Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  She felt something like an awkward shuffle. Father’s rejection had to be hurting, for him to change the subject. What happened? Why are you so sad? And why can’t I reach Arun?

  Her grief tore through her, overwhelming in its intensity. Gone was the faint glimmer of hope that Arun, in possession of his crystal, might still be alive. She could not talk, could not even think. The link to Vinsant started slipping through her fingers.

  Don’t go yet, he said. She grappled to stay connected, was stunned at how her cheeky little brother guided her clumsy attempt. Still, she was too raw to speak. What’s wrong? Kordahla? He was beginning to panic now.

  She wanted to keep the truth from him but he had grown up so much in the past moon it would mean one more betrayal. Vinsant, Arun’s dead. His shock was another blow.

  He can’t be.

  An insect crawled over her forehead. Her brow twitched but it didn’t fly. Ahkdul caught us using thoughtspeak. He condemned our contact as dishonourable.

  How? The question came through gritted teeth. How did he die?

  The insect crawled onto her brow. Ahkdul threw him overboard.

  She didn’t expect the relief.

  But he had his crystal, right? He could have survived.

  The river is full of jabberweis.

  No. Arun is really strong in magic. He can shield and fight at the same time.

  She threw her face into the pillow. The fly buzzed onto the wall. The raw sound ate at her raw heart. Vinsant, there was no light.

  The river’s muddy. You wouldn’t see it, you wouldn’t.

  She clutched the pot tight. The fly alighted and crawled around the rim. Can you speak to him? The way you speak to me.

  Her little brother was streaming tears. I can’t, he said. I can’t reach him.

  They wept together.

  The fly landed in the salve. The thick lotion held it fast. She watched it flounder as she answered Vinsant’s ceaseless questions.

  I swear I will kill Ahkdul, he said when he could think of nothing more to ask. When I am a mahktashaan, I will make him pay.

  Her fingertip scooped the fly out of the ointment and set it on the chest. Vinsant, you mustn’t. You must accept I’ve been foolish for ever causing you and father and Arun so much grief. Just talk to me once in a while. Let this be our secret. And when you’re grown and a mahktashaan let me see you. If you do this I’ll be, if not happy, then content.

  The fly didn’t move.

  Vinsant said nothing. They both knew it was a lie.

  Chapter 41

  TIMAK SQUEEZED INTO the corner when the door opened. It didn’t help. Rough Hands seized him and bound him to the chair. Leaning by the door, Prahak tapped the knife on each of his knuckles, light, so it didn’t mark his tough skin.

  “What’s your genie’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wrong answer.” Casual, Prahak shoved off the wall and leaned over him so far his djinn’s burn blurred. “Does your finger still hurt?”

  Behind him, Rough Hands grabbed his hair and yanked his head so he was looking Prahak full in the face. “Answer, boy.”

  “Yes,” he whimpered.

  The cruel man spread his second and fourth fingers wide, and rested the blade on his middle finger. “This will hurt more.”

  Timak couldn’t help himself; he peed his shalvar again.

  “Has she been here?”

  Timak shook his head.

  “Did Lord Ahkdul use you for his pleasure, boy?”

  Timak couldn’t find his voice.

  Prahak cut. Timak screamed.

  “Has the genie been here?”

  Whimpering, eyes closed, he shook his head. Warm blood trickled under his other fingers.

  “Do you know her name?”

  He kept shaking his head. Prahak patted his face. “Drink up.”

  Rough Hands cut his good hand loose and handed him a cup. “Every last drop.”

  This time there was enough bitter porrin to send him to a blissful, pain-free daze.

  They left him slumped in the chair.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Kordahla lifted the plain veil out of the small trunk without looking inside. She was careful her fingers did not brush the sheer fabric of the sequined skirt she had worn in Myklaan or watermelon gem beneath. They had no place in her coming life and would torture her with the memories they stirred. She snapped the lid closed, covered her hair and paused with her hand on the cabin door. Taking a deep breath she pushed. It opened, a small offering of trust by Mariano.

  Her brother was not in his cabin. His habit was to rise at dawn, and the claps, creaks and shouts of the waking boat had already marked the hour. She chose to wander out because, with luck, the swine would still be abed. His habit was to laze the morning away. She found Mariano on the deck, working through a series of economical exercises with his sword. His precise movements offered a disciplined risk under the wild threat of a slate sky. His strokes flashed fast against the stagnating water of this second lake. He changed the angle of strike at a whim, like the dull dragonflies darting over the wilting lilies.

  “Rubies and pearls should garland your neck on our wedding day,” Ahkdul said from behind her, too keyed up to delay an appearance this morn. She made a slight turn of her head, that he might not think her rude. She had no desire for gems, nor for a husband so resolute in decreeing which she should own.

  As Kahlmed opened the hold, a lad jumped up from the capstan and skittered over. Brailen was near unrecognisable. His hair was dull from the dust of the hold and the salt in the air, his freckles blended into days of caked dirt he was doing little to remove. Ahkdul pushed him aside, climbed down and bid her join him. He must have seen how uncomfortable the rough, narrow planks made her to extend a hand. She could hardly refuse but she retrieved her fingers as soon as she left the ladder. The swine was too entranced by the genie to notice the slight. Even held tight by the salted net, the poor creature was wracked with violent spasms. She had lost her shimmer and the pink crystals in her joints had darkened in hue. Ahkdul grabbed a pail and threw filthy river water over her, washing away the perspiration beading on her greying skin. She shrieked and struggled. A faint glow appeared deep in her crystals, a mere spark which died as he sprinkled salt on her forehead.

  “I have you, genie. You cannot escape. Tell me your name.”

  The genie’s brown eyes widened. Ahkdul smiled, knelt beside her and dealt her a sharp blow to the face. “Your name.”

  She yelped. He struck. “Your name.”

  Kordahla gripped the ladder. The genie whimpered. Ahkdul punched. “Your name.”

  Brailen fell off the last wrung onto his hands and knees. He was gaunt with the abuse of his lord, the curse of the drug and his own neglect. “Let me try, my lord.”

  Ahkdul dragged him over. Out of the patch of daylight, her betrothed’s prominent brow shadowed his features into menace. “Just how could your magic persuade her?”

  “I could read her mind.”

  Kordahla gasped. Parchment crackled as the swine reached into a pocket for a packet of the porrin he was never without.

  “The way that mahktashaan did,” Brailen said, snatching the porrin out of Ahkdul’s hand. He washed the powder down with the dregs of the foul river water and crawled to the genie. The empty pail hit him and he keeled over her, giggling.

  Kahlmed hauled him up. “Remember what that mahktashaan taught you or you’ll regret wasting your lord’s porrin,” the soldier said.

  Brailen opened his arms in a grandiose gesture. “You speak to a mage who will rival the majoria of the mahktashaan.” He jerked out of Kahlmed’s grasp and clasped the genie’s face in his hands. “I’ll find it. I’ll find your name.”

  The genie whimpered. The ropes tightened around her. Her flesh poked through the holes.

  Brailen giggled and toppled across her. “More salt,” he said as Kahlmed shoved him away. “Almost had her name. More porrin.” He hit his head against th
e bottom rung of the ladder and slumped against the wall. “That hurt,” he said, rubbing his head.

  “Your name, genie,” Ahkdul said, drawing a knife. He went down on one knee and ran the blunt edge across her cheek, heedless of her rosy tears.

  “Lord Ahkdul, please,” Kordahla begged. “She is just a child.”

  “She is djinn, Kordahla,” Mariano said, climbing down with a vigour she hoped was from his exertion and not anticipation of the cruelty to come.

  “Your name.” Ahkdul turned the blade, cut through the rope over the genie’s wrist and held her hand against the floor. The poor child turned white as he set the blade against her thumb. “If you wish to keep your thumb, I will not ask again. “Your name.”

  Kordahla’s hands were at her mouth. “No!” she screamed as Ahkdul sliced and the genie screamed, screamed, screamed through cracking thunder, blood spurting from her hand, her finger lying severed on the floor.

  Kordahla swayed, steadied herself against Mariano, gripped the ladder and was sick.

  Ahkdul raised the knife over the genie’s finger. “Your name.”

  A sudden deluge pattered against the wood.

  Mariano put his hands around her, guiding her away from the hatch. “She is djinn, not human.”

  What twisted sense of honour presumed that was fine? She fought with all her will to stumble to the other side of the genie without fainting. Kneeling, she stroked the girl’s tangled hair, poked her fingers through the net to brush a clammy hand.

  “Give me your name.”

  The genie moaned. Kordahla drew a breath. The swine chopped. The genie passed out.

  “Let me try,” Kordahla said, aware she was on her knees, shaking, looking up at her kneeling lord like a beggar. “Let me reason with her.”

  Mariano placed a steadying hand on Ahkdul’s shoulder, too calm with his damn honour in all this. “Perhaps kindness will work where brute force does not.”

  Ahkdul’s eyes drifted from her to the genie. He nodded. “You,” he said to Brailen. “Stay with her. Make sure the net remains tight and salted.” He picked up the severed fingers. Kordahla pressed her wrist to her mouth as Mariano followed him up the wet ladder onto deck. It did nothing to quell the rise of bile and she vomited into the corner.

  “Please, will you get some clean water?” Kordahla said to Brailen. Her eyes moved to Kahlmed, who was leaning against the side of the ladder. The leering mercenary made no other move than to raise an eyebrow twice. No request she could make would ever convince him to leave her alone with their booty.

  The strained liquid the pouting lad brought was foul, but it was all they had to drink since Arun left. The stained rags within the hold were worse, stinking of fish and blood and putrid scum. She untucked one corner of her veil.

  “You blaspheme,” Kahlmed said, standing straighter.

  “Will you give me a swatch of clean shirt to save my modesty?”

  She blinked when he nodded. In all else, the scarred mercenary had been a stranger to chivalry. In this too. He pushed Brailen into the wall and tore three strips off the bottom of the lad’s kurta. Careful to avoid touching his fingers, she took them, dipped one in the water, and dabbed the genie’s face through the net.

  “Hush,” she comforted when the genie started whimpering again. The Vae were merciful to ensure the girl’s mind had flown to the moons. If only Mahktos could spare her this plight. She must not forget the old god where these creatures were concerned.

  “What would you wish for?” Brailen asked, crawling forward.

  “For an end to cruelty,” she said, sick to the pit of her stomach.

  “I’d wish I was a powerful magus, respected and feared by everyone.”

  “Is it not better to be loved than feared?”

  He reached a finger through the holes to brush the girl. “She feels like wet silk. Expensive silk.” He giggled, always the fool under the influence of the drug.

  She had tended Vinsant’s scraped knees and grazed arms herself. A pool of blood should not sicken her. A dry strip of cloth bound the genie’s hand well enough to stem the flow. “And you Kahlmed. What would you wish for?” she forced herself to ask.

  The violent, battle-scarred man man pushed himself away from the ladder and ogled the genie. “Five obedient, nubile wives and ten strong sons on an estate near my lord’s.”

  Kordahla drew the pot of salt over, and sprinkled a little on the girl’s chest. “The genie would wish for her freedom, don’t you think?”

  Kahlmed laughed. “An impossible wish. Her lot is to serve. Sooner or later she’ll realise it.” He flashed a wicked, triumphant grin. “Women always do.”

  She held her tongue. In time, she would earn the authority to deal with even this man. For now, she stroked the genie’s tangled hair, comforted her, and sang to her. With the help of the Vae she would find a way to set the magical girl free without inciting the vindictive ire of her husband-to-be.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The cave was spinning when they came again, dark rock, light rock, hard, hard, hard rock.

  “What’s your name?”

  Timak whimpered.

  “Did Lord Ahkdul use you?”

  His heart couldn’t answer that.

  “Which finger?”

  “No.”

  “Too late.” Prahak cut. Timak screamed.

  “What’s your genie’s name?”

  “Doon’t. . .knooow.”

  “Has she been here?”

  “Nooo.”

  “Which finger?”

  He whimpered.

  “Which finger?”

  “Teach him to answer. Cut ‘em all,” Rough Hands said.

  Prahak sliced through his two intact fingers. The pain knifed straight through the porrin. His screams burst his ears.

  They poured the porrin down his throat. The bliss carried him away. He was sailing down a river of red. How many fingers? His father laughed as he held his hands behind his back.

  One, Timak replied. His father tossed him a finger. Timak flinched and it fell over the side into the snapping jaws of a jabberwei.

  How many fingers?

  Somehow he knew. Ten.

  And Ahkdul rose out of the river, a knife in his hand. One for each thulek I paid for your flesh. And he cut off all Timak’s fingers and the river grew redder with his blood and the thunder grew louder with his screams.

  Chapter 42

  RAUCOUS BIRDS SHOOK yellowing leaves from the dense canopy. They drifted around Sian, out of time with the rumbling thunder. When one stuck itself to the mahktashaan’s face, he called a halt among the twisted vines and spreading oaks, the third in as many hours. Striding to Erok, he pointed due south and let out a barrage of words. Sian didn’t understand but she knew what he meant.

  “Ogres,” Erok said with finality, folding his arms. He launched into an explanation of how the hillier terrain would slow them down even though the southbound path was shorter. The fluid Akerin was lost on the Terlaani but the soldiers shifted wary looks into the brush. Ogres. It didn’t matter if you were lowlander or Hill Tribe, that word was stone-crumbling terrifying.

  The mahktashaan looked at Brax.

  The athletic hunter folded his arms and set his face firm, just like Erok. “Ogres.”

  “Ogres,” the mahktashaan said with no weight. Sian’s nerves fluttered as his teal crystal glowed. He pointed at a branch. Her gasp didn’t even distract him. A bolt of energy sizzled out of his stone. With a thunderous crack, the branch split from the trunk and crashed into the bracken below. The birds fell silent; the monkeys screeched their annoyance. Sian swayed as pain shot through her burned arm.

  “Ogres,” the mahktashaan said. He didn’t growl, stomp or raise a club, but the magic-wielding man was just as scary as the muscular beasts. He pointed to an ironwood growing at a fork in the path. Wisps of smoke curled from the bark.

  Sian cried out and clapped her burned arm. “Stop. Stop.” Every stroke of the sigil he carved seared her he
aling flesh.

  She shook her head as Erok lurched towards her. She wanted the comfort of her hunter’s hug but the soldiers had drawn their swords. The perplexed mahktashaan studied her.

  “You shouldn’t hurt the trees,” she said even though he couldn’t understand her. He didn’t have time to try either. Leader Terhel prodded the hunters onto the gloomier branch of the faint track. For a day and a half now, the gruff soldier had insisted they walk south. The terrain and weather had been growing harsher with each leaf-fall but he wasn’t deterred and he didn’t permit any slowing. Gritting her teeth, Sian followed.

  An ominous crack of thunder accompanied a tramp through a patch of mud. Thirsty from the long walk, she scrambled down a slope entangled with fallen trunks to a trickling stream. Red toadstools grew along the bank and green fungus spiralled its way up the broad trunks that bordered it. The mouldy smell made her sneeze, which fired the sting in her face. She knelt to splash cool water over her throbbing bruise. The mahktashaan stood over her before she could cup a handful to drink. She recoiled, right into a soldier blocking her retreat. The mahktashaan spoke and the soldier left. The Terlaani magic man reached for her face. She turned her head away but his words were gentle. His hand brushed her cheek, his crystal glowed teal and her burning skin turned cool. She stared at him, her tongue swallowed by a puffer. When he turned away, she stroked her cheek. The swelling was gone.

  “He wants your trust,” her hunter said.

  “Then he should let us go,” she replied, getting up.

  “Hmm,” Erok agreed, plucking a leaf and sucking on it as the soldier gestured them upstream.

  The stream widened as it babbled down shallow falls no higher than her shin. She tried to creep up to Erok but the grubby, smelly soldiers nudged her apart. She hung her head. Erok and Brax would resent that she was surety of their good behaviour. It was her fault they were here and not with the tribe.

  Lost in thought, she wandered off the track as it veered away from the stream. A soldier pushed her right, returning her to the meandering path. Beneath the rumble of thunder, water gushed. A hundred paces on, the track veered to a churning pool of brilliant blue fed by a roaring, soaring fall. At the top of the cliff, lightning flashed, illuminating a thin, white-haired figure among the fiery colours of the autumn wood. He threw his hands high. Jagged lightning stuck his staff. The trees bowed in a ripple which cascaded down the hills. Wind whistled through the forest. Vines swung and leaves rustled.