Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  “It is an immutable truth, Timak, that those who have power never seek to share. Even High Ones. Just ask Doric here why he remains.”

  Timak giggled as the fat, bald ghost stuck out his tongue and waggled his fingers on either side of his face.

  “There, what did I tell you?”

  Magus Drucilamere’s eyebrow was raised in surprised query. Timak would tell him later, if he asked.

  “Now, where was I. Oh, yes. As the seasons passed, Shah Xinral remained worried about the imbalance in power and so he sent spies to find a secret way into the Crystalite Mines, the seat of mahktashaan power and source of the magical crystals. When the fishing vessels they were using to scout the coast sent word they had discovered caves in the cliffs facing the Baregan Ocean, he organised a diversionary attack on Terlaan while his spies snuck inside. With the majority of the mahktashaan away defending the border, the Myklaani caused a great deal of havoc. You see, the mahktashaan were new to their power and did not wield the strength they do today. Nor did they know the caves led to the sea. For that reason, few of their number had remained to guard the mines. Stealth prevailed where magic was lacking.”

  The High One frowned. “The histories become clouded here. It is accepted that during the battle the Myklaani forces attacked a huge statue of Mahktos and dislodged one of His crimson eyes, but there the accounts diverge. Some say the Terlaanis recovered it and it is safe in the hands of the mahktashaan, guarded in a sanctuary kept secret from all but the highest of their order. Others say the Myklaani soldiers escaped with it. That seems to me the more plausible of the two tales. You see, the mahktashaan pursued the Myklaani ships out of their waters, sinking all but one of them. The last disappeared as it came through Shadow Strait, along with the two Terlaani ships which followed it right into the magical mists. Not a risk they would have taken unless it was imperative they caught that vessel.

  “As it happened, a lone Myklaani sailor straggled ashore some days later. He had gone mad with terror but the local folk nursed him to the brink of sanity. When the rumour he had survived the strait spread, Shah Xinral sent persuasive agents to interview both the sailor and the farmers who had found him. Not a single person divulged any knowledge of the Eye, even under the kind of threats with which we regret you are familiar.”

  Turning on the bench so that one bent leg rested on it, Timak ignored Doric’s offer of a date. He was beginning to feel sick. “So the Eye is in Shadow Strait?”

  “The problem, young Timak, is nobody knows for sure. The shah’s agents were able to piece all this together from the sailor’s ramblings and one thing more. A pirate ship joined the chase.”

  “Into Shadow Strait?” Drucilamere asked.

  “Interesting that opportunistic pirates should brave mortal danger, isn’t it?”

  “One more crew lost.”

  “Can a ship take me there?” Timak asked.

  Magus Drucilamere placed a hand on his shoulder. “Even if the strait were a single ship’s length, you’d not find a single sailor willing to negotiate that treacherous stretch of water. Shadow Strait separates The Three Realms from Aower.” Timak pouted. Magus Drucilamere shot the High One a glance. “The djinn claim Aower for their own. It drifts between our plane and theirs, veiled in mists that swallow any ship foolish enough to attempt the crossing.”

  The High One wagged a finger. “I have not finished the tale. A small boy, keen for a reward, blurted to the shah’s agents that he had seen a pirate ship break free of the mists of the strait the same day the sailor washed up on the beach.”

  “They did not perish after all.” Drucilamere tapped a finger on his lip.

  “I know what you are thinking,” the High One said. “No evidence remains either way.”

  Timak’s brows lifted together. “So where do I find the Eye?”

  The High One shook his head. “I’m afraid, I wouldn’t know where to tell you to start.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Ahkdul spent the rest of the voyage in vehement regret of the loss of the genie, the ineffectiveness of his imbecile of a mage, and the day they delayed while a sailor requisitioned a suitable boat from the nearest town. His indifference when a further two men were taken by jabberweis soured Kordahla to silent glowers. Three more days traversing the putrid river, across the third lake and past the swirling eastern fork of the Bahmar River, brought them to cluttered Pengari at dusk. It was an ugly city. Single-storey sandstone buildings crouched on the shore of yet another lake. Higher, featureless dwellings rose in a haphazard arrangement on the plain beyond. Kordahla took deep breaths. The breeze had lifted the taint of the water into the air, but the stench did not lie so heavy over the capital, nor did the water swirl so muddy. It was tolerable if left to settle before one drank.

  Behind her, Ahkdul and Mariano conducted a clipped exchange.

  “You will wait in your cabin,” her brother commanded at its termination.

  An hour later, as she sat on the bunk, unsettled by the hoots of ruffians and clops of hooves, he brought her clothes: a loose navy shalvar kameez overlain with loose lace of the same colour; a matching full veil tailored to conceal her hair and face. Safe from prying eyes, she suffered him bundling her into a curtained palanquin that hid her from the rowdy city. Not until they were behind the gates around Ahkdul’s moated home was she permitted another breath of fresh air. The sandstone building lay across an expansive lawn. It was low and wide with broad steps up to a small ishwan. The modest dome over the entrance was painted saffron, the tiles of the pishtaq were dull, and the arched windows simple in design. The architect may have meant to proclaim the occupants’ exalted status, but the features hinted at Verdaan’s paucity.

  The ungracious swine walked inside ahead of them and opened a door into a small, interior room. The kilims covering the walls pretended to elegance, their crude geometric designs accentuated with gold threads. It wasn’t until Ahkdul entered that she saw the trim man with a grey moustache that stretched to the edges of his thin lips. He looked up from where he lounged on large, loose cushions, one hand twined around a plain goblet, the other on the bare calf of a scantily clad setar player. The musician’s pretty face and chestnut hair were exposed for her flushed lord. Kordahla blushed for the shame.

  “Father.” The distasteful scene had to be a common occurrence in this patriarchal home for Ahkdul to offer a poised incline of his head.

  They were clearly not expected. Lord Hudassan schooled his sharp, irritated features, and clapped his hands. He waited until the musician had bowed and left to put the goblet down and rise with an indolent smile. She had never expected him to be short and well-proportioned, or to sport such an unremarkable brow. Unassuming was the word which came to mind, a most unfitting one given the horrendous tales of his exploits.

  “I trust your trip was productive.” The keen intelligence in his sharp eyes unnerved her.

  “I have returned with Crown Prince Mariano and my future bride,” Ahkdul said.

  Hudassan regarded Mariano, inclined his head and offered his hand. They exchanged pleasantries, leaving her standing, neglected, behind them. Not once, nor twice, but three times did Lord Hudassan circumvent Mariano’s attempts to mention her, until any doubt she was worth more than a prize cow destined for market was quashed.

  “The wedding will be arranged for seven days hence,” Hudassan said at last. His words snapped her out of thoughts so despondent she could not remember them. He turned calculating brown eyes on her. “Remove your veil.”

  She unwrapped it with a trembling hand.

  “There is no question she is acceptable,” he said to Mariano.

  Kordahla swallowed. Were Father here, he would have marked the horrible man’s lust.

  “There is a message from Shah Wilshem,” Mariano said. Even standing by the door, she could see the affronted colour in his cheeks. “You will hear it before she is wed.”

  “You may cover up,” Hudassan said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

&n
bsp; She hesitated, an intended act of defiance to test his limits. But he had already turned away, beckoning to the men. “Come. We will seal this negotiation.”

  A maid in a drab grey kameez appeared at her elbow. “If it please Your Highness, follow me.”

  Her brother cast her a solemn look before following Ahkdul and Hudassan further into the house. The maid waited until she donned the veil before leading her to a stale, windowless bedchamber. She left the single candle on the dresser. She had no desire to inspect the shadows of her hosts’ hospitality. A sleeping draft was ready, a small but appreciated gesture. A grimace was all it took to swallow the unpalatable brew. She allowed the maid to help her into a nightgown, and fell into the soft bed.

  Kordahla woke before dawn. The candle had burned out, drenching the room in darkness. Sleep evaded her, and so she dressed herself in the navy kameez, careful to tuck every strand of hair into the veil, to pull the fabric high over her nose. Her petty future lord would have no cause to berate her over her grooming. With luck the men of this house would not yet be awake. She felt her way to the door. Should she have thought other than it would be barred? She wrapped a shawl around herself to help her suffer through dawn’s distrust, and found a plain wooden chair in which to wait. Its stiffness crept deeper into her back with each of grain that trickled through the hour glass.

  When the edges of the walnut dresser grew sharp, a woman draped in opulent fabrics entered without knocking. “I am Lady Safra, Ahkdul’s mother,” the woman said remaining by the door. Her long, grey hair, bound at the nape, was streaked with white. “I trust you slept well.” Neither her brusque manner nor her eyes offered friendship.

  “I am rested, thank you.”

  “Good. I am glad to you are not the sort to laze the morning away in bed. Let me see your face.”

  Kordahla removed the veil. Safra appraised her with the same detachment as the men. It seemed her life was to end in miserable servitude to these commoners who had declared themselves lords.

  “You are as beautiful as we had heard.” Safra pinched her jealous lips. The curve of her face would never have been beautiful, even in youth, but premature lines of suffering had hardened it into austerity. “You may cover up.”

  A circle of her arm and a twist of her wrist secured the symbol of her womanhood.

  “Don’t pout. It ill suits a wife.” She waited for some adjustment Kordahla could not guess. “I see I must show you the proper way to wear the veil.”

  It behoved her to stand silent and unmoving while Safra arranged the fabric low over her brow and high over her nose, tightening it up under her eyes. “While you are under my roof, you will ensure your dress befits the modesty of an unmarried girl. Once you are wed, if you remain in the house, your veil need not cover your face. Now come with me. We will break our fast and then I will instruct you in the duties of an obedient wife. Neither Lord Hudassan nor my son, or I for that matter, will tolerate any dereliction.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “Will that be all, my lady?” Maya asked, having plumped the last pillow on the walnut settee. No one would notice how ill the brown serving kameez suited her when her lustrous, bound hair accentuated the elegant shape of her face.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jordayne replied, giving her bracelets a comforting jingle. She would have committed a thousand sins to acquire that shine in her dull, ash-blonde locks. “Sit down.”

  Her newest maid perched on the edge of the settee, hands clasped in her thin lap. The slight stoop in her shoulders made the young woman look nervous in the extreme. Given how many days she had dusted the intricate patterns of the tiled walls, it was not for her lavish surrounds. Well, she would just have to fret until Drucilamere and Timak arrived from their guest rooms.

  Jordayne went to stand near the fire. She yet had the two tall, keyhole windows open to the freshness of a still dusk. Since the horrendous night of her abduction, her bones had held an eternal chill neither sun nor flame could dissipate. So too had her soul constricted to breathlessness if she found herself confined. The fountains outside could gurgle, and the hanging gardens sway; the gilded window frames could glitter and the soft pillows cushion a weary body. Their happy extravagance was oblivious to the grim crimes smearing her fabled city.

  Resting one arm on the elaborate mantle, holding the other hand to the fire, she used the excuse of warming herself to keep a casual profile. It had been a good long while since she had taken note of the ornaments. Neither the glass mosaics on the needlecraft casket nor the burnished brass of the oil lamp could reflect the firelight to the high arched roof with its arabesque of flowers.

  “My lady?” Maya enquired, assuming she was forgotten.

  Perhaps it was best Jordayne did not wait for Drucilamere after all. She had known him to be as overprotective as Matisse. “It has come to my attention the removal of a finger is a minor Verdaani punishment.” Maya’s drawn breath was the admission she sought. “I see.” She allowed her manicured hand to linger in the warmth before she turned, slowly and with regret, to find Maya had half risen. “Sit down.” She raised an eyebrow to emphasise the order.

  Maya sat. There was wary guilt in her oblique gaze as she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. It did nothing to predispose Jordayne towards her. “Would you care to explain?”

  A swallow. A small bite of the lip. The nervous dart of the eyes. These were telling. Jordayne placed a hand on the mantle, pleased at the clatter of the jewellery she had piled on top of the lashings of perfume. It imparted a sense of normality.

  Clasping the edge of the settee, Maya opened her mouth. It took the audacity of a tortoiseshell cat, leaping through the open window and rubbing against her legs before she found any words. “Rondel brought us here. He wanted a better life, away from the dangers of the drug and the constant threat of an overlord.” She burst into tears. “It killed him anyway. The drug killed him.”

  Looking down her nose, Jordayne passed her maid a kerchief. Maya was rather indecorous about tidying herself up. If she stayed, she would require instruction in gentility. “What crime warranted the loss of a finger?” she asked.

  A momentary closing of her eyes; a deep breath. This memory grated raw.

  Jordayne folded her arms. “Well?”

  The cat jumped onto Maya’s lap. A few strokes of the long fur gave her courage. “Rondel was a hired sword. The work was steady, escorting goods from Pengari to the coast, until Lord Kamir hired him. The Verdaani Lords, they want the best men and you don’t refuse them.” She swallowed, dabbed at her nose, collected herself. “The rivers are dangerous places; pirates, jabberweis and crocs. A shipment he was overseeing sank in a storm. Jabberweis attacked. He was lucky to escape alive. But Lord Kamir didn’t see it that way. He bound Rondel to work without pay until the debt was paid off. When a second boat fell to pirates. . .” She wrung her hands and looked away. In the fire, a log cracked open. Embers sprayed further across the room than they had any right to. The cat stretched out a paw and yawned. “There’s never anyone in the lord’s service that doesn’t lose a shipment of the drug, and never anyone that works it off.”

  “How did you cross the border?” Jordayne persisted. Manipulating an outraged ghost required more than a spare thought.

  “We came through the hills. We hadn’t the coin for a boat, and Lord Kamir controls the waterways.” Her hand rested on the purring cat. “It was hard, but we left in spring, scavenged for food, near died of thirst. Some of the Hill Tribe found us and helped. I don’t know why. Their kind, they’re not welcome in Verdaan.”

  “Myklaan is at war with Terlaan, and Terlaan has forged an alliance with Verdaan. I must know where your loyalties lie.”

  Maya looked up, her dark eyes beseeching beneath her long lashes. “I know I can no longer serve in the palace, but please, let me remain in this realm.”

  “Would you betray your country? Would you pass on information we might use against Verdaan?”

  “I know little enough, but wh
atever you think is useful I will tell.” She was leaning forward, earnest.

  “It is another task I have in mind for you.” She fixed a direct stare on Maya.

  The young woman bowed her head. “Yes, my lady. Anything.”

  That brought an ironic smile to her lips. “You might wish to hear what it is before you agree.” She brought her hands together in front of her as the door opened, admitting Drucilamere and Timak. Jordayne managed a sympathetic smile for the little boy. How had he endured nights of torment in Ahkdul’s bed? The threat of one in Prahak’s had almost been the end of her.

  “Yes, my lady,” Maya said, playing the role of dutiful maid.

  Jordayne adjusted her stance. Druce would read her message well enough. It was the boy she required, and her mage had indicated the lad was healing. He had even admitted, with reluctant amusement, their visits to the High One had played a pivotal role. He was altogether too fond of the boy. If he ever believed she had cajoled Timak, their shaky relationship would be over. For good. So, she must pretend to need them both.

  “Timak,” she said, holding out a hand. Druce had to give him a gentle push before he came and took it. “I am so very sorry that evil man hurt you,” she said, surprising herself at how sincere the sentiment was.

  “He hurt you too,” the boy said, always solemn, ever sad.

  This time her smile was forced. She squeezed his hand and took a deep breath. “Not so much. Not really. But we shall not speak of it now. Rondel’s ghost saved me from the worst of his intentions and that is all that matters. Tell me, is he here?”

  The cat rather answered that question by hissing as it dashed through the window. A breeze blew through the room, flicking the flames high into the chimney. Jordayne rubbed the goosebumps on her arms.

  “Rondel,” Maya said, standing. Her hand started for her heart but did not quite make it. “Rondel?” She followed the ghost through the flutter of the shutters, the slip of a pillow across the floor, the flap of Jordayne’s skirts. When her long, black hair unravelled, she closed her eyes, easing her expression into something akin bliss.