by David Hair
It was a cheery thought to finish a wonderful night upon. But not one he could quite believe.
Everything changed on Freyadai evening, two weeks after Sacrifice Day. Ramon was making noises about returning home before he had to reconquer his own village. No one had heard anything about the hunt for the general for ages, and Alaron had begun to hope it was over. His parents were arguing downstairs about the arrangements for when Vann left on his trading run to Pontus, and the three young people were upstairs, reading to Langstrit, even after the old man fell asleep. Cym found a book of Rimoni poetry and read aloud, performing in her native tongue – only she and Ramon spoke Rimoni, but they all enjoyed her passionate rendition of the lyrical words. She was in the middle of Mecronius’
‘Et il Lune Sequire’ – ‘And the Moon Follows’, a lament for a lost love – when a throaty voice suddenly joined in the chorus.
They all turned and stared.
Jarius Langstrit was looking at them, his mouth repeating the phrase, over and over again.
‘Get Da!’ hissed Alaron, not taking his eyes off the old man, but before anyone could react the general fell forward to his knees and stared at his hands as they began to glow with gnosis-light. Fire scorched the air before him, coiling in patterns that etched themselves on the air. They gasped and took a step back, then Cym seized a quill from the desk, jabbed it in an inkwell and started scrawling, her eyes never leaving the burning pattern.
Every breath the General took was pained, as if he were labouring towards some profound utterance, and his eyes jerked from face to face as if he almost recognised them, then swung back to the blazing pattern hanging before him – then, just as suddenly, the energy inside him faded and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. They leapt to his side as the luminous pattern faded from sight.
Alaron put his ear to his chest. ‘He’s still breathing – get Da—’ but Ramon was already gone, shouting for Vann as he ran.
It was an anxious hour before the old man woke again. They put him to bed and crowded around as Cym fed him spoonfuls of water. Suddenly he spluttered and his eyes flew upon. He looked like a trapped animal.
Vann stepped forward and held his hand. ‘Sir, are you well? Are you in pain? Who did this to you?’
The general groaned and buried his head. No more words could be coaxed from him, no matter what they tried, but Ramon promptly cancelled his trip home. ‘I’m not going anywhere with all this going on,’ he told Alaron.
When they were finally alone, Cym showed them the shapes that had appeared during Langstrit’s fit. They made a complex pattern, far more intricate than the runes they had learned at college. Runes were symbols from the primitive Yothic alphabet. The magi had assigned them to specific gnosis-effects as a form of shorthand, but they were just memory triggers, not intrinsically magical themselves. As Ramon said, ‘Only babies and Seth Korion use runes while casting – but I’ve never seen one that complex.’
Alaron peered at the shape. ‘Ma has a book on runes somewhere – it’s got a lot more in it than they taught us at college. I’ll see if I can find it.’ He returned a few minutes later with a small volume. They couldn’t find the pattern Langstrit had burned into the air, but they were filled with a new resolve and purpose. Something was happening, and it was happening to them.
Outside, the bell tolled midnight, ushering in the last day of Aprafor. It was two months until the Moontide.
22
Circling Vultures
Sainthood
It has been revealed unto us that the humble woman Lucia Fasterius, through service to Kore and the grace of His hand, has attained through her purity that state by which it is beholden to acknowledge her the divinity. Let her name and deeds be proclaimed!
ROYAL EDICT OF EMPEROR CONSTANT SACRECOUR
ELEVATING HIS MOTHER TO SAINTHOOD, PALLAS 927
Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Martrois 928
4 months to the Moontide
Vultures circled high above, ever hopeful: the desert was no place for the ill-prepared at any time of the year and the scavengers knew it. But Gurvon Gyle never went anywhere unprepared. He sat cross-legged on a low rise in the foothills east of Lybis, watching the sun go down. His wards were blocking a bombardment of attempted communication, most from Tomas Betillon demanding explanations: why had the Gorgio taken fright and fled north? What of the tales coming out of Javon that Cera Nesti had returned in triumph to Brochena? What was going on?
These were damn good questions, and there would have been others had he not been able to control some of the information going to Hebusalim. Not all of it, though: Betillon would know soon enough about the corpses of Gyle’s agents hanging in Brochena Plaza. Damn you, Elena!
The late sunlight glinted off the carapace of a black scarab crawling up his sleeve. How appropriate that the remnants of Rutt Sordell should have manifested as a dung beetle. He needed to find the necromancer a new body, but it needed to be a mage’s body, otherwise Sordell would be incapable of using the gnosis. A living mage body wasn’t easy to find. He was half-tempted to stamp on the filthy thing and have done with him: I left you in charge, Rutt, and now look …
He gritted his teeth in frustration and tried to think through his next step. Twice now Elena had destroyed his plans. He had talked his way down from the gallows after the first, but this latest setback would mean his head if he didn’t set it right before the Crusaders arrived.
Damn you, Constant Sacrecour, for dragging me away, opening the door to Elena – you forced me to contact her, effectively telling her I’d left the continent … damned idiot.
But even he, who knew her better than anyone, hadn’t really believed Elena would take them all on. To slay his whole team, each and every one of them of higher Blood-Rank than her: that was almost miraculous … but it was very much the Elena Anborn he knew. He would have had nothing but admiration for her astonishing feat, had it not endangered him.
Most galling was that he couldn’t decipher her motives. Was this a personal vendetta because he’d taken Vedya to his bed? Or was she in love with one of the Nesti? Was it politics, religion, altruism or just opportunism?
I know you, Elena: love, honour – these things are nothing to you. Or they never used be. Her motivations had always been material or intellectual: head and coin, that was Elena, not heart and body. She was an old dog, like him – she couldn’t have changed. He didn’t want her to have changed. He missed her, strangely. Though Vedya had been far more beautiful, and glorious in bed, there’d been something about the relaxed informality of him and Elena that he needed. Vedya was nothing but ash now and already he could barely remember her face. That said everything.
Elena must have had aid. One against five wasn’t possible – so had the Ordo Costruo helped her? Or some rogue Ordo Costruo from the half-Keshi faction? Now there was a thought – were some of the Builders abandoning their neutrality, taking sides at last? It opened up myriad lines of enquiry.
Even if it wasn’t true, it might provide the story he needed: a plausible and acceptable reason for failure. It was so frustrating, to be reduced to this, but he needed damned good excuses because he was running out of friends. Belonius Vult had joined Tomas Betillon and Kaltus Korion in condemning this latest setback, so he probably couldn’t count on Vult’s backing any more. So the question was: had he run out of second chances? Was it time to cut and run?
He rejected that thought instantly. He still had Coin, the most talented shapeshifter he had ever come across, and he still had Mara Secordin, and his other mage-agents were even now riding the winds towards Javon. Elena couldn’t hide, not with a queen to protect. She’d be on the defensive now, and that was fatal in this type of war. He was Gurvon Gyle, the Grey Fox. He had never lost aduel between spies before, and he never would.
Another questing mind touched his, one he dare not block. His mouth went dry.
> The touch of Lucia’s mind was viscerally cold as it echoed through the relay-staves.
He swallowed and tried to keep his mind’s voice calm and reasonable.
A lie, or the truth? An easy choice.
Emperor Constant was nothing compared to Lucia. Gyle knew whose protection he would rather enjoy.
Gyle sensed anger on the part of the Empress-Mother, but when she responded her mental voice was still calm. She paused for a few seconds, clearly struggling with her temper.
He took a mental breath and went on,
The Mater-Imperia was silent for some time, considering.
He sent his gratitude wordlessly.
Damn.
The contact was broken and he was left to stare out at the darkening sky and contemplate the arrival of the Church’s most feared Ascendant Inquisitor. He exhaled, noticing the faint quiver in his left hand and realising that he had not lost the capacity to feel fear.
23
Relearning the Heart
Corinea
At times, my wife the Empress Lucia says to me, ‘Are not the fairer sex as well equipped both intellectually and morally to participate in the discourse of the high table?’ To which there is one easy response that banishes all argument: Corinea.
EMPEROR HILTIUS, 870
Who was the real Corinea? Selene, the murderess who slew Corineus? A whorish harpy who benighted Corineus’ flock, ensuring that so many of the Thousand were found unworthy of Ascension? Or is she just the excuse the Kore uses to oppress women everywhere?
SARA DE BOINEUX, GRADUATION THESIS, BRES ARCANUM 878
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Martrois and Aprafor 928
4-3 months until the Moontide
Elena’s Necromancy-wracked body was in turmoil. She failed to bleed at the start of Martrois, and for the first time in years did not accompany Cera to the blood-tower in the week of the new moon. Instead she went into her own tower and exercised to the point of exhaustion. Bastido could now defeat her on even the most basic setting, so she added bruises and welts from the fighting machine to her catalogue of pain – on top of the all-consuming task of re-establishing security inside the palace. Everyone, guard or servant, had to be mentally scanned prior to hire – though it was probably a waste of energy, for it would not uncover anyone trained in thought-concealment. Those permitted access to Cera and Timori were cut to the bare minimum, and the family areas of the palace were segregated from the rest of the building. Fear of failure and desperation to regain her former athleticism drove her on. Every night as she collapsed into bed Tarita and Borsa nagged her to get more rest. She ignored them.
She had not thought herself vain, but she was more than upset at her inability to regain her youthful looks and lithe body. Her hair was slowly regrowing, a blonde-silver hue that was not too unflattering, but she had black circles beneath her eyes. Her joints creaked painfully; her tendons burned at every movement. She had no energy to spare for rebuilding herself: Gurvon Gyle was out there and she could not afford to relax.
The re-establishment of the Nesti proceeded apace. Cera had summoned her nobles to council, but before that there were hundreds of crises to deal with. The treasury, stables and granaries had been ransacked, and the Gorgio had been weakened, not destroyed: should the Nesti pursue when they themselves had been so denuded of men by Gurvon’s initial strike?
Brochena buzzed like a hive, filled with frenetic energy. The Jhafi returned cautiously to the palace, first seeking news of mis
sing relatives, and then seeking work. Cera herself attended the mass funeral for the murdered on the first Sabbadai of Martrois. She was visibly moved by the occasion, and Emir Tamadhi left her in no doubt about the feelings of the people: shihad was demanded, against both the Gorgio and the Rondians. Cera understood; she gave repeated assurances on both counts.
There was a lot of goodwill flowing from the liberation of the city, but one issue was still tearing Cera in two: what to do with Solinde. The people, especial the Jhafi, wanted her put on trial, for Solinde had fraternised with the Gorgio and publicly proclaimed her love for Fernando Tolidi. To protect her sister would be wrong; to not protect her would be weak and a betrayal of family.
It did not help that Solinde remained antagonistically unrepentant. The Jhafi claimed she had egged on the Gorgio, and she denied nothing, until at last Cera had no choice but to condemn her own sister to the dungeons in Krak di Conditiori, far to the south, where political prisoners were housed, guarded by Javonesi knights and Ordo Costruo magi under an ancient treaty with Antonin Meiros’ magi. It was a delaying tactic and it pleased no one.
Mystery still shrouded the death of Fernando Tolidi. Elena could not work out how he had died, or why his body had not been taken north. There were no witnesses, and Solinde denied any knowledge. She showed no sorrow at all, which Elena found disturbing.
Before Solinde was sent south, Elena went to her cell. The princessa sat alone, staring into space, moving only to eat or to use the privy. She looked and acted traumatised, yet when she spoke, she was viciously sarcastic, and simmered with more hostility than fear, even alone with a mage. Elena contemplated her in puzzlement, unable to understand where the vivacious Solinde they all had loved had gone. Had Sordell done something to her, or was this a reaction to Fernando’s death? It would take weeks of patient work to probe her mind and heal her of her terrors, but she would have one last try.
