Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  “Three ogres went to the cave,” she said.

  Erok grabbed a torch, and ushered her away from the village. “They won’t hurt her. Gor thinks she’s his woman.”

  Her lower lip trembled as she twisted to stare defiance.

  He wasn’t having any of it. “Be quick.” He gestured west and started walking through the quivering trees. Orin stumbled after him.

  Sian stood right where she was. “What about the village?”

  No one answered.

  At the mouth of the cave an ogre appeared and beat his hands on his chest. She knew it was Gor. He was celebrating the bright flames leaping among the foliage, the thunderous crash followed by cries for water. The westernmost longhouse creaked and its roof collapsed. An arm raised in triumph, Gor hooted.

  Brax appeared on the track and pointed his spear down the path. “Go.”

  Sian ran after Erok, tearing so fast past Orin he almost tripped. “What about our guests?” The Akerin would denounce the Tribe. The first rule of a gathering was safety for all who attended. She stopped. He kept walking. “Erok,” she pleaded after his retreating figure.

  “You wanted to go on a wander. I’m taking you.”

  She gaped, a helpless girl not worth listening to. “North. I wanted to go north. To find Toko.” They should not be running when the village needed every man.

  “We go west.” He didn’t even look back.

  Leaves crackled underfoot. Orin placed a hand on her shoulder. “Child, it is hard for him to retreat when his tribe is under attack. Do not make it harder.”

  Three hoots sounded in quick succession.

  Brax caught them up. “Hurry. That man-ogre will send the others after us.”

  Behind them was fiery destruction, ahead a coward’s retreat. She led the ancient, blind soothsayer after Erok, who maybe was not her brave hunter any more. “Why are we running away?”

  Brax, who was bringing up the rear, muttered under his breath.

  “The spirits ordain it,” Orin said, walking with confidence on the overgrown track.

  “Why are we going west?”

  They reached Erok who pointed them onto a crossing path, marked by a boulder carved with the leaf which denoted the Ho’akerin Tribe.

  A series of snuffles sounded nearby. Bodies thrashed through the undergrowth. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Erok and Brax barred the path, their torches raised.

  “Keep moving,” Erok said, as a shape launched itself out of a bush in a clatter of branches and leaves. Swinging the torch around Erok swiped with the flame as Brax thrust with his spear. The stone tip lodged in the ogre’s thick chest, enraging it into lashing out. The distraction allowed Erok to jab with the torch. The ogre yowled as it suffered a burn, and his fist passed wide of the hunters. That swing was all the time Erok needed to set fire to the shaft. The ogre screamed as the flames travelled down the spear and engulfed it.

  Another ogre launched itself at them. Weaponless, Brax cursed.

  “Here.” Erok threw Brax his spear.

  “Come child,” Orin said, avoiding the uprooted end of a fallen log.

  Sian squinted to see past the next root. To her, the forest was shrouded in darkness, tall silhouettes, and darker shadows, black nooks where yellows eyes flashed, and insects fell silent at their crunching step. If Daesoa had abandoned her, she had to be going the wrong way.

  “The moons light my way,” Orin said with the uncanny intuition of the soothsayers. “The Spirits decree you follow.”

  A tribeswoman did not argue with a soothsayer. She scurried after him.

  A bloodcurdling scream, stopped her in her tracks. Grunts, huffs and thuds obliterated the devastating commotion from the village. Footsteps approached. Breathing hard, she turned. A flaming ogre was rolling on the ground screaming.

  Erok pushed his way past. “I told you to keep going.”

  She plodded after him, stumbling over half-buried rocks.

  “Why are we going west?” she tried again, soft-voiced so only Orin would hear. She couldn’t bear it if her hunter got even madder at her.

  “We go southwest, child,” Orin corrected.

  A gust blew debris into their faces, and carried the panic of their kinsmen clear across the distance. Orin cocked his head, listening to the terror and death that visited the Akerin.

  “Spirits, carry your children home,” he said with the weary resignation of one who had witnessed too suffering much in the world. She listened to the words blow on the wind, an echo in its whisper as it skipped over leaves broad and narrow, pointed and lobed on its journey to the village.

  “Why are we going this way?” She persisted despite herself, despite what the soothsayer who walked beside her might answer. He was Guardian of Spirit Lake. She knew that, even if she didn’t want to think on it.

  When Orin spoke to her, it was with a mildness that was slayed in its lack of reproach. “Child of the tribe, the answer to your question is within you.”

  Chapter 29

  TIMAK TURNED THE crisp page on the big, old book he was studying.

  “And this one?” Kaztyne asked, pointing to another glyph.

  Timak wriggled his behind in the leather chair next to the mage’s desk. Kaztyne moved the lamp closer, so the glyph would be clear in the dimness of the drizzly day. The script was making sense this morning, perhaps because, for the first time since Lord Swine had taken him from his father, he had slept the entire night. Fading images of bad dreams were not so horrifying after a glass of milk and a story about how the feather-throated, deer-legged schkaan sang their blessing to the first shah of Myklaan.

  “Ija. Spirit,” Timak answered.

  “Well done!” the mage said with a broad smile. He closed the aged book with its embossed leather cover. “It is enough for today. You can practice reading this afternoon.”

  A rumble made Timak glance at the thickening clouds. The wind that had been buffeting the glass all morning was whipping the lake to white horses.

  “Be careful if you walk outside today. Men have been washed from the rocks,” Kaztyne said, rising.

  “And you, Kaztyne. It’s a treacherous day to be walking into Kaijoor,” Magus Drucilamere said, coming down the stairs with a plate and a steaming mug. He didn’t seem to mind his moustache was damp from mooring the boat.

  “It reminds me of home,” Kaztyne said. “I will return before dark.”

  It made Timak feel like he belonged that the mage waved on the way up the stairs. He pushed his chair out from the desk, took a book he knew was filled with pictures, and settled at the little worktable Magus Drucilamere had organised just for him right by the window with its view of the rocks and the lake and, when rain didn’t patter the window, the hills on the far side. Sitting here and practicing his lessons felt comfortable. Ordinary letters were a challenge. The complex magical glyphs were driving him to frustration, but naming them sent a thrill though his body. They held power in their lines. Timak closed his hand around the quartz hanging at his chest. The hours of study and tired eyes would be worth it when he learned magic. He opened the book, flipped through until he found a glyph Santesh had taught him – forest – picked up a quill and copied it onto parchment.

  “I do not believe even Santesh was as dedicated an apprentice,” Drucilamere said, setting his mug on a table between the armchairs in the middle of the room.

  Timak smiled as he traced the last line. Santesh was riding across the border. The palace hadn’t let him go but Lady Jordayne had said they would see what they could do about getting word to his mother.

  A crack of thunder startled him. He frowned at the smudge across his cluttered page as rain battered the glass.

  Drucilamere placed a plate with a honey and seed cake on the table and lifted the parchment. “This is very good work.”

  Timak took eager bites of the treat, wiped his hands on his kurta, and used a tweezers to turn the page on the book. He bit his lip as he concentrated on getting every line of the glyph there p
erfect. Drucilamere sat in an armchair with an enormous tome of his own and watched.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  Timak smiled. Yazmine’s bright light was floating on the other side of his table.

  “It means lake,” Timak said.

  “I gathered that,” she laughed.

  Timak bit his lip. The picture on the opposite page did make it obvious.

  Yazmine broke off into a fit of sudden gasps.

  “Are you alright?”

  She took two more heaves. “Can you recognise it without the picture?”

  He turned the page, picked up the pen and sketched the glyph. “I’m going to be a mage.” He held the parchment up for her to admire.

  “I gathered that too. You look much better. The last time I saw you, you were so blue I thought you were going to die.”

  “Me too.” He wrote the glyphs for forest and lake again. “I heard you yesterday. And the night Magus Drucilamere tested me. Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  Her light bobbed. “What do you mean you heard me? I wasn’t here.”

  He glanced at Drucilamere, absorbed in his book. When the wind howled, he whispered, “In the temple. You said I was yours.”

  “You heard that? But I wasn’t here.”

  “In the temple.”

  “No. I mean I wasn’t on this plane.” She bobbed higher, her light as agitated as her voice.

  He looked at the next glyph and frowned. It wasn’t one he recognised. The picture, a bone shaped of four points linked by curved sides, didn’t help either.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” he asked, because he didn’t want to argue.

  “You did hear me.” She sounded alarmed.

  Thunder boomed, deep like the voice of the strange god. Like he was worried, too.

  Timak thumbed the top of the page. “Are you sick?”

  “Let me see that,” Drucilamere said as Timak flipped the page. The mage came and stood at the side of his desk, frowning down at the illustration.

  Timak sucked on his lip. The glyph used two symbols. He understood each one, but together they made no sense. “It says Ija. . . alb. Spirit heart.”

  “It does indeed,” Drucilamere confirmed. His frown deepened. “Does your genie friend understand its significance?”

  Timak pouted and stared at the page. Talk of his genie was taboo.

  “It’s turned chilly since I came in, and not from the storm. And you, young man, have been muttering the entire time. On my word as a mage, I’ll not try to discover her name, or to bind her, I’ve already promised you that, but this is important. Sian discovered that object in Faradil Forest. I’ve been searching the tomes and found not a word.”

  Timak straightened, and tucked his arms across his body so he could rub his goosebumps. The Akerin girl had been his friend. “Did she know what it was?” he asked. A question couldn’t be a betrayal of trust.

  “A spirit heart found!” a husky voice said.

  “Who’s Sian?” a deep one grumbled.

  Timak glanced around. Yazmine’s light filled the room, white against the merging grey mass of water and sky.

  “What is it?” she asked. “I’m right here. Can’t you see my light?”

  “Who’s talking? Who else is there?” Nerves were fluttering around his stomach.

  “You can hear them all!?” Yazmine said.

  “Whose is she? If she’s a player, she belongs to one of us,” a female voice said.

  Timak stood up fast, toppling his chair. “Leave her alone. You don’t touch her,” he shouted to the air.

  “Timak,” Magus Drucilamere said. He glanced out at the lake. That was wrong. The djinn weren’t out there. “What is it, lad?”

  “I’ll have her,” Yazmine said, quick and eager.

  They laughed at her.

  “You’ve already taken this one, child,” the female voice said. She was not unkind. “And his role is far too intricate for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Tiarasae entrusts him to someone else.”

  Timak clapped his hands over his ears. “Go away, go away, go away.”

  “The girl is marked for a soothsayer,” a dry voice said, striking through his hands.

  Magus Drucilamere squatted, turned him by the shoulders. “Talk to me, lad.”

  “A soothsayer,” a chorus echoed in disbelief.

  Timak shook his head. He would go mad if they continued, if the rain kept lashing, the wind kept moaning and the thunder kept cracking so sudden and loud it could split the hills.

  Drucilamere pulled him tight against his chest. “Hush now.”

  Somewhere distant, the soft strains of a lullaby seeped through the babble. Timak hummed the tune. It was Yazmine, he knew it was, singing louder and louder until it was the only sound that mattered. He shuddered, and fell quiet.

  “That’s better,” Drucilamere said, setting him at arm’s length.

  “Don’t let them hurt Sian,” Timak said.

  “I’ll try,” the husky voice said.

  “Who? The ghosts?” Drucilamere asked.

  “Never mind that. That boy of the rose genie can hear us,” the female voice said. The quiet statement shocked the babble to silence.

  “Impossible. We’re not on his plane,” the husky voice declared.

  Timak shook his head. “Djinn,” he whispered

  “Have you been listening?” the female asked.

  The voices erupted into an argument, too many speaking all at once.

  “While Mahktos chooses to bless this boy, our names are sacrosanct,” a golden voice said. It rippled like the music of a harp.

  Timak’s hands flew to his ears. “Make them stop. Please, make them stop.”

  “Easy now.” Drucilamere drew his hands down.

  “Tell him you hear us,” Yazmine said above the tumult. He didn’t like that she sounded worried.

  “Rose genie, you are ill. You must come away.” That was the first female.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Timak asked, hands still on ears, squinting at her light.

  “It’s nothing,” Yazmine replied.

  “Liar,” the husky voice said.

  “I have to go. Tell him the spirit heart is just what it says,” Yazmine said. She was sick. Her words ended in a fit of coughing.

  The room fell silent.

  Timak sucked in deep breaths. Drucilamere guided him to an armchair.

  “You hear the djinn,” the mage said when they were both seated.

  Timak nodded.

  A thoughtful frown on his face, Drucilamere looked out the window. Every now and again a spear of lightning flashed. “I had thought it was your genie was alone.”

  Timak clutched the arms of the chair and watched the waves crash against the rock. Yazmine wanted him to talk. She was Sian’s friend too. “They weren’t on this plane,” he said as spray speckled the window.

  “Did your genie tell you that?”

  Timak kept staring at the spattering drops. It was easier that way. “Yes. And another one said it too.”

  The mage tapped the arm of the chair, as though he did not know what to say. “Do they mean to hurt Sian?”

  “I don’t know. They keep talking about who belongs to them. They were. . .” he grappled for a word. “Shocked but also unhappy.”

  “Appalled?”

  “Yes, appalled. When they learned she was a soothsayer.”

  “Not yet,” Magus Drucilamere said, and there was a harshness in his voice. Timak plucked up the courage to look at him. The mage cleared his throat, an action that soothed the creases from his forehead. “Sian didn’t know what the bone, the spirit heart, was. The soothsayers of her tribe may hold that sacred knowledge. But it came from Faradil. That alone is enough to mark it, and her. Dark times are approaching, Timak. I mean evil far greater than a war between realms. Something threatens that will embroil gods, djinn and mortals in a fight for existence. I had thought to spare you this, but the Vae work in mysterious ways. Your talent for hearing djinn
makes you as much a part of what is to come as Sian.”

  “Not the Vae,” he mumbled. A different god, a wild, scary, unrecognisable god, had denied his right to the crystal when under porrin’s curse he had lit it bright. He was glad a sudden windy howl ate his words. He didn’t want to remember the mages had betrayed the princess. Remembering would peel away the comfort of their company because, by being here, he was betraying her too. “Genie said to tell you the spirit heart is just what it says.”

  “Just what it says? Just what it says.” The blank look on Magus Drucilamere’s face snapped into comprehension. He sifted through a pile of books sitting by his desk and selected one. Opening it towards the end, he began to read in the ancient language of magic.

  Chapter 30

  THE STENCH OF rotten reeds, putrefying fish and stagnant water never abated. Kordahla leaned over the side of boat, pulled her veil from her nose and mouth, and was sick. At once, a zillion tiny flies danced around her face. She swiped with one hand, gripped the railing tight with the other. They retaliated with an irritated buzz as the boat continued to sluice through the slow swirls of the muddy Bahmar River. A fly entered her nostril, another caught in her throat, and she vomited again. Most of the Terlaani men were green themselves although the boat sailed steady and flat in the sluggish current. She counted it a small mercy they pretended not to notice, all except Kahlmed, who looked her up and down with a twitch that suggested he took a perverse pleasure in her discomfort. As for Mariano, he clenched the rail beside her, fighting the nauseating smell with staunch determination.

  “This is not seemly,” he said. “You will retire.”

  The entire morning she had been confined to the closet that served as her cabin as they drifted towards Pengari. With access through a similar cupboard that served Mariano, it pressed down on her like a grave. Had she but known the chafing saddle was a treat compared to the limits of the ship, she would have galloped wild.

  A full day they had ridden the plain after the rose genie tormented her. Dusk had brought them upon a river way station where a team of men waited on the express desire of their lord. At Ahkdul’s command they had released homing pigeons advising Lord Hudassan of their arrival, and readied one of the two galleys for sail. They had spent a tolerable night in a rundown inn catering to the meagre needs of those headed for the border. Come the overcast oppression of morning, Kordahla had found herself ushered aboard the vessel. The rotten stench had driven her to her cabin at once, and there it had kept her indisposed while the sailors trimmed the sails or manned the oars, as the temperamental current and fickle wind dictated. Only when Vae’omar had seen fit to send a breeze to deflect the worse of the stink had she dared to venture onto deck.