Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  Alaron felt each loss like a separate weight in the pit of his stomach.

  He heard the slap of leather soles on the steps and sighed. He didn’t want company. Even when he saw it was Ramita, he had to force a smile onto his face.

  ‘Namaste, husband,’ she said softly.

  He mumbled a reply, and held her hand when she sat beside him, but he didn’t look at her. He was aware that he’d gone into a shell since the attack. He’d thrown himself into the repairs and done everything he could to speed the healing, but when he’d resumed lessons, the joy was gone. He and Ramita had found peace and sanctuary here at Mandira Khojana, and they’d repaid that gift by bringing death in their wake. The guilt piled up on his shoulders and bowed him down: if only he’d taught them faster. If only they’d set a watch. If only he’d reacted sooner . . .

  ‘Al’Rhon, Das is asking to play with you.’

  Dasra liked to play loud and boisterous games with Alaron before dinner; they’d been fun . . . until the attack. Now he felt so exhausted and depressed by the end of the day he struggled to rouse himself. ‘I’m too tired,’ he murmured.

  ‘Come anyway. He wants to play Hoop.’

  No – not that. No.

  ‘Come,’ she said, wagging her head expectantly, ‘your son needs you.’

  ‘He’s not my son.’

  ‘Yes, he is: a boy that pig-headed, he must be yours.’ She stood, pulling at him until he faced her. ‘Come!’

  ‘Mita, what happened to you that night?’ He’d asked before and she’d not answered, but he needed to know. This for that. If she wanted him to come and play with Das, she could answer his question: they were both traders’ children, after all.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she admitted. ‘I have told you of Darikha-ji, the Warrior-Queen. It is said that when the battle against the rakas-demons went badly, a great rage rose inside her and she became the ogress Dar-Kana. She is a monster who rips the heads from her victims and drinks from the fountain of their blood.’

  Alaron raised his eyebrows. ‘Bloodthirsty.’

  ‘Very. Dar-Kana is the most terrifying being in the heavens. When she becomes enraged, the foundations of the world are shaken – if she cannot be appeased, Urte will shake itself apart and time will end.’ She looked up at him, completely serious. ‘When Alyssa Dulayne threatened my son, I became Dar-Kana. I was filled with power and rage, out of control, and all I wanted was to kill and kill and kill.’

  She sounded so afraid of herself that Alaron forgot his own problems, and put his arm around her. ‘But you did stop,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re still you.’

  ‘For now. When Alyssa fell, the rage left me.’ Ramita shuddered. ‘But only just.’

  He reached out and pulled her against him, for the first time in a month holding her openly, fully. They’d hardly touched each other in weeks; their loving had become furtive since the attack, shy groping in the dark, fulfilling a physical need but no longer revelling in it. He’d thought it was just him, but for the first time Alaron realised how deeply upset Ramita was too. He took her head in his hands, tilted it up and kissed her, pressed his mouth to hers until she responded, until it felt natural, then he whispered, ‘I’m glad to have a fierce Lakh wife to protect us.’

  ‘But you don’t understand. It was like insanity—’

  ‘I do understand: you fight to protect those you love, and so do I. Both you and Das, and Nasatya too. I love you all, and I always will.’

  Her eyes were gazing into his as if to see through him until she glimpsed the truth, and at last he saw them lighten, the weight of mourning lifting. It was right to grieve, but life continued. He turned his eyes to the marker-stone. Goodbye, Cymbellea. I never knew you as well as I thought. I never understood you, but I loved you anyway. I’ll miss you always.

  Then he turned back to his living, breathing, loving wife. ‘So let’s go and find our son.’

  *

  When they got to the courtyard, Dasra was playing catch with Yash, giggling every time he missed. When Yash saw their interlocked fingers he grinned. There were others lingering in the courtyard, haunting it like the ghosts of their friends who’d died here. A few looked up, but most looked away. In the corner sat Tegeda, the Hadishah woman. She alone was unChained and permitted to walk freely, on Ramita’s word.

  Dasra beamed. ‘Dada!’ He threw Alaron the ball clumsily; he might still be too small to catch it and throw it, but he was desperate to try. Alaron drew the ball to himself with gnosis, then tossed it back. Dasra reached, missed, chortled and tottered after it as it bounced away. Then Ramita reached out with kinesis and grabbed the child and they played, passing Das about them as if he were a ball as well, while the boy giggled and shrieked happily.

  ‘He’ll be too excited to eat,’ Ramita said at last, bundling him into her arms. ‘I’ll go and feed him, put him to bed.’ She threw Alaron a meaningful glance. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she called, and sashayed away.

  Yash punched his arm mischievously. ‘Hey,’ he called out, ‘anyone feel like a game of Hoop?’

  For a moment everyone in the courtyard was silent, and Alaron wondered if this was a step too far, too soon, then Aprek stood up. ‘I’m in.’ Alaron smiled at him gratefully. Then others rose, one by one: Gateem. Fenan, who’d almost died. Bhati, Joa, Vekati.

  Yash let out a stream of words in Keshi, and the monks nodded slowly. He turned back to Alaron. ‘Boss, let’s play for Sindar and Kohli and the rest, yes? All who died.’

  ‘That sounds right.’

  Eschewing the gnosis, playing as children in the streets of Yuros did, they barged and hollered as they scrapped over the ball until they were laughing again, and more and more joined in until, to a loud cheer, Master Puravai himself entered the courtyard and threw himself into the game like a young man, and then Tegeda was in there too. For a moment her presence made the young men a little wary, but none demurred, and before it was as if she had always been one of them. As they played, a feeling of togetherness grew, and the laughter never dimmed.

  Finally it was too dark to play and they all collapsed in the middle of the courtyard, arms draped round each other’s shoulders, sweating and joking in a motley mix of Keshi and Rondian.

  Aprek grinned at Alaron. ‘Boss, you better wash if you want a friendly wife tonight – you sweat like a hog!’

  ‘She likes me this way,’ Alaron chuckled, knowing the opposite to be true. He fielded more teasing comments and gave a few back, basking in the camaraderie.

  ‘Hey, sister,’ Yash said to Tegeda, in Rondian, ‘where are you from?’

  The young woman, sitting apart with her back against a pillar, hesitated then replied, ‘Near Gujati.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ Yash said, and his face brightened. He spoke to her more fully in Lakh, and when Tegeda answered in kind they smiled shyly at each other, making the other novices chorus, ‘Ooooh,’ and look at Master Puravai meaningfully.

  ‘I only said that I have been to her city,’ Yash explained, a little defensively. ‘You idiots want to make a thing of it?’

  ‘Idiots,’ Tegeda echoed, and when they smiled at each other again the rest of the novices nudged each other.

  Master Puravai stood. ‘To the bath! And then you may eat – Evening Prayer can be late tonight!’ He clapped his hands, then looked at Alaron and winked. ‘You go and see your wife.’

  *

  Alaron sat back in the half-barrel, luxuriating in the hot water. Ramita was on the couch, leafing through the religious text or whatever it was that Master Puravai had gifted them at their wedding.

  ‘You should have stayed and played Hoop,’ he told her, still exhilarated by the togetherness he’d felt with the surviving novices. ‘You don’t have to do . . . you know, women’s things . . . all the time.’

  Ramita looked up, cocked her head seriously. ‘I do the things that give me pleasure, the same as you.’

  ‘But you missed out – it felt really special.’

  ‘That’s nic
e. But I don’t wish to be bowled over by rowdy boys chasing a ball.’

  ‘But you could’ve practised using the gnosis.’

  ‘I did: while cooking: I can now chop onions without touching the knife and keep the hot-plate at the right temperature using just Fire-gnosis. Can you?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then don’t tell me what I should be doing.’

  ‘Sorry. I just mean that I think you missed out.’

  She waggled her head and peered intently into her book.

  ‘I mean, you’re capable of so much. Things your mother never dreamed of—!’

  ‘But I esteem my mother.’ She put the book down. ‘I know what you are saying, Al’Rhon. You think I should concentrate on these new things life has given me – and I do: I learn your magic and I read – you have no idea what that would mean in my family! And I live in an all-male monastery where I am given respect as a woman; I’m proud of that too. But the things that give me most pleasure are the things my mother raised me to do. When I cook, especially, in the ways she taught me, I feel her alongside me, and her mother too, my grandmother. It is like I’m speaking with them, and that makes me happy because I miss them very much. Do you understand?’

  He bowed his head, feeling stupid. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticise.’

  ‘I know. You just speak without thinking sometimes. I can live with that. Now get dry! Dinner is almost ready.’

  He clambered out and grabbed a towel. ‘What are you reading, anyway?’

  Her face lit up. ‘This is a very famous book from southern Lakh. It is so wonderful, to be able to read! Antonin taught me: no one teaches a woman such things in Lakh, but I think it is quite as magical as the gnosis!’

  ‘No one teaches a poor girl in Yuros either,’ he told her. ‘You’re certainly luckier than most.’ He began rubbing himself down, peering at the tome in her hands. ‘So, what’s this famous book?’

  ‘It is called the Pamca Sutra: this means The Five Threads. It was written by the gods, to teach men and women how to live their lives.’

  ‘Actually written by the gods?’ He pulled a dubious face. It’s just a religious text.

  ‘Of course! The gods created writing, and this was the first book ever written,’ she went on, in that endearingly certain way she had whenever she spoke about her beliefs. The more preposterous a notion seemed to him, the more absolute she was. ‘The Pamca Sutra was written by Vishnarayan, the Protector, and his wife Laksimi.’

  ‘I can’t read Omali writing,’ he admitted, ‘but the pictures looked religious.’

  ‘That’s just the first thread: the sutra called “Sarvajanika-Adami”. It means “Public Man”. In this thread, Vishnarayan tells how a man must be in public life: honest, virtuous, courageous and devout, and many other virtues too. Then there is the “Adami-niji”, the “Private Man”, which tells a man how to act with his family. You should read it: it reminds men not to dictate to their wives how to live, for example.’

  Alaron felt suitably abashed. He finished drying and looked about for his clothes.

  ‘You have a good physique,’ Ramita told him.

  He looked down, surprised. ‘I suppose I do, now.’ There were a lot of new muscles, the fruit of hours of exercise here at Madira Khojana. ‘So this book is just advice for men?’

  ‘Oh no, the other three books are written by Vishnarayan’s wives.’

  ‘Wives?’

  ‘He has three, although they are in fact the same being. Just like Parvasi-ji, Laksimi is one being and also three beings. The first aspect is Laksimi herself, who is the model of all wives. She wrote the “Patni” sutra, the “Wife” thread. This teaches a woman how to be a good wife, to be dutiful, to be loving, and to cook well. It has many recipes.’

  ‘A holy cookbook?’

  ‘All things are holy, Al’Rhon. Including cooking. This is why my cooking is divine,’ she added, waggling her head. ‘This is an old Lakh joke.’

  ‘I do love your cooking,’ he conceded, pulling on his nightshirt.

  ‘The second of the wives’ threads is written by Padma-ji,’ Ramita continued. ‘She is the Mother aspect. Her thread is the “Matritva” sutra and it teaches a woman about bearing and raising children. This is what I am currently reading.’

  ‘Okay. What’s the fifth thread about?’ he asked, because he was clearly going to be told anyway.

  ‘It is called the “Khusi” sutra, and it is written by the aspect of Laksimi-ji named Kamini, Goddess of Beauty.’ She glanced up with a teasing look in her eyes. ‘It is about how to make love.’

  That stopped him. ‘Really? It’s a holy love manual too?’

  ‘I thought that would get your attention.’ She smiled pertly. ‘What is more holy than the making of babies, hmm? So, are you ready for dinner now?’

  ‘No, I’m ready to look at your book!’

  ‘Ha! You are indeed a male. Well, I’m thinking tonight that I’d like to try this.’ She flipped to a page near the back with a large coloured woodcut on it. He looked, then looked again and his face began to radiate heat. The picture showed a man and a woman, lying entwined about each other. It looked . . . possible . . . if one had very few inhibitions. ‘What does that say underneath?’

  ‘It says “let love engulf you, and hasten the coming rains”.’ She giggled. ‘The “coming rains” means—’

  ‘I get it.’ He reached for her and she darted away.

  ‘After dinner. Not before!’

  As they ate, everything became right between them again. The gloom at the loss of Cym had been lifted by the friendship of the novices, and the love of his wife, and with that, desire had also returned.

  I won’t forget you, Cym, but I can’t grieve for ever.

  Somewhere out in the world, Malevorn Andevarion held the Scytale of Corineus; and Huriya Makani had his other adopted son captive. Outside, Cym’s grave-marker was vanishing beneath the snows again. But the snows would lift, and he was ready to live again, and do what must be done.

  *

  Ramita considered the proposition, while those around the table waited expectantly: Master Puravai, patient, neutral; Corinea, who’d already made her feelings known, full of disapproving, warning looks; Alaron trusting in her.

  ‘I believe it is worth the risk,’ she said at last. ‘If Tegeda is willing, I believe she has the right to try. I also believe that she is sincere.’

  Corinea let out her breath with a hiss. ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ she began, then stopped when Puravai raised a hand. She gave the old monk an impatient look. ‘Tegeda thinks Ramita’s an Omali goddess! It’s ridiculous—!’

  It was embarrassing, because it was true. Though Tegeda, born a by-blow of a Hadishah mage, had been raised with knowledge of both Omali and Amteh faiths, as a Hadishah she’d renounced the Oma as false gods – until she saw Ramita defeat Alyssa Dulayne.

  Now she claimed to wish to serve only Ramita.

  ‘She seems genuine,’ Alaron said cautiously.

  ‘She’s a trained assassin who came here to kill us,’ Corinea snapped. ‘Her group couldn’t do it by force, so now she’s infiltrating us – you damned children are so trusting it makes me want to slap you! Open your eyes!’

  ‘I too believe Tegeda is genuine,’ Puravai put in.

  Corinea threw up her hands in disgust. ‘Are all Zains this naïve?’

  ‘I am a market-girl from Aruna Nagar,’ Ramita replied. ‘I am not easy to fool.’

  ‘We’re not so gullible as all that, Lillea – have you even spoken to her?’ Puravai asked. ‘She’s no fanatic. In fact, she’s an interesting case: she had no idea she was a mage until she manifested, and then she barely escaped stoning as a witch.’

  ‘Because the Hadishah rescued her! She owes them her life,’ Corinea countered sharply. ‘She should be locked up with the rest of the prisoners.’

  ‘She’s caused no trouble at all,’ Puravai noted.

  ‘So far. And that’s apart from the fights betw
een the novices trying to impress her,’ Corinea added acerbically.

  ‘That’s not her fault.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I thought you lot were sworn to celibacy, but she leads them on—’

  ‘She does not!’ Ramita countered. ‘The young men just don’t know how to deal with her.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Corinea exclaimed, dripping sarcasm. ‘They’re all carrying on like love-struck boys . . . Oh, wait, that’s what they are!’

  Puravai rapped his fingers tetchily, the closest anyone ever got to seeing him angry. ‘They have been spoken to about that. You must remember that most of them haven’t even seen a women for much of their lives – and they are young, regardless of their vows. And they are as yet only novices; they have not yet taken their full vows. They may choose never to do so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alaron broke in, looking at Puravai.

  ‘Well, Brother Longlegs: they are hardly Zain novices any more, are they? Mandira Khojana teaches the creed of Attiya Zai, the path to attain moksha. But we have given these young men the gnosis and a new purpose: defeating evil. You have been training them for this task and you wish them to leave very soon, to seek your son and the Scytale. So who are they now? They are a group, but they have no identity, no structure, no rules, no formal goals or creed. They are confused, my friends, and this matter of Tegeda is part of that.’

  Ramita hadn’t been thinking of anything beyond the recovery of Nasatya, but the Master was right. They had taken from these boys their futures – at least, the futures they had expected and believed in – but in so doing, they had created something that would, if the Gods were kind, endure beyond their immediate goals.

  Alaron looked thoughtful. ‘Actually,’ he started, ‘I have thought about this. Two years ago, when Cym and Ramon and I were hunting the Scytale, we talked about just what we’d do with the artefact if we ever found it. Of course, we never really believed we’d find it . . . then Jeris Muhren and the General joined us, and it started to become a bit more possible. Anyway, we agreed that we’d use the Scytale to create a force for good; that was the whole point of all this.’ He looked a bit embarrassed as he said, ‘We decided we’d call ourselves the Ordo Pacifica: the Order of Peace, but I’m not so sure any more. I’m the only one of the original group . . . left.’ The pain in his voice reminded Ramita that he didn’t know the fate of his friend Ramon, but he feared the worst.