Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  “Alas, it cannot be so,” the god said, shrinking to the height of the trees. He squatted, sitting Timak upon his bowed knee. Timak buried his face into the god’s chest and sobbed.

  “Hush, little one. This I can do for you, for in your loyalty you have spared my daughter a fate worse than death. For every hurt you have suffered, for every injury you will suffer, that quartz you wear will grant you joy in equal measure.”

  Timak wiped his eyes. He didn’t understand. At all.

  The god blew upon his injured hand. His breath was sweet and fresh, lavender and mint, lilac and eucalypt. Timak blinked. He turned his hands over and stared at his ten fingers. They were whole. They wriggled at his thought. He swallowed. Below the second joints, thin white lines marred his brown skin.

  “The scars will remain.”

  That was cruel, and he bowed his head. The god sighed deep in sympathy.

  “You wish to forget how you came to me. It cannot be. If The Three Realms survive, the drug will devastate its shores. To you falls the task of easing its suffering. That is your burden, little one, the price of your coming here.” He set Timak beside the pond. Timak tried to turn his face up but brilliance more stunning than the genie’s hid the god.

  Golden Tiarasae took his hand and bent to plant a kiss on his head. When she straightened the god was receding, out of the glade, into the sky, past the moons. When Mahktos had gone, she led him away. As they neared the trees, she stopped.

  “Is it true you hear the djinn?”

  “Yes.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I too will grant you a gift if you prove wise in your choice. Speak your heart’s desire. If it is in my power, you shall have it.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Arun woke with a gasp. He was lying on a hard bed in draughty, lop-sided hut. A wrinkled woman in clothes stained with years of hard wear looked up from a hearth choked with cinders and made a noise of delight. Rising from her knees she called out in a reedy voice. An old man smoking a pipe threw the crooked door open on the windy night. Seeing Arun awake, he cackled, waddled inside and clicked his tongue through the gap left by two missing front teeth.

  “You wake, ah, you wake,” the man said, knocking Arun on the chest with his pipe hand. “You sleep three days. Woman look after. Woman feed.” His smile was good-natured. It put Arun at ease.

  The woman was already pouring slops into a chipped bowl. “Out. Out with pipe.” Launching into a tirade in one of the old tongues, she shooed her husband out to the lowing of buffalo.

  Arun tried to rise but his heavy limbs refused to obey. The woman clucked at him as she sat on the hard bed, bringing with her the musty odour of unwashed age. The sickening rot of the Bahmar River steamed from the bowl. His stomach turned, but three days without food, no four – he had wandered a day before collapsing again – had left him weak with need. With a black-toothed grin, she felt his arms, gurgled and nodded. “Strong man.” She chuckled.

  Arun pulled himself far enough up for her to spoon him the slop. His thoughts cleared as morsels of overcooked meat settled in his gnawing stomach.

  Four days. Kordahla must be almost to Pengari by now. The thought stabbed him right through the heart. He pressed his palms into his eyes and groaned. The clucking woman just kept forcing the dented spoon between his lips. Mahktos must have been watching over him, or the Vae. He had not expected to last the first night, not with his cerulean crystal removed and wrapped with care in a rag torn from his discarded robe. But he had, and the next day he had staggered downriver through the soggy, yellow-green grass. The temptation to reclaim his magic had been great. For her sake alone, he had resisted. There could be no gossip of a stranger wearing a crystal if he was to succeed. Nor could he chance the wrath of his god, though Mahktos might still strike him down. In helping the princess, he had crossed the boundaries of his oath. The punishment he had admitted to Crown Prince Mariano had been no lie. Providence alone had seen him wander into the path of the buffalo this man was driving home just as his knees gave way.

  His crystal. A work of beauty even when, away from his body, it turned dull. It was impossible to hide upon his person. Foolish of him to even try. He reached for the crude belt of fabric he had used to secure it to his waist. The old woman crinkled her face and shook her head, cheeping in fake incomprehension before Arun had even enquired. Asking would produce no results, he was sure. His eyes roved over the rickety room with its dirt floor and ill-fitting planks. His eyes would have faded to a natural blue by now. He was no one special, no one to call attention to himself. A humbling thought after so many years of rank. A mortifying thought if he dwelled on it. Without his magic, he wasn’t sure he could rescue the woman who had captured his heart.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Timak’s eyes swept the edge of the fragrant forest. Two tiger cubs clambered all over their mother. A wolf pup pounced on insects. Rabbits nibbled on flowers. He took a deep breath. There was so much he could wish for. He wanted the swine to stop hurting children. He wanted Princess Kordahla to stop being sad. His mother’s touch. His father’s laugh. To return to his parents, to before the beast had stolen him away. To forget what the god had said he must remember.

  He fidgeted. “Yazmine is sick. Please make her well.”

  A breeze ruffled his hair. Tiarasae kissed his scarred fingers, set one of her delicate hands against his cheek. “Is there no end to your selflessness?” Her golden glow faded. He waited for her to tell him Yazmine was fine. She shook her head.

  “Can I see her?”

  She pointed to the canopy. The leaves rustled apart, letting the sun burst through. Yazmine was cradled on a sunbeam, limp and grey and not shimmery at all. Timak stepped towards her, walked, ran. The golden genie held his hand and they flew up to his best friend in all the world.

  “Yazmine?” She murmured in her sleep. “Yazmine, I’ve wished you well.”

  Tiarasae made a tentative sound. “I cannot cure her.”

  A large lump formed in Timak’s throat. “Can Mahktos?”

  “He will not interfere. Not even for one of his beloved children.”

  Timak’s brow was so wrinkled his forehead hurt. He didn’t think he would ever understand, not when there was so much hurt but the sky was warm and bright. “You survived when a kaidon stung you.”

  “I never was stung. A brave mortal named Heriol spared me that fate.”

  He swallowed a sob. “Is she going to die?”

  She hesitated. “It would take one of Mahktos’s relics to cure her.”

  “Take me there. I wish you to take me there.”

  Her smile was sweet in its sadness. “I could. But then I could not return you. You would have to survive a treacherous journey to a rift.”

  Timak wiped tears from his eyes. What purpose did the gods have if they would not interfere? He touched Yazmine’s hand. She didn’t even stir.

  Tiarasae bent to kiss his forehead. He turned his head but couldn’t avoid her tingling touch. It spread right through him until golden light engulfed him, blotting out the forest.

  The light faded into brown rock. He was standing in Mage Cove, in front of the domed guild, a gliding gull screeching, waves breaking and the dazed ghost of a teenage boy wandering the rocks. Up on the narrow track the mages had warned him never, ever to climb Drucilamere was shouting. Timak stood while the wind whipped light rain about him and the drops glowed with Dindarin’s light. He stood there until the master magus threatened to embrace him. Timak fled from his hug, scampering over the rocks towards the swelling lake. His ankle twisted and he fell, grazing hands and knees, knocking his head. He lay there screaming, beating his fists against the rock. It wasn’t fair. Mahktos had promised, promised, to grant him something other than pain.

  When he had screamed himself to exhaustion, and he lay limp, eyes swollen, cheeks puffed, Magus Drucilamere lifted him into his strong arms. The silent mage carried him inside.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Jordayne came to in the boat. Her han
ds were tied with the mooring rope and secured to the bow. Prahak, the fiend, was rowing through the waves with sure, impassive strokes. His knife was tucked into his belt. On the rocks, the zombie was persisting in its clumsy chase. It splashed into the lake and sank, which took care of that. She fixed a steely stare on Prahak. The boor paid the occasional drop of rain more attention than her. Not so the soft splosh behind him. His glance showed him what they should both have predicted. Head exposed, arms resting on the surface, the zombie was slicing through the water in a dogged chase. She owed Weng Wu an effusive apology; she had created a monster. Prahak grimaced and rowed faster. Behind him, lightning streaked down to the water.

  They moored on a pebble beach just as Dindarin was kissing Daesoa. Prahak untied the rope securing her from the bow, and walked across the stones without offering even an insult. Well she refused to be led like a dog. With a dancer’s grace, she caught him up. Too bad she had removed all her bangles for the botched raid. Still, the vines they were passing, redolent with juicy bunches of grapes, promised a comforting drop.

  Beyond the vines, they passed through a gap in a copse of overgrown bushes, and stopped in front of a rundown house tucked behind a mound, and so hidden from the lake. Prahak rapped on a splintering door, two quick knocks, two slow, three quick. A bolt slid, the door opened and a rough man, unshaven and wearing a patched, hessian kurta and shalvar, gestured them in with a furtive glance down the leaf-strewn path.

  “What’s this?” he said, undressing her with his eyes. “Brought the evening’s entertainment?”

  “That,” she said, fixing him with a seductive smile that screamed hands off, “is yet to arrive. But do stick around. The highlight will be your manhood on a plate for presentation to the shah. My illustrious uncle might even deign to feed it to his dogs.”

  “Why, you,” he began, yanking her so close, his bristles scratched her chin. She waited, staring the leer off the imbecile’s face. His flabby jowls dropped into a stupid expression as the implication behind the words registered. It had taken long enough for him to recognise her. She would have to see about raising her profile after this.

  “In the meanwhile, you can provide a provocative opening act, whore,” Prahak said in his cold, level voice. He climbed a creaky set of wooden stairs, and she was forced to follow. Her heart had started hammering. Without a boat, there was no chance of rescue for hours yet, and the wind moaning through the vines seemed to be lamenting it. She clenched her jaw. A mere man was not about to reduce her to a quivering mess.

  “Prahak,” the man downstairs called.

  “The palace will be sending guards. Get the merchandise onto the ship,” the fiend replied without turning.

  She would never forgive him for coiling the rope as she stepped over a missing plank, reeling her in like a prize steer. He pushed her into the first room off the landing. It reeked of sweat and body fluids, and the torn, stained pallet in the centre, patched with shadows, offended her into biliousness.

  “I’ve a promise to keep,” he said.

  “I absolve you.”

  “There is no need. This one I shall relish.”

  The stamp of many feet carried through the floor. For one wild, hopeful moment Jordayne thought the army might have arrived. She crossed to the open window, gripped the sill and let out a long, silent breath. Lightning lit the scene in uneven flashes. A ragged group of about twenty men and women were trudging out of the door. Their bowed heads, their dejected air, the clink of chain, marked them as captives.

  She spun to face Prahak with an arrogant lift of her brow. She doubted it masked her disgust. “Which unfortunates are you preying on?” She had a sick feeling she already knew.

  She never expected the brute to acknowledge her tone of authority. Never expected either that he would grab her, throw her onto the pallet and lower himself over her with aggressive silence. She grabbed at the knife in his belt, managed to pull it free and stabbed upwards. He anticipated her move, arched his body and pummelled his knee into her wrists. She gripped tight, fighting to keep the knife, but he was already off her, out of her reach, the end of the rope in his hands. He used it to yank her arms over her head, to secure them even against her pull. Tilting her head, she saw an iron ring in the wall. She shuddered to think this violation was no isolated incident, grimaced when Prahak shook the knife from her hand.

  His slap was brutal. It coincided with a thunderous crack. Her eyes tearing, she caught her breath. He reached down and ripped open her bodice. A lightning flash caught a contemptuous smile pulling the corner of one lip as he squeezed her breast so tight she gasped. The smile never reached his grey eyes. It was more chilling than a still wind. She swallowed as he pricked the tip of the knife to her nipple.

  “Inventive enough for you, whore?”

  Thunder rumbled.

  “I reserve my judgement,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eye. She sounded braver than she felt.

  The amused contempt tugged harder at one lip. His large, cold hands reached under her kameez. “Remember this is but the opening act.”

  “Prahak,” a crude voice called from downstairs. “We’ve got to go.”

  He zig-zagged a finger across her skin. “They are an impatient lot. I’ll wager there’s time, and they’ll have their turn soon enough.”

  “You will never have the time to be a man.”

  “Do you suppose to teach me?” He held her chin in one hand. “A lek is all your services are worth. I’ll make sure I send it with your tongue, one for every time you serve us. Your shah will learn their significance.”

  She faked a smile. “I intend you to pay in rather a different way.”

  The stairs creaked. “Prahak! The capt’n says a storm’s brewing. If we don’t set sail now, we’ll be stuck here until it passes.”

  The sky boomed confirmation.

  The fiend took the flat of his blade and pressed it to her lips. He looked right into her eyes. “You can wait. It will make the moment I dishonour you that much more gratifying.”

  It would never happen. Matisse would send the entire army to capture him. She, on the other hand, would have the utter satisfaction of killing him herself. The details were important now. His was to be a prolonged, excruciating, humiliating, tortured and very public death.

  He climbed off her, untied the rope from the hoop, and brought her downstairs. To the side of the broken handrail, in the open for all to see, Prahak’s bristled sidekick was heaving himself off a shivering girl. He hitched up his shalvar, tying a knot in the cord without a hint of self-consciousness.

  “Why isn’t she on the boat?”

  “I’z owed some entertainment of me own. Might keep this one. She’s satisfying enough.”

  The girl, who could not have been past fifteen, scuttled to the wall and drew her legs to her chest. With a hushing sound, Jordayne took a corner of her torn kameez and bent to wipe the tears from her face and the blood from her thighs. The poor girl, dumbstruck with terror, attempted to cover her lean body with the shredded remnants of her dress and her hands.

  “Get her loaded.”

  Bristles grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her up. She yelped, attempting to keep her feet as he hauled her out the door and down the sheltered path. Prahak followed. As abhorrent as she found him, Jordayne stuck suggestively close. She had no intention of letting the bastard guess how violated she felt.

  The crickets in the shelter of the bushes fell silent as they passed. About halfway through the vineyard, they broke left onto stonier ground. The new path opened onto a sandy stretch of beach. Lake Tejolin carved inwards here, forming a small sheltered cove that was screened from the pebble cove by a dense, prickly hedge. Bristles pulled the girl down a long, crude pier towards a large, rotting sailboat. He passed her to another man on board, who shoved her into the hold as a third man lifted the hatch. A miserable, pleading murmur rose through the hole into the bracing air. The thud of the closing hatch murdered it.

  “Merchandi
se secure,” the second man called, the one with the crude voice.

  “One more,” Bristles growled, snatching at her arm.

  “Not her.” Prahak held her tight, a calculating frown frozen on his forehead as he contemplated the boat.

  Lightning flashed twice in quick succession.

  “She’s seen us.”

  “By the time they find her she won’t be in any condition to talk. She won’t have a hand to write with, eyes to identify us or ears to recognise our voice. This bitch is going to send a very clear message to the palace.”

  Out on the lake, something sloshed through the water.

  Bristles blew air out of his nose. “Ain’t there no chance we can ship them out of here? That’s a lot of coin we’re sinking.”

  Prahak’s expression did not change. “Do it.”

  Clicking his tongue, Bristles approached the boat. One of the men passed him an axe. He swung it, tearing a splintering rip into the hull just above the waterline.

  “What are you doing?” she said, a flutter of panic raising her voice. The man on the boat was laughing. Bristle threw him the axe as they cast off. The sail unfurled, flapped, and caught the gusting wind. Lanterns winked at the bow, stern, sides and mast, illuminating the boat like a beacon as it sailed onto the choppy waters of the lake. Beyond it, Dindarin and Daesoa kissed the horizon to the rumbling approval of the clouds.

  “What are you doing?” No pretence of calm now.

  A small rowboat splashed into the water. Three figures climbed into it. Someone manoeuvred it under the gash. A silhouette stood, raised the axe and hacked at the hull, ripping wood from around the hole. Even from here she could see the boat tilt, the gradual submergence of the deck.

  “You bastard.” She struck at Prahak. He kicked her to the ground.

  She picked herself up. Her dignity was all she could salvage. Even from here, she could catch the faint panicked screams of the doomed, men and women whose worst wrongdoing was the misfortune to have a relative unable to pay this disgusting felon for the poison he sold. She swallowed as she recalled dear Ilyam, distraught over the disappearance of his mother. Vae’omar spare that one woman, and so protect her starving brood.