Grave Ghost

by Tia Reed

  “Fooling a couple of bored, middle-aged subordinates isn’t so hard,” Naikil said. He dug his thumb into the pomegranate, prised it apart and sucked out a few sweet seeds.

  “Are you mad?” Gram said.

  “Prove it,” Vinsant said, smirking. There was no way the older boy could back down now.

  “They’re going to be more alert after your effort,” Naikil countered.

  “There’s two of you.”

  Naikil and Gram exchanged a calculating look.

  Vinsant shrugged. The studious apprentice kept glancing their way so he huddled in. “At least one of them will stay, but if you can get one out and the other to the door, I’ll give you a thulek.

  Naikil’s eyes narrowed further. The gold piece would be worth more than his family earned in a year.

  “What’s the matter? Do you need my help?”

  Naikil strode out of the library.

  “This way,” Vinsant said, heading out an opposite door. Five minutes of navigating hexagonal rooms later he pointed at the entrance to the cells.

  Naikil and Gram whispered.

  “I’m going to the kitchens, unless you want to save us some time,” the round boy said.

  “What do you need?” Vinsant asked. He choked when Gram told him.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you do it?” Naikil taunted.

  They were going to land in deep scums for this. No one would care about the juice he summoned from the kitchens, but the porrin from Nocrates’s room might just get them flayed alive. He stood a discrete distance away while Naikil dissolved the drug, just so he could claim a degree of innocence if things turned upside-down.

  “Go on,” he encouraged when the older apprentice hesitated.

  Naikil squared his shoulders and walked in. “The majoria wishes you to celebrate the taking of the Myklaani forts. He regrets he cannot serve wine while you are on duty.”

  A low conversation preceded a crash. Naikil came tearing out of the cells, a mahktashaan striding after him. Gram ducked inside and began clearing the mess as he stammered profuse apologies for the prank. As he left, he picked up a cup and started to drink. The scandalised mahktashaan lunged after him. Gram dashed around the corner to a tirade of abuse.

  Now was his chance. Vinsant visualised the inside of the cell.

  “Scums.” He was in the cell all right. Vinsant lifted his foot out of the waste bucket, wrinkled his nose and watched he-didn’t-want-to-think-about-what-it-was drip off his leg. The girl had scuffled up from the stool in the corner and was pressing against the large, damp stones. She was still wearing that ludicrous white gown Levi had dressed her in.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked.

  She was silent, so he summoned a clean bucket of clean water and dunked his foot in it. A little more magic got him a dry pair of boots. He sat on the stool, and changed.

  “You have strong magic,” she whispered.

  “You’re not so helpless yourself in that department.” He stood up, took hold of the bars and peered out. “The guards will be back in a minute and I don’t intend to be around.”

  “Do you always disobey your elders?”

  He couldn’t help the cheeky grin. “Only when they’re wrong.”

  “I need to talk to the shah.”

  “Uh, tried that, remember? Didn’t work, won’t work, no way, you can forget about it.” Vinsant sagged as she bowed her head. After all that effort to rescue her, the least she could be was grateful. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve failed.” She looked right into him and spoke with that authority that made it sound like she was proclaiming Mahktos’s will. “There will be repercussions across The Three Realms if lowlanders and Forest do not unite.”

  Outside, the scolding had come to an abrupt end. “You won’t be around to worry about it if you don’t leave. I’ve never seen Levi so desperate for anything. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what he’s doing to you, but his arm started mending and I doubt he’s going to stop torturing you until it’s healed. Are you coming?”

  In a split second, she had become a frightened girl again. “Why are you helping me?”

  Vinsant slapped a hand against his forehead and shook his head. “Imagine I’m a chivalrous hero and write a ballad about me.”

  A pair of footsteps marched closer. She tilted her head to listen.

  “Take me with you.”

  That was more like it. “I need to hold your hand.”

  “My staff.” She knelt and starting patting the floor.

  “Here.” He picked it up and gave it to her.

  “My box.”

  “Don’t ask for much, do you?” The inlaid box was on the table. It rattled as he placed it in her hand. His curiosity had to wait. “Ready?” he asked. When she nodded her head, he cleared his mind and took hold of her arm. He reached for the magical awe, visualised their destination and worked his quartz. A sudden cold embraced them. It dispersed as they hit solid ground. He had expected it to be dark but not pitch black. He tripped over the girl as he tried to rise. She cried out. He landed on a dusty sack and started coughing.

  “Shh. They’ll hear us,” he said, pretending he was not the one making the worst racket.

  “Where are we?”

  He licked the dust coating the inside of his mouth and summoned a ball of light. Sacks stuffed with grains, vegetables and dried meat were stacked from floor to ceiling, leaving a narrow passage from the ladder to the wall.

  Vinsant could not help grinning. “If I got it right, on a warship due to leave for Myklaan.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The wailing had not stopped all night. The screeching was worse. When it rose, it pierced Timak’s ears vibrating inside him like it wanted to tear him apart. Eyes closed tight, ears covered, he cowered under the blankets. The bright light of morning was an eternity away. And it was cold. So cold. He put his numb fingers into his mouth and blew.

  A hot brick wrapped in a blanket slid next to his body. He curled around it and opened his eyes. The covers lifted. He twisted his neck to see which magus had come to check on him and scooted onto his pillow. Doric floated above the bed, a finger to his lips. Timak clutched the brick, pulled a blanket around himself, and slipped out of bed. He placed his hand in Doric’s, careful not to swing it through the spectre. Together, they padded down the frosty, green tiles of the hall to the large room that overlooked the lake.

  Across the rippling water, beneath faint stars, ghosts flitted, wailed, and shrieked, tearing their hair out, gouging their eyes, gnawing their arms off. A sailor, his head cleaved in two, reared up the window. Timak crashed into the table, dropping the brick. Doric darted between them, shaking his arm. The High One had to have the blessing of Vae’oeldin because the roaring sailor backflipped and returned to the lake.

  In the lull that followed the voices of the djinn rose to haunt him.

  Doric held out a hand as the door to Magus Druclamere’s study clicked open. The mage emerged holding a green cloak embroidered with a leaf. Timak’s wide eyes drifted up to Drucilamere’s face. It was twisted with grief. Timak ran to hug him. It wasn’t fair that Santesh was dead. Santesh had been kind and gentle and shy. Santesh had taught him to read runes.

  Hunkering down, Drucilamere caught him, rocked him. “I know. I know,” the mage whispered.

  Timak wiped his eyes and looked at the lake. He shivered. Mutilated men and devastated women were flocking towards the window.

  Drucilamere wrapped him in the blanket. “We are at war, Timak. We are going to lose a great many friends.”

  The ghosts paled into insignificance. “My father is a soldier.”

  Magus Drucilamere put a hand on his shoulder. “I do not think Verdaan will send its troops into battle just yet. But perhaps we should send you away.”

  “No.” He was shaking and not from the cold. “No.” Running disrespected Santesh. Running would take him away from this man, who had shown him the world still cared. Running w
ould leave him all alone again.

  Drucilamere squeezed his shoulder. “Are you sure? The Terlaanis must not catch you with that quartz, but to lose it would be to lose the purpose for this war. I fear there is no hiding it. The mahktashaan would sense its presence.”

  “Mahktos gave me this crystal. The mahktashaan have no right to take it away.” He shivered. Ghosts were rising from the depths. The water was churning. He needed the screaming and the wailing to stop.

  Drucilamere pulled him close. “Do the ghosts haunt you tonight?”

  “High One Doric is keeping the scary ones away.”

  “Do you see. . . Is. . ?” The mage’s voice cracked.

  Timak gave a quick shake of his head. Magus Drucilamere let out a long breath. “Perhaps he is at rest.”

  The wind lashed against the glass, rising to a howl and a shriek. His teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. His breath puffed around a translucent blue figure, and settled around its missing finger. Drucilamere stood as the ghost stared a challenge.

  “Rondel deq Oakson,” the master magus said.

  Timak glanced up. The mage had to have drunk porrin to see a ghost. Now might be a good time to slip back to bed, out of sight of the headless, one-legged man, the bleeding girl, the sailor with a patch over his eye and a sword through his chest. So many of them to have met a gruesome death on the calm waters of Lake Tejolin.

  “Why are you here?” Drucilamere asked.

  “I have done as she asked,” Rondel replied.

  “You must lead them.”

  “These are the lost, the wicked and the ignorant. There is no controlling them.”

  “It is not I who asks this of you.”

  “You do not protest.”

  “Our borders are violated. Our lives, our way of life is at stake.”

  “You will see what it is you have had me do.” The ghost pointed a finger at Drucilamere.

  A chill gust whipped over the mage. Ice crystals formed on the tips of his moustache and his lips turned blue. The ghost drifted across the table, opening the view to the lake. “The borders your lady has broken are inviolate. The consequences will eclipse the mortal incursion you so fear. Myklaan will endure a reckoning unlike any this land has ever known, and I will not be held accountable, mage. This time it is she who will pay.”

  Magus Drucilamere flinched as Rondel turned and walked straight through the window, down to the surface of the lake and below. Timak watched the mage steady himself on the table. Tonight, Drucilamere saw the horror too. Knowing that made it easier to bear. He slipped his cold hand into the mage’s. It help him stay on his feet when the ghost with the broken head rushed through the glass. The mage clutched a hand to his chest and twisted to watch the ghost pass through the wall. Down on the lake, the mutilated spectres were stirring, gathering, staring up at the guild, at them, the two people who could see them. Patches of churning water exploded into water spouts. The ghosts swept around the columns as glowing masts broke the surface. The masts tracked wispy clouds in the starry sky, drawing figureheads up: a lady, a griffin, a dragon, a baz’waeel. Ship after ship rose from the depths, crashing onto the surface with eerie creaks and groans. On their decks, hysterical sailors pulled on ropes and rattled chains, laughing at a chilling pitch while savaged passengers screamed in terror as they relived the final traumas of their lives.

  The once tranquil waters of Lake Tejolin were now to be feared. A ghostly armada sailed the lake.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  In the strategy room, Wilshem swallowed the last bite of bread and smoked ham, and wiped the crumbs from his mouth and beard. His eyes stayed fixed on the map of Myklaan. A war would be good. A war would teach people how idyllic life had been. It would shock some sense into his spoiled excuse for a youngest child. If Wilshem ever saw him again, he would mete out a whipping with his own hands. Only by displaying Gustav’s ring as a prelude to a series of public beheadings had Levi managed to avert a riot. Fishermen missing, boats wrecked, catches down. The citizens were screaming for blood. And they did not yet know what hunger Vinsant’s irresponsible action would bring. If the mahktashaan could not discipline the brat, Wilshem would throw him to the angry mob himself. As for his daughter – no, he had no daughter. She was the cause of all this. She had corrupted Vinsant. Of all the selfish, ungrateful. . . He had been far too lenient with them both. They could both burn in the fire pits of the hells for consuming his every waking thought when focus was crucial.

  The door opened quick on the heels of a knock. Swordmaster General Mazronan entered and bowed, one hand on the pommel of his sword to declare his allegiance. The interruption was fortuitous, given Wilshem’s current frame of mind. He could count on his forthright general to dispense with trivialities and bring his thoughts to the issue at hand. The white-haired man stood stronger than the stoop of his shoulders implied.

  Mazronan pulled over a map of The Three Realms and traced routes as he spoke. “The last ship has sailed. Admiral Yorish has indicated his best men will skirt the Myklaani coast. The contingent to brave Shadow Strait is under the command of Captain Yeer and Mahktashaan Strauss. The crew are yet unaware of their intended route.”

  “And the troops?”

  “General Vesh should have reached the border with the bulk of the troops. I leave tomorrow.”

  At a knock at the door, the Swordmaster General bowed.

  “I would like you to stay for this,” Wilshem said. He needed an excuse to curtail this next audience. This room was the ideal location to drive home he was busy. Besides, he was comfortable here. Far from confining, the low ceiling and stone walls reassured. “You may come,” he called.

  Clearing his throat, the odious Baiyeed deq Ikher entered, wrapped in cheap, garish silk, a small cask in his soft hands. When he spied Mazronan, his tic doubled its tempo.

  “You requested an audience,” Wilshem said without a trace of hospitality.

  “Your esteemed Majesty, my master Lord Ahkdul suggested we celebrate the union of our realms when the time came, warm in the knowledge he was doing the same. With your beautiful daughter wed and the ships sailed, I cannot envisage a more appropriate moment.”

  Wilshem’s eyes narrowed. “You bring your own wine.”

  “A cask of Verdaan’s best roqki, compliments of Lord Hudassan.” Setting the bottle of spirit on the table, on one of the few patches of polished wood not covered by parchment, deq Ikher bowed so low his beard dropped past his knees

  At Wilshem’s nod, a servant brought three silver goblets and poured the amber liquid.

  “Tell me,” Wilshem said, leaning back in his chair. “What role do you hope to play at my court, deq Ikher?”

  The man had no inkling of the snub implicit in a lack of invitation to sit. No doubt, standing was protocol in the service of Verdaan’s harsh lords.

  His cheek twitched three times. “Esteemed Majesty, my lord left me here as ambassador. What goodwill I can foster between our realms, I most assuredly will.”

  Wilshem took his goblet and waved deq Ikher to do the same. He swirled the contents, releasing the sweet, fermented aroma, and waited for the emissary to sip. Sealed or not, he had no trust in any Verdaani fare presented to him in the name of good faith.

  Baiyeed deq Ikher cleared his throat and took a large gulp. His face relaxed. He closed his eyes in pleasure and patted his beard to his midriff. “I thank you. I have never had occasion to sample such a fine vintage.”

  When Baiyeed imbibed again, Wilshem sipped, savouring the infusing warmth of the fortified drink. Roqki was a luxury in his household and this was a first-rate vintage. He raised an amused eyebrow as Mazronan tasted his drink. The Swordmaster was being cautious about how much he allowed himself.

  Baiyeed, on the other hand, was quite content to take another sip. He indicated the map in front of Wilshem. “May I, esteemed Majesty?”

  The liquor was strong. Wilshem’s head was lightening, and the snippets of calligraphy on the walls were blurring their war tactics. H
e beckoned Baiyeed over before he had considered. Placing his goblet down, Mazronan shadowed the emissary cum spy.

  “Do you not like roqki, General?” Baiyeed asked.

  “My duties require a clear head.”

  “A worthy sentiment.” Baiyeed cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Esteemed Majesty, if you might care to elaborate on the plan of attack? Lords Hudassan and Ahkdul would be most interested.”

  “Lord Hudassan is welcome to send me a general to discuss strategy. When you next send a pigeon, tell him we control both the Mykter and Mykver Passes. His decision to send reserve troops into Myklaan would be an indication our agreement is binding.”

  “Here,” Baiyeed said. He leaned over and traced the path from Pengari to the Vermyk Pass with finger and beard. He tilted towards Wilshem and broke off his babble about the trials of travelling over his native terrain to enquire about a suitable rendezvous. His tic was firing with irregular speed. It was a nervous trait.

  Wilshem put his goblet down. The room was spinning. After days deciding and implementing strategy, exhaustion was setting in. It was time he took an hour to himself.

  “You may confer with Mazronan about the details,” he said. His words sounded thick. He tried to rise, but his limbs were sluggish.

  Baiyeed poured and handed him another goblet of roqki, awkward because he was using his left hand. “Compliments of my lords.” He did not fill his own glass. Indeed, despite his frequent sips, his goblet remained almost full. A thought tried to form at that.

  A flash of silver at Baiyeed’s right wrist forestalled it. The Verdaani’s arm moved with surprising speed. Wilshem opened his mouth as pain radiated through his chest. His hands clutched at his body. They came away warm and sticky. He looked down to see them covered in blood, a slender knife poking from his chest. He gaped at Mazronan. A hoarse gurgle caught in his throat.

  Yelling for guards, the Swordmaster General had his sword out and raised. Baiyeed had retreated the length of the table, but was surveying Wilshem with grim satisfaction. His tic had disappeared.