The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One

by Amanda Downum

  She tries to roll over but only manages to turn her head. Through the forest of boots and red uniforms she sees other bodies limp on the ground, the earth trampled and soaked dark. Other villagers are roped together and dragged through the broken gates—neighbors and friends, clan-kin all of them.

  “Mira,” she whispers, scraping uselessly at the dirt. “Mira.”

  “What’s that?” the soldier asks in Assari. He crouches beside her, hands loose between his knees. His tone is nearly genial now that she has no fight left.

  Another man’s shadow falls over her and she squints against the glare of sky through banyan leaves. Not a red-coat, this one. He wears green, with red stripes on his sleeves. Sivahri—a local guard. She closes her eyes against his traitor’s face.

  “She’s asking for her mother,” he says, his Assari barely accented.

  “She’s the leader’s brat, isn’t she? Your mother’s right over there, girl. You want to see her?”

  “Captain—”

  “What? She made her choice, didn’t she? She should see the cost.” He slides a hand under her shoulder and hoists her up. Not roughly, but she shudders as his fingers brush a weal. Her braids swing across her back, snagging on blood and torn flesh. “There.” The captain points toward the heart-tree.

  No, Xinai told herself, struggling for control. It’s not real. It’s over. But she couldn’t break free.

  Her mother slumps against the root-trunks, chin against her breast, long black hair wild over her shoulders. Her hand curls as if to hold her kris, but the blade is gone.

  “Mira—” She rocks forward, catching herself on one forearm; the other arm crumples when her weight hits it. Like a three-legged dog she creeps forward on hand and knees. Pity the Assari should see her crawl, but she has no strength left for pride.

  Her mother’s flesh is still soft, not even cold, only drained to pasty yellow-gray. Blood spills down her chest like a necklace of rust and garnets. The air reeks of raw meat and bowel and she can’t tell the smell of her mother’s death from her own sour metallic stink.

  If the captain laughs, she knows she’ll throw herself at him, fight until he kills her and she joins her mother in the twilight lands. But he turns away, indifferent to her grief as he is to her life, and begins overseeing the removal of the last prisoners.

  The Sivahri guard watches her, weary lines carved on his face. Forest-clan, she guesses. He could be kin to any of the bodies that litter the dust. His uniform is damp with blood and sweat.

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly in Sivahran.

  She was wrong—she does have some pride left. Xinai spits. It strikes the dirt yards from his boots, but he flinches as if it hit him. She lowers her head to her mother’s lifeless shoulders and closes her eyes, waiting for the darkness to claim her.

  And as it had twelve years ago, darkness waited for her. Not the shallow red-lined black of exhaustion, but a deep and icy pit that fell forever.

  “Leave her alone!”

  She flinched at the shout and opened her eyes. A mottled gray-green face hovered close to hers, white hair tangling in an invisible wind. A gangshi. She might have known—spirits that feed on suffering would love the site of a massacre. What a feast she must be. Xinai flinched again, stronger, jerking awkwardly away from the gangshi’s gaping hungry mouth and empty eyes. A charm bag pulsed and throbbed around her neck.

  A woman lunged between her and the spirit, a blur of black hair and shining kris-blade. Xinai scrambled back on all fours, fetching up against a twist of banyan trunks. Her dagger trembled in her hand and she coughed as she drew a deep breath. A few more heartbeats and the gangshi would have drunk down all her pain and fear, and her life with it.

  Her vision grayed and she leaned against the tree for strength. Her face was slick with salt and snot and her back burned with phantom wounds.

  “It’s gone now,” the woman whispered, turning back to Xinai. And then, even softer, “You’re back. I knew you would come home.” Her voice was wind in leaves, water through river-reeds; the sound sliced through Xinai, deeper than Assari whips could ever reach.

  The woman stood over her, watching with lightless eyes. Her hair hung in snarls around her narrow face, her clothes in tatters. Her skin was ashen, paler than the earth beneath her feet. Xinai’s charm bag hummed against her chest.

  “I knew you’d come.” The ghost stepped forward and passed through a hanging root. Xinai couldn’t speak as the dead woman knelt before her. Her throat was slashed; the wound gaped when she moved, flashing bone white as pearls amid ruined flesh and crusted blood.

  “Don’t you recognize me, child?”

  Xinai’s dagger dropped to the dust. Her vision blurred again, glazed with fresh tears.

  “Mother—” The word broke on a wet hiccup.

  Shaiyung Lin smiled a sad, terrible smile and stretched out a cold gray hand to stroke her daughter’s cheek.

  “They showed me—They made me see—” She choked on snot. The gangshi’s trap had undone all her defenses and she could only sob, helpless as she’d been twelve years ago.

  “Don’t worry,” Shaiyung whispered, wrapping her icy insubstantial arms around Xinai. “You’re home, and we’re together, and it will be all right. We’ll put things right.”

  The sun dipped into afternoon by the time they reached the last landing. Isyllt slumped against the carven cliff-face, trying not to double over from the sharp stitch in her side and the burn in her thighs. Stone benches circled the small platform, but she feared if she sat she’d never stand again. Wind keened around the crags, threatening her hat and tugging at her sweaty clothes.

  More wards ringed the upper slopes, different from those along the road. “What do these do?” she asked, moving closer to the nearest post.

  “If too much pressure builds inside the mountain, it will erupt,” Asheris said. “These shunt the energy aside, bleed it off into the air.”

  “Or let you channel it into the stones.”

  “Exactly.”

  She reached out, not quite touching the ward-stone. Its magic shivered warm through her fingers. The edges shimmered, like the air around a flame. An intricate spell, cunningly wrought. It would be the envy of half the Arcanost—they prided themselves on being at the forefront of magecraft.

  “Ingenious.”

  “Thank you,” Asheris said, lips curving. “We are rather proud of the technique. No one has ever done this before, to the best of our knowledge.”

  “Be careful, Lady Iskaldur,” the Vicereine called, securing the veil pinned over her hair. “Once he starts talking about his mountain, you’ll be hard-pressed to silence him.”

  Asheris chuckled. “Her Excellency has no ear for the music of the mountain. But come, my lady, we aren’t at the top yet. You must see the cauldron.” He gestured toward another narrower stair leading up.

  Isyllt sighed and promised herself a long bath when they returned to the city. “Of course I must.”

  “And me,” Murai said, springing up from her bench. Isyllt felt even wearier just watching her.

  “Of course, little bird. Your Excellency?”

  “I’ve seen your mountain often enough,” Shamina said. “Be careful up there, Murai.”

  “I always am, Mama.”

  “I won’t let her come to harm,” Asheris promised.

  He took the lead as they ascended the final stair, Murai walking in the middle, sedate until they were out of sight of her mother. Then she hurried ahead, following on Asheris’s heels.

  Sivahra stretched below them, forests and rivers and hills, patchwork fields in the south and buildings like grains of salt scattered on a tablecloth. Isyllt took off her hat, letting the wind unravel her braid and dry her sweaty hair. The air was cooler here, without the jungle’s heat and the river’s damp. Then the wind shifted and she tasted hot stone and ash, the breath of the mountain.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Asheris called over his shoulder.

  “Yes.” She retur
ned his smile, and the honesty of it surprised her.

  He offered her a hand and helped her up the last uneven step. The wind buffeted her and she leaned on his arm as she found her feet.

  Then she looked down, into the mountain, and her breath left on a wondering gasp.

  A cauldron of char-black stone—the smell of it reached her even against the wind, burnt and bitter. And deep within the well a pool of molten rock bubbled gold and orange, leaking smoke.

  “Can you feel it?” he asked. “The strength of it? I thought I’d never love anything as much as the desert winds, until I came here. I’d stay up here forever, if they would let me.”

  “Would you really? Or would you miss it, before too long?”

  He didn’t need to ask what she meant. “I don’t know. It’s not an option I can explore.” He turned his head, but not before Isyllt saw the longing and bitterness naked on his face. She looked down in turn.

  She took a few careful steps away, thinking to circle the cauldron’s rim, but Asheris raised a warning hand.

  “Please, don’t. We know the rock here is stable, but I can’t vouch for the other side. And if you fell there, it’s a very long drop with no one to catch you. I’d much rather not spend the night searching for your body.”

  Isyllt glanced down the steep face and nodded. As she looked up, she found Murai watching her. The girl ducked her head.

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s rude to stare. But I’ve never seen anyone so pale before. Are you from Hallach?”

  “No, I was born in Vallorn, which is farther still north. But I haven’t lived there for a long time.”

  “Are they pirates there too?”

  Isyllt smiled. “No. Vallorn has no sea, only mountains. All the pirates have to go to Hallach or Selafai.”

  “I was born at sea, while my parents were coming back from Assar. My mother’s time came early. That’s how I got my name.”

  “Murai?”

  The girl nodded. “In Sivahran it means bird’s nest”—she wrinkled her nose—“but it’s really from Ninayan. Mariah. It means the sea. It was the captain’s idea.” She ducked her head again. “I talk too much. Asheris, will you show Lady Iskaldur the birds?”

  “Of course, meliket.” Asheris looked toward the cauldron, where magma cooled in ash-gray veins only to crack and melt again. He raised one hand, letting the wind billow his sleeve theatrically. A red-orange bubble swelled and burst, spitting fire that flared into golden wings. Birds wrought of flame soared from the pit, spiraling up until they hovered in front of Isyllt and Murai. Tiny beaks opened soundlessly and sparks rained from their wings. The girl laughed in delight, and Isyllt echoed her.

  After a final swoop the birds flew higher, till they vanished against the sun. Murai applauded, bouncing on her toes. Isyllt grinned at Asheris and he smiled back, and for a moment there was only the wind and the fire and the taste of magic like spiced wine on her tongue.

  She wished she could have met him somewhere else, somewhen else.

  Asheris’s smile dimmed, and the moment with it. He glanced at the sun and straightened his shoulders. “It’s time to go down. Lady Shamina will be waiting.”

  The light deepened and streamed sideways between the trees when Xinai finally returned to Riuh. His eyes widened and she wondered what he saw in her face. She’d wiped away the dirt and tears as best she could, but she was too light, spinning; shock still tingled in her hands and cheeks.

  She didn’t speak on the way back, despite Riuh’s attempts to draw her out. Her head was too full of questions, all the things her mother had told her, all the things she had to ask Selei.

  They heard the noise before they saw the village walls. Shouts and screams, metal on metal, the sound of clumsy feet through the brush nearby. Her pulse surged with shock and panic—for an instant she thought it was another memory-trap. For an instant she thought the memories were real.

  Riuh caught her arm and pulled her behind a bank of ferns. Her knife was in her hand, blind instinct, and it was all she could do not to cut him. His attention was turned toward Cay Xian, though.

  “Ancestors.” She read the word on his lips—her heart raced too loud to hear it. Her hand tingled against her dagger hilt, and her back stung and itched with sweat.

  Riuh drew his own knife. “We’ve got to help them.”

  “No.”

  They both spun at the voice. Phailin Xian stumbled out of the trees, clutching her bloody arm to her chest. “Cay Xian is overrun. You’re not enough to change that.” She staggered and went to one knee; blood trickled down the side of her face.

  Riuh knelt beside her, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders. “What happened?”

  “Khas soldiers. They came with warrants, demanding Kovi’s accomplices, members of the Dai Tranh—they named you, Riuh. We…resisted.”

  “You should have let them have me. I can take care of myself.”

  She shrugged, winced. “We won’t lose anyone else, not without a fight.”

  “What happened to Selei?” Xinai asked.

  “She escaped, with most of the other elders. But we paid for that.”

  Xinai forced her nerves aside, tugged off her cloth belt, and began to wrap Phailin’s wounded arm. The cut was deep into the flesh of her upper arm, but she had at least some use of it. The girl’s lips pressed white, but she made no sound.

  “We have to get out of here,” Riuh said as soon as Xinai tied off the bandage. He helped his cousin to her feet.

  “Where?” Phailin nodded toward Cay Xian. “The soldiers are between us and all our safe houses.”

  “Cay Lin,” Xinai said, before she could consider it.

  Riuh’s throat worked. “It’s haunted.”

  “Better spirits than Khas swords.” Shaiyung had driven away the gangshi, and her own witchcraft was enough to best lesser spirits.

  After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 8

  Zhirin watched the procession ride toward the far gate and swallowed. The Viceroy and Imran al Najid strode across the courtyard and up the steps. There was still time to salvage their plans, and perhaps more.

  “I’m going to find Jabbor,” she said to Adam and Vasilios. “Wait for me inside.” Her cheeks warmed as she heard the tone of command in her voice, but Vasilios only smiled and nodded.

  She circled past the stables, around the library wing of the hall, but didn’t head for the fig tree by the wall where she often left messages for Jabbor. Instead she waited in the shadow of the building until she saw Faraj and Imran emerge from the eastern hallway. Isyllt and her plans had distracted Zhirin from the mystery of the diamonds, but now she had a chance to investigate.

  The two men walked toward the lapidary hall; the Assari mage topped the Viceroy by a head, stiff-spined and square-shouldered. Zhirin followed, keeping to the grass and shadows, a whisper of concealment hanging off her. Not that it could hide her from a mage as strong as Imran, but it made her feel better.

  She felt better knowing that Asheris was gone too. Imran was a humorless and disapproving man, but he didn’t make her skin crawl. Lesser spirits fell silent when Asheris passed, the way small animals cowered away from predators. No matter how charming he was, she still shivered when she met his eyes. It was the diamond he wore, she suspected—something fierce and unsettling bound in it.

  The two men spoke as they walked, but she couldn’t make out their words over the crunch of gravel. Her own slippers on the grass sounded ridiculously loud and she didn’t dare move closer. She often enjoyed the soporific peace of the grounds, but now it thwarted her.

  When they finally stepped inside the lapidary she sped up, slinking around the gray-white trunk of a neem tree and toward the back of the building. She nearly sighed out loud when she found a window open to the breeze. Crouching amid hibiscus bushes, she forced herself to ignore her racing heart and concentrate on sharpening her hearing. After a moment voices came into focus.

  “It
’s not enough,” Faraj said. Sandals scuffed against tile. “Half our tithe was in that warehouse, or more. The Emperor won’t be pleased.”

  “We’ll redouble our efforts in the mines,” Imran replied. “Empty the Khas’s prisons—we need every body available if you wish to collect the tithe on time.”

  The Viceroy sighed. “Very well. They’ll be full anyway, after today.” His voice faded as he paced away, loudened again as his circuit brought him near the window; Zhirin held her breath. “But what about the rubies? Not all of them could have been destroyed in that fire. Can you locate them?”

  “We can try. If we have some stones cut from the same vein, it will be easier.”

  Between their voices, she heard someone else breathing, and the scrape of a chisel. The old lapidary Hyun, she guessed. The man was long deaf—Zhirin had never suspected they kept him on because he couldn’t overhear their plans.

  “Tell the overseers—they’ll help however they can.” Faraj paused. “What about the other stones?”

  “Again, we can try. Those will be easier, perhaps. There are less of them about to muddle our scrying.”

  Faraj sighed. “No wonder people say they’re cursed—the wretched things are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Zhirin drew a sharp breath through her nose. It was true. Pain stung her mouth and she realized she was chewing her lip.

  “The Emperor doesn’t agree.”

  “The Emperor doesn’t have to manage this operation. Not to mention deal with these insurgents.”

  “His Majesty has more than enough to concern him. But I’m sure we can recoup our loss soon enough. With Asheris’s help—”

  “No.” Faraj’s voice hardened. “Asheris is too valuable to me in the city. I need more than geomancers to govern Symir.”

  “You rely too much on Asheris.” Disapproval colored Imran’s sonorous voice. “And trust him too much. The man is dangerous—”

  “The Emperor appointed him personally, didn’t he—just as he did you? And Asheris has proved more valuable to me than half the members of this hall. If Ta’ashlan cannot part with more inquisitors, then I have no choice but to use the one I have to his fullest capacity.”