by Tia Reed
✽ ✽ ✽
Sian woke on a crude pallet. She listened to the silence through the damp cold. When she was sure no one was there, she reached to one side. Her fingers slid over her box of bones onto cold stone. Her arm moved inside a wide sleeve before brushing against soft fabric. She ran her arms down her body. Someone had dressed her in a loose robe. She shuddered to think it might have been him.
It was a long time before she had the strength to rise. She took a baby step. Her bare foot tripped over her staff and she fell to her knees. She reached out. Her hand closed around a metal bar. Its coldness seeped through her. If she turned sideways, she could just squeeze her shoulder through the bars. She tried each gap but found empty air. She touched her staff. The smooth wood gave her the courage to crawl the length and breadth of her tiny cell. She found a small table with a basin and brush. She could pretend there was comfort in washing her face and teasing the tangles out of her hair.
The effort drained her. She needed to lie down.
Mawaka maya maan. It was what Ishoa chanted when she wanted to heal. Mawaka maya maan.
Boots stomped. Breath rasped. If she lay still, he might go away.
“Get up.”
“Water.”
“I said get up.”
She whimpered because her heavy legs wouldn’t obey. The door creaked open. His strong hand lifted her head. He pushed a metal cup to her lips. The drops were laced with bitter porrin, enough to bring the spirit sight. She wished it hadn’t. This mahktashaan’s aura roiled with turmoil. His heart was turning as black as his crystal. That scared her worse than the shadow of him, cloaked and hooded in the mystery of his god. He liked that. She could tell by the way his aura leapt. He pulled her up and set her staff in her hand. Her touch sent a jolt of power through the wood. She would have dropped it if he hadn’t closed his hand over hers. His touch stopped the talismans rattling. He didn’t notice, or he didn’t care.
He circled her. She could be strong. She was a soothsayer.
He took the laces on her gown, tying them at her neck. She had the blessing of the spirits.
He brushed strands of her pale hair out of her eyes. “I will look after you.” His voice was a breathy rasp.
She bowed her head. It might be a teeny bit nice to have someone pet her, someone who didn’t think she was a freak.
“I will treat you like a daughter, like a princess of Terlaan.”
An Akerin soothsayer with the blessing of her ancestors. “Our people are in danger. I must speak to the shah.”
His good hand slid into her hair until the heel rested at her temple. His thumb stroked her forehead, preparing to invade. “Your primitive tribes will perish in the coming war. They can withstand neither our magic nor our swords. Nothing can avert that fate. Work with me, Akerin girl. You have power I can use to avert a catastrophic fate. The shah will bestow riches and status upon you. You will rise above the caste of your people.”
His mind gave hers a gentle nudge. She slapped it away. A protector of her people. “I have the power of the Forest, the Earth, the Sky and the Water. It is closed to those who do not respect.”
A long breath swished into her face. His voice was coaxing gentle when his words were not. “Do not make this difficult. If you will not relinquish your power, I will rip it from your soul. The way has been prepared. Let me take what I need, little girl, and I will lavish on you all the love your family withheld.”
He had torn her deepest, most secret regrets from her soul when he had searched her on the hill. He might have bled her spirit dry right there, but Orin had sheltered her. She had his guidance. She had Ishoa’s affection and Erok’s protection. She had the spirits hovering beside her, flowing into her, catching her heart as she fell to despair. She had the staff of a soothsayer and with it, she could stand a little straighter. With it, she could channel the Forest. “You may try, mahktashaan. Your selfish desire has no place in this war.”
“So be it.” He gripped her shoulder and guided her through turn after confusing turn. Twice she heard the tread of booted feet. The mahktashaan halted until they passed. Once a muted conversation came close. His hand covered her mouth as he hurried her on by a roundabout route.
“Will you reconsider?” he asked when they stopped. Power thrummed in the room. It dwarfed her into insignificance.
“Let me go free.”
He eased her into the smooth curves and angles of carved stone. Her feet crushed dried stems, and the scent of thyme cocooned her.
“You are too valuable for that.”
Rope wound itself around her wrist and stone.
“Please don’t.”
His magic strapped her other arm. He was a lion; she was a mouse.
“Hush. It is your destiny.”
She would not struggle. She would centre herself in the spirits. She would call them through her staff. They flitted around a force, grounded and deep. It shimmered at their periphery, golden, brown and green, silver and blue. His power. His god. The spirits jittered at its might. Although she trembled, she knew. This beautiful, terrible life would flow to her staff; it would merge with the spirits; it would tear her bonds apart.
The mahktashaan tore her staff out of her hand. She cried out as her link to the spirit realm ripped. She couldn’t be a soothsayer if she was powerless and blind.
“You must have access to your power,” he murmured. He leaned the staff against her body. Its weight quietened the thud of her heart. “In time, you will teach me to draw on it.” He lifted her chin and dribbled a porrin brew into her mouth. She swallowed, letting the drug open her mind to the spirits.
He stood before her, his right hand on her forehead, the burned remnant of his left hand brushing over her cheek, cupping her face. His mind invading hers with a brute force which drove the air from her lungs. She pushed him out. He struck harder, driving down into her consciousness like a spear. She gathered the spirits to her, felt them rush like a gust of wind through her, sweeping him out.
You cannot prevail, little girl. Not against me. Not against my god.
He scooped up the power of the god and dumped it over her like a waterfall. The spirits washed away as it bore her down and under, drowning her in its intensity. He followed it in, snaring her memories from the night of the fire and following them through the torturous days of healing she knew nothing about.
✽ ✽ ✽
Vinsant intended to stop by the golden statue of Mahktos to offer a quick but heartfelt thanks for the ring and yet another apology for Tokver before sneaking up to the palace. It was on the way, after all.
The pale yellow glow of a shield in the temple changed his plans. For one thing he had to creep to the doorway to investigate instead of trying to glide in. For another, he couldn’t ignore the fact Levi had his palm pressed against the forehead of a girl whose mouth was open in a scream. That was obvious even though he couldn’t hear it beneath the shield. She was thrashing against the restraints tying her to the statue.
Vinsant fled. He couldn’t remember how he ended up in the living quarters. Or outside Strauss’s door. Or when he had made the decision to pound his fists on the dry wood. It seemed an eternity before the plump, rumpled mahktashaan came to the door, plum crystal around his neck.
“Apprentice Vinsant, do you know what time it is?” Strauss had to have seen how upset he was because his eyes relaxed and he adjusted his tone to ask, “What’s wrong?”
“The majoria. He’s. . . Come. Come quick.”
Vinsant bent over, put his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. Strauss grabbed his robe and threw it over his green sleeping shirt. It was the first Vinsant had seen a mahktashaan in a garment other than black. It made them look less invincible.
“What’s happened?” Strauss asked, ushering Vinsant down the hall.
A door opened, framing tall Garzene of the teal crystal, robed and alert. “It’s late for such a racket, apprentice. Is everything all right?” He flashed Strauss a disple
ased query.
Vinsant slowed. He was feeling guilty, like he had just seen something he shouldn’t have. Arun had said, through the thoughtlink at the Temple of the Rift, what seemed like years ago, that the mahktashaan had their own code of conduct. And a mahktashaan’s second duty was to the majoria. And Tokver had died because he had not performed his duty.
He stopped in front of the next door. He wished he wasn’t trembling. Or maybe it was good that he was because they would see how serious this was.
“Is the majoria hurt?” Strauss asked, his tone halfway between worry and reassurance.
Shaking his head, Vinsant took a deep breath. His eyes felt very wide. “A mahktashaan’s second duty is to the majoria, right?”
“It is, as long as the majoria is serving Mahktos.” Strauss’s gaze was rather too keen.
Vinsant bit his lip. This mahktashaan suspected something. Then again. . .
“Did Mahktos give you a command?”
“No,” Vinsant answered real quick. He shook his head as he backed up. “It’s nothing. I mean I made a mistake.”
“Vinsant!” The sharpness of that halted him. Strauss flicked Garzene a look of unease. “It has been noted the majoria might be unwell as a result of his injuries. It would therefore not be a violation of your duties to express your concern.”
Garzene stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. “As a mahktashaan of the Inner Circle, I order you to disclose what has upset you.”
It was the mildest order in the history of Terlaan, but it was all the sanction Vinsant needed. “I think Levi’s torturing a girl,” he blurted. “He’s tied her to the statue in the temple.”
“Do you know who she is? Have you seen her before?” Garzene asked.
Vinsant shook his head. “No. But her eyes are white. I think she’s blind.”
“Mahktos help us.” Garzene was running before he had finished. “There are three more members of the Inner Circle in lodging tonight. Run and fetch them. Tell them I said we convene with all haste,” he called over his shoulder.
Vinsant stared after him.
“You did well to tell us, Vinsant. Now, go,” Strauss said. His jowls were sagging, like he was mega disturbed. He strode after Garzene, leaving Vinsant somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Chapter 54
THE CLATTER OF hooves was a welcome distraction from the tedium of palace affairs. Jordayne left the list of household supplies to look out on the overcast front gardens. A frantic rider was dismounting from a slavering horse. He made wild gestures as he garbled to a gate guard, while a groomsman led his distressed horse away. His urgent message saw him ignore offers of a refreshing seat beneath a fountain shaped like a fawn, and run down the side of the central canal. His determination to reach someone in authority was a worry. Perhaps now her mind would focus, exile Prahak to the thousandth hell.
“See the message-bearer gets straight to the shah,” she told the nearest guard.
She found her uncle at a large plain table in a room that had been converted into a war counsel, buried under his own set of orders to stockpile supplies and position troops. His pensive frown could not disguise how well he was looking. Marriage really did agree with him. She did believe he had even lost a little weight.
“Where’s Matisse?” she asked, giving him a peck on the saggy cheek.
“Supervising the provisioning of the smuggler’s caves.
“So glad you listened to me, Uncle.” The network of caverns through the cliff was a perfect place to hide reserve cadres for a surprise attack. If it came to that.
“When do I not, Jordayne?”
“Have you moved my wedding gift to your bedchamber?”
Ordosteeen chuckled.
“Do it,” she said, placing a light hand on his arm. “Better yet, keep it always with you. Appoint a servant to that sole purpose.” Picking up various parchments, she perused the orders for the deployment of troops, glanced at the myriad maps that were tacked to the stone walls and put forward an idea or two.
Adopting a tone of mock reproof, Ordosteen gathered the schematics. “Since when do you know more about warfare than General Yurtz?”
She patted his arm. “Promise you will at least relay the suggestion. And it had better come from Matisse.”
“Yurtz may as well realise right now you will be involved in command.” He rose to gather her in his arms, allowing his concern to show. “Are you well, Jordayne?”
A fortuitous knock prevented the need to answer. She turned away as the sweaty, sallow rider, clothes filthy from the road burst in. He gulped air, tried to stand straight and failed. The shah poured a cup of water and handed it over himself. The exhausted man gulped it down even as he bowed.
“What news?” Ordosteen asked.
“Your Majesty, my lady.” The messenger set the cup on the table and took deep breaths. He presented a wrapped bundle he was holding under one arm with another bow. She took it, opened it. A green cloak, embroidered with a porrin leaf. An ominous chill gripped her.
“What news?” she whispered, refusing to believe.
The soldier had to lower his eyes, and swallowed before he could meet his shah’s anxious gaze. “Grave news from the border. Both Mykver and Mykter forts are falling.”
Ordosteen sank into a chair as the soldier babbled on.
“The Terlaani sent small strike forces through the hills. About ten. They had mahktashaan. Magus Santesh came to the aid of Mykver Fort. He tried. . . but. . . he couldn’t fight four mahktashaan. They killed him. Captain deq Lungo advises he will need to retreat to The Slopes.”
Jordayne swayed as a corner of the map curled off the wall and dragged the rest of the parchment down to the floor, as the air turned thick and sour with their dread, and brick by brick the room collapsed around her. Shah Wilshem had struck fast and hard, no show of looming might in an attempt to persuade them. With the forts in the hands of the enemy, nothing could prevent the Terlaani army marching on Myklaan. Their downfall had begun.
✽ ✽ ✽
Guards? Here, in the mahktashaan lair? Whatever happened to trust based on respect?
Vinsant slunk out of sight and tried to think of a way to get past them. At least he knew he was in the right place. It had taken a lot of wandering to discover where they were keeping the girl. By the time he had worked up the courage to sneak back to the statue room, she was gone. Not so the mahktashaan. They were arguing in the adjoining altar room, which made it easy to eavesdrop if he crept to the door and kept his back to the statue of Mahktos. The last thing he needed right now was the god’s disapproving eye on him.
“Mahktos does not condemn my actions,” he had heard Levi say.
“Nor does he condone them,” Garzene had replied.
Vinsant had lost the thread of the raised voices when he glimpsed Levi’s arm. The charred bone was fleshed out with pink muscle and white tendon. He must have gasped because Strauss glanced over. He had pressed hard against the wall but the mahktashaan had raised a shield just the same, cocooning them from prying ears. That’s when Vinsant had wound his way into the deepest recesses of the lair.
It took a lot to budge a mahktashaan guard from his post. The word of an apprentice wasn’t going to do it, and a trick would earn him a whopping punishment. If he thought about it, there was just one time he could recall a mass flight of the soldier magicians. With luck, smoke from the kitchen fires was all it would take to fool this pair. The summoning was easy but drizzling enough of it into the cells near drove him mad. The smoke kept drifting from his grasp, thinning, and changing shape. It took five whole minutes of intense concentration the majoria was sure to extol as the paragon of focus to make it resemble a grey girl with a long ponytail and pointed slippers. Too bad the image lasted about half a second before it dissolved. He sucked on his lip and considered his options.
“Djinn!” one of the guards cried. Both of them ran out.
Vinsant threw himself into their path and waved a hand at the neare
st door. “Genie. In the altar room. Help.” And they were gone, chasing the last wisps of smoke.
He slipped inside, conjured a light, and clung to the bars of the middle cell on the opposite wall. The girl was sitting on a stool in the corner, trembling. She had her chin down, so her straight, fair hair fell over her face. She had her feet on the seat, her knees drawn into the white ceremonial robe. It was loose enough to cover her hands and feet.
“Who are you?”
“Sian.”
“What are you doing here?”
“May I have some water?”
“Latchtos.” The door clicked. He swung it open, went inside and stubbed his boot on a staff decorated with pods, shells, feathers and stones. “Sumbek. Acquos.” A cup of water appeared in his hand. He gasped at the same time she did. It was awesome his feat impressed, but he was sure glad she had not looked at him before because her piercing, white eyes startled the magic right out of him. “Here.” He lifted her hand to the mug. She gulped the water down.
The cell was almost as cosy as his room, with a clean pallet, blankets and a small table with a brush, washbowl and towel, but there was no sign the guards had brought her dinner. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded. He summoned a bowl of spiced lentils. She gobbled it faster than was good. When she was done, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
Smiling, he shook his head. “Levi thinks suffering is good for the soul.”
She turned her head away.
“So, who are you?” he asked. “Are you from the Temple of the Rift?”
“I’m Akerin. I need to speak to the shah.”
“The shah. Yes, well, there was a time I might have been able to help you there, but I’m not exactly in his good graces at the moment.” Vinsant glanced into the next room. They were in luck; there was no sign of the guards. “You’re Akerin, huh?” And blind. The maimed girl Indigo had prophesied.
“Please, take me to someone who will listen.”