Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  Finally Rosco spoke up, rubbing his chubby chin thoughtfully. ‘So, what is it that would align the Nesti and the Jhafi, Godspeaker? What is the price?’

  Acmed narrowed his eyes. ‘Spoken like a man of money, Master Rosco. I do not talk of coin, though: I talk of faith and brotherhood, and equality before law and before Ahm. We have been bought with gold before, but the money always finds its way back into Rimoni coffers. We have been gifted land that was ours anyway and never yours to give. Rimoni gifts always come with price tags! What will seal an agreement between Nesti and Jhafi must be more fundamental, and though it must start at the top, it must reach the common people.

  ‘Let the Nesti embrace the Amteh Faith. Let the Princess marry a Jhafi prince and bear him Amteh children. Let the Rimoni share the secrets of the vines and olives and mines that make them so wealthy! Let the bread of the Rimoni feed the Jhafi poor. Let the iron of the Rimoni mines find its way into the armouries of the emirs. Let seized land be returned, or at least purchased at a fair price. And let the Rimoni and the Jhafi join our brethren in Kesh and purge the lands of the infidel. These are the things that will win the hearts of the Jhafi and finally make us one nation.’

  Cera raised a hand, cutting off the opening mouths of her advisors. ‘Wait, gentlemen, for one minute. Reflect on what the Godspeaker has said, then give me considered responses, not emotions.’

  Elena watched her and wondered just where her gentle young princessa had gone. Cera was acting like some Senator of Rym, not a virginal young woman. But this part of her had always been there, in the way she bossed her siblings, and how she had gobbled up every word her father spoke. It was in the way she would argue the world’s faults and injustices with Elena for hours on end in the blood-tower, surrounded by scrolls of the philosophers and Rimoni senatorial speeches, texts on the deeds of the emperors and religious tracts. She was always a thinker. I just hadn’t realised she could be a leader. And I bet she won’t want to give it away when the time comes, either …

  As soon as the minute was up, Comte Inveglio raised his hand. ‘There is no way we’ll be giving weapons and armour to the Jhafi. The output of our mines is the basis of our power – we found ’em, we’re mining ’em. Our soldiers must have superior equipment to compensate for our numerical disadvantage. Impossible! Suicidal!’ He glowered at the Godspeaker.

  The drui, Prato, said gently, ‘A person’s faith comes from the heart. All Nesti children are exposed to both religions. They have chosen to be Sollan – this is what is in their hearts.’ He gave a faintly superior smile. ‘I have no objection to their being educated in both faiths, of course, but they must be permitted their own choice.’

  Pita Rosco was frowning. ‘I can’t see how we can do more to feed the people. We Nesti have always prided ourselves on our generosity to the poor. We distribute bread, we give water from our wells. If the Jhafi can’t see that …’ He shrugged helplessly.

  Next Lorenzo spoke. ‘We understand that before he was murdered, the king had elected to join the shihad. But until we can oust the Gorgio from Brochena, we are powerless to do so, even if we did wish to incur the wrath of the Rondian legions and battle-magi. Neutrality may not sit well with any of us, but prudence demands it.’

  ‘And our princess refuses to marry,’ remarked Comte Inveglio. ‘It would seem that none of the Godspeaker’s suggestions are practical.’ He looked about him. ‘Do we need the Jhafi to win?’

  Alfredo Gorgio has you outnumbered about ten to one, thought Elena. You bet you do.

  Godspeaker Acmed snapped, ‘Typical Rimoni – all you offer are sops to buy our souls, and you don’t even bother to conceal it.’ He turned to Cera. ‘If these terms are not suitable to you, perhaps Massimo di Kestria will find them more palatable? Or Stefan di Aranio in Riban?’ He started to rise. ‘I knew it was a waste of time talking to you.’

  ‘Please, Godspeaker,’ Cera said quickly, ‘I have not said that I reject your ideas, nor that I agree with what my advisors have said. Ahm willing, we can find a path through this maze.’

  ‘Ahm does not negotiate,’ Acmed muttered.

  ‘But men do,’ replied Cera calmly, ‘and so does this woman.’ ‘Personally, I find the Godspeaker’s suggestions to have great merit. Obviously, these ideas challenge us, and your concerns are all valid. They are a step into the unknown, a leap of faith. We have always dealt with the Jhafi as we would an outsider, yet the Godspeaker is correct: we share a nation, and so their concerns must be heard and addressed. Here is what I propose: we take each one of these suggestions and examine it closely, but not from the perspective of what is wrong with it, but what is right about it. You will have until the end of the month, and your guiding mantra must be: How can I make this happen?. I want your most open minds, gentlemen. I want practical, positive plans. We need the Jhafi – and they need us.’

  Gurvon Gyle had used this method with his team in the past, and Elena had suggested it to Cera. The men didn’t like the idea, but grudgingly agreed to try it. They parted, arguing softly, but their steps were purposeful.

  Cera sagged into her chair. Suddenly she looked seventeen again. ‘They wouldn’t have argued with Father,’ she muttered.

  ‘You’ll just have to get used to it, Cera. Men argue – but arguments are good; they give you options to choose from.’

  Cera exhaled. ‘But they’re so exhausting!’

  ‘You did well.’ She squeezed the girl’s cold hand. ‘They argue, but they gave respect too.’

  Cera lifted her chin a little. ‘They did, did they not?’

  Promises of aid came in from the provincial lords who feared the return of the racist, oppressive Dorobon family. Massimo di Kestria, Lorenzo’s older brother, was the first to respond to Cera’s call for help, but the most important response came from Emir Ilan Tamadhi of Riban, a way-station town the Rimoni had never settled in great numbers. Lord Stefan di Aranio was the Rimoni ruler there, but the emir was far more influential. The hard-line Jhafi believed him a Rimoni servant, while most Rimoni saw him as a Jhafi troublemaker. He came east with a large contingent of Jhafi fighting men and built a great tent-city and camel-yard outside Forensa.

  Ilan Tamadhi also brought the news they had been half-expecting. ‘I have news of your sister, the Princess Solinde,’ he told Cera apologetically as she greeted him on the palace steps. ‘She is to marry Fernando Tolidi. This has been proclaimed in Brochena Cathedral.’

  Cera hung her head. ‘Does she seem at all unwilling?’ she asked, so softly that Elena, standing close behind, barely heard the question.

  ‘I am sorry, Princessa, but she seems willing. Alfredo claims Tolidi’s marriage to Solinde gives Tolidi legitimate claim to Forensa. He says they will march after the wedding and take what is theirs.’

  As soon as they were alone, Cera surprised Elena by throwing her arms about her and sobbing tearfully, ‘They’re going to try and kill us all, Ella – Timi, me, you, all of us! They’re going to kill us all!’ She clung to Elena like a child.

  She’s been holding all her fears inside her … I forget she’s still just a girl. Elena stroked Cera’s long hair uncomfortably, thinking, Borsa is better than me at this, and murmured, ‘We’ll be all right, Cera. Next week the Regency Council reconvenes. We will find a way to win.’

  ‘What if there isn’t a way?’ Cera whispered.

  Yes, Elena, what then?

  Elena lay on her bed in her tiny chamber outside the nursery. There was no light but the tiny lamp beside the bed. She had lowered her wards, and now she held a little piece of wet clay, a conduit for Gurvon, an Earth-mage, to help him channel. It was slightly risky – he was the more powerful mage, and could do real damage if she wasn’t careful. But she had never been one to shy away from risks.

  An eye formed in the clay, then another and a mouth. ‘Elena.’ His voice was in her mind, not her head, despite the movement of the lips in the clay.

  ‘Gurvon. Where are you?’ There was a faint echo: he was distant, then.r />
  ‘Not telling. You?’

  ‘In Pallas, rukking the emperor.’

  He didn’t laugh. ‘By the Kore, Elena, what are you doing?’

  ‘Following my conscience. How could you imagine that I would just stand aside and let you murder the children I have been protecting for all these years?’

  ‘A conscience?’ he sneered. ‘Whatever passed for your conscience you kept in your coin-purse.’

  ‘I found something worth more to me than money, Gurvon. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Those clay lips pursed. ‘Do you even know how rich we are? We’re richer than kings, Ella! We’re set for the life we always dreamed of. Remember that manor by the lake where we were going to grow old together?’

  ‘You and me, Gurvon – and Vedya makes three?’

  ‘Just you, Ella. There’s never been anything between Vedya and me.’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Gurvon.’

  ‘You love me, Ella – you told me so yourself.’

  ‘And you laughed!’

  ‘Elena Anborn in love? I thought you jested – but it was true, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What would you know of love?’

  The clay face grimaced. ‘Touché. Well, there is no doubt about who has come out of it better, is there? I have all the money, and you’ve nothing but a death sentence.’

  ‘Do you have something pertinent to say, Gurvon? If not, I’ll just break this link—’

  ‘No, wait! I do have something for you: a final offer. Walk away, Ella. Go to Hebusalim, and I’ll send you your money there, every fennick of it. You’ll get an Imperial Pardon and you can walk away a free woman. You can go anywhere on Urte you want – except Javon. You’ll be out of the game.’

  ‘More lies.’

  ‘No, Elena, I swear this is a genuine offer. They want you out of the way, Ella.’

  ‘I’m not abandoning Cera and Timori to you, Gurvon, or your emperor, so you can tell his Majesty to go and screw himself. And I never want to see you again.’

  The little clay face pursed into a regretful expression. ‘But you will, Elena: mine will be the last face you ever see, right as the blade goes in. We’re going to come after your little princessa and her kid brother. I’ve got the whole team here with me: Rutt, Arno, Vedya and the rest. Abandon them, Elena – leave now. It’s your only chance.’

  ‘You know I’d never accept such an offer.’

  ‘No, I don’t know that. The Elena I knew would.’

  ‘Then you never really knew her, did you?’

  ‘Damn it, Elena, listen to me! Surrender to me and I’ll protect you – you’re my link to the old days, to the Revolt. They were glorious times, Elena: the joy of living, the thrill of the hunt, the best days of our lives. I don’t give a shit about Samir, or Vedya. It’s you I want, Elena. It’s always been you.’

  She stared into the little ball of clay and her eyes misted over. Yes, there were good memories, hiding under bridges, screwing beneath the stars, that fox face inches from hers, taut with anxiety or laughing ironically, Gurvon kissing her; sliding into her, making her feel …

  But there were other things she had tried hard to forget: plunging her blade between the ribs of unsuspecting watchmen; blood spurting from the throat of a farm boy who’d blundered into the middle of a raid; men burning like torches, or drowning as she flooded their lungs; a Rondian officer, screaming as Sordell burned out his eyes with a poker. Things she needed to forget.

  ‘Go rukk yourself, Gurvon. I will be the last thing you see, not the other way around.’

  Those clay lips pursed angrily. ‘So, it’s true then: you have gone safian. Have you fallen in love with your little princessa?’

  ‘Oh, grow up, Gurvon.’ She felt a ball of fury working its way up her throat. ‘There is something here you wouldn’t recognise: something worth preserving. These are good people, and now they’re my people, and that’s worth more to me than your money – or your so-called “love”.’

  ‘When did Elena Anborn ever give a rukk about “love” or “goodness”? What the Hel happened to you?’ He sounded genuinely bemused.

  Good question. Not sure I even know the answer myself, and yet here we are. ‘I could never explain it to you, Gurvon. I’d need to use too many other words you don’t know the meaning of.’

  ‘Then you’re dead, Elena. You’ve signed your own execution order.’

  The clay ball suddenly became a fist-sized flea-shape that leapt at her face. It splattered against her shields, but as it fell back it was already reforming to spring again. She encased it in blue fire and burnt it dry, smiling grimly at his grunt of discomfort.

  ‘Was that your best shot, Ella?’ he taunted as the clay fell to dust, then he was gone.

  She lay on the bed for a few minutes and reran the conversation in her mind: Analyse and question. What had he hoped to achieve? Did he really think he could turn her this late in the game? Where was he – and what was that faint echo? That echo …

  She sat up, suddenly excited, wrapped a gown about her and went to find Cera.

  The midmorning light was pouring into the council chamber from the high windows. They were all prepared for another long day, but there was a new energy about the Regency Council today. Elena and Cera had been awake a lot of the night, cocooned in blankets as they discussed Gurvon Gyle, and now there were plans to be laid.

  ‘All right, gentlemen, Time for you to report.’ Cera looked at Pita Rosco. ‘Pita, you and Paolo were looking at the question of the poor relief for the Jhafi. You may go first.’

  Pita Rosco outlined a scheme for wealth distribution that would gradually enrich the Jhafi without sending the marketplace into chaos or impoverishing Rimoni families. There was much about shareholdings and ownership rights and the renegotiation of land-based voting that made Elena’s head hurt, but Cera followed with what looked like real interest, then commissioned a sub-committee to follow through. As the day passed in intense but largely civil debate, Elena and Cera began to believe they might just get through the day without serious conflict.

  Naturally, that didn’t happen.

  Drui Prato started the last item of the day: religion. ‘Princess, you asked Godspeaker Acmed and me to find the land some sort of religious accommodation. Clearly this is impossible. Our faiths are so divergent.’ He looked disdainful, while the Scriptualist folded his arms and stared into space.

  Cera leaned forward. ‘So how have you spent the last three weeks, Signor?’

  The drui blinked. ‘I have prayed, Lady, for wisdom.’

  Cera’s eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Did anything come to you? Any great insights, Signor Ivan? The wisdom of doing as your Regent demands, perhaps?’ she asked acidly.

  Prato’s face went red; he was clearly unaccustomed to criticism from any but a more senior cleric.

  She turned on the Godspeaker, who was smugly enjoying his rival’s discomfort. ‘And what of you, Godspeaker Acmed? How did your attempts to engage with the Sollan brothers go?’

  ‘They would not have wished to talk with us,’ the Godspeaker replied flatly.

  ‘That is not what I asked.’

  ‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to thus by a woman – or any man. My status—’

  ‘Your status is beneath mine when you sit at this table. You should be grateful I listen to you at all. I have endorsed your right to speak here, and I have backed your proposals—’

  ‘This is not endorsement! This is a sham!’ the Godspeaker interrupted. ‘Negotiating – swatting around fanciful ideas? This is nothing but a frivolity, a girl’s game. A strong leader would not do this!’

  Ah, thought Elena, and here it is. It’s a shame it’s him. Inevitable, though …

  Cera’s face went still and cold. ‘Only a strong leader, Godspeaker? Is that what you respect –strength?’ She almost spat out the word. ‘So what exactly is strength to you? Is strength tyranny? Is strength screaming at servants, beating them? Is strength sending armed troops against th
e weakest to crush bread-riots? Or inciting violence and calling it God’s will?’

  The Godspeaker’s face went white with anger. ‘Princess—’

  ‘Silencio,’ she roared. ‘I have not finished!’ She got up and began to circle the table. ‘Is strength the ability to wield a sword?’ She snatched a blade from one of the guardsmen and tossed it to Elena. ‘Ella, deal with this toy.’

  What are you doing, girl? Then she understood, and exerted the gnosis. Both Earth and Fire were needed and she was a poor Fire mage, but her power would suffice … She twisted the blade of the sword into uselessness, then handed it back to Cera, who dropped it onto the middle of the table. The men looked uneasily at Elena as she sought to conceal the effort the spell had cost.

  ‘Maybe strength is in gold?’ Cera plucked a diamond ring from her finger and threw it out of the window. A dozen pair of eyes watched it sail away. Their mouths hung open.

  Elena grimaced inwardly. I suppose she’ll want me to go and find that for her afterwards.

  ‘Maybe strength is in holy books.’ Cera picked up a Sollan Holy Book from the table. For an instant Elena thought she might throw that away too, but instead she dropped it next to The Kalistham and pushed them both away from her. ‘All of you have been looking at me, thinking you can bully me into doing whatever you want. Well, I can do that that too: I have at my back the greatest warrior in this kingdom. Shall I ask her to show you how completely I can bully you if I so choose?’

  Elena walked softly to her side, thinking, Careful, Cera: you need their hearts, not their fear.

  Almost as if hearing Elena’s thought, the princess let her voice soften. ‘If this is about respecting force, then you may try me – but like my father, I believe leadership is not about bullying, but about consent and about vision. I am legally the regent of Javon. If I am not, then who rules? Alfredo Gorgio? Or maybe one of you?’ She looked pointedly around the table. ‘Would you like to fight with one another for supremacy and weaken us all? Or will you follow this woman, who has never turned away advice? Who is determined to find a solution that unifies us all?’