Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  Later, as he snugged under a single quilt on a pallet in the old man’s draughty one-roomed hut, Vinsant tried thoughtlink to avoid contemplating a solitary journey down icy mountain paths, in snap blizzards, along treacherous precipices. Since Kordahla wasn’t responding, he switched his efforts to Arun. Nothing. He beat his fist against the bedding, rolled over and tried to go to sleep. One night shy of a major moon, the sky glowed. Moonlight reflected off the snow and burst through all the cracks between the logs. He would have pulled the quilt over his eyes, except he was sure something was amiss. Something which made it impossible for Arun to be dead. Daesoa had been in her first quarter that night. She had been aloft when Arun leapt from the boat, if Kordahla remembered right. And he needed her to have remembered right because when Arun had seized control of his quartz, Daesoa had left her zenith. From his high vantage on the peak, Vinsant had had clear view of the yellow moon. Which meant his magic had saved the minoria. Which meant Arun was alive. So why wasn’t he answering the link?

  Did Vinsant ever need to talk to someone who knew. Too bad the only mahktashaan around was certain to contact Levi. The majoria would want explicit details. If he thought Vinsant was holding out, he might order Padesh to mind read. All his thoughtlinking with Kordahla would be laid bare. He needed it to stay secret. At least until he knew what it meant. For both of them. He massaged his temples, spelled extra warmth into the quilt and air, and tried to reach his sister again.

  Chapter 43

  THE SOLDIERS WERE wrinkling their noses. Brax and Erok exchanged knowing looks but the mahktashaan strode through the thinning beech and poplar unperturbed. Sian squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to breathe too deep. It wasn’t so much the stench of rotten eggs that was disturbing her as the thought of the sacred lake it wafted from. For the better part of another day they had trudged southwest. Always southwest. Every attempt to deviate had conjured whipping wind and torrents of rain in the impenetrable forest. Buffeted and drenched, they were driven back. And always beneath the moaning storm, if they strained to hear, were the faint notes of a soothsayer’s ululating chant.

  They were approaching a summit and from the way both Erok and Brax darted glances at her she could guess what lay on the other side. It wasn’t true what the soothsayers said, but her nerves were making her stumble. The soldiers were losing patience, huffing at her, pulling her good arm until her skin bruised.

  They stepped out of a line of oaks and onto scree. A few clattering slides took them to the summit, to the rim of a wide bowl which dipped to a simmering lake of opaque azure. The steam rising off the surface brushed warm across their faces. It had lost the worst of its foulness and carried a hint of orchid and rose, of plum and peach and apricot. Sian took a deep breath. Erok and Brax were still breathing shallow. They needed to stop looking at her. She opened her mouth but the steam had constricted her throat. She didn’t know what to say anyway, so she just stared at them, dumb, stupid not meant for this.

  “May the spirits reach you,” they said together.

  Her legs had turned to puffer-jelly. She sank onto the stone and huddled over her folded arms. A too-bright sun was peeking through the grey clouds, lighting a sharpness she had never noticed into the faces around her. At the edge of the lake, the reds, yellows and greens in the rocks made a pretty wreath for the bubbling water. She pulled in tight. Her sight. They wanted her to lose her sight. She couldn’t breathe thinking about it.

  Scree clattered as horrible Morik scooted down the slope, whooping his disrespect.

  “No.” Her soft word carried across the bowl.

  She should have kept her mouth shut. The soldier’s lewd gesture sent her blood rushing to her face. She wanted to put her head down but she couldn’t because Erok had grabbed a rock and hurled it. It thumped Morik square between the shoulders. She stood because the soldier had skidded to a halt, turned, and was scrambling up. Erok shouldn’t have picked up another rock. She took hold of his leather vest.

  “Please, don’t. They’ll beat you.”

  Brax pulled her off leaving the soldiers free to tackle Erok to the ground. Morik swung his foot.

  “No! Don’t hurt him!”

  The mahktashaan inserted himself between the men. Mean eyes stared into concealing hood. Neither man spoke. The soldier was the first to look away, to leer at her and size her up. His lowlander word made her feel like filth. She had to turn away. He kicked a rock in her direction. It bounced in front of her feet. He kicked another and walked down the slope, skittering rocks in every direction, shouting ripples across the bubbling lake. Not even the clatter on the opposite shore slowed him. Not even old, sallow Orin clambering onto the ridge where he stood too proud and powerful for one his age. Soothsayer Orin, who was guardian of Spirit Lake, most sacred ground of the Akerin. Sian dropped to her knees. Erok and Brax joined her. But Soothsayer Orin wasn’t concerned about them. The teeth and claws on his staff rattled something vicious as he pointed his staff at Morik. Silent accusation burst from its gnarled top. So now the soldier did halt, right at the simmering edge of the water.

  “This lake is taboo to all but the soothsayers.”

  Morik’s laugh was nasty. He jumped into the water with a disrespectful yell. It was just that his shouts turned to screams as he sank beneath the steam. Just that a dark cloud covered the sun. His red hand broke the surface and groped for the edge. It latched onto a rock, dragged a body boiled raw half out of the lake. Stunned soldiers began slipping down the scree. The first to reach him grabbed his hand, but jerked away with a yelp and stared at his burned palm. Morik kept crawling, dragging his blistered legs from the lake. Steam rose off his tattered clothes and scalded flesh. His body disintegrated before their eyes until there was nothing but a scrap of rag to show a vile Terlaani soldier called Morik had ever lived.

  Swaying, light-headed, Sian lifted her eyes to Orin. “The spirits reach you,” she whispered.

  “The spirits reach and guide you,” came his clear reply.

  The world starting spinning around her, turning lake and scree to blurs of blue and brown. Her legs gave way and oblivion descended.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Dear Uncle Ordosteen was in rapture as he gazed at his bride, splendid in gold lace over green silk. Up in the first balcony of the decorated Grand Hall, the sweet bard with the melodic voice was pining for his attention. The skilled musicians strumming the two strings of their dotar, blowing through their reed ney, and banging their dafs, despite eliciting riotous applause from the guests, were spurred to livelier and more complex tunes in their attempts to engage him. The jesters, jugglers, dancers and acrobats teased chuckles from him only because Rochelle expressed her delight. As for the feast of every delicacy known both inside and out The Three Realms – salmon and goat-cheese tarts, venison dripping in a herb and cream sauce, saffron rice with pomegranate and pistachio, and ground nut, syrup cakes were a mouth-watering few – he had eaten with gusto but he had not commented save to enquire whether each dish was tender or spicy or sweet enough for his beloved. He hadn’t even noticed the bouquets twisting up the columns or the petals brightening the stone garlands along the balconies. That a man could be so enraptured at his age! How bemusing. Though he did look most regal in an exorbitant kurta to complement his bride’s.

  Jordayne let out a sigh of relief as servants cleared the banquet. Copious wine was flowing and carefree dancing claimed the delighted guests. It was a wonder all eight satraps had arrived in time for the wedding, a mere twenty-one days after the proposal. Those from the outlying provinces must have ridden like the wind. Beside her Drucilamere downed another glass of wine. He looked delectable in his deep purple kurta of an uncomplicated brocade – it brought out the intense green of his eyes – but he had spoken in monosyllables all evening. Her poor Master Mage was taking Timak’s abduction hard, blaming himself, of course. He had been driven to tears each time he scried the boy, and not from the weeping burns that yet irritated him. Prahak, it seemed, was perpetrating
acts of cruelty on the already fragile child. A child who, with strong magic flowing through his veins, would be an invaluable asset for Myklaan. If Druce was right, Timak had been responsible for the magical movement of the swords in the lane outside Rondel’s house, and without even a drop of porrin in his blood.

  A scowl on his face, Drucilamere slumped in his chair and reached for his fourth glass of unwatered wine. Jordayne sighed. Her mage was never going to forgive himself for being stuck in the fire when the boy needed help.

  “My lady,” Sergeant Rokan said from a discreet position behind her. “The boy from the hospice wishes to deliver some medicine straight into your hands. He has been at the servant’s gate since this afternoon and refuses to entrust the package to anyone else.”

  “Oh?” she said. The persistent boy had wound his way in and out of the crowd lining the streets from the temple as the royals and their guests rode under a shower of petals and through the cheer of a band. The wedding ceremony, performed by the charmingly innocent High One himself, had nurtured a bloom of wistfulness in her. Dear Uncle Ordosteen deserved this happiness. His mood had been so high, he had waved a magnanimous hand at the guard who had seized Ilyam as he ran too close to the royal procession. Not that she wouldn’t have seen the boy rewarded for his admiration.

  “Why report this now?”

  “I have only just learned the boy claims the medicine is for ailments contracted in caves.”

  Jordayne patted Drucilamere’s hand. “It’s time to go.”

  Rochelle and Ordosteen, eyes glued to each other, made no comment as she held Drucilamere’s good hand and stood up. On their other side, Matisse was reclining across Satrap Vemeer’s buxom daughter, intoxicated beyond propriety. Not that the chubby-cheeked, giggling lass was taking offence.

  “This is not the time, Jordayne,” Drucilamere said, eyeing the indiscreet couple.

  She leaned into his ear, disinclined to tease when he suffered. “You heard there is news of Timak?”

  He was up so fast he knocked his glass over. And Ordosteen did not even notice.

  Just to ensure her dear uncle would not compel her to remain until the revelry was done she hid her intention to leave by slipping onto the crowded dance floor. Weaving through the mesmerising sway and ripple of the belly dancers and their imitators, she rued Drucilamere’s height. Ordosteen had watched the seductive entertainers with a sly sideways smile at Rochelle, much to their pouted disappointment, but he was wont to notice his wayward niece. His palpable dismay when they had returned from the hospice, battered after their unfortunate encounter with Prahak, had manifested itself as an order to remain in the palace grounds until after the wedding. An enforced order, she and Matisse had found to their chagrin as they attempted to sneak out on separate occasions. It had not stopped them sending out troops to search for Prahak and Timak. With no success so far. And it had already been four days. Nor had reports of the zombie’s movements aided them in discovering the tunnels the drug dealer had ferreted himself into. It seemed the creature wandered at random, terrorising the folks whose holds were outside the city wall. When, after it had crashed off the cliff onto the rocks at Mage Cove, Drucilamere had demanded she deal with it or face the ire of all three mages, she had given a reluctant order to have it trapped in the city with a view to its ultimate capture. So far, no one had managed that feat.

  Rokan brought the nervous Ilyam to the ornate drawing room she favoured. He shuffled in, gawking at the gilded floral arabesques decorating the wall. He had bought sensible new clothes with room for growth, but his heels squashed the back of his tatty shoes. She would have to arrange for a cobbler to attend the hospice to fit him out.

  “What is it you wish to give me?” she asked, arms crossed, staring down.

  The ginger-haired boy with the large ears had filled out since she first saw him. He put a packet of porrin on the low inlaid table between them, scrutinized the floral design and gilded trim, looked at the fire Maya had hastened to light before she was dismissed, and only then at Jordayne. “You need to find caves. I know where they are.”

  “I’m listening.” The porrin he had pilfered from the hospice had ensured that.

  With a stare too fierce for one so young, he said, “If I tell you, will you kill him?”

  “Prahak? A prolonged and excruciating death.”

  Without warning, the child began bawling.

  Drucilamere held out a handkerchief. He waited until the child was calm enough to blow his nose. “I take it deq Fraaq supplied your father?”

  “He ToOk mY mOtHer,” the child sobbed.

  The curse Druce let fly was spectacular. It had the instantaneous and very desired effect of drying Ilyam’s tears. “Tell us.”

  Through hiccups and stammers Jordayne grew more furious by the minute. The poor woman had never stood a chance of escaping Prahak’s nefarious scheme. What sort of malicious monster would decree the coin she had gifted this child insufficient to cover the interest on a debt which was in total half its value?

  “A prolonged, excruciating and public death,” she said.

  “Where are the caves?” Drucilamere asked, his face dark.

  Ilyam wiped his eyes, sniffed and offered her the snotty handkerchief. Druce took it without a sign of distaste. “Behind mage cove. I followed his men. Three nights. Picked the right man last night. Up the hill. The graveyard.”

  Drucilamere frowned. “You could have been killed.”

  “I’m doing something!” he shouted, fists curled, face puckered into a defiant scowl. “I’m going to help stop the porrin.”

  “Steady lad,” Druce said with an admonishing look at her. She supposed she deserved it. Her reproof had spurred the child to risk his life. “We know you are. Physic Hamid says you are a credit to the hospice.”

  Jordayne sighed. “Does Physic Hamid know you are here?” Ilyam’s face just begged for a confrontation. “Here.” She scribbled a quick note to forestall any punishment. “If you go down to the kitchens, they’ll prepare you a basket to take to the hospice. Tell deq Lamont to expect a further delivery for the patients later tonight.” Food enough would be left over from the feast, even after the servants had eaten their fill. “Pick up your siblings on the way and take them with you. Tell deq Lamont he is to bar the doors tonight.”

  A quiet word drew Kaztyne from an intense conversation with Satrap Teshmood’s capable grandniece in the lamp-lit, garlanded garden. Flashes of lightning only added to the setting’s magical allure. The journeyman seemed rather peeved about the interruption, until they filled him in.

  “I am not sure how long we will be. In the meantime, I need you to continue plotting our magical defences,” Jordayne told him.”

  “I am coming with you,” Kaztyne replied.

  “I’ll not allow it.” Jordayne looked from one mage to the other.

  “It was a close call with Drucilamere in good health,” Kaztyne said quietly. “You need both of us.” His lavish kurta, blue with silver trim, had drawn the eye of every eligible woman at the feast. He was a wise boy indeed to have listened to her styling advice.

  “It’s precisely because Prahak is so devastating one of you must stay. War is coming. As much as I want the scum-sucking toad squashed, diced, sautéed and served to every family he’s ever ruined, if something goes amiss, Kaijoor must have one mage to defend it.”

  The pastry cook might have squeezed too much lemon into the curd Kaztyne was nibbling, the way his mouth screwed up, but he gave her a reluctant nod.

  “How many troops should I muster?” Sergeant Rokan asked.

  “It will be just the three of us, sergeant.”

  Drucilamere scowled in annoyance. “This is not the time for a personal vendetta.” He poked his head into the lively great hall, took one look at the table of honour and rolled his eyes. Matisse was strutting along the tabletop with a near-empty bottle in one hand and Katrine on his other arm while red-cheeked Ordosteen was folded into an amorous embrace with Rochelle. As
for the majority of the guests still inside, they had been rendered oblivious to the antics of their hosts through drink or passion. Skinny Satrap Elan alone paraded with sober energy and bent back, proclaiming to every deaf ear he passed it was his daughter who had wed the shah.

  “My lady, this mission is dangerous.”

  “Mykver Fort, Rokan, Mykver fort.”

  “If my transfer to Mykver fort keeps you alive, it will have the greater benefit of allowing me to keep my head.”

  She laughed. Tapped a finger to her nose. “I’m the only one who might have some bargaining power with Prahak.” Not quite true, but no one here would suggest Maya could pull off such a stunt. She sobered. “As for the troops, what do you imagine a fiend like Prahak would do to Timak if he saw a contingent approaching?”

  Drucilamere swore, outdoing even his earlier effort. Grim, Rokan looked down and muttered his pity of the lad.

  “Stealth, gentlemen, is the order of the evening.”

  Chapter 44

  KORDAHLA ROSE FROM beside the genie, her knees sore from hours of kneeling in the dusty hold. “That will not be necessary.”

  Ahkdul threw the knife into a sack of salt. “Has she revealed her name?”

  Kordahla eyes drifted to the genie. The wretched creature was drifting in and out of delirium. In the dim light of the single lamp it was difficult to discern a shimmer of pink. Vae’oenka, no – she closed her eyes – Mahktos would have granted a miracle if they pulled this off. If she managed to look eager when she spoke to her despised brute of a fiancé; if he ignored her crumpled kameez and crooked veil. “I have discovered she suffers from the poison of a kaidon, else we would never have caught her. I have found out, too, that Brailen was close to discovering her name. Let him try again. How much stronger must he be with her blood in his veins?”