Instead, she sat cross-legged on the roof. The light was better for reading.
A book rested on her lap, and she paged through it as they rode west. Corvalis and Muravin and the dozen fake Magisterial Guards Halfdan had recruited walked alongside the carriage. Caina read the book, keeping a frown on her face.
The weapons of sorcery described upon its pages made it easy to maintain her frown.
It was a history of the Fourth Empire, the time the Magisterium ruled the Empire. The Empire had been larger than it was now, but the magi had been cruel leaders. Slavery had been accepted in every province and city of the Empire. And the magi had used tens of thousands of slaves as raw material for their spells. They had worked sorcery of terrible destruction, shattering the walls of cities and reducing their inhabitants to empty husks. They had conjured vast hosts of elemental spirits, unleashing firestorms and rains of burning acid.
Such feats were beyond the grasp of the contemporary magi, thank the gods.
Yet Maglarion, Caina remembered, had been a survivor of the Fourth Empire, and he had been capable of spells far beyond the grasp of the Magisterium. The knowledge of such sorcery had been lost with the destruction of Caer Magia and the transformation of the Fourth Empire into the Fifth Empire.
But the secrets of all those terrible things lay within the ruins of Caer Magia.
And if Jurius had managed to bring a Dustblade out of Caer Magia…then others might find a way.
All the horrors of the Fourth Empire might walk under the sun once more.
Caina closed the book, a deep feeling of unease settling within her. The war with New Kyre was a waste, and Halfdan was right to focus the attention of the Ghosts upon ending it.
But this…this had the potential to become far worse.
###
“Twelve more days,” said Caina the next morning. She was walking behind the carriage to stretch her legs, the black robe billowing around her. Should any other traffic appear, she would climb into the carriage and resume her role of aloof, arrogant magus, but for the moment the road was deserted. “Thirteen to fifteen days on foot to Caer Magia, depending upon the weather.”
Corvalis snorted. “Amusing, is it not, that Marsis is five hundred miles further west, yet it only takes nine days to travel there from Malarae.”
“Aye,” said Caina, “but you can travel by ship.”
Muravin shook his head. “There is so much water here.” His Caerish was improving, but he would never speak it without an accent as thick as Shaizid’s cakes. “Istarinmul has sufficient water, as does the Vale of Fallen Stars, but in the Argamaz…water is more valuable than gold or jewels.”
“Unsurprising,” said Caina. “A man cannot drink gold and jewels.”
“They cannot,” said Muravin. “The tribes of the Argamaz…if a man betrays his kin, the tribesmen leave him in a waterless pit in the desert, surrounded by his wealth. More merciful, I suppose, to cut off his head…”
“Captain.”
One of the Magisterial Guards approached, a hard-faced man with a shading of gray stubble.
“Aye, Nicias,” said Corvalis, “what is it?”
“Men in the trees ahead,” said Nicias, pointing. “I’m sure of it.”
Corvalis grunted and touched his sword hilt. “Highwaymen, likely. Or farmers with a little side business in banditry.” He raised his voice. “Spread out! Shields raised, and watch for arrows. Mistress.” He turned to Caina. “You would be safer in the carriage.”
Caina spoke in the cold, haughty voice of Rania Scorneus. “I will watch from the carriage, captain. If these churls think to impede the progress of a sister of the Magisterium, they will find themselves sorely mistaken.”
“As you wish,” said Corvalis. Caina crossed to the carriage, climbed inside, and closed the door. She watched as the Magisterial Guards continued down the road, shields raised, swords in hand. If bandits lurked in the trees, the sight of so many armed men ought to discourage them.
She hoped.
The carriage continued, and then a dozen men stepped from the trees on either side of the road. They wore the long tunics, vests, trousers, and boots favored by the Caerish hill tribes. The men carried short bows and spears, weapons common among hill bandits.
But most bandits did not have Maatish hieroglyphs tattooed upon their foreheads.
The carriage came to a stop, and the Magisterial Guards lifted their weapons.
“Welcome, travelers!” said the lead bandit, a huge man with graying red hair, his forehead and jaw marked with Maatish hieroglyphs. “You seem lost!”
“On the contrary,” said Corvalis with an easy, dangerous smile, “I know exactly where we are. We are on the Emperor’s road, going about the lawful business of the Imperial Magisterium, and you are blocking our path.”
“We are,” said the bandit leader. “This might be the Emperor’s highway, but these lands belong to Anubankh.”
Caina frowned. Halfdan had said the Ghosts of Calvarium had reported a cult worshipping in the hills near Caer Magia. But Caer Magia was a long way away. Had the cult spread so far?
Or had these bandits simply decided to take advantage of the disturbance?
“Anubankh?” said Corvalis. “Who the devil is Anubankh? Sounds like a kind of Anshani sausage.”
The bandit leader sneered. “His prophet is in the hills, and he’s got power. The prophet says the world is going to burn, that the Emperor and the Shahenshah and all the other kings will fall, and the Kingdom of the Rising Sun will rule over the earth, just as it did in ancient days.” He grinned. “So, we’re Anubankh’s men, and you’re going to hand over your wealth to us. Think of it as a sacrifice to the gods.”
“No,” said Corvalis. “I’ll give you one warning, dog. Clear the road for the magus’s carriage, or we’ll teach you some respect.”
The bandit laughed. “You want to die, fool? My archers are in the trees. Take another step and they’ll feather you.”
Corvalis spat. “I doubt your arrows can penetrate our armor.”
“Care to find out?” said the bandit.
An idea came to Caina, and she palmed one of the small glass vials hidden up her sleeve. Then she took a deep breath, steadied herself, and climbed out of the carriage.
“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted, using the theatrical voice Theodosia had taught her, making certain to keep her words harsh and cold.
Every eye turned towards her, both bandit and Magisterial Guard. She glanced at Corvalis, saw his puzzled expression. Caina strode past him and stopped before the bandit chief. He stood head and shoulders taller than she did, his face full of amused confidence, but she saw a hint of wariness there.
Good.
“Identify yourself,” she said.
The bandit offered an ingratiating smile. “Mistress, if you…”
“Identify yourself,” said Caina.
“Ah…Currat, my lady,” said the bandit leader. “We…”
“I trust,” said Caina, folding her arms over her chest, the fingers of her right hand tight against the vial, “that you have a good reason for disturbing my progress?”
“These lands belong to the prophet, my lady, the prophet of great Anubankh,” said Currat, sweat beading on his forehead. He was twice her weight, but her presence unnerved him, which meant he knew the reputation of the Magisterium. “And all travelers must offer a tithe to the god.”
“No,” said Caina.
Currat blinked. “But…”
“Clear the road, now,” said Caina, “or I will unleash my sorcery and destroy you.”
“But…but…” said Currat.
“You had your chance,” said Caina.
She drew herself up and began babbling nonsense in a stentorian voice, making grand, sweeping gestures. Currat and a few of his men backed away in alarm, and Caina flung out her arms.
And as she did, she threw the small glass vial.
It struck the ground before Currat’s boots and shatte
red with a brilliant green flash. Snarling green flames spread over the flat stones of the road, a venomous yellow smoke rising from the flame. Currat bellowed in alarm and stumbled back, his face gone white with terror.
“Rise!” shouted Caina. “Rise, my servants, and slay! Kill them all!”
That was enough for the bandits.
They turned and fled in all directions, vanishing into the trees. The Magisterial Guards watched them go, weapons raised, but none of the bandits returned.
The green fire sputtered and died, reeking yellow smoke rising from the glass shards.
“What did you do?” said Corvalis.
“Surely,” said Muravin, gazing with a dubious expression at the smoke, “you have not truly become a sorceress.”
“Hardly,” said Caina. “Do you remember the formula for the smoke bombs I took from the Sanctuary in Cyrioch?” She doubted he could have forgotten – they had both almost died there, slain by the Kindred Elder and his bloodcrystal-enhanced strength. “I had the apothecary who prepares Theodosia’s stage mist modify it a bit.”
Muravin snorted. “Ah. You were acting. Like an opera.”
“Though with less singing. And I’ve seen you play cards with the footmen at the House of Kularus,” said Caina. “You know the value of a well-timed bluff.”
“If you’ve played a bluff,” said Corvalis, “then it’s best to go before someone thinks to call it. We should move on before those bandits regain their courage.”
Caina hesitated. She considered capturing one of the bandits, and seeing if they knew anything useful about the cult of Anubankh, or how Jurius had gotten into Caer Magia and retrieved a Dustblade. But she dismissed the idea. Likely those men were simply opportunists and not true followers of Anubankh. Otherwise her trick with the smoke bomb would not have rattled them. And the gods alone knew how many more of them waited in the trees.
She nodded, and they resumed their journey west.
###
That night Caina lay in her tent, and Corvalis joined her.
He made no effort to do so covertly. There was no point. Among the magi, it was common for a sister of the Magisterium to take the captain of her Magisterial Guards as a lover, so common that dozens of bawdy songs had been composed on the topic. It annoyed Caina that everyone in the camp knew exactly what they were doing, but not nearly enough to stop her.
The fact that it enhanced their disguise was merely a bonus.
After they finished, Caina climbed off Corvalis, curled up next to him, and fell asleep in short order.
And once again, she dreamed.
She walked once again along a seashore cliff, the storm raging above her, the sea heaving and smashing against the rocks. Emerald lighting lit the black sky, the bolts leaping from cloud to cloud. Her mother stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing at the sea with a cold smile on her red lips, her black hair streaming behind her like a shadow.
Laeria Amalas turned, the eerie green light reflected in her blue eyes.
“You are coming to me, child,” said Laeria. “I can see it.”
“You’re dead,” said Caina. “I killed you and you are dead.”
Laeria smiled. “I never lived. I never died. And when my purpose is fulfilled…ah, all the world will die. Starting with you, I think.”
Caina awoke and sat up with a gasp. She was naked and wrapped in a blanket, the ground hard beneath her, and for a terrified moment of disorientation she could not remember where she was or how she had gotten there.
Then she felt Corvalis’s arms around her, and the memories came back. The road. The bandits. Jurius with his black dagger, the blade gleaming with green light.
The same green light she had seen in the dream.
“A nightmare?” said Corvalis, his voice low.
Caina hesitated.
“I don’t know,” she said at last.
Chapter 6 - The Surge
Kylon climbed the thousand steps to the crest of the Pyramid of Storm.
He did not know if it was really a thousand steps. But the Pyramid rose a thousand feet over the city, towering over the other ziggurats. Small shrines and statues lined the massive pyramid’s tiers, honoring the gods of storm and sea, or commemorating great heroes of the Kyracian past.
Including some who had been summoned to speak before the Surge.
Even through his fear for Thalastre’s life, Kylon felt a great deal of foreboding. Few were ever summoned before the great oracle, and many did not survive the charges she laid upon them. The Surge was the supreme power in New Kyre. She often made prophecies of the weather and the potential futures before New Kyre, but she rarely took a direct hand in the city’s politics.
But when she did, her word was law.
For the Surge’s prophecies were never wrong.
The priestess walked next to Kylon, showing no sign of exhaustion despite the steep stairs. Her eyes shifted from blue to green to gray to black, over and over again, but whenever she looked at him, they went solid black.
“Did the Surge say what she wished of me?” said Kylon.
The priestess looked at him, eyes like black holes in her face.
“The Surge commanded your presence,” said the priestess. “She will make her wishes known to you.” She tilted her head to the side, considering. “Yet…it seems you stand at the heart of the storm, that your choices have put you in the path of the coming destruction.” She looked away. “But I should not presume to speak for the Surge.”
Kylon’s foreboding increased.
At last the stairs ended, and Kylon stood at the Pyramid’s crest, the most sacred place in New Kyre, the city spread out beneath him in a maze of ziggurats and mansions and tenements and warehouses. A small, square temple of gray stone stood atop the Pyramid, its sides ringed in columns, its walls carved with scenes showing the gods of storm and sea granting the first Archons of Old Kyrace authority over the waves.
The Sanctuary of the Surge.
“She awaits you within, High Seat,” said the priestess, stopping before the dark square of the entrance. “Go at once.”
Kylon took a deep breath to still his fear, and strode into the Sanctuary.
Within the Sanctuary was unadorned. A square pool of water filled the central third of the chamber, glowing with pale silver light. Images danced and flickered across the water like reflections. Kylon saw distant scenes within the pool, glimpses of swords and mountains. A black city upon a hill and a withered corpse wearing a golden mask. A girl kneeling in the street and weeping over her slain father.
Immense sorcerous power radiated from the pool.
And for just a moment, Kylon glimpsed Caina’s face within the pool, her eyes like disks of blue ice.
“Ah. I thought as much.”
Kylon’s head snapped up at that voice.
Because it had been three voices speaking in perfect harmony.
The first was the voice of a young girl, calm and serene. The second was the voice of a woman at the height of her beauty, seductive and confident. The third was the rasping voice of an old, old woman, heavy with sorrow and wisdom.
He looked up from the glowing pool and saw the Surge standing at the other end, her eyes shining with a silver light of their own.
Despite her threefold chorus of a voice, she was only middle-aged. She wore a simple white robe, belted at the waist, her hair hanging in iron-gray curtains around her shoulders and back. She began to walk around the pool towards him, her robe stirring as if in a wind.
“Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said the Surge in her strange voice. “Thalarchon of the Seventh Fleet, the man the Imperials have named Shipbreaker. The sister of Andromache, who fell into darkness and believed the lies of the Bringer of Ashes.” She titled her head to the side, the silver glow in her eyes mirroring the light from the pool. “And the lover and betrothed of Thalastre of House Ixionos.”
For a moment Kylon glimpsed Thalastre’s face in the pool, her skin waxy, her eyes closed and sunken.
“I am,” said Kylon, his voice hoarse.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You are the Surge,” said Kylon.
“And what does that mean?”
“You are the oracle of the Kyracian people,” said Kylon, watching her as she moved closer. “The priests say that at the heart of the world there is a storm, and every generation a woman is chosen who has the sight to behold the storm. And in the storm of the world, you can see past and present and futures that may be.”
“And what do you think it means?” said the Surge.
She stopped a few paces away, her robe rippling in the nonexistent wind, her raw power washing over Kylon. Rarely had he sensed anything so powerful.
“I do not know,” said Kylon. “I am only a soldier, and such things are beyond me. But I do know your prophecies are always true. That you only speak prophecies in times of need. And that you only summon people to speak with you when the need is great.” He took a deep breath. “Which, on this black day when my betrothed lies dying from a sorcerous blade, makes me wonder why you have summoned me.”
The Surge gazed into the pool. “The weapon that struck down your betrothed is called a Dustblade.”
Kylon frowned. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Few among the living have. In the days of the Fourth Empire of Nighmar, when the Magisterium’s necromancy and armies pressed the Kyracian people, the magi created these vile weapons. Their merest touch brings death, and Dust Shades rise from the victims, mindless echoes bound to the dagger’s wielder.”
“Where would Ephaltus have gotten such a weapon?” said Kylon.
“From Caer Magia,” said the Surge, “the graveyard of the Fourth Empire, the resting place of the terrible weapon…and where the great destruction shall begin.”
“Destruction?” said Kylon. “What great destruction?”
Had Ephaltus’s rants about the return of the Kingdom the Rising Sun held an element of truth?
“The great destruction,” whispered the Surge, pain in all three of her voices. “I see the Empire burning. I see Istarinmul lying like bones in the desert. I see Anshan rotting in the sun. And I see New Kyre falling into the waves, the Kyracian people destroyed.”
Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask Page 7
