Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  This much control she would deign to permit him. No point in ruffling every feather on his desirable body. That would not get her what she yearned for tonight. She signalled her acquiescence by selecting the seat at the head of the oak table the mages used for meals now the large dining hall echoed in the emptiness of their vastly reduced numbers. The array of lamps on its top were already lit, and dripping copious wax onto their holders. She expected Drucilamere to take the seat opposite, a challenge in the place of his power, but he rounded the table and sat next to her. Without asking, he pulled over a jug of water, filled two mugs and passed one to her. His glance down the hall as the other mages sat, Kaztyne to her left, and Santesh beside Drucilamere, puzzled her.

  “Are you expecting anyone else?”

  “I have just got Timak to bed. The child has had a trying night and I would rather he was not disturbed.”

  “How is our young enigma? Has he settled?”

  “He is traumatised. It will take a good long while before he trusts an adult again. Tonight’s episode did not help any.”

  For all Drucilamere’s patience with the apprentices, she had never taken him for the paternal type. She could not help the bemused smile as she asked, “How was Timak involved?”

  His persistent frown deepening, Drucilamere fixed her with a baffled look. Considering their long, intimate relationship, her deduction should not have surprised him. “You alluded to the urgency of your news, Jordayne.”

  How like a man, changing the subject just to regain control. “True there are tidings I would rather you heard tonight, but first I should like to know what caused such a spectacular flash of light to surge from this hall.” She heard the deep breaths as Santesh and Kaztyne deferred to Drucilamere. Heard Druce tap a finger on the table as he gathered his thoughts.

  “You came as much for this as the other.”

  “That is true, though now I think about it, my news is the more disturbing because, unless you have discovered a new feat of magic, and without porrin, my beloved mages, I deem that impossible, someone must have set the Terlaani crystal alight.”

  Kaztyne’s low whistle brought a laugh to her throat. “Tell me,” she said.

  “I tested the boy. He has magic. Strong magic. And while he has no effect on the crystal when he is sober, under the influence of porrin the result was, well, phenomenal.”

  She could think of no better descriptive word, and yet it was an understatement. There were, however, peculiarities to solve. “The Terlaani mahktashaan do not require porrin to activate their crystals.”

  “They do not. They have training. In time, Timak may harness the magic of the crystals without the drug. Whether the stone needs to be altered by magic before it performs, I do not know.”

  “Have any of you succeeded with it?” She looked at them each in turn, faces streaked grim in the lamplight.

  Drucilamere’s silence was pointed.

  “We have not had the porrin to try,” Santesh said.

  “That sorry state of affairs is about to be remedied. The city guard are requisitioning the black market supplies. In the meantime, Timak will apprentice to you.”

  “If he so chooses,” Drucilamere said.

  A light spray pattered against the glass.

  “It is settled.”

  “I will not force him into this. That child has suffered enough.”

  “Nonsense.” She twisted her ash blonde hair over a shoulder. “What boy doesn’t dream of growing up to be a mage? If he resists, describe how well magic will enable him to exact revenge on Ahkdul.”

  “Jordayne, people are not. . .” Drucilamere glanced into the corridor. His expression altered to a harried lifting of his brows. “Timak.”

  She peered into the corridor. The boy sagged against the wall, swallowed by shadow and his rumpled nightshirt. At his name, he gasped and slunk from them.

  “Come here,” Drucilamere said, holding out a hand across the table, a gentle request that had her look at him sidelong. After tonight, she might very well have to re-evaluate her thoughts on this desirable man. His energetic beddings were the spice of their relationship. She did hope a sense of responsibility would not mellow him into a worrywart.

  The timid child crept forward, one corner of a pillow in his hand, another brushing the floor. Kaztyne slid into the chair opposite Santesh and patted the seat he just vacated. Timak clambered up, his wary eyes watching them all. He hugged the pillow to him as he hunched over the table. Jordayne pursed her lips. No child should suffer into such deep mistrust.

  “Something frightened you tonight,” Drucilamere said. “What was it?”

  “There were ghosts,” Timak whispered, as pale under his dark mop of tousled hair as the dead themselves.

  “Not djinn?”

  A little too quick, the boy shook his head.

  “Ghosts would explain the extreme cold,” Kaztyne said.

  “It would rather,” Drucilamere replied, his attention fixed on the boy. “Can you see them now?”

  Timak’s gaze drifted off the master magus and onto the window. Far across the inky lake, Dindarin graced them with a mere sliver of his formidable self. The boy swallowed and gave a slow nod.

  Elbows on the table, Drucilamere clasped his hands in front of his moustache, a sure indication he was not sure what to think. “Do they scare you?”

  Timak’s wide eyes and shallow breath were answer in themselves. Biting his lip, he returned his attention to Drucilamere and gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

  “I see. Was there anything else?”

  The child froze. “I haven’t earned the crystal. It was stolen,” he blurted.

  Walking corpses superseded the guilty conscience of a child, however pitiable. Jordayne patted his hand. “Perhaps you should return to your room. There are adult matters for us to discuss.”

  The boy, too obedient after his ordeal, wriggled off the chair, the pillow still clutched tight.

  Drucilamere dug a hand into a pocket at his waist and placed the quartz Kordahla had gifted them on table. “Timak, you harbour a great deal of magic. If you train with us, you may take the Terlaani quartz.”

  “Is that wise?” Jordayne asked, straightening. She reached for the stone. Her disrespectful mage pushed it towards Timak.

  “The quartz is the symbol and training tool of the mahktashaan apprentices. Under the circumstances, I think it fitting Timak wears it.”

  The child sat on the edge of the chair. “I didn’t earn it,” the stubborn boy said while yawning. He reached for the stone anyway, and dragged it close.

  Santesh’s sharp intake of breath put her on edge. The porrin must have worn off, thank the Vae, because the stone remained inert. Laying his head on the hand which covered the quartz, Timak closed his eyes.

  “I want to learn magic,” he murmured.

  “You may return to the palace if you prefer,” Druce offered.

  The exhausted boy gave no response. Drucilamere rose, picked him up and carried him down the corridor, the precious quartz clutched in his hand.

  “Well,” Jordayne said, relaxing into her chair. Dindarin had set, plunging the world outside the guild into starless darkness. “It seems there is hope for the mages after all.”

  The mages’ silence gave voice to their contradictory views. They did rather have the right of it, when a war with the Terlaani mahktashaan threatened.

  “Now,” the master magus said when he returned. “Why did you come?” He remained standing, staring a challenge at her.

  “Is it so hard to believe I was concerned?”

  He would continue to glare. Since the best cure for the ill temper of men was a dash of allure, she stretched her arms high over her head, arching back and neck, clinking bangles one against the other. “Have I not convinced you of how very dear those within this hall are a hundred times in a hundred ways?” She stretched her arm towards him in invitation. By Vae’oenka’s love, she intended to make him concede.

  “So dear that
you have bound our apprentice’s soul.”

  Santesh gasped.

  Kaztyne looked from one to the other of them, and then cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could tell us what calamity set you on the cliff path at night?”

  Jordayne sighed. Since the question was to the point, she could hardly evade it. Her hand beckoned. “Oh, do come and sit down, Druce, if for no other reason than to save us picking you up off the floor when you hear what I have to say.” She patted the chair next to her in the same way Kaztyne had done for the boy. He took it.

  “Well?”

  “Well,” she said with an arch of her eyebrow because her patience was wearing thin. The way he accused her, he deserved the shock. “Evil walks abroad tonight. A dead man has clawed his way out of his grave, and attacks all who seek to destroy him. Sergeant Rokan, will you elaborate?”

  The good man rose from his seat, alert despite the strenuous undertakings of the night. Moving to the foot of the table where all could see him, he gave his report. At its completion, the mages remained silent, though they all turned to her. That was pleasing. Kaztyne’s eyes were wide in shock, Santesh’s lips formed a wave of puzzlement, but something sinister simmered beneath Drucilamere’s alarm.

  “What manner of black magic do we deal with?” she asked.

  The scrape of Drucilamere’s chair as he rose sent ominous shivers down her spine. Slapping his palms on the table, he loomed over her. Jordayne threw her arms around his neck, her face tilted up as though she expected a kiss. The tinkle of her bangles as they slid up her arms sounded sharp in the silence. Drucilamere grabbed her wrists and yanked them from his neck, turning the tinkles to a clang. His face was contorted in a rage that stole his words.

  She lifted her face closer to his. “One man has tried to intimidate me and failed tonight. You, I know too well to nurse even the flicker of a worry.”

  Hands clamped on her wrists, he hefted her out of the chair. “Perhaps it is time you learned what I am capable of, Jordayne, because by the Vae I am close to murder tonight.”

  Sergeant Rokan, his hand on the pommel of his sword, bless him, strode within striking distance of Drucilamere. “You will unhand the lady.”

  “She is no lady.”

  The metallic scrape as Rokan unsheathed his sword brought the younger mages out of their seats.

  “Nor does she wish to be unhanded,” Jordayne said, thrusting her body as close to Drucilamere’s as possible. The heat of his anger sent tingles up her skin.

  Feet tramped down the corridor. Santesh moved into its depths to investigate, his haste making it quite clear he was glad of the excuse to leave the table. Drucilamere held her eyes.

  “A heartless, conniving woman, I know,” she said. “There is good reason for it.”

  Drucilamere threw her hands down, and tsked in disgust. Rokan lowered his sword.

  “Sit down, Druce,” she ordered, with the quiet authority of royalty.

  “You behave with wonton self-indulgence.”

  “And you like a common thug. At least mine is consistent.”

  Santesh retreated into the room to make way for the new arrivals. At total ease, Matisse sauntered into the room, a pair of guards behind him. He pulled out the chair Timak had vacated, sat and threw his legs onto the table.

  “You time your spats impeccably. A quiet season and there is nary a peep from the two of you. Now trouble threatens on all fronts, you take it upon yourselves to add to our burden.”

  The casual comment had them both turning, hands on hips to glare, a perfect pair were it not for Drucilamere’s grudge. The raids must have worked away her brother’s foul mood because Matisse shrugged and flashed his good-humoured grin. At a gesture, several of the guards deposited bundles and packets onto the table.

  “A fruitful evening that has delivered a substantial quantity of porrin. I trust you will put it to good use, mages. After you finish berating my sister for whatever liberty she had taken, under the guise of protecting Myklaan of course.” Matisse offered Druce a mock two fingered salute. How unfair that he, a man, always appeared so fresh after a long night, and more attractive for his dishevelled hair and clothing.

  “There are two criminals to scry for a start,” Jordayne said, refusing to succumb to jealousy, at least for the time being.

  Matisse’s grin widened. “Be my guest. I find your bickering entertaining, and you, Druce, are the only one who has any hope of curtailing my dear sister’s dubious plots.” He winked at Santesh and Kaztyne. Since they both had the grace to be looking down, she doubted they caught it. Young Santesh was looking red even by lamplight. That one was still too naïve by far. A woman might temper his sensibilities, and render him more useful to her schemes. She would have to arrange for Matisse or Drucilamere to attend to it.

  Jordayne set her eyes on her lover, if he could still be called that when they had not bedded each other since Kordahla left. Her hands on her hips, she arched her back in a promise of what could come. “I am well aware you are not done. The abomination Rokan described needs a name and an agent. How devious do the mahktashaan play? Could the blame lie with them?”

  “It does not.” Drucilamere straightened, folded his arms and stared at her so hard that his inscrutable face made her doubt she could patch the gulf between them. “The blame lies with no one but you. This, Jordayne, is the embodiment of a soulous. This foulness is the hell to which you have condemned our promising apprentice.”

  Struck by surprise, Jordayne blinked. The accusation required a modicum of thought. Her attention drifted from Drucilamere’s glower to the window. Outside, a flock of ducks flew across the pink and violet streaks of a cloudy dawn.

  Taut with ire, Drucilamere began to rant. “I warned you, if you misused –”

  She held up a hand to forestall his abuse. There was a thought here, though she could not form it in full. “It is not Shom.” And Shom it was not. The soulous she had bid Weng Wu capture from the dying apprentice was safe within its vial, hidden in a secret compartment in a dresser within her rooms. That did not mean the fault was not hers. She had released another’s captured soul the day she had confronted the eastern magician. An unintentional action, but one which was proving to have far reaching consequences nevertheless. “My promise is intact even if my integrity is not.” The water was churning grey between the webbed feet of gulls, as orange washed the sky. Water which, if the boy was to be believed, teemed with the ghosts of the sailors lost beneath. The legends claimed as much.

  At last she turned to Drucilamere. “How do we. . .” – one would presume it was impossible to kill the dead. She searched for an appropriate word – “incapacitate it?”

  There stretched a silence during with Drucilamere and Kaztyne exchanged a wretched look. “We do not know,” Drucilamere admitted. He laid his hands on the table, closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

  Shom’s death had hit her poor Druce so very hard. She went to him. Placed her hands on his shoulders and massaged the knots in his neck. His tension ebbed under her seductive touch, the light caresses, the deeper kneads, the final kiss at the base of his neck.

  “You will find the answer, I’m sure,” she murmured, removing her hands.

  “I am certain I shall, since I know where to search.” His determined look, the arch of one brow, the twitch of his moustache, made clear how he intended to obtain that information.

  Jordayne kept her voice soft but infused it with command. “Search your books. Leave the eastern magician to me.” In troubled times, a murdered asset was not a loss but a liability.

  Drucilamere rifled through the packets on the table. It was more to avoid her than from any real interest, she was sure. “Is this all the porrin we can expect?”

  “I am not averse to the diversion another raid or ten will provide,” Matisse said, removing his legs from the table.

  “I have a murderer to scry.”

  Jordayne picked up and opened a small packet. What was it about the red powder that tantalised
the most of steadfast of souls? “Kaztyne is more than capable. There is a dealer I must ask you to locate.”

  “The dealer can wait,” Drucilamere said.

  “Not this one. My sister’s honour is at stake.” To seal his words Matisse closed his hand around the jewelled hilt of his sword.

  “Let Kaztyne be the one to find him. Brailen answers to me.”

  “Brailen answers to us all,” Kaztyne said. “You have no more claim to him than I. Or Santesh for that matter.”

  Drucilamere pursed his lips. “You may debate this with me later.”

  “No, we will argue it now, before porrin is imbibed. You were the last to scry. If a war looms, Santesh needs the practice.”

  “Let him scry the dealer.”

  “I don’t,” Jordayne said, a wry smile on her face for the blush and lowered gaze of the youngest mage, “believe he is fit for what scrying on my behalf will entail.”

  The embarrassed young man kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he fingered the edge of his green cloak.

  Drucilamere regarded her with the disdain he might a gnat, the horrid man. “So. I must deal with you, since no one else is willing.”

  “I can change that, you know.” She walked around Santesh, bangles clinking, skirts rustling. “Would it make you very jealous?”

  “Let the lad be, Jordayne,” Matisse said, dangling an arm over the back of his chair. “It will take a year of demure kisses before he is ready to even meet your eye.”

  “Enough,” Drucilamere said.

  “Don’t be a bore. I have had a trying night and need the distraction,” Jordayne said.

  “I, however, do not. None of us do. In case you have forgotten, the mages are on the brink of extinction. Santesh, could you prepare porrin?” Drucilamere turned to Kaztyne. “Do you wish to scry this dealer?”

  Kaztyne grinned at her. “Unless Lord Matisse volunteers for the link, I will not be the one protesting.”

  Smart man. “Lord Matisse did not sight Prahak. So, Druce you are stuck with me for I’ll not permit another in my mind.”

  Santesh swirled porrin into two mugs of water. Her master mage knocked down the brew in single gulp even as Santesh sipped his. His eyes dilated, his breath shallow, Drucilamere led her to the chairs by the window. He drew them around so they might sit opposite each other. She lifted his strong hands to her temples and closed her eyes in preparation for his mental touch. This was not an intimacy she enjoyed. It was more of a violation than Prahak had intended to commit. She thanked Vae’oeldin it was seldom necessary. The nudge at the corners of her mind was the signal to form an image of Prahak, the djinn’s burn on his neck, his pitiless grey eyes as he scraped his knife against his thumb. She held it there, employing the techniques Drucilamere had taught her to block the worst of his transgressions from the mage.