And she had the strangest feeling she had seen the woman before, somewhere in the waking world, but she could not quite place it.
“The star is the key to the crystal,” Caina whispered.
The spirit of the Moroaica’s father had given her that prophecy after Corvalis’s death. Those words had haunted her ever since, burned into her mind. Slowly she had been able to uncover their meaning. The “star” meant the Star of Iramis that Callatas wore on a chain about his neck, one of the three relics of the regalia of the Princes of Iramis that he needed to work his Apotheosis.
The “crystal”, according to the Emissary of the Living Flame that Caina had met at Silent Ash Temple, meant this fountain. More precisely, she suspect it meant the eight crystalline figures atop the plinth, the woman and the children.
But why? Why were they important? Just what was this fountain?
Caina didn’t know. It was more than a little frustrating.
A voice cut into her thoughts.
“The Moroaica.”
It was Kylon’s voice, but the words had a sardonic, mocking drawl to them, a tone Kylon had never taken with her. Caina turned and saw Kylon of House Kardamnos walking towards her. He looked a little younger and far less grim, the way he had looked before Thalastre’s death and the battle of Marsis. The way he had looked, she realized, on the day they had met and they had tried to kill each other. He wore the gray leather armor of a Kyracian stormdancer, a cloak the green-blue of the western sea streaming from his shoulders, a sword of storm-forged steel on his left hip.
His eyes were smokeless flame, hot and bright, painting the skin of his face with fiery light.
The image standing before her was not really Kylon. The spirit wore Kylon’s form because it reflected her subconscious thoughts. Or, more likely, the djinni had chosen to wear Kylon’s form simply to rattle her.
“Samnirdamnus,” said Caina.
Samnirdamnus, Knight of Wind and Air and djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign, stopped a dozen paces away, the sea-colored cloak rippling in the wind. He had spoken in Caina’s dreams ever since she had come to Istarinmul, and she was still not sure why. Callatas had bound the djinni to guard his Maze, the labyrinth protecting the entrance to his private laboratory, so Caina supposed Samnirdamnus wanted to be free of Callatas and take vengeance upon the Grand Master.
But the djinni wanted something else, she was sure. Something that he thought that she had, though Caina did not know what. Samnirdamnus liked to speak in cryptic riddles, but his counsel and warnings had saved her life more than once.
“The Moroaica,” said Samnirdamnus, a mocking smile on Kylon’s face.
Caina felt a chill. “Why do you call me that? The Moroaica is dead.”
“You have the right to the title,” said Samnirdamnus. “Or would you prefer another one, perhaps? She had many names. The Szalds called her Jadriga, the Sword-Queen of War. The Anshani named her the Bloodmaiden, and the Kyracians called her the Bringer of Dust and Ashes. The Iramisians called her the Herald of Ruin, and I am not sure what the solmonari of the Szalds called her because she killed them all. But the priests of ancient Maat, the priests of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun that she burned…they called her the Abomination, the Destroyer. So many names, and all of them yours by right.”
“I am not the Moroaica,” said Caina, puzzled. The Sage Talekhris had made the same error, mistaking Caina for Jadriga, but Jadriga’s spirit had been trapped within Caina’s flesh at the time. A strange idea occurred to her. “You said I was the one you were looking for…but were you really looking for the Moroaica the entire time?” She laughed. “If so, you are too late. She is dead.”
Samnirdamnus made Kylon’s mouth move in a lazy smile. “I am not so sloppy, my darling demonslayer. You are not the Moroaica, and I have not sought for her. But, ah….it is such a pity you cannot see your own aura. So dark, so scarred, so heavy with the shadows cast by both your past and your future. If you could see yourself with the eyes of the spirit, then perhaps you could understand why someone might mistake you for the Moroaica.”
“The Sifter,” said Caina. “It said something similar when it tried to consume me.”
“The Sifter failed to understand you as I do, dark child,” said Samnirdamnus. “Consequently you defeated the ifrit.” He scoffed with disdain. “The ifriti were never all that clever. When one’s attention is focused entirely upon one’s next meal, I suppose that is inevitable.”
“What is this about?” said Caina.
“About?” said the djinni. “Must it be about something? Can one not simply enjoy a pleasant conversation?”
“Not you,” said Caina. “There’s always a reason, always a purpose. Your counsel has aided me before. The daevagoths in the Widow’s Tower, or against the Red Huntress at Silent Ash Temple. So you have a reason for talking to me now.”
“The stormdancer,” said Samnirdamnus, the burning eyes brightening in Kylon’s face. “What do you think of him?”
“You’re in my head,” said Caina. “You can find out for yourself.”
“Interesting,” said Samnirdamnus. “You cannot even admit the truth to yourself.”
Caina start to bite out an angry response, and then pushed back her temper. “Thank you for that insight. Do you have more counsel for me, or shall I listen to one of your obscure monologues?”
“I believe,” said Samnirdamnus, “that you might be the one I have sought. I have been looking for you, or at someone like you, for a very long time. Look at the things you have done. You defied the Moroaica herself, the Herald of Ruin that the Iramisians of old so dreaded, and you even slew her for the final time. You went into the Maze and came out with your life and freedom and even your sanity. Such as it is. You defeated the Red Huntress, and you defeated the Sifter. You indeed may be strong enough to be the one I have sought.”
“We’ve been playing this game for nearly two years now,” said Caina. “I am either the one you have sought or I am not. Which is it to be?”
“Why, my dear Balarigar, my darling demonslayer, my clever dark child,” said Samnirdamnus. “You will either become the one I have been looking for, or you shall not. And in the next few months, I shall find the answer.”
“Why?” said Caina.
“Because you will either be the one I have sought,” said Samnirdamnus, “or you shall be dead.”
Caina felt a chill. “From what?”
Samnirdamnus smirked, his eyes of smokeless flame flashing. “Think of all the enemies so eager to slay the Balarigar. All the foes you have collected. All of them are hunting for you, now, even as we speak. Your enemies hate each other as much as they hate you, but they will still have you dead.”
“Then do you have anything useful to say?” said Caina. “Or shall you give me vague warnings about perils I already know I face?”
“Only this. Do work out what you feel about the stormdancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “Very soon, now. For the silver fire is your only salvation.”
“My salvation?” said Caina. “No. It was Kylon’s. The Surge told him those words, but it was a message for me. One of the vials of Elixir Restorata I stole healed him from the Sifter’s wounds.”
“His salvation?” said Samnirdamnus. “Are you so certain? You may wish to be clear on that before you enter the Inferno.”
“You know something about the Inferno,” said Caina.
“It is an old place,” said Samnirdamnus, gazing at the dry fountain. “Old and stained with the blood of countless innocents. Callatas thinks himself the fortress’s master, but he is wrong. It is older than him, older than Istarinmul, and the necromancy within it does not serve him.”
“Necromancy?” said Caina.
“Why, of course,” said Samnirdamnus. “Are you surprised? The pharaohs of ancient Maat built the Inferno. It was the northern fortress of their realm, the frontier of their dominion. You know the power of their necromancy. The first wound that set you upon the path of the Balarigar, the
first scar upon your aura, was carved across your flesh in the name of Maatish necromancy.”
“I remember,” said Caina. She did, all too well.
“Callatas thinks the Inferno is his,” said Samnirdamnus, “but it belongs to the dead hand of the Maatish necromancer-priests of old. And you, too, Balarigar…the mark of the Moroaica is still upon you, even if you wish it were not. Think upon that.”
He turned to go, the cloak swirling around him.
“Wait,” said Caina. “Annarah’s Sanctuary. It is in the Inferno?”
Samnirdamnus nodded.
“Can we bring her out again?” said Caina.
“You can,” said Samnirdamnus. “If you are clever enough. Yet the Inferno is filled with the bones of those like you, those who tried to escape from it and failed. You are either the one I have sought…or your bones shall gather dust in the Inferno.”
The dream dissolved around Caina, and she knew no more.
###
Caina awoke to sunlight in her eyes and a throbbing headache in her temples, her mouth dry and papery. She winced, took a deep breath, and sat up with a groan.
“Gods,” she muttered. “I cannot hold my liquor.”
Caina drank half the carafe of water she kept near the bed and started to prepare. She had a busy day ahead of her, and it didn’t matter if she had a headache or not. She washed herself and then dressed in a blue dress, sandals, a leather belt, and a blue headscarf. Her hair was still too short to do anything with it, but since most Istarish women covered their hair with a headscarf, that was just as well. The ghostsilver dagger she had stolen from Callatas’s library went on her belt, and she concealed throwing knives up the loose sleeves of her dress.
She hesitated, and then drew out two more items from beneath the cot.
The first was a small leather pouch lined with lead foil. Inside rested three small, thumb-sized crystalline vials containing Elixir Restorata. Callatas had made the Elixir in his laboratory, and it had the power to heal any wound taken within the last year and day. Caina could not use them herself. Thanks to the injuries she had taken from sorcerous attacks, the Elixir reacted violently to her presence, drawing in too much power and destabilizing. If she drank one of the vials of Elixir, the resultant release of power would likely kill her and anyone for fifty yards in any direction.
It was something to remember in case Caina’s enemies ever surrounded her without chance of escape.
She hooked the pouch to her belt and lifted a sheathed sword. It was shaped like a classic Anshani falchion, though most falchions did not have a double-edged blade. The weapon was lighter than a sword of its size should have been, and Caina felt a faint thrum beneath her fingers, a legacy of the mighty spells wrapped around the blade. The sword was a valikon, a weapon forged by loremasters of ancient Iramis. Wrought of ghostsilver, the sword could penetrate any warding spell, and the wards upon it could destroy a nagataaru.
If one of Callatas’s disciples came for her, Caina would need the weapon. The Emissary had appointed Caina the valikon’s custodian, and Kylon would need it to kill Rolukhan and the nagataaru within his flesh.
She wrapped the valikon in an old cloak, tucking it under one arm to complete her disguise. Now she looked like a young woman going about her errands for the morning, a bundle of laundry in the crook of her arm. Hopefully the various hunters seeking the Balarigar and the bounty of two million bezants would never dream that the Balarigar was in fact a young woman with a bundle of laundry.
Caina left the room, locked the door behind her, and descended the stairs to the dusty alley. A half-hour’s walk would take her from the Old Quarter to the Cyrican Quarter, and then…
She froze.
Something gleamed in the dust at the foot of the stairs.
Caina stooped and brushed away the dirt, revealing a slender knife.
It was a short knife, and looked a great deal like the throwing knives she used on a regular basis. Yet the blade was curved, which would make it useless as a missile weapon, and it was far too short and fragile to be useful in a fight. Her next thought was that it was a fisherman’s scaling knife, but it was too short. A skinning knife, then? It looked like a skinning knife, but the blade was too thin and the handle too narrow. If someone tried to skin a cow or a donkey with it, the blade would snap off.
People, though, had thinner skins than animals.
Caina shuddered as she realized the knife’s ideal purpose. A Teskilati torturer might find such a knife useful.
So what was it doing outside the door of her safe house?
The weapon looked new. There were no nicks upon the blade, no scratches, no rust. Given how Istarinmul’s populace tended to immediately steal anything left in public, Caina was surprised that it was still here. The steel would fetch a few coins. Caina saw no trace of any poison upon the blade. She held a hand a few inches from the weapon, but felt no aura of sorcery around it.
There was nothing. No spells, no poison, no signs of use or anything at all suspicious. Just a curved knife lying in the dust.
A curved knife lying in the dust outside of her safe house.
Caina hated coincidences. They were almost always signs of an underlying pattern that she had failed to see.
A brief search through the rest of the alley failed to turn up anything useful. Most of the dust had been trampled to rock-like hardness, and what little loose dust remained bore hundreds of footprints. At last she sighed, tucked the little knife away with the valikon, and left the alley.
She had work to do, and she could not waste time jumping at shadows.
On the other hand, the shadows concealed a lot of people who wanted to kill her.
No one disturbed her as she joined the crowds upon the streets and made her way to the Cyrican Quarter.
Chapter 4: Old Friends
A short time later Caina came to the Inn of the Crescent Moon.
It was one of the Cyrican Quarter’s nicer inns, cheap enough that even merchants of middling prosperity could stay here, yet expensive enough to keep out wandering peddlers, caravan guards, and the poorer sort of mercenaries. It stood five stories tall, with the usual whitewashed walls and arched windows of Istarish architecture, though mosaics of gazelles and lions ornamented the doorframes. A wide courtyard surrounded the inn, ringed by a low stone wall.
A stray memory flickered through Caina’s mind. Here she had pretended to be a circus girl named Ciara, her skills with throwing knives winning her a place among Master Cronmer’s Traveling Circus Of Wonders And Marvels. She had donned a skimpy costume of red silk and thrown knives as the crowd roared in approval, and Caina had used that disguise to enter the palace of the cowled master Ulvan, freeing his slaves and destroying his reputation in the process.
The thought cheered her. She had freed Damla’s sons that day, saving them and hundreds of others from a grisly death in Callatas’s wraithblood laboratories. Perhaps Morgant was wrong. Perhaps Caina had indeed done some good since coming to Istarinmul.
She nodded to the robed footmen at the door and made her way into the common room. Each table had its own gleaming brass lantern, with more hanging from the high ceiling. A balcony of polished wood encircled the room, and the floor had been worked in an elaborate mosaic showing a pair of Istarish noblemen hunting tigers through the Kaltari Highlands. A score of foreign merchants sat throughout the room, eating their breakfasts while grim-faced bodyguards stood watch.
A man in late middle age sat at one of the booths, wearing the turban and ornate robe of a minor magistrate of the Padishah’s government. He was thin, far thinner than a man of his age should have been, his cheekbones stark against the seamed bronze skin of his face. A close-cropped graying beard marked his jaw and chin, and he sorted through a pile of letters before him, his bony fingers twitching like the legs of a giant spider.
Caina sat across from the robed magistrate, who looked up at her and nodded.
“It is good to see you,” said Agabyzus, the current ni
ghtkeeper of the Ghost circle of Istarinmul.
“And you,” said Caina. Agabyzus had once been the circlemaster of Istarinmul’s Ghosts, but after Tanzir Shahan negotiated peace with the Empire, the Teskilati had wiped out the circle in one bloody strike. Agabyzus had been taken prisoner, and had languished in the Widow’s Tower until Caina rescued him. The ordeal had ruined his health, but Agabyzus was still a master of disguise, and he had a head full of secrets and a network of contacts scattered throughout Istarinmul and the Padishah’s domains.
He could no longer wield a weapon, but Caina knew firsthand that a secret was often more dangerous than any blade.
“This is a pleasant enough inn,” said Agabyzus, taking a sip from the coffee cup at his side. “Not as good as the coffee my family makes, of course, but I cannot complain.”
“That is good to know,” said Caina. She took a deep breath. “I am leaving the city in two days, and I do not know when I shall be back. Until then, you will oversee the circle.”
Agabyzus nodded. “I will do what I can. Is it the…business you have mentioned?”
“It is,” said Caina.
“A risky venture,” said Agabyzus, “but since your recklessness saved my life, I cannot object. I do have some business related to your proposed venture.”
“The gold,” said Caina. “You gave it to him?”
“The Kyracian?” said Agabyzus. “Yes. He met me at the lamp seller’s booth in the Cyrican Bazaar and gave me the code phrase. Just as you said, he proved his identity to me by freezing a cup of wine solid.” He snorted. “A useful skill when the days are hot. I haven’t had chilled wine in years.”
“He is a useful man to have around,” said Caina. With that gold, Kylon would make his way to the Alqaarin Quarter and hire the Black Wolves. Caina had dealt with the mercenary company in Rasadda, and their captain Dio was a ruthless and clever man. Given the enormous bounty upon her head, Caina would prefer that he not remember the black-cloaked shadow that he had met in Rasadda.
“I shall ask no more upon the matter,” said Agabyzus. “What else would you have of me?”
Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) Page 5
