by David Hair
But from the moment of his first kill – the execution of a helpless old man – he’d tasted nothing but sourness. He’d come to loathe the whole thing, the driving of steel into flesh, cutting sinews and carving muscles, slicing veins, and the myriad ways that wounding could lead to death: the ruination of bodies and the emptying of eyes, it all haunted him. The sickening stench of blood and the reek of voided bowels and bladders wouldn’t leave his nostrils. All he kept thinking was, So much waste.
His wandering took him to the old outer wall, which had been breached and broken down in half a dozen places. He climbed a battered turret and gazed blankly towards the Argundians’ rearguard, protecting their wagons as they rolled away. The Jhafi, realising they’d gone past their own mage-support, were content to pepper them with arrows and abuse.
I could go down there, he thought. I could break that shield-wall, let them through so they could slaughter the women and children in the mercenary camp. That’s what a hero would do.
The idea sickened him.
To his right, the Harkun were pouring out of the city too, driven by a moving wave of fire and archery. He listened in with his gnostic senses and heard the Ordo Costruo coordinating their attack, moving the Jhafi archers into positions on either side so they could trap the nomads and unleash Justiano di Kestria’s mounted knights on flat and open ground. He could taste the hatred in the air between the Jhafi and the Harkun. It was nothing to do with him, he decided, so he sat and stared with empty eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before that familiar linkage tightened. Elena was coming, climbing the turret. The boy in him wanted to keep on sulking on his own, but the man lifted his head.
‘Hello love,’ she said, topping the stairs and joining him, climbing up behind him on his perch and wrapping her arms about him from behind. He laid his head back against her shoulder and blanked all else out.
At last he sighed deeply, and admitted quietly, ‘I’m sick of killing.’
‘I know. So am I, and I’ve been doing it a lot longer than you.’
‘But it’s all we’re good at, isn’t it?’
She flinched. ‘No! No, we could do so many things. Anything we want. And we will, once this is all done.’
‘Anything?’
She hesitated, clearly unsure what he was thinking, then said, ‘Anything.’
He looked up at her as the quite unexpected answer fell into his mouth. ‘I want us to have a baby.’
*
Cera Nesti watched proudly as her little brother walked onto the royal balcony of the Krak al-Farada, the place from where for centuries the Nesti kings had addressed their people. He looked scared, clutching the sheath of papers in his hand too tightly. The crown on his head was still too big, despite all the padding they’d used. She was standing with the rest of the Regency Council: an honour-guard for the young king-in-waiting as he delivered his first proper speech. She blinked back tears, feeling the unseen eyes of her father and mother, her elder brother and her sister, all casualties of this war: ghosts now, but never forgotten.
She looked down the line to her left, where Elena was watching, her tanned face grim and distant. Her lover Kazim was nowhere to be seen. Beyond her were a group of Ordo Costruo, the legendary Builder-Mages. In the flesh they were strangely ordinary, though their eyes looked haunted – but then, they too had seen their world torn apart. Each of the women was with child, raped and impregnated by Hadishah. The few surviving men looked brittle, their habitual pride obliterated by all they’d been through; everything they’d failed to do. They had been made to serve as well. In a different way, they too had been violated.
These wars must stop. They’re destroying us all.
The young heir stepped onto his stool, and the hordes below erupted with cries of victory and welcome.
The plaza was packed with people, like straws in a haystack, barely able to move or breathe. Tears stung every eye. Those who fainted were passed back on a sea of hands. Bells rang, and songs to Ahm and Pater Sol and Mater Lune rolled through the heavy air. But as Timori raised his hand, a hush fell across the masses.
‘My people . . .’ Timi began in Jhafi, his high-pitched, boyish voice ringing out as he cried, ‘We have been victorious! People of Forensa – and our brothers of Loctis, who came to our aid! Beloved people—!’
The surge in sound washed his voice away as the entire populace shouted their lungs out in sheer relief and triumph. This was their victory, each and every one of them had taken part, not just the soldiers, but every single person had given their courage and endurance, their muscle and their skill, and their blood and their lives, to the defence of the city.
It took several minutes before Timori could resume, but now he was bouncing with excitement, caught up in the energy of the crowd. ‘We give thanks! We give thanks to Ahm. Praise to Him on high! Ahm has seen our suffering and given us succour! Ahm saw our need and sent us allies! Ahm saw the destruction, and sent us Builders!’
He switched to Rimoni and repeated the first few lines, then said, ‘We give thanks to Pater Sol and Mater Lune, for through the light of their wisdom we have found allies to bring us succour, and Builders to alleviate the destruction that has been visited upon our land!’
Those clad in violet in the crowds below – scarcely a tenth, but equally loud – waved their pennants and cheered, as he added, ‘Through the chaos, Pater Sol and Mater Lune have shone above, lighting our path to freedom.’
Cera and the council had worked hard on this speech, up half the night finding ways to give thanks to all the diverse factions who’d come together to save the city, and to bind them closer. She bit her lip, waiting to see how the Jhafi and Rimoni would respond.
The people could not help seeing the Ordo Costruo arrayed about the king, clad in their pale blue robes, but their mood was all jubilation – whatever their fears about magi, they all knew what the Ordo Costruo had done, how the warbird had brought the Builder-Magi who had turned defeat to victory.
Then Timori reverted to Jhafi and shouted, ‘Most of all, we give praise to ourselves! It is written that the gods help those who help themselves: this we have done! You have all put their shoulder to the wheel! Whether you fought, or laboured, or treated the wounded, or cooked, or ran messages, you are each and every one a part of this victory! You are this victory!’
He said it all again, in Rimoni, and everyone cheered again. Cera was almost overcome with pride. It was asking a lot of a nine-year-old boy to make any kind of speech, but it was important that he was seen. The people had to be reminded that he was their king; in anticipation of the day his regents stepped aside. Including me.
Timori walked to her side, struggling to maintain a dignified gait. She bent and kissed his cheek, whispered, ‘Well done, little button.’ He jiggled, throbbing with energy.
‘Cera!’ A cluster of Jhafi women began chanting, ‘Cera! Cera!’ They were fervent, holding out hands to her. ‘Ja’afar-mata! Ja’afar-mata!’
Mother of Javon? No! It’s too much . . .
But they kept chanting.
Ever since she’d come back from ‘death’ there had been this undercurrent, first in Lybis, and now here. There was too much reverence – and now silly stories were spreading, like the one that she’d driven back the Harkun merely by standing before them and raising her hands, forbidding their advance. And everyone wanted something of her: a blessing, threads of her clothing, just to touch her hand or foot. It was embarrassing, and frightening.
‘They love you,’ Timori said, looking up at her with shining eyes.
One day he might fear me, for that very reason.
She glanced at Elena – who knew everything – then raised a hand to try and make them stop, but they didn’t; the gathering had become a chaotic festival of celebration.
She couldn’t even escape the unwanted rapture inside the palace, where the Nesti court had gathered to sip arak or wine and share the moment. People kept approaching her with flattery an
d little requests: Comte Inveglio was still trying to wriggle his way onto the emergency confiscations committee; Justiano di Kestria wanted to be made permanent Commander of the Nesti Army, despite being a Kestrian. They both knew the only way that might happen was if he married her – and he’d started dropping hints that he was open to negotiations.
I’ll bet he is, Cera thought cynically.
Elena appeared at her side. ‘Cera, with your permission, I’d like to leave the celebrations. You don’t need my protection tonight.’
‘Actually, I’m sick of it. Let’s both go.’ She licked her lips nervously as she said the words; being alone with Elena still wasn’t comfortable. But they left together and headed towards the living quarters. ‘Are the prisoners secure?’ she asked.
‘The captured magi – five Argundians and three Dorobon – are in the dungeons; we’ve used a Rune of the Chain on them all, so you’ll be quite safe. Justiano’s got around four thousand prisoners in a camp north of here. Most of them are Dorobon; there’s only eight hundred or so Argundians – the rest got away.’ Elena frowned. ‘There are no Harkun prisoners.’
‘They didn’t take prisoners either,’ Cera retorted stonily. She struggled to feel any sympathy after what they’d done to poor Harshal. A better person would feel more for an enemy, she supposed. They walked on in silence to the place where they would normally part.
‘Will Tarita ever recover?’ Cera asked. Her guilt tore at her as she thought of that clever, vibrant, loyal girl. ‘Is there any hope?’
Elena gave her a hard look. ‘She shouldn’t have been there, and nor should you.’
‘I tried to make her stay behind – I swear I did—’
‘She saw her duty to be with you.’
‘And I had to be at the front! I had to see . . . It’s all right for you, you can fight – I had to be there, to show them I cared!’
‘Feeding the legend, were you?’ Elena’s eyes burned into her. ‘Cera, you need to find a new champion, because I don’t want the job any more. I’ll fight for you until Gurvon’s beaten, but not beyond. I’m sick of all this.’
Cera nodded mutely; it was obvious protesting wouldn’t change her mind.
Elena gave a sarcastic bow. ‘Goodnight, “Mother of Javon”.’ She stalked away, leaving Cera alone in the back corridors of the palace.
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve as loneliness swept in. I just want someone to talk to – just a friend, that’s all. But there’s no one now.
Portia didn’t write any more, so neither did she. The young ladies-in-waiting were awestruck by her, rendered almost incapable of speech by her mere presence – and even if they could talk, it would only be about which knight or nobleman they fancied that day or what dress they’d be wearing to the next court event. And all the other courtiers wanted something; a decision or a favour or a problem to be solved, or just to be seen with her. So she drifted along the corridor, subconsciously making her way towards the only real friend she still had.
The infirmary was a small wing of the palace set aside for the well-connected casualties. The Kestrian and Nesti knights here were mostly unconscious. They’d had their wounds cleaned and bandaged, but that didn’t conceal the hideous, crippling injuries most had sustained. It was a relief to pass onwards, into the smaller room set aside for female patients.
Tarita was lying on her bed, bandaged across the nose, her lips swollen and eyes blackened. Clematia was with her, a matronly Ordo Costruo healer in the late stages of pregnancy.
‘Is she awake?’ Cera asked.
Clematia looked at Tarita pityingly. ‘She is.’
The maid flicked her eyes sideways at the sound of Cera’s voice. She was deathly pale, and so skinny her bones could be seen through her skin. They’d been feeding her through straws, but her appetite was non-existent.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tarita whispered, ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Hush, hush,’ Cera murmured. ‘We’ll have you up in no time.’ The words of the cohort commander came back to her: broken neck, she’s better off dead. She sat in the chair beside the cot and took her hand. ‘I’m here . . .’
She didn’t think Tarita heard; she just gazed at Cera and wept until she fell asleep.
‘Will she ever recover?’ Cera whispered, fighting back tears.
Clematia shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. The spinal cord has failed to re-bond with the nerve-endings. She’s paralysed for the rest of her life, from the neck down.’
‘Oh dear gods – that’s hideous!’
‘I know. We’ve tried everything we can, believe me. But our gnosis cannot be fine-tuned enough to repair the nerve connections. If she was a mage herself, she could rekindle the connections using the gnosis: such self-healing cases have been documented, but of course, she’s not a mage.’
More tears stung Cera’s eyes. ‘What can we do for her?’
‘Make her comfortable, and wait and see. Sometimes, after a few years, these things can begin to fix themselves.’ Clematia smoothed Tarita’s hair. ‘I’m not sure you know that Elena Anborn has offered to adopt Tarita and tend for the girl herself. I’m told she already calls herself “Tarita Alhani” anyway.’
Cera swallowed an enormous lump in her throat. ‘Elena is her hero,’ she managed to choke out, then turned away as more tears convulsed through her.
Outside, the victory celebrations raged on.
20
Imperfect
The Reputed Power of Anger
There is a celebrated incident in southern Argundy where a half-blood, filled with righteous rage at a crime committed by a pure-blood against his family, slew that pure-blood in a duel. Some say this proves that anger enhances power in combat. Others claim the revenge was taken in cold blood, and the lesson is in fact that a cool head is more effective in battle. But we’ve found no true proof of either theory. Like many things of this nature, there is no universal rule; different things work for different people. Simple ‘universal truths’ are usually untrue.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, HEBUSALIM, 774
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) 930
20th month of the Moontide, 4 months until the end of the Moontide
Ramita stared at the young Lokistani acolyte lying prone on the bed, his lips blue and his skin pale beneath his native colour. His eyes were closed, thankfully, because she couldn’t bear to see them staring emptily into nothing.
It was the second death in their Ascendancy programme. The first had come when the fifteenth young man, a Lakh, had gone into panicked convulsions as he failed to deal with the fears his subconscious was conjuring, instead falling into a death-spasm. That had been horrible. This second death, four days later, had been very different – unexpectedly peaceful. The novice had just gone to sleep and never awakened.
‘What happened?’ Alaron asked, sounding raw, wounded.
Corinea replied in a distant voice, as if she was disassociating herself, ‘The sephanium didn’t restart his heart. That means the potion was wrong. He might have given you a wrong answer when you questioned him. Perhaps he had a heart weakness . . .’
‘Or we might have measured it wrong!’ Alaron snapped. Ramita gripped his arm, restraining him.
Corinea looked irritated, but restrained herself. ‘We did our best, Alaron.’
‘It’s a bloody waste!’
‘Two from nineteen,’ Corinea retorted. ‘Better than Baramitius.’
Alaron drew from Ramita’s calmness. ‘Sure. You’re right, I know.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘But he was as healthy as the others. And he was a good person.’
Ramita stroked his back, trying to comfort him. ‘It was always likely we would lose some,’ she said sadly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck. ‘Tomorrow’s candidate will be a success.’
‘I hope so.’ He bowed his head while Corinea draped a blanket over the dead novice. ‘How is the training going?’
‘Well enough.’ Ramita glanced a
t Master Puravai. For the past week she’d been leading the instruction of those novices who’d gained the gnosis, teaching them the basics of shielding. ‘But it could be better.’
Puravai chuckled. ‘They are Zain, and obedient. But some are struggling to adapt.’
Ramita snorted. ‘That’s a polite way of saying that nothing a mere woman says is worth listening to, as far as they are concerned. I tell them a thing, they look to Master Puravai to ensure it is true.’
Puravai looked a little hurt. ‘They are making progress. Some have managed to create this “mage-fire” already.’
‘How’s Yash doing?’ Alaron asked, yawning widely; he’d mostly been cooped up brewing potions with Corinea.
‘He’s better at burning things than shielding,’ Ramita said with a laugh. ‘Today he broke Haddo’s leg. He is very aggressive.’ In truth Yash was one of the few whose progress encouraged her. ‘The rest – well, they’re very timid,’ she added. That was frustrating when they needed warriors for the days to come.
‘Gateem set Haddo’s bones,’ Puravai put in. ‘He’s a skilled healer.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘It is interesting: most of them are displaying “affinities”, just like you did when I met you, being naturally drawn to certain gnosis and unable to reach others. Only a couple are so far showing the balance of mind to achieve what you and Ramita have in attaining all of the gnosis. But it’s early days.’
‘We’ve got fifteen more to give the ambrosia to, then Corinea and I can help with the training.’ Alaron looked properly exhausted, not just a little bleary-eyed from a late night or two.
Perhaps I should just let him sleep tonight, Ramita reflected, then her own greedy needs replied, He sleeps better after we have made love.
As usual, that voice won out.
*
‘Now!’