by Tia Reed
“The lad’s been calling every morning for nigh on an eightday,” the guard said.
The mahktashaan looked down on him with serious, purple eyes. “Why do wish to serve?”
Levi stared straight into the hood. “Mahktos is more powerful than the Vae.”
“You speak with conviction for one so young.”
Levi stood straight and still, his chin up. The mahktashaan dismounted, gripped Levi’s shoulder and touched the purple crystal to Levi’s forehead. It had glowed with a transcendent light. “Mahktos has called you, but you are too young for service. Return home until you come of age, boy.”
“Let me be your servant,” Levi said. He would bask in the aura of these powerful men until it soaked right into his bones.
“Where do you live, boy?”
“Vae-forsaken Quorn,” he replied, although for the past eightday he had been begging and thieving on the chaotic streets.
“Ahh,” the mahktashaan said as though that explained everything. “Very well. We shall see how strong is this desire of yours to serve.”
The mahktashaan had sent Levi to the Crystalite Mines, where he had toiled uncomplaining for five years, serving the mahktashaan’s smallest needs, listening to them discuss strategy, politics and magic, praying to Mahktos to turn him into a powerful mahktashaan, never believing for even a moment that first mahktashaan had abandoned him. And he was right. One major moon after his sixteenth birthday, the mahktashaan with the purple crystal, the majoria as fate would have it, visited the mines to attend Cromwell’s induction. Calling for Levi, he listened to the glowing accounts of his devotion. Silent, he set his crystal upon Levi’s brow. Levi never doubted it would flare. Never doubted Mahktos had great plans for him. That Mahktos would promote him to majoria. That Mahktos would reward him with no less than the shah’s daughter when she was born. That Mahktos would heal his burns.
He pulled his sleeve from the blackened sinewy mess that was all that remained of his left arm. Soon, so soon, he would be whole again.
He took care to control his excitement when he initiated the thoughtspeak. Through this war, the god afforded him the chance to be immortalised in history. Mahktos truly favoured his majoria.
All praise to Mahktos. All honour to you, Majoria Levi, Garzene greeted over the link. A shiver reminded Levi to intensify the heat he was spelling into his clothes.
As always, today’s report was satisfactory. Elite groups of mahktashaan and soldiers had been dispatched up the Arezou River and across land. They were exploring the Olono Range but the scouts had yet to locate the Hill Tribe settlements. Ogres haunted the night, and Garzene had stumbled on stone statues of the beasts caught by the break of day. They were solitary creatures, living in small family groups at most. They were, Garzene concluded, no match for a strike force armed with mahktashaan magic.
Levi agreed.
Breath rasping through his nose, he sent a mental image of the girl Mahktos intended to gift him. This Hill Tribe girl is near your camp. Her capture is your new priority. Leave the men to make their way to Mykter Fort and escort her to me without delay.
Garzene’s curiosity burgeoned down the link but even a mahktashaan of the Inner Circle knew better than to seek information not offered. Cutting the link, Levi ran a perfect finger over his charred flesh. Soon, so soon.
✽ ✽ ✽
When Sian woke, her head was in Erok’s lap. Orin was sitting on the root, Brax was nowhere to be seen, and the leaves in the trees were rustling their concern even though the air hung wet and still.
“I want to go home. I want to go with Brax,” she said because she could not bear that he blamed her.
Orin turned his eyes on her. Disappointment lurked in his silence, and her cheeks burned from it. She rolled over so she did not have to see him. The blackberry brambles swam blurry double in front of her eyes.
“We must both learn to be good Akerin.” Erok said, stroking her hair from her face.
“It wasn’t a fit,” she said. “Not at first. There was a man inside my mind. He wanted to know what happened to my arm.”
A yellow leaf drifted onto her face. She clutched it to her chest.
“Gods and spirits have opened their ears to the prayers of mortals,” Orin said.
She wasn’t sure what that meant, but the soothsayer offered no more and Erok hushed her, and she was glad not to speak because of the throb in her head. They sat like that until Brax came crashing through the forest, swishing ferns and snapping twigs with a carelessness no predator would possess so they would know it was him, so they would understand he resented being here, with a blind, old man and a girl with half a brain. He didn’t speak, just rubbed sticks together over a pile of dry leaves until smoke brought a flame. Sian sat up and pretended not to watch him cook the rabbit.
“How is she?” Brax asked Erok as he passed Orin a roasted rabbit leg.
“You should ask her yourself.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, looking at the dirt. Her hair hung over her face when she did that. It was easier to talk if she didn’t have to see grim faces. “I picked you some blackberries for your journey.” They were lying on the ground where she had spilled them. The birds would have pecked the best of them by now, and the ants marched the remnants away.
Brax sat in front of her and handed her meat from the breast. “The spirits reach you,” he said.
Sian gasped. He should not have used the greeting reserved for soothsayers. It wasn’t fair he collected their water bladders and left their camp before she could deny it, or that warblers settled on the branches around her to sing a sweet blessing. She kept her head down and picked at the meat, forcing it past the lump in her throat.
As the forest darkened, a yowl challenged the stars. Brax and Erok used the vines they cut to haul her into the nearest oak. They had been doing the same for Orin since they left the village, the blind old man and the afflicted girl, the two worst burdens in the tribe for its two strongest hunters. She stayed quiet while they rigged hammocks in the canopy, listening to a distant roar, the nearby slithers, the closest clicks.
“The spirits reach you,” Erok said by way of goodnight.
She was not a soothsayer; she did not reply. At the hoot of an owl, she snuggled into her lofty bed. Long into the night she stared through the leaves, at the flickering shadows below the patches of glowing moon, imprinting them into her mind.
The spirits were too cruel.
Chapter 33
THE BOY WAS prostrating himself before Vae’oeldin. Rondel might face eternal rot in the underworld for deceiving the monks and stealing from a boy, but the gods must understand his compulsion. He turned to Vae’oemar’s wall to hide his action, tipped the vial to his lips and drained the contents. Mud, that’s what it tasted like, and he almost spat it out, but he could ill afford to waste time stomaching the disgusting spell. He walked straight up to the boy, planted a foot on his back and yanked the strap from around his neck. The quartz needed to stay buried in his fist while he strode to Vae’oenka’s exit; it would not do for people to see it float across the temple. Why he looked around he couldn’t say, but the boy was up, staring straight at him in hurt accusation. The tall, moustached man squatting beside him was all concern, all encouragement for the boy to raise a hand and point straight at him. The Vae! The lad saw him! That no-good, cheating Spellmaster. Rondel would teach the liar a lesson. Djinn’s rot, the man was up and heading his way. Rondel needed to meld into the worshippers and hurry for the exit. He slowed to the pace of the crowd because calling attention to himself was the one sure way to get caught.
“Thief!” the tall man yelled. “Stop that man.”
Reflexes kicked in and Rondel mimicked the disbelief of the crowd.
“Thief!” the cry came again as he edged closer to the exit.
The monks were already gliding across the doorways, their blue, green and brown robes mingling in haphazard fashion. Those who served the Vae might offer leniency and forgiveness, but i
f the city guard arrived, Rondel was a doomed man.
“There!” he called from behind a knot of worshippers.
They surged forward and he ducked behind, straight into a startled monk.
“Vae’oenka pardons those who repent,” the monk said with more astuteness than someone closeted within holy grounds should possess. He made the sign of blessing.
“Vae’oenka did not cure my wife,” Rondel muttered, pushing the man out of the way and stumbling into the triangle. From all directions people were creeping forward, alerted by the commotion as others spilled from the temple eager for a chase. He dashed around the curved wall to Vae’oeldin’s monastery and plucked the loose stone from between its neighbours. Luck was on his side because the tattered rectangle was still there.
“Levitos,” he said, grabbing it, not even bothering to throw it to the wet ground. The tassels rippled in the wind. The carpet remained limp in his hand. “Levitos. Levitos. Levitos.” The Spellmaster could perish in the jaws of a scum-sucking baz’waeel because nothing happened. Rondel bolted. Pounding boots made it sound like the guards were right behind.
“Levitos,” he yelled, dropping the carpet and tumbling on top in case that position were necessary for the magic to take hold. He regained his feet in a fluid roll, dumping the carpet because it was obvious now he had been duped. He ran, no care to the direction, sailing around corners, doubling back the one time he emerged onto a square. Its goose fountain marked a path to the better neighbourhoods, to avenues too broad and houses in too good repair to hide in. The gentle lap of water underscored the shouts as he careered to a halt in front of the lake. He bolted left, towards the park, but guards emerged from behind the eating house, swords drawn, to block his way. He darted right but found the path blocked by a crowd spoiling for a fight. More guards pushed through, and he was trapped, no way to escape except into the water but for the fact he could not swim. The guards pressed closer. His heel sank onto air. Not a whisper from the djinn. The creature could at least come to take his prize, or was this his plan, to have Rondel fall into the clutches of the guard?
“Give yourself up.”
“Shame on you stealing from a child.”
Rondel peered into the deep blue water. That route led to certain death. There were whispers the shah had dealings with a djinn. If he had the chance to explain, the great one might afford him a measure of leniency.
He held up his hands in surrender, grimaced as he remembered the incriminating cause of this fuss yet dangled from his hand.
“The mages will want to question this one,” the first guard said to the others closing in. They all had drawn their swords.
“Do we take him to the palace or the city lock –” A dazed look came over the guard’s face. He blinked, his knees buckled and he fell face down on the ground, the hair at his temple slick with blood.
Rondel cursed. Another guard jumped at a stone thumping between his feet. A rock bounced off the path and into the lake with a splash that wet Rondel’s ankles. Before he could react, stones were raining down. The crowd darted away. The guards slashed at the missiles with their swords. Making no pretence of hiding, the hooting assailants fired slingshot after slingshot from the branches of the oaks. Rondel darted through a gap between preoccupied guards and made for the alleys of the warehouse district.
✽ ✽ ✽
“Are you alright?”
Timak stared after the desperate man. Keeling beside him, Master Magus Drucilamere helped him up.
“Timak, are you alright?”
“He stole my quartz.”
“Who?”
The crowd surged. Timak pointed.
“Thief!” Magus Drucilamere pulled him out of the temple, across the puddles in the triangle, and down a windy road in the direction of the chase. Passers-by were in an uproar, denouncing any and all who dared to commit a crime in the heart of the temple, and against a defenceless child too.
At the waterfront, Timak pointed. The city guard had the thief surrounded. He jumped as a rock whizzed past his head. It hit a guard and he fell. Timak stared but the man didn’t move and Magus Drucilamere tucked him safe behind a building before he could tell if the man was dead. He wasn’t brave enough to peer out and check, not like the mage. Not until the rocks stopped thumping, the shouting changed and the guards starting running. Then Drucilamere held his hand too tight and pulled him after them.
At the entrance to the park, the stern grey-haired monk who had tried to force him to join the monastery intercepted them. He looked down his prominent nose as he delivered his message with the tone of one who expected unquestioning obedience. “The High One sends his apologies and offers his hospitality.”
Timak snuck behind Master Magus Drucilamere. The only place he wanted to go was the mage guild. It was safe there.
“This matter must first be resolved,” the master magus said.
“The city guards are covering the streets. We have identified the thief, a beggar by the name of Rondel deq Oakson. There is nothing for you to do but wait.”
“Very well,” Drucilamere replied, quashing Timak’s hope.
They followed the monk to the temple complex and into Vae’oeldin’s monastery. The airy interior was as plain as the temple was fancy. The monk led them past a staircase, through a comfortable common area, and down a couple of halls with difficult calligraphy about Vae’oeldin on the walls. A sharp rap on a door returned an invitation to enter.
“High One,” the monk said with a bow, opening the door into a welcoming room with wall-hangings of Vae’oeldin in various endeavours. An armchair piled with cushions in sunset colours and a sturdy bench sat opposite a huge oak desk. Behind it, an old man with sparse white fuzz over his pate hunched over a plate full of dates like it was the best present of his long life.
“Come in, come in.” The old man had so many wrinkles around his twinkling eyes and curved mouth he might have been smiling since birth. Shrivelled and shrunken, he wore a white wraparound robe which looked like the swaddling of a baby. “Forgive me, if I do not rise. My old joints do ache when the air is wet. But come and have a seat.”
Timak stared at the merry fire in the hearth opposite the door. It was the main source of light in the interior room. Drucilamere bowed and ushered him in. The monk closed the door and deposited the cushions on the floor as though they had no place on the chair.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” the High One said.
Drucilamere took the armchair and Timak perched on the bench, at the opposite end to the stern monk. The thin, blue cushion was more comfortable than it looked.
“I am sorry you have been assaulted in the Temple. I feel I have failed in my duty.”
An insubstantial movement caught Timak’s eye. His eyes strained sideways. His breath came out in clouds. He did not dare turn his neck because something was flitting above Drucilamere. The mage had taken the armchair and was sitting forward unaware.
“Oh,” said the High One, looking right where Timak knew the ghost floated. “Don’t mind old Doric. He was High One before me. He comes to keep an eye on his job from time to time, make sure I’m up to scratch. He won’t hurt you.” He waved the ghost away. “You’re scaring my guest. And after he was assaulted in your temple. Shame on you.”
The ghost floated before Timak. Timak stared right though the fat, bald man, pretending he could not see. Doric zipped to the desk, lifted the plate and floated it to Timak. Both Drucilamere and the monk jumped out their seats and backed against a wall-hanging of arrows flying through clouds.
“Go on,” the High One said. “They’re my favourite. They were Doric’s too. He misses them terribly.”
It had to be bad luck to anger a ghost, so Timak picked a date off the plate and bit it in half. It was stuffed with marzipan. He had never tasted anything so delicious. He sucked on the sweet so he could keep it in his mouth for as long as possible. He probably wouldn’t get another one. Doric was floating the plate above the High One, who was r
eaching up to wrest for its possession.
The High One gave a delighted shrug of his shoulders when he won. “He’s just doing it to tease. Ghosts can’t eat, you know.”
The stern monk peered around the desk like he expected a roadside trick. Drucilamere was staring hard, though not quite at the ghost. Timak let out a long, invisible breath. The room was warming as the ghost faded.
“So, Timak, you not only hear my congregation and the djinn, but see ghosts. You are a remarkable young man, if I might say so,” the High One said.
“How is it you are aware of that second?” Drucilamere asked, sitting down.
“The palace servants attend the temple. Did you think something that unusual would not come out? It is well this boy is in your care, I think, although I am jealous you chose the mages, Timak. You would make an excellent monk if you so chose.”
Timak put the second half of his date in mouth and chewed. The flow of the clouds in the wall-hangings reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what.
“Good, aren’t they?” The High One looked at Drucilamere. “How did he come into these gifts?”
“I believe porrin has opened this child’s mind to his talents.”
“All very well,” the High One said, his voice pure sunshine, “but he is too young for the drug. You must take care not to destroy the child in pursuit of this talent.”
“We have a code,” Drucilamere said. “Once tested, an apprentice does not imbibe the drug before he is trained, and never before his sixteenth birthday.”
The High One turned a smile on Timak. “Do you love the Vae, child?”
Timak licked sugar off a finger. “I don’t know the Vae.”
“Oh? Where do you think this gift of yours comes from?”
Timak stayed silent because, although he liked this holy man, that answer needed too many words.
“The High One has asked you a question,” the monk said. His long face grew longer.
Pulling a face, the High One held out the plate. “Have another date. You can’t speak if your mouth is full of food. It’s the best excuse, you know. Better than Doric’s vow of silence because no one tries to trick you. They think it is too rude.” Timak walked over, picked another date off the plate and trotted back. The High One waited until he was seated, and then lifted a hand and wagged his index finger in the expression of a brainwave. “You are too smart a boy to deal with the djinn, I think.” He paused, stuck out his neck and lifted his brows, waiting to see if Timak would deny it. He did not. Timak was making very sure he nibbled the date to make it last. “I’m right, I’m right!” So joyful was the exclamation that Timak couldn’t help but smile. The High One curled a finger over his mouth. “But you don’t think it comes from the Vae.”