by Tia Reed
“You bastard.” A prolonged, excruciating, humiliating, tortured, excommunicating and very public death. She was running out of ideas. Sol, the executioner, might have a few more. She would have to consult him. A tear in her eye, she turned away from the boat and from the moons beyond. Thick clouds had scudded across the lovers’ faces, dimming the last of their light. Prahak was grinning but there was nothing warm about the expression. Out of respect she forced herself to look out, past the rowboat pushing its brutal way through the waves, to the lightning flashing its cruel smile. The deck of the sailboat sank below the water, pulling the cabin after it. The wind died with the lanterns. The lake closed over the vessel, claiming its precious cargo without a sound. The silence was fitting.
Chapter 47
SIAN WOKE WITH a cry and spittle on her mouth. The scree was poking into every aching muscle and three soldiers were begging Vae’oenka’s protection from the demon in their midst. The mahktashaan reached his hand to her face. She turned it away from his green crystal, into the smelly, healing steam of Spirit Lake. The vapours were rising from the bubbling surface, swirling around Erok, who was straining in two soldiers’ grip. The mahktashaan had some kindness in him, because he spoke and they released him. Erok scrambled to her. It felt nice to have him lift her head and wipe the froth from her mouth with his hand. It felt like he was her hunter again, the way he had been when they travelled to Myklaan.
“You slept a night and a day. The spirits themselves could not wake you.”
“I’m scared,” she whispered, burying her face in his rabbit-fur vest. He hugged her to him, tight and warm.
Brax squatted beside them. “Orin has not left,” he said. The hunter looked across to the opposite side of the ridge. Sian risked a peek at the soothsayer. He was standing strong and tall between two oaks, not even leaning on his staff.
“The Akerin need you,” Brax said. His brow and lips were too uneven for him to mean it.
Erok stroked stray strands of hair from the corner of her mouth. “The spirits ask much.” He frowned at Orin. She reached a hand up and ran a finger over every part of his face. “What?” he asked, so gentle when he looked at her.
“What if I don’t remember what you look like? What if I don’t remember the white lilies and the glossy green leaves and the red plums?” What if the village thought her afflicted twice over, to have no eyes on top of half a brain? What if it was all a mistake and she burned in the lake?
Erok took her hand and pressed it against his heart. Its beat thumped through her body. She let the rhythm comfort her. “The Akerin ask much of one they have ill-treated for years. You need not do this Sian. Not if you are not ready. Not yet.”
On the ridge, Orin raised his staff and brought it down. The clack echoed around the basin. The oaks shook their red leaves and the white, woolly clouds bore down. Across the distance which seemed, in the grip of his power, no distance at all, the soothsayer’s face was stern.
A gust chose that moment to whip the stinking steam into their faces. The soldiers grumbled right through Leader Terhel’s curt order. They wrinkled their noses as they drew their swords and strode around the bowl. Erok stood, raising her with him. She bit her lip as the remaining soldiers surrounded them. Beside her, Erok and Brax stiffened. Orin remained where he was, a frail, blind man sagging against his staff.
Terhel turned to them. “. . .south. Myklaan.” Raising an eyebrow, he drew a hand across his neck.
Sian shuddered.
“Killing a soothsayer will anger the lake. You will never leave,” Erok said.
The Terlaani flicked his head towards Orin, as though he thought the threat might make them agree. He was slow if he didn’t understand the decision wasn’t theirs. If the spirits had permitted it, she would have run north, far, far away from the fate everyone thought awaited her.
The soldiers were spreading out. Five more paces and they would surround Orin, they would cut him down. The soothsayer warbled a note. The steam from the lake thickened and drifted across the basin. Its heat tingled on their hands and faces, dampening their clothes, dripping stinging, blinding sweat into their eyes.
A sharp clack marked the beat of Orin’s staff. A hot wind swept the steam from the crater. One soldier dropped his sword. Another turned all around.
The soothsayer was gone.
✽ ✽ ✽
In the dead of night, when the wind sighing through Mage Cove had died and the lake was a lurking silence, Timak huddled deeper into his bed and bawled. He bawled until the moons set and the stars were faded into purple dawn. Once he thought he heard the mage crying too.
When sleep smothered him, he dreamed of the ancient god and the golden queen.
“. . . can be done,” Mahktos said.
“You should not have entrusted our little rose to my indigo brother, Father,” Tiarasae replied.
“If her innocence could not sway him, he is forever lost.”
“The Vae and the Moons have cast their lot among men.”
“I will not interfere.”
“But if your relics come to light?”
“Eons have bound them to mortals’ fate.”
“And the ones who could wield them?”
“You know better than to ask, daughter.”
Timak tossed and turned and gasped himself awake. His quartz was hot against his chest. He took it off and stuffed it under his pillow. It didn’t help a whole lot. The muted voices of the djinn drifted through the half-dreams of not-quite-sleep.
He woke to the cry of a hawk, hovering somewhere out over the lake. Master Magus Drucilamere was deep asleep in the chair next to his bed, his face ashen and lined. Timak pulled the covers up to his nose and watched the mage’s chest rise and fall.
The gulls were screeching over a shoal when Drucilamere heaved a breath, opened his eyes and lifted his stiff body from the chair.
They left the guild after a cup of water. The mage carried him on his shoulders all the way from the rocks of Mage Cove to the wide, tiled halls of the gilded palace before the sun had even snuck from behind the cliff. They both stared straight ahead and kept their mouths closed the entire way. Timak was still keeping it closed because he really, truly didn’t want to talk. He didn’t think that would be hard with the servants bustling to sweep the remnants of the feast from the great hall, the maids taking down decorations and the scullions scrubbing pots and plates. Their gossip about the ceremony, the food, the guests, the shahbanu filled every ear.
They climbed stairs and walked halls decorated with gilded mouldings of fruit and flowers. Drucilamere threw open a private door without knocking. Lord Matisse sprawled face down on his poster bed, bootless but clothed.
“Wake up,” Drucilamere roared over his warbled snores.
His lordship mumbled something, dragged a fluffy pillow over his head and dropped back to sleep. The Master Mage strode into the huge room, threw the pillow across the chamber, and pulled Matisse off the bed and onto the gold-flecked tiles.
“It’s cursed early to be rising the day after a wedding, mage,” Matisse mumbled into a patterned rug. He hiccupped and closed his eyes.
“Jordayne’s been kidnapped,” Drucilamere said, and strode from the room as an apologetic manservant helped his sobering lordship up while another selected a clean shirt from an immense oak wardrobe carved with acorns and leaves.
Timak scurried after the mage and tried to keep his tired mind numb. Thoughts brought horrible, crippling, wrenching pain. It was easiest to fill himself with nothing. He had tried to do that in his bed. It hadn’t stopped him crying.
“In Ordosteen’s study,” Drucilamere shouted to Lord Matisse.
The shah and Mage Kaztyne were already there, roused from their beds by servants the master magus had intimidated into the task.
“Timak,” Kaztyne exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile. Timak wriggled his shoulders because he couldn’t return it.
“This was not how my bride envisaged I would spend my morning,
Drucilamere.” The shah moved a plain silver jug to the edge of his big desk and adjusted the position of a crimson butterfly before rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
Kaztyne pulled Timak into a hug as Drucilamere rattled off an apology. It was easiest just to bear it.
“You found him,” the delighted but rumpled journeyman said as he checked over Timak to make sure he was whole. He frowned at the scars on Timak’s hand. “What happened? He looks like he’s been bawling all night.”
“I’d say that’s the first step to recovery for this lad,” Magus Drucilamere said lightly. He didn’t look his usual confident self with the hairs on his moustache sticking out in all directions. “But we have bigger problems.” He waited for Lord Matisse to saunter in.
The heir to the throne still wore the clothes he had slept in. His hair was uncombed and he had crusty bits in the corners of his eyes. His half-tied boots were his hasty concession to company. He plonked himself on the couch and yawned without covering his mouth. “This had better be good.” Timak wondered if he had even heard Magus Drucilamere.
“Prahak deq Fraaq has Jordayne.”
Everyone finished their latest fidget. Then they straightened like puppets.
“How in the name of the Vae did that happen?” Ordosteen demanded, staring at Timak like he was to blame.
Kaztyne drew him close to the shelves with all the strange jade and wood carvings and worn-leather tomes as Magus Drucilamere told a tale full of magic and swordfights. It sounded familiar but Timak’s eyes were so heavy. He settled into a big chair with a dip in the seat and laid his head on the arm which was carved like a bear. He was drowsy but the bangs and scrapes of the groundsmen tidying the littered, trampled terraces kept him awake. The garden looked more like a city street than a haven today. The wind had torn and tossed all the petals over cake crumbs and pastry flakes. The wedding guests had smelled the last of the autumn’s flowery fragrance. Even with the shutters open to the gurgle of the fountains, this room smelled worse than swampy Fayrhan, with all the sour burps the men kept releasing.
“I believe the boats Sergeant Rokan commandeered are still on the lake, but we lost valuable time while he recruited men,” Drucilamere said.
“Where were you in all this?” Lord Matisse said, his words sword sharp. His Lordship was standing, confronting the mage.
“Overdosed on porrin, which still courses through my veins. Do you dare suggest I just stood by while that felon threatened her?”
“Stink of the scums.” Lord Matisse looked away. “And why did my dear sister opt to exclude me from this escapade?”
Drucilamere’s voice was tight, the way grown-ups got when they were frustrated. “You were otherwise engaged.”
Kaztyne said, “Enough with the recriminations. We must act. Prahak won’t be tolerant after the boy was plucked from under his nose. I will scry Lady Jordayne.”
“You will both scry,” Shah Ordosteen said. He was shaking, his face had gone white and he kept looking at the jewelled butterfly on the desk.
Drucilamere pressed a packet of porrin into Kaztyne’s hand. “We will indeed.”
“That would be unwise. The master magus is in danger of an overdose,” Kaztyne said, peering deep into Drucilamere’s eyes.
Drucilamere took four more packets out of his pockets and piled them onto the desk. Kaztyne had already poured a measure of water from the jug and stirred in a dose of the drug. He laid a forbidding hand over the remaining porrin. “Save your strength for when it matters.”
There was a timid knock at the door. No one answered. The second knock came more insistent. The door opened a crack and Maya peeped in. When no one barked, she squeezed into the room, curtsied and deposited a tray with silver cups and a steaming pot of jasmine tea onto the low table in front of the settee. When she saw Timak, her face lit up. It clouded with worry again as she inspected Drucilamere out of the corner of her eye. He did look like he had been in a scuffle, with his green kurta tucked lopsided in his crooked kamarband. Timak thought Maya was wise to creep out before all the magic started. Not so sensible to turn at the door when the shah and Lord Matisse were frantic with worry. She wrung her hands, as though trying to hold on to her deserting courage.
“My lords, my mistress has been missing since last night. The servants are whispering that. . . I thought. . . I thought you might have news,” she blurted without meeting anyone’s eye.
“Come in,” the shah said.
The grown ups exchanged looks that said a great deal Timak couldn’t understand. His breathing started to quicken.
Matisse went to stand by Maya’s side. “I will not allow it, Uncle.”
“If it will help. . . I’ll. . . I would. . .” The woman kept clutching and releasing handfuls of her blue-grey kameez. Her face was screwed up with fear. Of Prahak.
“This is Myklaan. Have you completely lost any sense of honour?”
Timak began to shake. It was his fault. Lady Jordayne had come for him.
Maya gave him a weak smile. “I’m so sorry.”
“Where is she?” the shah asked. Drucilamere was murmuring Jordayne’s name into Kaztyne’s ear.
Kaztyne stumbled. He knocked a giant pot on a pedestal but it was heavy and didn’t tip. He steadied himself by leaning against the desk. “On Lake Tejolin. Near a vineyard. I cannot tell which one.”
“Dispatch every boat. Search every vineyard on its shores. Send warships to the river mouths,” Shah Ordosteen said. He looked Maya up and down. “I will not force you, but if you should volunteer, I will not prohibit it.”
Timak wanted the floor to open and swallow him.
“Uncle.” Matisse stepped in front of the woman. “This is –”
A ferocious wind banged the shutters and cut him off. Timak got down on the floor and crawled under the chair. The ghost might not see him under there. The adults clutched at furniture as papers fluttered through the air, a book tumbled off the shelf and thumped open on the floor, and a chair toppled and scraped, bumping against the settee. The fire went out. Timak was shaking. It as much from fear as cold.
Hands reached under the chair and dragged him out. He squealed, and Maya did too because the wind was buffeting her towards the door. Drucilamere hushed him and Lord Matisse threw his arms around her but that just made the wind howl in fury.
“Is it Rondel deq Oakson?” the mage asked.
A piece of parchment plastered itself against Timak. Drucilamere gave him a gentle shake. “It’s important, lad.”
Timak nodded.
“Rondel,” Drucilamere shouted above the din.
The chair flipped over and crashed down, breaking in two. The pieces scuffed their way. Drucilamere crouched over Timak, making sure he took the brunt of the impact.
“Your feelings are clear,” Drucilamere said, gesturing to Lord Matisse.
The heir to the throne released Maya even though he looked ready for a brawl.
Maya was sobbing. “Stop. Stop it. Please. Stop.”
The wind died. Timak stared at the ghost. Rondel was standing right in front of the door, scowling at Maya.
“Mages, ward off this djinn,” the shah said, breathy in his alarm.
“This is no djinn. It is the uncontrolled rage of ghost,” Drucilamere replied. He let Timak go and addressed the middle of the room. “Can you hear us, ghost?”
“I can hear.”
Kaztyne swayed forward. “I do not see him. How do we communicate with a ghost?”
“He can hear,” Timak whispered.
“You, boy, can you still see me?”
Timak nodded.
“Tell these selfish palace rats this. My wife is not to blame in all this and I will not let them trade her like a sack of grain. Do you hear? I will slay them all before I allow them to give her to Prahak.” His voice rose like the winter winds that sloughed off Amadik Forest into Djinn’s Rage Canyon.
Timak repeated Rondel’s words.
The shah walked right up to Maya, holding her with
a ruler’s gaze. “Watch your tongue, traitor. In death, you remain my subject. You will serve as I see fit and your wife shall be your surety.”
“Is that so, revered shah?” Rondel whipped around across the room, raising the wind again. He laughed as a painting fell of the wall and a book about the djinn struck the shah on the temple. The old man fell against his desk, knocking the crimson butterfly.
“You have proven your point,” Master Magus Drucilamere shouted, ducking a flying goblet.
A sudden stillness fell. A rocking vase fell onto a rug, chipping its rim. Rondel set his lips against Maya’s. She gasped, raised a hand right through Rondel in her alarm. The moaning ghost gripped his head.
“He wanted to kiss you,” Timak said. That sent Maya into renewed sobs. He looked up at Drucilamere. The mage laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Matisse is right, Ordosteen. To trade Maya for Jordayne is dishonourable, whether she is willing or not.” China ornaments on the shelf behind the desk, on the side tables and pedestals, rocked in warning. Strange how the butterfly alone remained steady. “Jordayne organised Timak’s rescue. She knew the risks, and she followed Prahak when Sergeant Rokan and I warned her to delay.” The mage squeezed Timak’s shoulder. “But Rondel deq Oakson, the greater fault is yours.”
“No,” Maya said, shaking her head. “He bought the porrin for me.” She turned her head, right to where Rondel was, touched her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss.
“The boy came to your home at your husband’s insistence. His demands put Timak at risk, as his crime brought about your peril, Maya. He alone is to blame for all this.”
“Even so, the palace has sheltered you,” the shah said quickly.
“There is a debt to pay,” Master Magus Drucilamere continued, “and you, Rondel, will be the one to pay it.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The second afternoon after leaving the temple of the rift, under a sky with columns of clouds, Vinsant could bear his thoughtlinking failures no longer. He sat on the pebbled slope of the mountain and turned his attention to Levi. It took three attempts before his highly respected elder condescended to answer. Since Vinsant was barely able to shield from the frosty gusts while manipulating the link, he thought that altogether too long. Here he was, an unescorted (except for a mountain guide from the village), unguarded (expect for his awesome magic) and talented (no exception there) prince, in a region notorious for its hazards, at this man’s orders no less, and Levi was treating him like a nuisance.