“Yes, he does.” Rising, Munayair stood beside Bast. He stared up at her in astonishment.
Munayair couldn’t help but relish the fear in Nastaran’s eyes. She grabbed Sakihan. “Sh—she’s not enthralled like the other one!”
Sakihan whispered, “Impossible.”
“I told you—I said something weren’t right about her!” Nastaran shook him. He said nothing, staring. “Mage or no mage,” she hissed, “I’m out of here!” She fled and Sakihan followed, after another look around. Mehan watched them go, eyebrows furrowed.
“Oh no, our friends are sad,” Anjita said, watching the mercenaries flee.
Mehan lowered his hand and let out a breath. The dagger shook. He spoke to Munayair, thin chest heaving. “You have your chelka?”
Eying him in silence, she touched her pocket.
He nodded. “We need to hurry,” he said. “Nastaran’s a coward, but Sakihan is not. They’ll be after us soon.”
“Why are you helping us?” Munayair asked.
“I need your help, you need mine,” he said. “The only way out of here is together.”
After a moment of contemplation, she turned and held out a hand to Anjita.
“Naya, you made a new friend!” Anjita grinned as she stood.
Munayair forced a smile. “Jita, it’s time to go to the boat.”
“Oh, finally!” Anjita said. She squeezed Munayair’s hand. “What a relief.”
Each word hit Munayair like a blow. “How do I break the spell?” she asked.
Mehan shook his head. “They say only perfect trust can uproot Shivne-Mage’s hold, but I don’t believe there’s such a thing.”
They turned to the flap, but a frantic shout interrupted them. Wait!” Bast struggled upright. “You can’t leave me.”
Anjita’s smile darkened. “Naya, I don’t think I like that man.”
“There’s no time,” Mehan said, reaching for the flap. “This diversion won’t last forever. I’d estimate we have only a quarter of a bell left before the mercenaries regain control of their horses. We need to be gone from this camp before that happens.”
“What about outside of camp?” Bast gulped. “Have you told them about the dangers? This is no ordinary grove. It’s a maze you could spend your life solving—not that your life will be long, once Shivne-Mage gets onto your trail. And he will.” He glared. “What was your plan, lad? Tell me you have one.”
Mehan eyed the boatman. “We can’t trust him,” he said. “It’s risky enough trying to escape the mages without bringing their own man—”
Bast slammed his fists down. “I’m not their man! I’m here for sticking up for you, remember?”
Anjita’s smile faltered, eyes becoming flinty as she looked at the boatman. “I definitely don’t like him,” she muttered.
“He has a point,” Munayair said. “Do you have a plan?” Bast nodded encouragingly.
Mehan avoided her eyes, the tips of his ears reddening. “I—I have a plan for escaping the maze, but I can’t tell you more.”
“Why not?” Munayair asked. His gaze dropped, and his jaw jutted mulishly. With a sigh, she turned to Bast. “Well?”
“I need to show you something.” His eyes flicked towards Mehan. “Come closer.”
“You can’t trust him,” Mehan whispered.
“And she can trust you?” Bast shot back.
Munayair’s eyes never left Bast’s as she stepped close to him. The other two waited by the door. He hesitated, huffed out a laugh. “Never show it to an adept—Nonna’s first rule. And here I’m ready to break it.” He held out his left arm.
Munayair caught her breath, shoved his sleeve back. A mark stood out against his wrist, the same as the ones left behind in the village. “Who gave you yours?” she whispered.
“It’s a tradition that’s been in my grandmother’s family for centuries,” he said. “The oldest child is given a mark on their thirteenth birthday. Along with a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo warnings and promises I couldn’t remember if I tried.” Munayair’s heart pounded in her throat. She searched his face as he took her hand, turning it palm-up to display her mark, and spoke for her ears alone. “In truth are all things set free.”
“I wouldn’t listen to him,” Mehan warned from the doorway.
Munayair tore her eyes away from Bast and stepped back. “Cut him loose,” she said.
In silence, Mehan approached and sawed through Bast’s trusses. He sighed and rubbed his sore wrists, then bent and shoved the ropes into his pocket.
“He’s your headache then.” Mehan glanced outside. “Come on.” He held the door open as they ducked through, scanning the camp. The commotion had only increased as Sorath fell, and the screams of men and horses echoed eerily through the trees. Munayair pressed a sleeve against her nose to mask the smell of smoke, holding in panic.
“Hold on a tick.” Bast bent over the pile of confiscated items by the tent door. He came up with hip flask in one fist and drum in the other. Without further ado, he unscrewed the cap with his molars and took a long swallow. Munayair’s heart sank. A scoff escaped Anjita’s lips, and Bast’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look at any of them.
“Try to look blank.” Mehan glanced around. “No one will bother us if they think you’re in Shivne’s thrall.”
As Mehan led the way through the confusion of smoke and running, Bast stepped on Munayair’s heels more than once. Every few steps he took another long swig from the flask. “Listen, kid.” He grabbed Munayair’s elbow and hissed in her ear. “That boy isn’t what you think.”
Keeping her eyes on Mehan, Munayair tugged away. “I promised I would bring him back.”
Bast hauled her to a stop. “Promised who?”
A body shoved them apart. Anjita glared. “I really don’t like you. You’re grabby.”
Head bent, Mehan hurried back to join them. “What’s going on?” he hissed. “We need to keep moving.”
Anjita glanced around as a patrol of mercenaries thundered past. “Where’s the boat?”
“Not far,” Munayair said.
Sorath peeked over the treetops, igniting the undersides of the thunderstorm looming overhead. Smoke from flaming tents streamed across the sky, tinting everything a bloody shade of red. Horses ran like shadows among the chaos, trailing ropes and screaming.
“This isn’t right,” Anjita cried, whirling. “Take me back, take me back now! I demand to atone for my crimes!” Bast clapped a hand over her mouth, swearing as she bit him. Her voice rose above the chaos. “Shivne! SHIVNE!”
Hastily, Munayair called up her witchlight and set it drifting in front of Anjita’s eyes. She went limp, staring into the light. Bast grunted as most of her weight rested on his shoulder. “It won’t last long,” Munayair said. “We need to get out of sight.”
Mehan nodded. “Where we’re going isn’t far.”
With Bast half-carrying Anjita, Mehan led them through the camp into a small tent pitched against a bamboo palisade. Inside was a barricaded door. A white-haired guard knelt with a sword across his knees, eyes closed.
“This is the safest place we can be,” Mehan whispered. “The mercenaries won’t approach this tent after dark.”
“With good reason.” Bast leaned Anjita against the wall, where she gaped up at the witchlight. “I’m nowhere near drunk enough for this.”
Taking Anjita’s hand, Munayair recalled her witchlight. Anjita’s eyes refocused and she smiled. “Is this Tsai-chuul?” she said. “Surely justice will be done here.”
“Yes, justice.” Munayair repeated impatiently, looked at the guard.
“He’s here to protect us, not the other way around,” Mehan said, correctly interpreting her glance.
“This initiate has been training under Taichar-Mage, remember?” Munayair said to Anjita. “He’s here to guard us until the execution.”
“Oh, yes!” Anjita giggled. “The execution. I can’t say I’m looking forward to that bit. But what a relief to know I won’t
go unpunished for my sins!”
Munayair swallowed a lump in her throat and took Anjita’s hand. “Yes, it’s a relief,” she said. “Stay close to me, okay?”
Mehan unwedged the bamboo pole barricading the door and it creaked open a handspan. Foul air stole out, the smell of unwashed bodies kept in the heat. Munayair gagged and Bast clapped a hand over his mouth. His gasp echoed. “Youn-young master, please think about this.”
“I have thought about it.” Mehan glanced around. “Don’t scream.”
The door creaked open.
Munayair tasted blood, and Bast trembled on the brink of flight. Even Anjita’s eyes were wide. Waiting behind the door stood ranks of dead-eyed people. The dim light threw their hollow faces into relief. Dressed in the remnants of plain village wear, most of them were barefoot. They did not move—not so much as a glance towards the newcomers.
“They’re harmless right now.” Mehan stepped into the packed room, avoiding the touch of cold flesh. “We’ll be safe until sundown.”
“The sun is already going down! We need to leave,” Bast snapped from the doorway. “We should never have come here.”
“Spirits, what has been done to them?” Munayair brought her witchlight up to a nearby woman. Her face hung slack, and she didn’t blink at the light shining in her eyes. Her arms dangled and she swayed hypnotically, side to side. Munayair gulped and stepped back.
“They’re dead!” The words exploded from Bast. He closed the door, back pressed to the wall. “Worse. The mages tear their souls out and leave a shell behind.”
Munayair swallowed nausea. “The missing?”
“Once,” Bast’s sick expression mirrored hers. “Now they’re chouloi—soulless—slaves to the mages. They remember no love, pain, or fear.”
“It’s for the greater good.” Anjita spoke with great conviction, but a tiny furrow had appeared between her eyebrows.
Bast shook his head. “Didn’t do much good for them. The mercenaries call the chouloi the lucky ones. They don’t know what’s happened to them or what they’re being forced to do.” He took a final gulp and hurled the flask away with a resigned expression.
“Forced to do?” Munayair’s stomach swooped sickeningly.
“If Shivne wants these villagers to do something, it must be right.” Anjita sighed, momentary doubt dissolving. “They’re so lucky to serve him—I wish I weren’t a blasphemous witch, so I could too.” The other three glanced at each other.
“What are the chouloi forced to do?” Munayair asked again.
“They are Taichar-Mage’s wolf pack,” Mehan said. “If ordered, they’ll tear apart anything that gets in their way, including their families.”
Bast’s face twisted. “We’re going to die tonight, one way or another.”
“What about our magic?” Munayair asked. “What can you tell me about them that I can use?”
“Magic won’t touch them.” Mehan spoke in a rote drone. “Unless controlled, they are no more harmful than dolls. They dislike sunlight and can’t use weapons. There’s only one protection.” He fetched an amulet from under his tunic, turning it so it flashed in the light.
Wearily, Bast nodded. “They won’t touch you if you’re wearing one.” Munayair’s eyes darted to his bare neck. His jaw hardened and he turned away, snapping, “Why are we still yammering? We have to get out of here before sundown.”
“How do the mages control them?” she asked.
Mehan answered. “Another amulet, which Taichar-Mage carries. It’s death for a mercenary to even touch it.”
“I’ve never heard of amulets like these.”
“No one has,” Mehan said. “They’ve been planning this war for a long time.”
Munayair cocked her head. “So why leave? If it’s hopeless, why run from your beef and magic schooling?”
He shrugged. “It’s simple math. As an initiate, I’ll become a landless public servant. Indentured to Tsai-chuul and making a pittance. I’ve spent the past five moons learning as much as I can about the mages’ plans. Once I escape, I’ll barter my way to Al-Thina, seek audience with the regent, and sell him my knowledge a piece at a time. Once the Bui-tarans attack, the generals will pay me anything I want—money, land, titles. Whatever I can get so I am never powerless again.” His mouth tightened and he looked away.
Anjita nodded, impressed even through the thrall. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“You’d be surprised what you can learn, living in a stable,” he said with the ghost of a smile.
A soft sound drifted to Munayair’s ears. She turned in time to see a streak of white, like moonlit smoke, hurtle at a chouloi woman. It bounced away to land on the floor. Inventive curses flooded the air, and Munayair gasped. She hurried to kneel beside the misty shape, who looked around angrily. Chanda’s face had grown even more gaunt than before—almost skeletal. Her eyes were sunken holes in the darkness. The others turned in surprise to watch.
“Are you all right?” Munayair whispered.
Eyebrows lowering, Chanda gestured. “I’m mad enough to wring diamonds from sand, is all.”
Her body swayed a few paces away, staring dully into the middle distance. The contrast between slack-faced body and determined spirit made Munayair’s stomach lurch.
“I can’t get in! I bounce off, like there’s no room left.” Chanda scowled. “If this lump would try—but all she does is gawp like an oaf.”
“Naya?” Anjita called. “What are you doing?”
“Keep it down, would you?” Bast complained as the others approached through the chouloi.
“Mehan?” Chanda shrank back. “Oh gods, he can’t see me like this.”
Already too late. “Who is this?” Mehan asked, frowning at Chanda’s dead-eyed face. No spark of recognition gleamed as his dark eyes met those of his sister.
“Chanda,” Munayair said. “Your sister. I met her in the stable.”
“Met her?” he repeated. “You mean her spirit. You don’t actually believe those old superstitions, do you?”
She spread her hands. “I am Sayakhunii.”
“If you don’t believe in souls, what do you think Shivne did to them?” Bast wondered.
Shaking his head, Mehan stepped away. “Disrupted channels in the liver. Or introduced a toxin into their system. Magic simply exploits natural processes . . .”
“Five gods.” Chanda eyes were wide and her mouth hung ajar. “I know a couple of those words.”
“She’s here now,” Munayair murmured. “Listening to you.”
His head jerked and he tried to smile condescendingly. Fear shone in his eyes. “I—I don’t—” She tugged him to his knees. Took Chanda’s misty hand and his clammy one and pressed them together. Chanda’s eyes widened, and both spirit and boy shivered. Mehan jumped to his feet, wide-eyed, wiping his hands on his trousers.
“You felt her?” Munayair asked.
“Of course not, it’s utter nonsense.” He clenched his hands into fists and turned away.
“Mehan.” A fire kindled behind Chanda’s eyes. “What have they done? You used to be soft, now you’re ... stone.”
“What do you want to say to her, Mehan?” Munayair asked. “I can help you hear her, if you let me.”
His breath came hard. “I am not sure I believe that I even have a sister.”
“Tell him this, miss.” Chanda spoke in a harsh tone, eyes never straying from her brother’s face. “Tell him you know who gave our names to the mages.”
Frowning, Munayair repeated the words. Mehan’s shoulders tightened and he glared. “Everybody knows that,” he snapped. “It was Goodman Mishra, of course. He’s always hated me because of my father, because I made his precious inn look like a refuge for Bui-taran mongrels.” He bit out the words so precisely, it was obvious this was an insult he had heard many times.
“No.” Munayair shook her head, still echoing Chanda. “It was Journeyer Tersic.” Her voice shook and she glanced up at Anjita’s deepening frown.
/>
“What?” Mehan whispered. His gaze was riveted on Munayair, blind to the pale ghost sitting beside her. “Why would she do that?”
“It was either us or one of her precious journeyers,” Chanda said, rough and caustic. “Radhan told me, before we were taken. All those magic tests she did with us, the promises—they were a trick to find out our potential. To make us a more tempting prize. She found out the mages wanted twins.”
Munayair felt sick, but she repeated the words dutifully. Mehan sank to his haunches, head lowered, and said nothing for a while.
“The sun is set,” Bast reported in a detached tone, as if he had left fear behind. No one paid him any attention.
Munayair laid a hand on Mehan’s shoulder. “Isn’t that proof enough I’m telling the truth?” she said. “You said perfect trust could destroy Shivne’s hold.”
“I also said there’s no such thing.” He gnawed on his lower lip. Turning to Munayair, he said, “You claim to see her—actually see her?”
Munayair nodded. Bast and Anjita watched. “I’ve been able to see spirits since I was a little girl.”
His dark eyebrows lowered. “But then you’re—”
A cold voice spoke outside the door. “Report to me the instant you have word. I want him caught this time, no excuses.”
Mehan gasped and Chanda wailed, flickering out of sight. Ice water flooded Munayair’s veins. They all knew that voice.
“Shivne-Mage,” Anjita chortled, taking a step towards the entrance.
“Back, get back—” Bast clapped a hand over her mouth. She kicked and squirmed, making such a ruckus that Munayair cringed. Bast was forced to release her.
She glared at him and cried, “What are you doing?”
“Shivne wants us to hide from him. It’s a—a game we’re playing,” he said desperately, tugging at her arm and casting a beseeching glance at Munayair. “If he sees us, we lose.”
Anjita frowned while the others pushed and pulled at her, staring at the door in fright. At any moment, Shivne-Mage could walk inside and see them. “I suppose it makes sense,” she said finally, allowing herself to be dragged into the shadows behind the chouloi. “He wouldn’t want to see blasphemous witches.”
Ink Adept Page 28