were stretching, and they brushed the crystal. Nothing happened.

  “Take it,” the mage said looking down, at him and not the crystal.

  The scrutiny set his skin on fire. He leaned forward so that he could enclose the crystal withi
n his anxious hand without falling into the mage’s grasp. The stone was cold. He cracked open his fingers. No light burst forth so he released it. The crystal swung. It tapped against the Master’s chest.

  “When did you first hear the genie?” the Magus asked.

  The question cut through Timak. He was trapped between men who wanted him to sate their own selfish desires. He looked at Dindarin. If he followed the light, the moon might lead him home. He would see his parents a final time before Lord Ahkdul tracked him down to pare his flesh away from his bones as fodder for the jabberweis. A tear ran down his cheek.

  “It is a rare gift to hear the voices of the djinn. It is not a talent you should waste.”

  “I don’t know her name.” The lie set his ears itching. He did not scratch. If the mage guessed the falsehood, he could not bear to remain here.

  “I would not ask you to reveal it if you did.”

  The mage sat so very still, like the gulls that flocked seaside Teqrin. Timak had played among toddlers who laughed as they threw the swarming seabirds morsels; among children who tried to toss salt on their tails, and whooped I’ve snared a djinn; among street brats who hurled stones to drive the gulls from the beach. The seagulls could not tell the difference until it was too late. Neither could Timak. He fidgeted and looked at Dindarin. Closed his eyes and prayed. Send me a beam to show me the way.

  “I will not force this on you,” the mage went on. “Perhaps you should return to the palace until you decide. Lady Jordayne is willing to take you on as a page, and there are other lads your own age who might remind you what it is to be a boy.”

  Timak shook. Those soft words had sounded as kind as all the rest but the snickering, and pinching, and cruel words when the other pages caught him speaking to the air had driven him to spend his free hours alone. And his princess was gone. Those selfish lords and ladies at the palace had surrendered her to the beast.

  “Lord Ahkdul gave me porrin,” he blurted because perhaps this was the best place to be after all. “He gave me porrin and hurt me.” The tears started to flow. Timak sniffed and wiped his eyes on his arm. “Then I heard her.”

  “I thought as much. Is it only her you hear?”

  Timak shook his head. “Sometimes there’s a djinn, but he’s mean.”

  “The genie is just a child, am I right?”

  Timak nodded. A lump had formed in his throat. This already felt like betrayal.

  “And the djinn?”

  “He’s big.” The lump closed his throat.

  The silence stretched on. Timak couldn’t bring himself to say more. Sweet Daesoa was not there to calm him, but he could draw strength from Dindarin to resist a prying mage.

  “The drug opened your mind,” the mage said at last. “Let me test you.”

  He didn’t answer because he didn’t know how. It was easier to just be. Decisions required reason and emotion, and both sailed close to the treacherous crags in his heart. He couldn’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  The soft swish of plumping cushions marked the mage’s rising. There was rustling, and the trickle of water.

  “Drink this.” The mage squatted beside him and held out a mug. The water inside was a murky red. Porrin. The beast had made him take porrin, before the torture began. Timak edged away.

  “The magi take an oath, Timak, not to abuse the drug. You are safe here.”

  They had told him this so many times. Once more and he might believe it because they had been nothing but kind.

  “He gave it to me.”

  “There are many who use the drug for ill, but I give you my word I will protect you.”

  Timak stretched for the mug. The mage did not let go but allowed him to pull it to his lips. Timak spluttered on the bitter brew. The mage patted his back. The touch sent shivers down his spine.

  “A little more.” The cup tilted, forcing him to swallow or have the liquid run down his chin and onto his clothes. The world seemed to retreat with the cup. Timak reached after it.

  “We’ll leave the rest for next time,” the mage said, a small smile beneath his moustache. “Steady now.” He took hold of Timak’s arm just above the elbow as Timak swayed on his feet. The mage’s grip crushed even as Timak floated towards the moon. Dindarin was dancing in the sky, his green beams swinging across the lake. Timak held a hand to them, tottered towards the glass.

  “Here, lad.” The words sounded hollow. The mage was at his side, the leather strap holding the crystal wrapped around his hand. “Take it.”

  The crystal swayed. So pretty. Her crystal. It drew him, its pull as strong as the moon. He swayed with it. Pretty crystal, floating free. Like him.

  “Take it.”

  The crystal drifted onto the back of his hand. He turned his palm up and cradled it. Heat shimmered through his body. Light exploded into the room, brighter than day. He clutched the crystal to his chest. It bore him up, out of the guild. He flew past Daesoa. She unfurled like a bud in the glorious bursting dawn, raising her arms to bear him on. He flew to Dindarin, who snapped taut like a bow, his gaze the arrow that marked Timak’s retreat from the world. He flew beyond; to the stars; to the inky void. Nothing existed here. Everything did. The white light raced up behind him, and in front black, and black, and –

  A golden presence bore down from high, high above. A primitive face lurched at his own, giant, formless, terrifying. Its eyes blazed, emitting crimson light that repelled the white light and Timak with it, spinning through the starry night, past the resting moons, no longer in their god-form but orbs of yellow and green.

  You have not earned that crystal, a thunderous voice proclaimed as Timak slapped against the floor of the guild.

  “It’s hers,” he whispered, curling tight. “It’s hers.”

  The booming voice subsided to a gentle murmur, the lap of the tide on a sandy shore. Rest easy, little one. The theft was not yours.

  The voice was gone. The splashes were waves breaking upon the rocks, the patter spray upon the glass. But there was prattle too, indistinct voices that cascaded from the stars.

  Timak opened his hand. The crystal fell out. The voices remained, nowhere, everywhere, inside him, and out.

  “. . .that veil?”

  Timak hauled himself to his feet. Turned about. The master magus was standing by the chair, his mouth closed. The brown-haired, friendly one called Kaztyne was by the stairs, a lamp in his hands. Shy, dark-haired Santesh was crossing to the desk, picking his way through the books that littered the floor, their pages curled under.

  “I made a pact.”

  His head jerked in recognition. He knew that sweet voice. He looked up. Her light was nowhere to be seen.

  “Your first?” The voice rippled like a harp.

  “. . .abide by our rules. . .” That was him, the mean indigo djinn.

  “What is this place?” Yazmine asked. Her voice came from the heavens. Timak frowned. She had not floated there, past the moons. He tilted his ear to the ceiling.

  “The porrin yet claims him. He listens to naught,” Santesh said.

  “Our temple to Mahktos,” the musical voice replied.

  “Timak, is the genie here?” Drucilamere asked. He, too, was glancing about with furrowed brow.

  “I feel no still wind,” Kaztyne said. “I take it from the spectacular display the boy has talent.”

  Ignoring them, Timak turned about. Yazmine’s light was missing.

  “Did the djinn build this, Tiarasae?” Yazmine asked.

  “An obsequious gesture,” said Indigo.

  “The years have not tempered your jealousy,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  “The aeons have sharpened my might.”

  “You should go, child,” Tiarasae said.

  Timak tottered to the window. He placed a hand on the cold, salt-clouded glass.

  “What happened to the Eye?” Yazmine asked.

  Cold laughter from Indigo.

  “Your pact, little rose.”

  A smile broke
onto Timak’s face. A glow was drifting across the inky waters, beyond the reflection of the green moon. “Genie.”

  A different light was rising from the watery depths, a wavering length that looked like her not at all.

  “Genie?”

  Across the lake, blue wisps were rising from the waters. They flitted across the surface, each oblivious to the others. So many of them, but not one of them her. His disappointment was dangerous. He tried to quash it before feeling took hold. Better to turn away and stare at the mages staring at him. Except, one of those glows was taking gruesome form: a man, his severed leg dangling by a useless flap of skin, a missing arm, a weeping gash upon his brow. Its moans were a howling wind that whooshed right through Timak’s ears and into his head. On the lake, every ghost paused at the sound. As one, they turned, and every one charged towards the shore, shrieking, wailing, screeching. Screaming, Timak clapped his hands to his ears and scooted back. His heel caught against a chair and he tumbled. His hands and legs scrambled to carry him further from the window. The ghosts swooped along the pane, up, down, left, and right. The spray froze on the window. Timak took a gulp of air. The mutilated ghost was howling right at the glass. It was howling through the glass, floating right into the room.

  “You dare, boy,” the ghost roared, floating above him, forcing him to lie while the mist blowing from his mouth wafted around it. “You dare to strike at my soul!”

  Fear should have frozen his heart, but the teeth-chattering cold brought a great drowsiness as it seeped into his joints. His eyelids drooped. Sharp needles pricked at his eyes. Sleep. He needed to sleep.

  He felt himself lifted against another body, tried to protest but his lips cracked and his throat stung. The warmth was pleasant, though. And the words the mages were singing held a luring beauty. If only they weren’t driving away his sleep. If only a hand was not rubbing life into his arm.

  Timak tried to lift his head. Just to tell them to let him be. His neck was too weak and his head lolled towards the flickering flame of the lamp.

  “He’s too blue.” The hand worked faster, flexing his fingers, chaffing his hands.