by David Hair
Silence fell between them. Alyssa sat back, waiting, until they were joined by a burly, hairy Keshi man with a leering face. He stank of sweat.
They both stared at her until Cym had to speak or scream.
‘Zaqri isn’t evil – he hates what he is!’ she burst out. ‘The Scytale can cure them – his whole people!’
‘Nonsense, child,’ Alyssa said dismissively. ‘The first Dokken became what they are because they were evil already. So says the Book of Kore. Their descendants inherited that nature.’ Her face took on the patient irritation of a disappointed mother. ‘You’ve been raised by gypsies, dear. You don’t know how to judge good and evil.’
You rukking bitch . . .
‘Tell me about the Scytale, Cymbellea dear. And Alaron Mercer. Who is he? How did he gain this artefact, and where is he going with it?’
‘Go to Hel!’
‘I’m sure I shall,’ Alyssa replied lightly. ‘But not for a long, long time. And you’ve got to deal with the here and now, so let me make it simple for you: you’ll tell me everything I want to know, or I will have your Dokken lover executed. “Thou shall not allow the Souldrinker to live”. So says the Book of Kore. But cooperate, and I’ll grant you both mercy.’
We should have stayed in the wild! Cym thought bitterly. I told him, over and again . . .
But she was Rimoni: the magi had destroyed her ancestors’ empire, taken their lands and driven them to the margins of society. She’d been sheltered by her father and his caravan, but always aware that safety was an illusion; you made the best of what fortune gave and you survived. That had always been her people’s way. You found reasons to go on. You salvaged scraps from the ruins. You saved what you could and went on.
Alaron’s not helpless, but Zaqri is, right now . . .
‘All right,’ she said, hanging her head. ‘I’ll tell you what I can. But you have to promise, on your soul, that you will let Zaqri and me leave afterwards.’
‘My dear child . . . Your mother must be weeping in Paradise.’ Alyssa paused cruelly. ‘No, wait: your mother’s soul never made it to Paradise, because your lover consumed it.’
Cym looked up at her. ‘I hate you.’
Megradh snorted, but Alyssa just sighed. ‘Child, tell me everything: how did you gain the Scytale?’
Everything came out, as if Cym were vomiting and couldn’t make it stop, all about Alaron and Ramon and the secret gnosis lessons, about finding General Langstrit, and Watch Captain Muhren helping them to hunt for the Scytale. She hung her head when she got to the bit where she’d stolen the artefact from her two best friends, taking it from the dead hands of Alaron’s mother. She left out nothing, not her trek across the continent, seeking her mother and her grandfather, the lamiae, the Isle of Glass, and especially the joy and pain of finding and losing Justina. Meeting Zaqri, and Huriya. Fighting with Zaqri in the Noose for control of the Dokken pack, and then the dreadful attack by the Inquisitors . . . and she spoke of lust, or love, or maybe something of both . . . and finally, she whispered about her aborted child as tears fell silently down her cheeks. She thought she had no more tears left in her, but that clearly wasn’t so.
I killed my own child.
After that came the questions: how could she bear Zaqri’s child but not become a Dokken, like Nasette? She didn’t know. Where was Alaron now? Was Ramita Ankesharan still with him? She didn’t know those either. There were other questions as Alyssa sought to fill in the details, each one draining her until finally there was nothing left to tell, and her voice was a gravelly whisper.
‘I think we have everything.’ Alyssa turned to Megradh. ‘Bring in the Dokken. He can die in front of her.’
The Hadishah captain grinned savagely, leered at Cym and swaggered away.
Cym came upright, screaming, ‘NO! YOU CAN’T— YOU PROMISED!’ She tried to launch herself at Alyssa—
—and the world flipped as she was slammed into the wooden floor and was held there, winded and gasping for air. Alyssa rose, icily regal, her gnosis holding Cym immobile.
‘Cymbellea, do you honestly believe you can steal from your friends, fuck your mother’s killer, murder his child and then walk away guilt-free?’
That everything she said was so horribly true when held up to the cold light of logic was as crushing as the power that held her pinned to the floor.
But there were reasons . . .
‘I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson, child. It is this: true strength lies in unity. It’s in your friends. Look at me: I have Rashid Mubarak in my bed and the sultan’s court feeding from my hand. They’re my friends. But where are your protectors? I’ll tell you: you don’t have any. You’re alone.’ Her eyes bored into Cym’s mercilessly. ‘This won’t feel like it, but I’m doing you a favour: I’m going to sever your ties with these animals you’ve been dirtying yourself with and give you the chance of a fresh start in my service. Lesharri is delicate, and sometimes her duties overwhelm her. If you swear to serve me, I’ll let you live: because your mother was my dearest friend.’
Cym tried to plead mercy for Zaqri, but Alyssa shut her mouth with a gesture. ‘No, girl. I’m offering this in memory of my dear Justina. I see something of her in you, the way she was when she and I were young. We were rebels against the Ordo Costruo and their sanctimony: I see that spirit in you. You could – you should – be one of us.’
‘Kill Zaqri and you’ll never know,’ she snarled, playing the only card she still held.
‘That’s a chance I’ll take,’ Alyssa replied. ‘Ah, and here he is!’
Cym’s heart leaped to her mouth as the Hadishah captain dragged Zaqri into the chamber, then levitated him and held him effortlessly against the wall. Cym stared at him, her heart in her eyes, as Megradh drew his gleaming scimitar with his right hand.
Zaqri gazed fiercely at her, his dread for her clear on his face. She kept remembering how she’d pleaded with him to walk away from this bitter quest . . .
Alyssa gave her just enough freedom to grovel before her and beg, ‘I’ll do anything – just let him live!’
‘Dear girl, you’re just proving my point,’ the blonde woman told her, her eyes glinting. ‘While your Dokken is alive, your first loyalty will always be to him, and if that’s the case, what’s the point in letting you live at all?’
‘No! I’ll serve only you – make me like your sister if that’s what you want—’
Alyssa’s lips curled upwards. ‘And what use would you be then?’
‘But—’
‘Cym.’ Zaqri’s voice cut across her rising hysteria. ‘Cym, enough. You won’t change her mind.’
Alyssa pouted a little, then she smiled down at Cym. ‘He’s right, of course. I never thought him stupid.’ She waved airily at Megradh.
Cym screamed as the Hadishah’s blade lifted. Zaqri’s eyes locked onto hers, trying to drink her into his soul with his eyes. She tried to launch herself at Alyssa, and was brutally slapped down, then Megradh’s blue-black scimitar blade, honed to razor-sharpness, slashed through precious flesh and sinew and bone. She howled at the slow-motion parting of head and body, at the great gout of blood as the man she loved collapsed like an axe-hewn tree.
She wanted her heart to stop then. But the damned thing just went on beating.
14
A New Ascendancy
The Bond Among Souldrinkers
It has been noted among those who hunt the Souldrinkers that they appear to share a bond akin to a mysticism-link, but permanent, and open to any others of their kind within reach. It is unclear whether this came with their curse or has been developed by them, but it helps to explain how elusive they remain.
GRANDMASTER CENTURIUS, PALLAS, 852
Gatioch, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 929
18th month of the Moontide
Malevorn Andevarion looked up from the mortar and pestle with which he was grinding a wad of pungent leaves, more ingredients for the next batch of the
ambrosia. He and Hessaz were working alone, day and night, using the gnosis to keep their energy levels up. He’d commandeered a ruined palace next to the Valley of Tombs, and though Xymoch’s old pack was growing restless, none of them knew what their new packleader was doing, or that Huriya was now chained up in a dungeon.
‘A few more days, and we’ll have enough,’ he told the Lokistani, who looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her face unreadable as ever. She seemed to have only two facial expressions: sullen resentment and burning hate.
‘Another clan arrived today,’ she told him. ‘Water-magi from Mirobez. They want to see you and Huriya and hear what you plan first-hand.’
‘You talk to them, Hessaz,’ he told her. ‘I can’t spare the time. Tell them that in three days’ time, I’m going to change their lives for ever.’
No one else yet knew about the Scytale; all Xymoch’s pack knew was that if they were patient, Malevorn would reveal the cure for their condition.
He’d told Hessaz that Huriya had tried to run away with the Scytale, not sure she’d believe him. But she’d offered to cut Huriya’s throat herself and take her place as his mate, which was a little surprising, considering how much she hated the Inquisition, the Kore, and all Rondians. It told him how utterly committed Hessaz was to seeing her people healed.
But much as he would like to see the end of Huriya, until he could find a way to break his heart-bond spell, the Keshi girl had to remain among the living, and therefore, locked away safely.
‘The crueller punishment is to let her rot,’ he’d said.
Hessaz hadn’t looked pleased, but she’d let the matter drop.
He smiled to himself. Poor Huriya . . . destined for oblivion . . .
*
Huriya Makani sat in the darkness, powerless and terrified. Food and water was brought and the slop-bucket changed once a day. Malevorn had done it himself at first, then Hessaz took over – but she obviously believed her a traitor, and refused to speak to her. She herself couldn’t speak at all: Malevorn had bound her tongue with a spell. Her gnosis was Chained, and hope was extinguished.
All Huriya’s life, Sabele had promised that she would sit on thrones; that wealth, power and pleasure beyond her wildest dreams would be hers. At least once a year the old fortune-teller had visited Aruna Nagar Market and whispered in her ear. Some nights the old crone would send her visions, showing her the palaces of the world. She’d had to promise to tell no one, not her foolish brother Kazim, or even her dearest blood-sister Ramita, which had been a torment. But the sense of destiny sustained her through childhood disappointments because she’d always known that better things awaited her.
Now look at me. All he needs is to keep me alive and imprisoned until he finds a way to unbind the heart-link. After that, I’m dead . . . or worse . . .
The coming centuries unfolded for her, clear as a Divination vision: Chained alone in the darkness as the years passed, sustained by the gnosis, never ageing, never dying, but growing weaker, going blind and deaf as her senses withered without stimulus.
Ahm! Someone! Please free me!
She groped about with her fingers until finally she found a small chip of stone. She considered trying to choke herself with it, but doubted she could. So instead, she scratched with the fragment on the wall behind her head, until it crumbled to dust.
*
‘There there, accha bacca,’ Hessaz cooed. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll be with you.’ She bared her teeth at the little man whose hand she held, smiling, an expression that sat oddly on her hard face.
He was golden-skinned, black-haired and perfect, tottering along beside her and babbling incomprehensibly. The one being she’d truly loved had been her daughter, Pernara, but she’d been killed by the Inquisition almost a year ago; now Hessaz lavished all that love on ten-month-old Nasatya Meiros.
Whenever Malevorn could spare her from the holy task they shared, brewing the sacred ambrosia, she spent it with the little boy. He lived in a chamber next to Huriya’s, but his was more comfortable, and she was allowed to take him out for walks twice a day. They’d just spent an hour together, helping him learn to walk among the stone tombs, spotting geckos and watching the distant tents of the Souldrinkers camped at the edge of the valley. It was time to take him back, then to feed the captive Huriya.
They went to the kitchens and gathered food; warm bread and wrapped sweets for him, and a pot of curried daal for Huriya. Then they went down into the makeshift dungeon, a converted crypt. Nasatya was tearful at having to go back below ground, but he quietened for her. He’s a good child . . . just like my Pernara was.
Guarding the passage to the crypt was the only other person allowed in this part of the Valley of Tombs: Toljin.
Something about Toljin had changed so that she scarcely knew him. He’d always been a crass buffoon, the sort of man she despised, but of late, he’d been cold, watchful, and strangely . . . simple – it was almost as if someone had taken his personality away and replaced it with a studied fixation on whatever task he’d been set. As she passed him, he looked her over, but there were none of the leering comments and crude offers she’d have expected, and nor was there even any simple small talk to relieve the boredom.
What’s happened to him? she wondered for the hundredth time.
He was all but mute, as if his words had been stolen, but he would grow animated and upset if she didn’t surrender her weapons, so she always put her bow and dagger against the wall. ‘Having a good day?’ she asked Toljin, but as usual he didn’t even acknowledge that she’d spoken. Looking at him with her inner eye revealed a strength to his aura that had never been there before, but there was something else too, a shadow presence that was like an oil-smear slithering across his aura. He followed her to the cells, his mere presence chilling, and it was a relief to leave him outside the door to Nasatya’s cell.
She produced a little carved toy she’d got from one of the Dokken children in the camp and used it to settle Nasatya down, then she sang lullabies until he slept.
Only once she was sure he was asleep did she go back outside. Toljin unlocked Huriya’s cell and lit the room with the lamp.
‘Don’t use the gnosis in here,’ Malevorn had told her. ‘Toljin’s under orders to stop anyone who does.’
Maybe he thinks I’ll take revenge on Huriya for betraying the cause. Although she’d sworn not to, maybe he needed to be sure. But she’d begun to wonder if there were other reasons.
Huriya was pressed against the wall she was chained to, looking up at her with frightened eyes. She gurgled, but Malevorn had taken away her speech. The Seeress looked dreadful, her skin and rags filthy, her elbows and knees scabbed and one side of her face bruised. Her hair was matted and she stank of fear.
This isn’t right, Hessaz thought. She was our Seeress, once.
But she tried to steal the Scytale and go over to the Rondians . . . or so Malevorn said. Can I can trust that? Sabele’s spirit is inside the girl, and she would never have acted as Malevorn says . . .
She dropped to one knee, dipped the ladle into the daal then thrust it at Huriya. The Seeress looked up at her, accepted one mouthful, then very obviously looked at Toljin before letting her head drop forward, twisting to reveal the portion of the wall behind her head, while ensuring Toljin was not paying any attention. There were scratch-marks on the stone, a dozen characters that petered out into a dusty smear. They were Rondian symbols, but Hessaz could read them easily; her pack spoke as much Rondian as Dhassan.
S K T L
F A I L
A F R E
K I L M
She stared, then gagged to prevent herself gasping out loud. Huriya’s eyes were pleading with her, but what they were saying, she couldn’t tell. Hessaz stared at her while trying to interpret the marks.
Sk’thali fail . . . ?
She went on feeding the girl, mechanically shovelling in food, waiting for her to chew and swallow, while her mind swirled. Did this mean that the S
k’thali would fail? Or that it had already failed? And failed to do what? And what is ‘AFRE—’? Her eyes flickered sideways and met Toljin’s, cold and fixed.
Afreet . . .
Hessaz began to tremble, and when she looked at Huriya, the bleak despair took her breath away. KILM. She let forward, whispered, ‘Sk’thali fail? Huriya nodded, tears dripping from both eyes.
‘Afreet?’
Another nod.
She paused, swallowed. ‘Kill me?’
Huriya sobbed voicelessly, and her head jerked down.
Behind her Hessaz heard his grunt and step closer, sniffing at her as if she was food. Toljin’s eyes bored into her, then he stepped away.
‘No speaking, Hezzaz,’ he said in a voice that was flat and dispassionate and slurred, and utterly unlike his normal intonation. It was as if something else was using him as a puppet, and it chilled her to the bone. Especially as the way he pronounced her name – Hezzaz – was exactly the way Malevorn mis-pronounced it.
Afreet.
It took all Hessaz’s years of personal discipline as huntress and warrior not to bolt. She finished her task and made herself walk calmly from the crypt, feeling Toljin’s eyes on her back the whole time. When she got out into the night air she bent over and vomited, then she closed her eyes and prayed for guidance.
*
From the stone platform, Malevorn Andevarion could see the whole of the Dokken packs and clans who’d gathered, waiting for him to perform his miracle. It reminded him of the Book of Kore, and the crowds who’d gathered to hear Corineus preach.
He took a deep breath, then projected his voice across the crowd. ‘Let the Second Ascendancy begin!’
Amidst a massive cheer, he dipped a ladle and poured a measure of ambrosia into the open mouth of the first Souldrinker lined up in formation. At his side, Hessaz did the same, blessing the recipient with some Amteh sign. He would have felt a fraud uttering such words, and doubted that a Kore sign would have been welcomed, so he just muttered, ‘Good luck.’
Not that luck will avail you.
The massive batch of ambrosia was an approximation, probably much like Baramitius had brewed first time round; he had neither the time nor the inclination to brew exact doses tailored to each recipient. There were six hundred Souldrinkers in the Valley of Tombs, so if history ran true, they’d lose a third, stone-dead. But the rest would be Ascendant Souldrinkers: two hundred, give or take a few. And then . . .