by David Hair
‘That’s if they do. What if none want to?’
‘That is also possible,’ Puravai acknowledged. ‘I do appreciate the restraint you are showing, Brother Longlegs. A lesser man would have been begging – or demanding.’
‘Inside I’m doing both,’ Alaron admitted. ‘I want to shout at some of them! But where will that get us?’
‘Recognising that fact is a sign of your growing maturity,’ Puravai told him.
‘Perhaps. But what if no one will help us stand up to Malevorn and Huriya?’ Images of an Ascendant Malevorn Andevarion had been filling Alaron’s nightmares for many weeks now.
‘Only the willing will be of true value to your cause. Through your restraint, you show that you are a man worth following.’ Puravai patted Alaron’s arm. ‘We’ve done what we can. The rest is up to them.’
Ramita fixed the old master with a frank look. ‘What would you choose if Alaron had the recipe for you?’
Puravai smiled softly. ‘The decision process isn’t over, child. I’ll not express any view, not even privately, until afterwards.’ He bowed a little stiffly and hobbled away, leaving them alone.
Alaron looked at Ramita and yawned mightily. ‘Well? What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. If you gave this question to any boy from Aruna Nagar he’d say yes so fast he’d bite your hand off. But these monks . . .’ She pulled a sour face. ‘Where I grew up, the Zains were considered weaklings who had run away from life.’
‘We used to say that the only people who wanted to be Kore priests were milkbloods, fanatics and politicians – certainly no one you’d want beside you in a war. But these Zains are different: priests in Yuros don’t learn weaponry. The martial training they do gives you a feeling of capability, that you have the capacity to do anything. They might seem passive, but if they’re attacked, they are dangerous. They do know how to fight.’
Though not how to kill.
Ramita looked unconvinced. ‘It must be almost dinner-time. I’m starving, and I haven’t seen Dasra all day.’ She took his hand and they walked together, dawdling, enjoying the contact. They paused at a bend of the stone staircase where a barred aperture opened over the valley and enjoyed the play of the sunset’s warm glow on the snow-tipped peaks above. The chill of night was creeping through the building, and Alaron shivered. Ramita noticed and drew him against her, sharing warmth.
Since they’d finally acknowledged their attraction, spending time together alone had become more intimate – and more awkward. He was maddened by her closeness, wanted her with all his body, but she was holding back; she’d been raised to do what was right, which meant not making love to anyone but her husband. But the real reason for restraint was the ritual of Ascendancy. If he was going to risk his life in that way, was it right to put their hearts into something that could be brief and ill-fated? Half of those given the first batch of ambrosia had died. How could he honestly speak of commitment to her when he could be dead in a few days? So all he could do was hold her, and count down the days to that test.
‘Are the potions ready?’ she asked.
‘Almost. We can’t brew the final draughts until we know which candidates are going to accept, but Corinea is distilling the ingredients.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘She says that we need to test it on someone.’
Ramita looked up at him, suddenly tense. ‘Why?’
‘Because she’s not made it before. She knew a little of what Baramitius was doing, but she says there is still some guesswork involved.’
‘But testing it on someone . . .’
‘I know. It’s not fair to use one of these poor novices as an experiment. So I’m going to take it myself.’
Ramita looked up at him with a horrified expression. ‘No! You can’t! You’re too important.’
His heart chimed at her concern, but he’d thought this through carefully. ‘I’m the only one who already has Arcanum training and knows what gaining the gnosis feels like. Those novices would be stumbling in the dark. It has to be me.’ He hoped he sounded braver than he felt. ‘Neither you or Corinea need it; you’re both already an Ascendant or stronger. So it has to be me.’
‘But . . .’ Her mouth hung open as she sought the words, and he could feel her wrestling against his logic, trying to find an alternative. Because she cares. He was uplifted, but he really couldn’t see another way. Someone had to ensure the potion worked, and be able to give the young novices a first-hand account of what they would experience. He really was the best equipped to do it. But he was still frightened.
The first Ascendancy killed four hundred of the thousand who drank the ambrosia, left one hundred irrevocably insane and another hundred as Souldrinkers. More than half of them died or ruined. The odds are terrible. He couldn’t put aside his fear, but he had to do this anyway, if he wanted to be with her, if he wanted to get Nasatya back and if he wanted to stop Malevorn.
He watched her expression go from denial to pained acceptance. ‘Corinea and I will be with you in case anything happens,’ she promised. ‘When will you do it?’
‘Next week, once we know what the novices have decided.’ When she opened her mouth to protest, he put a finger to her lips. ‘I just want to get it over with. I feel like it’s this huge hurdle standing between me and the rest of my life.’
And I want to leap that hurdle: so you’ll know I’m here for the long haul. So that you can include me in your plans, and I can include you in mine – because they’re all about you anyway.
*
Ramita held Dasra to her. Nine months old, and already learning to crawl. They had found a nurse for him, a village girl who adored children. He’s such a happy baby, she thought, stroking his thick black hair. Though she was sure missing his twin brother was at the root of his occasional tears. Of all the cruel things you’ve done, Huriya, that was the worst. She stared gloomily into space, wondering where Nasatya was in all this wide world.
Alaron was sitting next to her on the stone bench overlooking a courtyard outside Master Puravai’s rooms, fretting. He was such an open book, each mood written across his face with broad brushstrokes. Right now he was tension itself as they waited on the decisions of the Zains.
In the courtyard below them, Master Puravai and Corinea concluded a brief conversation, then the old sorceress slipped away, lest she intimidate the novices. They still didn’t know who she was, but she was scary enough that Puravai was keeping her from interacting with them anyway.
We’re asking so much of them: to put aside their safety and join a war against people they don’t know, when they’re committed to non-violence. To learn a magic they probably think is inherently evil, and risk their immortal souls.
She fully expected just one to agree: Yash, who didn’t really fit here.
The first of the candidates entered the tiny garden below and bowed before the Master. His name was Felakan, one of the four full monks who’d allowed Alaron to interview him earlier that year: a worldly man, but completely committed to the Zain principles of life.
‘Well, Brother Felakan, what is your decision?’ Puravai asked.
‘Master, I thank you, but I must respectfully decline this. To endanger my soul, when I feel so close to the Infinite here, would be wrong.’
Ramita’s bubble of hope popped. The arrogance, she thought angrily. You think yourself so close to perfection you can’t risk getting your hands dirty in the real world?
The next three, all graduated monks, gave the same reply, leaving her and Alaron feeling crushed. Perhaps she imagined it, but Master Puravai didn’t appear to be entirely pleased with their answers. Perhaps he too saw pride, not piety. It was a worrying start, though.
Aprek, a scholar from a well-to-do family, was the first novice to enter the courtyard to announce his choice. She had no great hopes of him; he typified her view of Zains as young men scared of facing the responsibilities of being husbands and fathers and providers and citizens, preferring to lock themselves away and wibble about sel
f-perfection.
‘Master,’ Aprek said meekly, ‘respectfully I must ask to be released from my path, to test myself in the fires.’
She took a moment to decipher his reply, then looked at Alaron, who was waiting for her translation. she said, clutching Dasra in trembling hands.
Puravai inclined his head. ‘Are you sure, Aprek?’
‘Yes, Master. I have given it much thought, and I had meditated particularly on your words at our interview: that we must pass through darkness to attain light.’
Soon they had many more than one; every remaining novice echoed Aprek’s words in their own way. Some, like Yash and Kedak, spoke of fighting to overcome evil. Others were more philosophical, and in truth, many appeared to be following the example of their peers. But all of the novices Alaron had interviewed – all thirty-four – accepted. Only the four full monks had declined. She hugged Dasra and closed her eyes, whispered a prayer of thanks to Vishnarayan, Protector of Men.
Then, of course, a fresh round of worries began. She reflected on what the ambrosia had done in Yuros five hundred years ago: The potion will kill some of them, and make Souldrinkers of others. How many of them have just volunteered to die?
*
‘This is it?’ Alaron looked at the small vial of milky grey-green fluid and trembled. His throat was so tight he doubted he’d be able swallow. He was clad in a white shift, propped up on pillows and sitting on a pallet in the sickbay, which had become their laboratory.
Corinea took the vial back. ‘This is it, in exactly the proportions your notes say.’ She tapped it thoughtfully. ‘I hope you took good notes.’
He winced. ‘I did my best. But I couldn’t figure out about blood types, and though I wrote down all the variations, I’m still not sure—’
‘Don’t worry,’ Corinea interrupted, ‘that’s what the test I did was for; I took samples of blood from all the candidates and mixed the blood with some powders.’ She’d taken some of his too, pricking his thumb, then dripping the blood into a vial of clear fluid that turned green. They were increasingly in her hands. There was so much damage she could do if she chose, and they’d not find out until it was too late. He didn’t know how to read her; he could only hope she would repay his own trust with honesty.
‘So what am I consuming?’
‘Your potion has twenty-six ingredients, with four functions. First is the brackroot, or khedichar, as they call it here. It’s a slow poison which acts upon your heart over the space of a couple of hours. Then there are a number of ingredients designed to feed your nervous system and brain so that they don’t succumb. Of course there’s the stimulant: the senaphium or jolt-root. That’s the hardest thing to judge: it has to take effect within five minutes of your heart stopping. The dose is determined by body mass, gender, blood-type, and other physical characteristics. Get the dose wrong and it either triggers too soon and dissipates before it’s needed and you die anyway; or it triggers too late, and you’re already dead beyond reviving.’
For the millionth time Alaron wondered if this was such a good idea after all. It was all very well to be brave when the act was theoretical, but right now it just felt stupid. But he’d come too far to back out – and he would never feel worthy of Ramita if he didn’t do this.
‘Finally, there are hallucinogenic drugs,’ Corinea continued, ‘to stimulate an emotional and sensual palate to make sense of the experience. Without them you would sink into darkness and never return, even if your heart does manage to restart. These drugs allow your imagination to guide you back to consciousness. For myself, I recall falling through clouds and then becoming a bird. It was a struggle, as I’ve always been afraid of heights. I’ve heard of others speak of overcoming similar fears to survive.’
Alaron tried to think of something he wasn’t afraid of, on some level. ‘Okay.’
‘It is the hallucinogens that are specifically brewed for you: the sort of person you are means that different parts of the brain need to be stimulated to enable you to fight your way back.’ Her voice was eager, as if she couldn’t wait for him to drink. This was her re-admittance to the world’s stage, Alaron realised. He tried not to resent her for it.
Puravai put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay calm, Brother Longlegs. Be focused, as you were when you re-learned the gnosis. You succeeded then, and you will in this also.’
Alaron looked at Corinea worriedly. ‘What are the odds? Fifty-fifty?’
‘No, much better. When Baramitius made the first batch of ambrosia, he had four different doses, based on gender and eye colour. It was monstrously imprecise, and that’s what killed so many. He refined it since then, and my understanding is that few have failed more recently.’ He was about to sigh in relief when she added, ‘But then, who really knows? The empire doesn’t publicise its failures.’
Thanks for that.
‘But you have Arcanum training, and a unique array of gnostic skills,’ she concluded. ‘I believe you will prevail.’
That helped. He took a deep breath and decided he was probably ready as he would ever be.
‘Could Al’Rhon and I have a moment alone?’ Ramita asked quietly.
Corinea looked at Puravai impatiently, but the old Zain master stood up and ushered her out. Ramita sat beside him. ‘Al’Rhon, I won’t say you don’t have to do this, because you do. Even if it wasn’t to help find Nasatya or stop that Inquisitor, you would do this: to prove yourself.’
‘I don’t know—’ he began to deny, but she cut him off.
‘You know you would. But Al’Rhon, you don’t have to prove anything: you are already the truest man I know.’
‘But I’m not him . . . Antonin Meiros, I mean.’
‘Al’Rhon, of course you are not! But I’m not comparing you. He occupies a different chamber in my heart.’
He coloured. ‘But I’m not like your Kazim, either.’
‘Thank all the gods!’ She clasped his hand in both hers. ‘You are utterly unalike. Where you are steadfast, he was flighty. Where you treat me as an equal, he treated me as a lesser: a valued lesser, but in his mind he was always master. He wanted to put me on a pedestal in a kitchen. You want me as I am.’
‘You’ve told me how romantic and handsome he was . . .’
‘Oh, he certainly was. But those are the things that spark love, not what sustain it. The last time I saw him he had my husband’s blood on his hands. Believe me, you don’t suffer by comparison.’
‘But—’
‘If you think you aren’t handsome enough: find a mirror. If you don’t think you are worthy of Lady Meiros, forget her. She doesn’t exist. My name is Ramita Ankesharan, market-girl of Baranasi, and I am in love with you.’
He caught his breath. ‘I love you too.’
She kissed him slowly, until his mouth softened and the tension in him subsided. When he opened his eyes again, he was smiling, and ready to risk his life.
The Valley of Tombs, Gatioch, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929
17th month of the Moontide
Malevorn Andevarion stared at the wriggling beetle pinched between his fingers. It had an iridescent green-blue carapace with yellow-brown highlights and was almost two inches long: a Death Scarab, or kheper in the Gatti language, so Huriya told him.
He knew the theory: you formed a link to the creature and bonded with it, and it bonded with you as it nestled in the top of the mouth, adjacent to the brain-stem. In time it became symbiotic with you, and if your body happened to perish, you lived on through the beetle until you found a new host-body.
Revolting.
Yet he knew he faced dangers: among the pack, certainly. From Hessaz, definitely. And even from Huriya, despite their burgeoning physical desire. In their private chamber they performed as if there was an audience, seeking emotional weakness in the other even as they strove physically. Some nights he thought she mi
ght be succumbing to him emotionally, but he still feared treachery.
But to spend eternity contained by a dung beetle . . . No, that is beneath me.
He crushed the scarab beneath his foot.
*
The next morning, they began. He poured the first batch of ambrosia into a golden goblet they’d retrieved from a previously unplundered tomb and showed Huriya the dirty-looking fluid. She sniffed it dubiously. ‘Is that it?’
‘It is.’ He looked her up and down. She was clad in embroidered evening robes that had once belonged to Xymoch’s dead wife, dressed as if for a celebration.
If this is successful, then that is what there will be . . .
The other observer on this night of nights was bound to a pillar in the corner, too weak to stand. Adamus Crozier’s body was restored but his spirit was entirely broken. Malevorn wanted him there, both for his experience, and to witness the consequences of any failure.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asked Huriya, as if her permission were needed.
‘Why not?’
They turned to Toljin.
The Vereloni warrior was on the floor, chained to metal rings set in the floor. He lay within a summoning circle that crackled with force, all focused inwards. Malevorn had drawn them, and Huriya would empower them when the time came. The objective was to test the potion on Toljin . . . then kill him afterwards.
Malevorn raised the cup in his hands and bent over the Souldrinker, who struggled futilely against his bindings. He was the last male of Zaqri of Metia’s old pack, and he wouldn’t survive the night. History won’t remember him at all: only me.
Malevorn had begun to envisage the path ahead: the ambrosia would remove the Souldrinker affliction and he’d leave the East, returning to Pallas to give the ambrosia to his family and kin, rekindle old alliances, make promises . . . then he’d smash the Sacrecours and everyone else who’d pulled down his father. I will be Malevorn, first of the Andevarion Emperors . . .