Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  The festival of the Birth of Corineus passed him by. His father bought presents on Alaron’s behalf, because his son didn’t have the courage to leave the house. There was no love for failed magi out there; they were easy targets for every bully in the neighbourhood, with no protection from the authorities.

  When Vann Mercer finally cornered the Mayor, he was told to stop wasting council time and to desist from his harassment of city officials. He stalked out, vowing to see the governor himself when he returned from the Winter Court. But Alaron curled up into a ball beneath his rug beside the fireplace and closed his eyes. He lay there for hours and let the fire go out.

  12

  Council of War

  The Gnosis

  The gnosis is the power of God, granted unto the magi to uphold the Kore.

  THE BOOK OF KORE

  The powers of the magi come from Shaitan himself.

  THE KALISTHAM, HOLY BOOK OF AMTEH

  The gnosis is a tool. There is no evidence that Kore or any other deity was involved in its discovery, nor that any divinity has moral control over its wielders.

  ANTONIN MEIROS, ORDO COSTRUO, 711

  Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Octen/Noveleve 927

  9–8 months until the Moontide

  Elena saw Cera change day by day as responsibility was thrust upon her. She helped where she could, but there were so many new challenges, decisions and crises that Cera was forced to cope with. Borsa became a substitute mother, wiping away tears of grief and frustration and fury, and she kept Timori sheltered and happy and away from Cera when she needed to focus on the tasks at hand. She had a knack for knowing when seeing her little brother, hugging him close and reassuring him, was just what Cera needed too. That reassurance was becoming harder and harder as the silence out of Brochena stretched into weeks.

  The succession laws meant Timori was legitimately king, with his elder sisters legally regents until he turned sixteen – but laws needed swords to enforce them, and a good portion of the Nesti Army had been left in Brochena with Olfuss. In the meantime, Paolo Castellini was charged with readying the Nesti for war. He threw himself with smouldering intensity into drilling the men. He had all the archery targets painted in Gorgio colours; the soldiers liked that.

  Lorenzo recovered swiftly, thanks to Elena’s healing-gnosis. She was pleased at his recovery, but worried that he saw the shared ordeal as something that bound them together. She did not let him kiss her again – though he didn’t stop trying. She didn’t quite know why she resisted, especially when she thought of Gurvon and Vedya together, but she resisted the temptation. It would be an ill use of Lorenzo’s affections.

  At his request, Harshal ali-Assam became their liaison with the Jhafi. When the Rimoni families quarrelled, the Jhafi were usually happy to watch the fracas and align themselves with the winners afterwards. ‘This is different,’ he told Cera, rubbing his smooth scalp anxiously, and outlined a proposal to bring the Jhafi properly into the Nesti fold. ‘The Gorgio won’t expect that.’ The Gorgio detested the Jhafi, prizing their own ‘racial purity’ – even if that made them ineligible for the elected kingship. ‘There will be a price,’ Harshal warned. ‘If I can get you Jhafi aid, it won’t come free.’ He vanished into the desert next day, with Cera’s approval.

  ‘Let us learn who our friends are, if Brochena is now hostile,’ said Cera, and despatched messengers not just to Brochena but to Loctis and Baroz and even Krak di Condotiori. The couriers were hand-picked by Paolo, and Elena scryed them, following their progress gnostically until distance swallowed them. They were beaten home by a crowd of refugees, including high-ranking Nesti officials with tales of regicide and invasion. The Nesti soldiers had been surprised and overwhelmed in the small hours by a Gorgio army they’d never even suspected of being there. The survivors were chained and sent north to the Gorgio mines.

  The refugees confirmed the fate of the king: Olfuss Nesti was dead, and Alfredo Gorgio was in Brochena, surrounded by his soldiers and supporters. He had told the court that Cera and Timori were also dead, and that news had paralysed the people. Fear kept the peace, for now, and the presence of Gurvon Gyle, Rutt Sordell and other magi he’d brought in reinforced that fear.

  Solinde was alive, to their relief, though the traders told her the princessa was aligning herself publicly to the new regime. ‘She is whoring herself to the Gorgio,’ they muttered darkly, telling tales of Solinde dancing with Fernando Tolidi at court, and the handsome Gorgio knight emerging from her bedroom every morning.

  Elena tried to reassure Cera. ‘There are dozens of ways the gnosis can be used to seduce someone, Cera. You must believe in her.’ She could see Cera’s faith in her sister wavering. Solinde was legally a regent too; the Gorgio could use her to give their presence the semblance of legitimacy.

  Cera created a new Regency Council. Elena was appointed to it, as were Paolo and Harshal ali-Assam, and Lorenzo, Cera’s newly appointed chief of her personal guard. They met in the meeting room of Krak di Faradi, though the noise of reconstruction after Samir’s rampage was audible through the walls. Elena and Cera let the men settle first before entering. Elena’s cheeks were smeared with two bloody lip-prints, which drew first curious and then understanding eyes from those already present.

  Several Nesti nobles who had escaped Brochena after the coup were also there: Pita Rosco, the balding and cheery Master of the Purse; sour-faced Luigi Ginovisi, the Master of Revenues, a counter-point to Rosco’s optimism; Comte Piero Inveglio, a well-moneyed merchant-prince with wide experience and sound judgement, and Seir Luca Conti, a grizzled knight, representing the landed nobles. He’d brought many of the Nesti men-at-arms safe out of Brochena with him. Signor Ivan Prato, a young intellectual Sollan drui, sat opposite the suspicious and pricklish Godspeaker Acmed al-Istan. They were still hoping to hear from other Jhafi, from Riban and Lybis, but that would depend on Harshal, who had just returned, looking tired but satisfied.

  The Amteh had a ceremony, used for public meetings when Jhafi women were present: the Mantra of Family. By naming all present as family before Ahm, the women were allowed to bare their faces. Cera gestured to Scriptualist Acmed, who spoke the words in Jhafi and Rimoni, then Elena and Cera lowered their cowls and Cera brought them to order.

  ‘My lords, you have all heard the news: my father is dead and his head has been placed on a pike on the walls of Brochena Palace.’ Her voice quivered with outrage. ‘Alfredo Gorgio has come south with his soldiers and occupied the city. Half our soldiers were slain or made captive. There are hundreds of new widows, and I hear the wailing of the women day and night. My sister has become the plaything of Fernando Tolidi. If he marries her, Tolidi could claim to be rightful regent.’

  Comte Inveglio leaned forward. ‘Permit me, Princessa: were you yourself to wed, even such a union as proposed by the Tolidi to Solinde becomes irrelevant.’ Inveglio had a young and eligible son. ‘Your husband would be Pater-Familia, and therefore regent, until Timori is of age. If she weds, then so too should you.’ A graceful gesture encompassed those about the table. ‘Simplicio!’

  ‘I assume you would propose one of your sons, Piero?’ remarked Luigi Ginovisi, provoking a storm of comments from all sides.

  Cera raised a hand and tried to get silence, but got none until she slapped the table.

  ‘Gentlemen! You can disagree all you like, but I will have quiet, as my father would!’ She glared, and the men mumbled sheepish apologies. ‘“Do not marry or war in haste”,’ she quoted. ‘So said my father, and so say I. I do not need to wed: I am Solinde’s elder, and she is not yet of age. Without my approval her marriage is illegal. And since Alfredo Gorgio is telling the people that the real Cera and Timori Nesti are dead, that we are imposters, even if I did marry, it wouldn’t sway anyone.’

  Everyone acknowledged the truth of her point.

  ‘What we need to do is retake Brochena. There are Gorgio in the Royal Palace, and that is a gauntlet thrown in our
faces. That is what concerns me: my father cut down the Dorobon banner six years ago! Do you want to see it raised again?’

  The men growled and clenched their fists at the thought.

  ‘Do not marry or war in haste, the princess says,’ said the Godspeaker, ‘words from The Kalistham. Your father must have read them there. I agree, you should not marry in haste – at least, not in such haste that you do not consider more options than Comte Inveglio’s son. There are many strong princes among the Jhafi, and many more swords to be won than an Inveglio could bring you. You have been a virgin long enough, Princess. It is time for you to become a woman, for the sake of your kingdom.’

  Cera frowned, uncomfortable at having her virginity discussed so frankly. ‘I repeat, I will not marry in haste, to anyone, no matter race or creed. I am not a prize on a game-board! This meeting is about military solutions to a military problem. Am I understood?’

  The hawk-faced Godspeaker looked ill-pleased, but Cera pushed onwards. ‘Seir Luca, what are our numbers and dispositions?’

  Luca tugged on his beard, and reported, ‘Princessa, the Nesti maintain a standing force of some one thousand spears, but we can deploy seven times that number at need. The Brochena civic guardsmen stood aside when the Gorgio struck. Who knows where their loyalties lie? Their officers must’ve been bought off by Gyle before his magi struck.’ The knight glowered up at Elena. ‘Yet here we have one of his agents at our table.’

  Elena glared at him in the sudden silence. ‘What are you trying to say, Seir Luca?’

  The old knight looked her in the eye. ‘Your “colleagues” have killed our king. Rutt Sordell sits at the right hand of Alfredo Gorgio. But here you are amongst us, just as Sordell sat beside King Olfuss.’ He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Did you know what was planned, Donna Elena?’

  Every eye turned to her. Elena took a deep breath, spread her hands placatingly and said, ‘That is a fair question – I was, after all, in the pay of the enemy. But let me stress that word: I was. I had no more idea what was to happen than anyone here. I believed we were here to stay. And I swear to you all: I had no idea that he was about to do this.’

  ‘He?’ repeated Comte Inveglio. ‘What “he” is this?’ Although he knew the answer, of course.

  ‘“He” is Gurvon Gyle, Comte.’

  ‘Your former employer?’ Comte Inveglio enquired, rhetorically.

  ‘As you know.’

  ‘And your lover,’ he added, and a small hiss ran around the table.

  She felt herself redden, though she’d expected the question. ‘No, that was long over.’

  ‘“Long over”, is it? When did you last lie with him?’

  ‘A year ago, or more – he has another, and frankly, she is welcome to the lying prick.’

  ‘Was King Olfuss aware of your entanglement?’

  ‘Probably – you were, obviously,’ she said dryly. ‘But I still didn’t know of these attacks. Why did you not see it coming?’

  ‘Maybe because no one was whispering it in my ear over a soft pillow,’ said the Comte. ‘Yes, I know you are still here, Donna Elena, and I know that you fought and killed Samir Taguine – but how do we know he wasn’t an expendable pawn in your schemes? How do we know this is not a ruse to win our greater trust and fool us yet again? I believe Gurvon Gyle is the subtlest of men, and such a scheme would be typical of him – so what guarantee do we have that your continued presence here is not part of his master plan?’ He looked around the table. Heads bobbed, some slowly, some quickly.

  Cera’s face was tight and drawn. ‘Ella saved my life, and Lori’s and Timi’s – I saw what she did!’ she cried, and Lorenzo nodded emphatically in agreement as she continued, ‘This is a waste of time, Comte. I trust Ella, and so should you: she has given up all she owns to stand beside us now. She has lost her fortune, forsaken it to protect my brother and me. She deserves our trust. She has my trust.’

  Inveglio frowned. ‘Has she really forsaken her fortune? If it is held by the man she says is no longer her lover, then what has supposedly been “lost” can as easily be restored.’

  Elena slapped the table and stood up. ‘Fine. I will leave the wards intact. If you want my advice about your enemies and what they will do, send for me. If you don’t trust me, work it all out for yourselves. I am at the service of Cera and Timi. The rest of you can do what you like.’

  ‘Stay!’ snapped Cera. ‘I decide who comes and goes here: I am regent. You have pledged your service to me, so you come and go at my pleasure.’ She glared about her, looking every inch her father’s daughter. ‘Understand this: Donna Elena is my trusted protector. Without a mage here this meeting cannot remain secret – remember why Father hired magi in the first place! Without Elena we might as well invite Alfredo Gorgio to join us here and now.’ She looked up at Elena. ‘Last night, before both Drui Prato and Godspeaker Acmed, she swore loyalty to the Nesti, under the highest and holiest blood-oaths, before Sol and Ahm. Her life is mine to command, her hand is mine to give in marriage, her wealth is mine to bestow. Is this understood? Ella is one of us now, until death.’ She pointed to the bloody lip-prints on Elena’s cheeks. ‘Do you wish her to swear again, before you?’

  The men mumbled into their laps and shook their heads. Cera motioned, and as Elena sat down she met Inveglio’s eye and he gave a tiny nod. Good, well done. The conversation had gone as he and she had planned it earlier: if she were to be of use to them they needed to remove any doubts the men might have about her loyalty. Her mind went back to the chapel last night: the incense, the knife slicing open her palms. I give my life to the Nesti. It hadn’t been a hard decision – in fact, she had taken it the moment she intervened against Samir. Yet she had still felt an almost religious joy as she spilt her blood into the Nesti family chalice cup and watched Cera sip it, then press bloodied lip-prints on both cheeks. Among Rimoni there was no higher binding. To doubt her now was to doubt Sol himself.

  ‘Very well. I will hear no more on this matter. Onwards!’ said Cera. She turned to her left. ‘Harshal, you’ve been talking to the emirs. What is the Jhafi reaction to the death of my father?’

  Harshal bobbed his head a little nervously. ‘Naturally, they are concerned. They believe the Dorobon will return, and keep Javon neutral in the shihad. They are unhappy about this. The Harkun tribes are talking of an uprising against all Rimoni, a purging of the land. The nomads see no difference between Nesti, Kestrian, Gorgio or any other Rimoni House.’

  The Nesti men exploded in disgust at this. ‘This was a barren desert with a few nomads scuffing around the water-holes before we came,’ Ginovisi snarled. ‘There was no wealth here, nothing at all! We planted the olives groves and the vineyards; we found the mines and developed them! This land thrives through Rimoni sweat and toil!’ Heads bobbed in agreement.

  Harshal scowled. ‘With respect, these are the words that exacerbate the anger of my people. You speak like there was nothing here before you came, but every city in Ja’afar stood for centuries before your arrival. You built none of the Dom-al’Ahm, none of the palaces of the emirs. The wealth you generate here seldom touches the Jhafi, though our men labour in your mines and vineyards and olive groves. We have a truce between us, and some intermarriage amongst nobles, but most Jhafi have few dealings with Rimoni. We are separate nations who happen to occupy the same land.’

  Another eruption, this time more defensive, and again Cera had to slap the table to get silence. She motioned to the Godspeaker, who gave her a grudging nod of thanks. Stroking his long beard, he said, ‘I too have spoken extensively with my people after services at the Dom-al’Ahm. Our people share your sorrow, Lady. Our grief and anger at the murder of your mother and aunt is real. They were Jhafi, and they were well-loved. We remember the unjust rule of the Dorobon. We are with you in spirit. But we wish to know these two things: what of the shihad? Your father had not given his pledge before he was murdered. And, more importantly, when will you Rimoni finally become one with we Jhafi?’ He raised
a hand to forestall interruptions. ‘Yes, you have followed the Guru’s stricture and intermarried, but always as the superior partner: you take a Jhafi noblewoman and make her into a Rimoni so that you can breed people eligible for the kingship. But you remain Sollan, and the young Jhafi girls taken to wife must convert. All of your customs are Rimoni. You attend our religious ceremonies if you must, and then run off to find a drui to cleanse you! You pay lip service to the Guru.’

  He ignored the rumbling from around the table and said sternly, ‘You sit on the wealth, you do not spread it: there are no Rimoni poor, but among the Jhafi, except for the ruling families, there are no rich! Your rules prevent all but a few Jhafi from voting when the kingship comes up for election! You look to the Jhafi for support when you are desperate, but do nothing to earn that support beforehand. So now we say: Why should we support you?’

  A hubbub burst out, but Cera immediately slapped the table and shouted, ‘Silencio! Silencio!’ She glared about her. ‘Gentlemen – stop and think before you speak. Stop jumping to defend us as your first reaction: I asked Godspeaker Acmed to join us because it is time we discussed the questions you don’t like to hear.’ She pointed to a bust of her father. ‘One of my father’s favourite sayings was “Truth is Perception”. It means that what you believe, however right or wrong, that is your truth, and it will be shaped by who you are, what you’ve seen, your gender, your race, your religion, your history. So when Godspeaker Acmed tells you that the Jhafi don’t love the Nesti, do not tell him that he is wrong and they do! Listen to him, and ask yourself: “Why is this their Truth?”, and “What can I learn from this?”’

  The room fell silent. Elena shivered; it was as if Olfuss Nesti were speaking through his daughter from beyond the grave. She watched them, reading their reactions. Pita Rosco, who hadn’t said much yet, was nodding slowly. Luigi was scowling. Lorenzo and Harshal were exchanging harmonious glances.