by David Hair
As he reconnected to the gnosis channels he had established normal human vision returned, then, slowly, his control of the body. It hadn’t been quite perfect, and now it would take days to recover full control.
Iwillkillyou Iwillkillyou Iwillkillyou …
‘No, you won’t, Magister Sordell,’ Tullesque replied with smug condescension. ‘You will do nothing of the sort. Instead, you will serve me as fervently as you have ever served Gyle, and you will be grateful to do so. Understood?’
Rutt could barely focus his eyes as he crawled to his knees. In the moments of unconsciousness Lassaigne’s bladder had relaxed and the smell of piss filled the tent. ‘I understand,’ he croaked, biting his tongue over the last syllable and convulsing in pain.
‘Excellent,’ the Grandmaster purred. ‘It’s good to have a clear understanding over the pecking order, don’t you think?’ He turned back to the charts. ‘So, how shall we set this trap?’
*
Elena Anborn crept to the ridgeline, hidden deep in the shadow, then edged through a gap so she could see the road below. Heat radiated from the rocks, through her leathers and into her flesh, though evening was coming. She was sweating uncomfortably with the exertion of maintaining a shield and the stress of remaining unseen. Below, the wagons under the Dorobon flag moved slowly. They were well-guarded, but most were these days. Security was tightening along all the roads, even here, where she’d not yet struck. Word from Mustaq al’Madhi suggested that this caravan included a royal courier.
Kazim ghosted into place beside her. ‘What do you think, Ella?’
‘It’s well guarded. Two magi this time – so perhaps there really is a courier in that carriage.’
‘There are two of us as well.’
‘I don’t like this one, Kaz. It’s the first one we’ve been told about, rather than finding on our own. That’s enough to make it smell bad.’
Kazim nodded slowly, and she was reminded that one of the many things she liked about him was his growing maturity and patience, the way he no longer rushed in thoughtlessly. ‘So we let it go?’
‘Perhaps. Just because it might be a trap doesn’t mean there’s nothing to learn. Let’s keep watching.’
They were probably halfway to Lybis, in a broken landscape of fractured hills and gritty flatlands. Spindly trees and tough, reedy grass tried to find purchase in the sun-baked soil, and roaming herds of small antelope and deer were stalked by lions and jackals. A string of tiny settlements lined the roads, tending plots of grain and small herds of hump-backed cattle. The lack of water kept the gatherings small and poor, among the poorest in Javon.
The shadows lengthened and the sun dived towards the horizon, and when nothing had come past their vantage in the half-hour since the wagon-train had gone, Kazim touched her shoulder. ‘I do not think there is any trap.’
‘Do you not?’ She placed her ear to the rock. ‘Listen.’
He followed her example, pressing his own ear to the cooling stone. After a moment he discerned a faint rhythmic thud reverberated distantly through the earth which resolved itself into the sound of horses, appearing through the haze on the road two hundred yards below: a dozen white-clad riders, their lance-pennants and shields bearing the red heart and silver dagger of the Kore. There were two non-knights with them, clad in Dorobon blue.
‘Kirkegarde,’ she whispered. ‘Soldiers of the Church of Kore.’ And that confirmed the rumour Mustaq had passed down, that the Dorobon’s Church knights had been sent this way. ‘Those are Dorobon magi with them.
‘What are they riding?’
She squinted – his eyesight was better than hers, she had to admit – and just made out that the Kirkegarde had what looked like some kind of ceremonial head-mounting on their horses’ heads. ‘Just horses, I think, with an armour spike?’
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s a horn. Are horned horses native to Yuros?’
‘No – I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps it’s some new kind of construct.’
‘Are there no ends to the perversions of you magi?’
She smiled grimly. ‘Probably not. So let’s keep our heads down.’
They pressed further into the shadows as the sun fell and the Kirkegarde moved onwards and out of sight. Light leached away, turning the brown earth and the blue skies to pale grey, and Luna rose in a waxing crescent, her pitted face spilling silver light across the ground, enough to just see by. This time they really were about to leave when she heard the second force rumble past. This time they had wagons of their own, and a cohort of plain red-cloaked mounted legionaries as well as many more of the Kirkegarde. And jolting along awkwardly among them, she could just make out a huge cloaked shape riding a cart-horse.
Mara Secordin … what’s she doing out here?
Beside her rode a man with blond hair, and though he wasn’t close enough to recognise, she knew that hair-style. Habits die hard, and she was willing to bet that one of the first things Rutt Sordell did when he took a new body would be to tailor that host to his own ways. So at least we know who we’re up against …
They slipped below the ridge and away, winding back through the empty land as the night fell around them. The only sounds were the distant, mournful yowls of the jackals. The skiff was hidden a mile away, their camp already set up. They lit a sheltered fire, boiled spiced lentils and then ate. They made love, then lay a little apart, letting the night air cool their sweat.
‘So, what will we do?’ Kazim whispered.
‘Spring the trap – but not the way they think.’
He caressed her forehead, ran fingers through her hair. ‘You knew some of them, didn’t you? I could tell by the way your breathing changed.’
He sees so much now. It was part of how their auras were beginning to blend. She’d given up trying to stop it; it just kept happening, faster than could be prevented. They were turning into something new: two bodies, one aura. Perhaps only physical separation could stop that? That was the last thing she wanted.
‘Rutt Sordell was there. He nearly killed me, back in Brochena. He stole my youth, for a time, using necromancy. I went grey – it took me months to recover. He’s a body-thief now, a little beetle.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘The one that crawled from your mouth?’
‘Yes, exactly. And Mara Secordin’s here too. She’s a monster, nothing more or less.’ She looked up at Luna’s silver arc. ‘I’d like to kill them both, if I can. It’s long overdue.’
‘You keep telling me not to let emotion colour my thinking,’ he chided her.
‘I know, but this is why we fight: to rid the world of people like Rutt and Mara.’
‘I understand. But how will we do it?’
She kissed his cheek and whispered, ‘As it happens, I’ve got a plan.’
26
The Sacred Lake
Hermetic Magic
Hermetic Magic, first codified by the Ascendant Bravius, is the application of the gnosis to manipulating living things, and was the second branch of the gnosis defined, after Thaumaturgy. Bravius identified four facets, based upon whether it was applied to plants or to living creatures, and whether that was used for healing or for altering or dominating those creatures. Thus a Hermetic Mage can be as diverse as a Healer, a Woodworker, a Beast-tamer or a Shapeshifter.
SOURCE: ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Lybis, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 929
14th month of the Moontide
Elena peered through the stone lattice at the crowds, mostly women, marching past below. There were thousands of them and the air was throbbing with their chanting and wailing. Many had lowered their bekira-shrouds, apparently so that they could rip clumps of their hair from their bleeding scalps as they wept. There was an air of mass hysteria about the whole procession as they displayed their sorrow and fury, baring and then pummelling or even lacerating their breasts, all the while wailing louder and louder. She’d seen such sights before when pro
minent Jhafi had died, but nothing had ever come near this. The sounds and sights etched themselves into her brain, made her skin tighten like drum skins and her ears throb. Every women marched with her left hand in the air, the Nesti crest etched in henna on the palm, or freshly carved in with a knife. ‘CERA! CERA!’ they shouted, and her name came echoing back from the surrounding mountains.
‘It’s been like this for days,’ Emir Mekmud bin al’Azhir told them. ‘Ever since the news came of the death of the Dorobon. We do not believe the lies they say, that she was a perversion. She has slain the Dorobon king. She is a hero-queen, like the legends tell: a martyr of the shihad. So they march: women mostly, but many men also. It has not abated, even though word has come that Cera Nesti is dead.’
Cera is dead. Elena could barely believe it, though all along she’d feared Gurvon would turn on her former charge. ‘Has there been rioting?’
‘No, except for a few hotheads and criminals who sought to use this situation to their own advantage. The people know that my sympathy lies with the queen as well, and I have not sought to hinder their demonstrations. They march round the lake seven times daily, as a sign of bonding themselves to Queen Cera. They burn effigies of Gurvon Gyle and call on me to rise against the Dorobon.’ He chuckled. ‘All quite peaceful, really.’
The emir was not a man from whom laughter was ever expected, but he had a subtle sense of humour. He was almost as large as Kazim, though his waist was thickening as his life became less about riding and raiding and more about ruling and judging. He was a man entirely composed of rough edges: he had a rugged, weatherbeaten face, stern eyebrows and a thick, unkempt beard. Elena had met Mekmud once before, when Olfuss still reigned, when he’d come to Brochena for some state occasion. She’d been impressed then by his zeal and intelligence, and his ability to hold a grudge. He wasn’t an immediately likable man, but he was a fearsome presence.
Lybis was one of the most isolated of the cities of Javon, not so much by distance as by the terrain. It lay high in the mountains of the western coastal range, around a sacred lake, and the road there was difficult, especially the latter stretches. Elena and Kazim had flown over it the previous day, and realised it would take Sordell’s party more than a week to get here: so plenty of time to arrange a welcome.
Lybis had a long history, mostly of banditry and cattle-raiding onto the plains. The castle had been considered impregnable until the Rimoni and Jhafi had combined forces and brought modern siege equipment to pummel the walls. The emir of the time had sued for peace; his mighty outer defences had been torn down and he had pledged never to rebuild them. No emir since then had broken that promise – but they had vastly strengthened the inner walls, the palace-keep where Elena now stood. Mekmud’s ancestry informed the way he viewed the world: as a hunting ground, where status, safety and security were won by the strong, the fierce and the cunning.
‘CERA! CERA! CERA!’
The rhythmic chant intruded again, drawing her attention back to the masses below as they continued to flow past. There were dozens of young women, bare to the waist and smeared in animal blood, being carried on the shoulders of their men-folk while they howled in grief and outrage. None of them would have ever even seen Cera Nesti, let alone met her.
I knew her better than anyone, and all I feel is … what?
‘Lady Elena, about your plans—’ the emir began.
She raised a hand to stop him, too overcome to deal with the practical just now. ‘Please, I wish … I need to be alone.’
Mekmud had probably never been spoken to so abruptly by a woman in his life – but this was not just a woman: this was the legendary Elena Anborn. The White Shadow, the Jhafi were apparently calling her. He closed his mouth and left. Kazim looked at him, then her, and followed.
She turned back to the lattice, letting the sounds from below wash over her.
Cera – oh Cera, what have they done to you?
They had not expected to find the city of Lybis in ferment, but a windskiff had flown in, part of the Dorobon courier network, with news that King Francis Dorobon was dead, murdered in his bed by Cera Nesti. There was a sordid story being circulated of Cera and her maid Tarita being safian lovers, but the Jhafi had simply refused to believe that: Cera was a heroine and a martyr and it didn’t matter what lie the Rondians used to justify their murder of her. Apparently a Regency Council had been formed in the name of the baby growing in Portia Tolidi’s belly. They’d condemned Cera and Tarita to death and carried out the sentence before Elena even heard the news.
The awful thing was, Elena did not know how to grieve. Cera had been like a younger sister during her time as bodyguard to the Nesti children, her favourite: smart, diligent, and passionate about statecraft and politics. When Olfuss had been murdered, Cera had become her younger brother’s regent and Elena her closest confidante. For a time it had seemed that nothing could stop them. They had won over Olfuss’ officials and advisors, defeated the Gorgio and driven Gurvon’s magi into hiding.
But then Gurvon did what Gurvon did: he polluted things, twisted and confused people until they acted against their nature, all the while believing they were doing the right thing. Cera was just an immature girl, besieged and tricked into doubting her closest counsellors and falling under the spell of her enemy.
When Cera betrayed Elena, handing her over in exchange for Gurvon’s pledge to protect her family from the Crusaders, she doubtless thought she was preserving her line. It was the kind of cold-hearted decision that Elena herself had coached her in, feeding her political books on statecraft written by some of the most ruthless minds in history, filling her head with the need to separate heart and head. The irony was that at that time, Elena herself had been losing her faith in such methods; she had been relearning love and compassion.
So how can I hate you, though I once said I’d kill you myself?
And how can I grieve, after what you did to me?
But she did grieve, here where she was alone. She slid to the ground, and let the tears flow. Her shoulders heaved as she tried to breathe through the horrible pain of visualising a faraway arena and her girl, alone in a crowd of hate, as the stones began to fly.
Whether Cera had been safian or not, she didn’t care. She’d known men who loved men and women who loved women and she wasn’t about to judge. The fringes of society, where she’d lived most of her life, attracted such people. They had their passions and cares, the same as anyone else’s, but different too, because they were always wary of exposure, judgement and condemnation. Living as a spy wasn’t so different: you concealed who you really were, took fleeting consolation when you could, and tried to maintain the façade of normality.
To Gurvon it’s just a move in the game. He doesn’t give a shit that two beautiful young women died horribly because of it. And the Sollan and Kore priests and Amteh Godspeakers who put their name to supporting it, damn them too. Who is their imaginary god to condemn love of any kind?
When at last she looked up again, the sounds had dimmed as the marchers had passed by and were heading out around the lake again. The streets below fell into the never-quite silence of city life. She wiped her eyes.
Kazim was leaning against the doorway to the small chamber, watching her. When she saw him he hurried to her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, bending over her, offering a hand up.
She slapped his hand away, not sure why except she was angry, now the sorrow had been wept away. ‘I’m fine,’ she snapped, clambering to her feet. ‘I said I wanted to be alone.’
‘I thought you wanted to kill her yourself?’ he said, his face puzzled.
‘Well I can’t now, can I?’
‘Is that why you’re upset?’
She whirled on him. ‘Of course it rukking isn’t! Imbecile!’
‘But if she did … that … then she deserves to die. It is the law.’
Her temper snapped. ‘Oh, is that right? Those dirty girls deserved to die, did they? Too bad she was sold into marriage to
a fucking idiot and made to do whatever he wanted! Too bad she was surrounded by poisonous bastards like Gurvon until she don’t know what wall to put her back against!’
‘But it’s the law … If every woman—’
‘Oh shut up! Tarita wasn’t safian! I know that for a fact! And I very much doubt Cera is either. And even if they were, why should they be killed?’
‘But the Kalistham says—’
‘The Kalistham says,’ she echoed with dripping sarcasm. ‘The Book of Kore does too: books written by poisonous old men who hate women and hate love because they’ll never know it and don’t want anyone else to put something ahead of their god. Everything pleasurable in life is anathema to them, because the only happiness they acknowledge is some paradise you can only reach by dying!’
Kazim’s mouth dropped open.
She had to fight not to slap him. ‘Do you love me?’ she rasped.
‘Huh?’
‘I said, do you love me? Simple question: you say you do all the damned time! Say it now!’
He blinked, wavered. ‘I … yes, I love you …’
‘Good, now take a stone and throw it at me.’
‘What?’
‘Go on!’ she looked around, spied a small pile of stones left over from a recent repair, flicked her hand and made one sail into Kazim’s hand. He caught it, staring.
‘Ella, what are you doing?’
‘Go on, killer! Throw the rukking stone at me. I’ve lain with women, two of them. Once when I was a stupid college girl wondering who I was, because my sister told me I was a safian because I liked sword-fighting and archery: so when a girl who really was safian made advances, I tried it. It wasn’t my thing. But still, when a mission called for me to seduce a target’s wife, I did it. She was good, too: she wet my purse.’ She glared furiously at him. ‘Now, throw the fucking stone!’
He dropped it, backed away and fled.