Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7)

by Jonathan Moeller

  His hand slid up her bare back. “I can. But I don’t need to, not for this. You won’t give up. You won’t turn back. You’ve seen too many terrible things to pretend that you have not. You will see this through to the end.”

  “With you?” said Caina.

  “With me,” said Kylon.

  They lapsed into silence after that. Caina felt herself drifting off to sleep. Soon, she knew, she would have to get up, to face what awaited her once more. Callatas and Kalgri would not have been idle while she recovered from Rumarah. But for now, for just a few moments, she wanted to lie quietly with the man she had come to love…

  “Beware the fire.”

  Caina shot out of bed so fast that she did not remember standing up. She snatched one of her throwing knives from the table and stood motionless, every muscle tense, her ears straining to hear anything.

  “What is it?” said Kylon. He had gotten out of bed, the faint shimmer of air sorcery flickering around him, the valikon a shaft of white fire to Caina’s eyes.

  “Did you hear that?” said Caina.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Kylon.

  “A voice,” said Caina. “I heard a voice, saying ‘beware the fire’. You didn’t hear that?”

  Kylon shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Caina let out a long breath.

  “I think,” she said, “that I might be hearing voices.”

  ###

  A short time later Caina walked through Strabane’s hall, Kylon at her side. The hall was gloomy and splendid in a barbaric sort of way, and Caina could imagine the ancient Caerish kings who had warred against the Emperor holding court in such a hall, surrounded by their blue-painted warriors. Flagstones covered the floor, and wisps of smoke rose from the dying coals in the central firepit. Dozens of Kaltari men lay scattered around the floor, wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping off last night’s revels. Strabane had called his men to arms, gathering the clans of the Kaltari Highlands to march to war. Last night he had feasted his men, the meal accompanied copious amounts of liquor. Apparently it had been quite the revel, but Caina hadn’t noticed.

  She had been preoccupied.

  Caina had donned the clothes of a Kaltari woman, a sleeveless green dress with a broad leather belt, a cloak bound over her shoulder with a bronze brooch, and a dagger at her belt. She missed her ghostsilver dagger, the weapon that she had stolen from Callatas’s Maze, but for some reason Kalgri had taken it with her. Likely she had kept it as some sort of macabre trophy.

  Kylon walked next to her, wearing his leather armor, a pair of daggers at his belt and the valikon slung over his shoulder.

  “Strangest thing,” muttered Caina.

  “What is?” said Kylon, and he smiled. “That you’re walking through the hall of a Kaltari headman with an exiled Kyracian noble?”

  Caina laughed a little. “That is very strange. You making jokes is also strange. You never make jokes.”

  “Perhaps I’m in a good mood,” said Kylon. “Rare as that may be. What is strange?”

  “Your sword,” said Caina. “It’s glowing…but I don’t think I could see by it. If I was in a darkened room with no other light, I couldn’t use it to read. Yet the light is still there.”

  Kylon shrugged. “Maybe it’s not really light, but your mind interprets it as light.”

  Caina nodded. She hadn’t asked to become a valikarion, but now that she was one, she would learn to make the most use of her new abilities.

  They might be useful.

  A broad stone terrace ran behind the back of the headman’s hall, overlooking a sheer cliff plunging into the valley below. It was a cloudy day, and mists wrapped the hills surrounding Drynemet, the pine trees rising from the haze. It was a wild and beautiful sight, and reminded Caina of the Disali hill country around the Vineyard, where she had trained as a Ghost nightfighter all those years ago.

  Another memory flashed through Caina’s mind. She had reconciled with Claudia here, and after they had defeated the Red Huntress at Silent Ash Temple, Claudia had urged Caina to move past Corvalis’s death, to find someone else.

  She glanced at Kylon. Claudia had been more right than she had known.

  Claudia had also thrown one of the Umbarian Order’s Silent Hunters to his death from this terrace with a spell of psychokinetic force.

  Caina hoped that Claudia was well. It had been nearly nine months since the fight at Silent Ash Temple, and Claudia’s child was due soon. Cassander Nilas was dead, but the Umbarians would send another ambassador to the Padishah’s court, and one of the Umbarians’ favorite tactics was to kidnap the children of their foes as leverage. A little shiver of rage went through Caina at the thought. If they tried to kidnap Claudia’s son, Corvalis’s nephew, she would make sure that the Umbarians bitterly regretted their folly.

  She glanced at Kylon again. It seemed he had been right. She was not ready to flee from the fight.

  Four men and one woman awaited Caina and Kylon upon the terrace, sitting at a table built of rough-hewn pine planks. One of the men rose and approached Caina. He looked to be in his late fifties, his gray hair close-cropped, his blue eyes pale in his gaunt, lined face. He wore black boots, black trousers, and stark white shirt, and a long black coat that hung to his knees, a sword belt wrapped around his waist. A sheathed scimitar and a dagger with a red gem in the pommel hung at the belt, and to Caina’s eyes both weapons glowed with sorcerous power.

  The dagger’s red glow was almost painfully sharp.

  Caina stopped, folded her arms over her chest, and met the black-coated man’s pale eyes. He titled his head and grinned at her, the expression making his face look almost skull-like.

  Kylon only frowned at him.

  “Well?” said Caina.

  “Well what?” said Morgant the Razor, assassin of legend, artist of skill, and a man who enjoyed probing those around him for weakness.

  “You look like you have something clever to say,” said Caina.

  “I always have something clever to stay,” said Morgant. “It’s one of the many benefits of my great age and wisdom. Why? Do you expect me to say something clever? About something in particular, perhaps?”

  Caina opened her mouth, closed it again.

  She had walked into that one.

  One of the other men stood. “If you are quite done amusing yourself, Master Markaine,” he said, his voice deep and smooth and calm, “perhaps we can attend to the business at hand.” He was tall and strong, with dark skin and a shaved head, his lips framed with a beard trimmed to precision. A black leather glove covered his left hand, and Caina saw the arcane power waiting in the sorcerous crystal that had replaced Nasser Glasshand’s left hand.

  “Nasser, Nasser, Nasser,” said Morgant, turning, “perhaps we should let them rest first. They look tired. Perhaps they didn’t sleep well.”

  The man sitting next to Nasser snorted. He was middle-aged and gray-haired, with the solid, muscled look of a veteran of the Legions of the Empire of Nighmar. “The noise from the hall, no doubt.”

  “Undoubtedly, Laertes,” said Nasser to his lieutenant.

  “I slept for a month,” said Caina. “It’s time to get to work.”

  “Well spoken, Master Ciaran,” rumbled the huge man sitting at the head of the table. He was Kaltari, and wore chain mail and leather, his face and thick forearms and heavy hands marked with scars. Three human skulls hung from his belt, trophies taken in the Kaltari style. The hilt of a greatsword rose over his shoulder, and Caina had seen him use that to cut down Immortals.

  “Thank you, headman,” said Caina.

  Strabane barked out a harsh laugh. “Though it’s not Master Ciaran, is it? I will always think of you as that. Never thought I would meet a woman as clever as you.”

  “Should I take exception to that, lord headman?” said the woman sitting next to Nasser. She was tall for a woman, her skin the same shade as Nasser’s, her eyes bright and green. Despite her long silver hair, Caina thought Annarah was no m
ore than thirty-five years of age. At least that was the age of her body – she had spent a century and a half trapped in the timeless prison of a netherworld sanctuary while Morgant had sought for a way to rescue her.

  “You are a loremaster of Iramis,” said Strabane. “That is different.” He waved a thick hand in Caina’s direction. “Just as she is one of the valikarion of old returned to the waking world, if you are to be believed. Though after we fled through the netherworld and fought the Huntress, I would have believed Master Ciaran was a valikarion.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Caina. “Not back then.” Vaguely she wondered what the netherworld would look like to the eyes of a valikarion, and decided she never wanted to find out.

  Strabane grunted. “We live in peculiar times. Omens and portents and legends of the past walk under the sun once more. Hard to know what to do in such times.”

  “The same thing a man does in any age,” said Morgant, walking back to his seat. “Find his enemies and kill them.”

  Strabane barked out a laugh. “Well-spoken. For a man who talks far too much, you sometimes have good ideas.”

  “Speaking of our enemies,” said Nasser, “let us discuss the best ways to confound and hamper them.”

  “That would be killing them,” said Morgant, sitting down with a flourish of his black coat.

  Caina sat on the bench near Annarah, and Kylon sat next to her. Strabane’s bondwomen emerged from the hall, laying down plates of food and cups of drink, and then bowed and returned to the hall. The serving platters held bread and sausage and Kaltari cheese, which usually had too much garlic for Caina’s taste. Kylon helped himself to some of the food. Caina only took a cup of hot cider. She should have been hungry, she knew, but she did not feel like eating.

  Still. The cider was good.

  “Now that Caina has recovered from her injuries,” said Nasser, “I suggest we depart Drynemet and the Kaltari Highlands at once.”

  “How soon?” said Kylon.

  “Tomorrow morning if at all possible,” said Nasser. “The sooner we are gone from Drynemet, the better. The Staff and Seal are here, and I do not want to leave them here a moment longer than necessary. Both for their own safety, and for the safety of the village. Callatas will not hesitate to kill anyone who stands between him and the regalia.”

  “Where are they now?” said Caina.

  “In my strong room,” said Strabane. “Safest place in the village. Of course, it wouldn’t stop thieves of our caliber. But the door’s a foot thick and the walls are solid stone. Anyone tries to break into there, we’ll likely hear the noise.”

  “Callatas must know that the Staff and the Seal are here,” said Caina. “Kalgri fled from Rumarah. She would have gone straight to Callatas and told him.”

  “That was my first thought,” said Nasser. “It would, indeed, be logical. But it seems that the Huntress has not yet told Callatas of the discovery. At the very least, I do not believe that Callatas knows that we are here.”

  “Why not?” said Caina.

  “Because the Teskilati spies are more interested in us than in you,” said Strabane. “The Padishah’s secret police have been trying to creep into the villages of the Kaltari ever since the Inferno burned. The fools are worried that we shall march to join Tanzir Shahan in the south.”

  “Because you are,” said Caina.

  “Because we are,” said Strabane. “The clans of the Kaltari have met in moot, and have decided to join the emir Tanzir and march to restore sound government to Istarinmul. The stormdancer has been useful in hunting down the spies and the demon-worshippers who support Callatas. Even saved my life once or twice.” Kylon offered a grim nod. It seemed that hunting down Teskilati agents and Kaltari demon-worshippers had been how he had passed the time while waiting for Caina to awaken. “When we’ve interrogated prisoners, they claim to have been sent south to spy upon the Kaltari and Tanzir’s allies. Not a word about the Balarigar or these ancient relics of yours.”

  “That…doesn’t make sense,” said Caina, puzzled. “Kalgri followed us for months. She knew everything. Surely she would have realized we had gone to Drynemet, and she would have gone to Callatas with the news.” She felt herself frown. “Unless…”

  “Unless the Huntress did not return to Istarinmul,” said Nasser, finishing the thought.

  “Why would she do that?” said Caina. For an awful instant the memory of Kalgri’s blade plunging into her flesh felt as visceral and real as if it had happened again. Caina’s heart sped up, and she wanted to spin and make sure Kalgri wasn’t standing behind her.

  “Because she is a madwoman,” said Kylon. There was venom in his voice. “Because she delights in suffering and death. Likely she is following us to kill Caina and avenge her failure at Rumarah.”

  That thought sent another wave of fear through Caina, but she forced it aside, forced herself to think.

  “No,” said Caina. “Well. Maybe. But she’s not insane. Twisted and cruel and evil, yes, but not insane. She always does things for a reason, and that reason is to kill as many people as possible. She might be following us to kill me and salve her pride, but she wouldn’t put herself at risk to do it. No, if she hasn’t gone back to Callatas and she hasn’t come after me, then...”

  She thought for a moment, the others watching her without impatience. She supposed they had seen her puzzle through things often enough by now.

  “Then,” said Caina at last, “she is only delaying because she thinks a delay will allow her to kill even more people.”

  It was a dark thought, but it made sense.

  “Perhaps the Huntress wishes to steal the relics for herself,” said Laertes.

  “I doubt it,” said Caina. “She’s not a sorceress. She couldn’t use them.”

  “Then to steal them, lay them before her master, and take the credit?” said Strabane.

  “Maybe,” Caina conceded. “Were it anyone else, I would agree. But Kalgri doesn’t care about the credit. I don’t think she cares what Callatas thinks of her. The only thing she cares about is killing. She’s worse than Sicarion was.”

  “Sicarion?” said Annarah.

  “An assassin,” said Kylon.

  “Like me?” said Morgant.

  “Not like you,” said Kylon. “Worse than you.”

  “Well,” said Morgant. “He must have been bad indeed.”

  “He was a necromancer,” said Kylon. “A disciple of the Moroaica. Ah…I think she was called in Iramis…”

  “The Herald of Ruin,” said Caina, still thinking about Kalgri. The Huntress was planning something, Caina was certain. She just could not see what it was, and that could be fatal. Twice before Caina had misjudged Kalgri’s plans, and she had nearly been killed both times.

  Life rarely offered second chances. It would not offer a third.

  “The Herald of Ruin,” said Kylon. “She taught Sicarion the necromancy of ancient Maat. One of the spells let him graft flesh stolen from his victims to heal his wounds. If you cut off his hand, he could take a hand from a victim and affix it to the stump of his arm.”

  “Truly?” said Strabane, taken aback.

  “I saw him do it,” said Caina, still thinking about Kalgri.

  “A useful spell,” said Strabane.

  “You would not wish to employ it, lord headman,” said Annarah. “Such a spell corrupts the will of its user. That style of Maatish necromancy induces moral insanity, along with an insatiable lust for violence and cruelty and death. You would quickly become a far worse man if you employed such a spell.”

  “That explains a great deal about Sicarion,” said Kylon.

  Caina nodded. “What you’ve said makes sense, Nasser. Kalgri must not have told Callatas about the Staff and the Seal yet, though the gods only know why. We’ll have to assume that she’s going to come after me and come after the relics at some point.”

  The very thought of facing Kalgri again made Caina’s stomach twist. She had beaten Caina at Rumarah. She had failed to s
ee the signs, and had fallen into the Huntress’s waiting arms. If not for Kylon and the Knight of Wind and Air, she would have died at Rumarah.

  They all might have died, and Kalgri was still out there, spinning her webs and laying her traps.

  “If the Huntress has chosen to delay,” said Nasser, “then we shall use the delay to our advantage. We must make for Catekharon with all speed.”

  “How?” said Caina. “Traveling overland?” That would be a long journey. They would have to leave the Kaltari Highlands, cut across the plains of Akasar, and then both Istarish Cyrica and Imperial Cyrica. From there they could cross the Sarbian Desert and the grasslands of western Anshan to reach the free cities of the west and then Catekharon, or follow the Kyracian colonies along the coast to reach the City of the Sages. Such a journey, Caina suspected, would take at least three weeks, assuming all went well.

  It would give Callatas and the Huntress ample time to chase them down.

  “I considered it,” said Nasser, “but it is too risky. If the Huntress is following us, she will have many opportunities to attack, to say nothing of the risks of banditry or rapacious local nobles. No, I think our best course is to proceed to Istarinmul, enter the city secretly, and hire a trustworthy ship. Once we are on the Cyrican Sea, we shall be isolated and can reach Catekharon in…”

  “Two weeks,” said Kylon, in the tone of a man who had done it before. “Maybe eleven days. Assuming we hit the winds and the tides properly.”

  “Catekharon will be a safe place for the relics?” said Laertes. “The Sages have a…peculiar reputation.”

  “It will,” said Caina. Her sensitivity to sorcery had given a constant headache while in the city, and she was not looking forward to seeing Catekharon with the vision of the valikarion. “Not even Callatas will be able to force his way into the Tower of Study. The Staff and the Seal will be safe there.”

  “Will the Sages listen to us?” said Annarah. “Master Laertes is right. Even in my day, the Scholae had a reputation for aloof indifference to the affairs of the world.”

  “They will,” said Caina. “They owe me a large favor. Kylon, too.”