Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  ‘Politics and trade interest me, fashion and poetry and dance-steps do not,’ Cera said.

  ‘I know – but Cera, we’ve both heard that sort of rubbish before. What’s really the matter?’

  Cera hung her head. ‘I need the people to love me, Ella. If they turn against me, we Nesti are lost. I won’t give up my independence so the Aranios or Kestrians can stage a bloodless coup-by-marriage. The barons don’t want a woman as regent. They want Timi as their puppet, and I won’t have it.’

  Elena squirmed uncomfortably. Being the kindly confessor was not a role she excelled at, but she was pretty sure Cera still hadn’t revealed what had really upset her. ‘You know what they’re like; they won’t change. But their aims are aligned with yours: they want Javon strong and united, so they will support you. And there are other concerns, Cera.’

  She explained Gurvon’s likely tactics, and they took supper together in Cera’s parlour while planning how to seal off the royal towers and minimise the security threat. It wasn’t until the bells tolled six times that Elena realised that it was midnight already. They both yawned.

  Cera gripped Elena’s arm as she rose to leave. ‘Grazie, Ella-amica.’ She pulled her close and hugged her. ‘Being with you always makes me calmer.’

  ‘My pleasure, Cera. Do you need help getting out of that gown?’

  Cera stood and stretched, yawning again. ‘Please. Poor Tarita will be fast asleep.’

  As Elena helped her into her nightclothes, she stroked the dark curtain of hair. ‘You are very beautiful, Cera,’ she said softly. ‘When you find the right man, he will be a lucky fellow indeed.’

  Her words upset Cera again and she seized Elena’s hand. ‘I’m frightened, Ella – what if they’re right about me?’ she whispered. ‘What if I do have that sickness in me?’

  Elena frowned. ‘It’s not a sickness, Cera, it’s something people are born with. The Rimoni Empress Claudia was one of their greatest rulers, and she kept a whole harem of girls for herself.’ She braced herself to ask the question. ‘Do you believe yourself to be safian?’

  Cera hung her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Why don’t I want the boys they throw at me? They’re all handsome and well-built and charming. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Cera, you’re tasting authority and power, and you’re enjoying it. You’re seeing these suitors as a threat to that, that’s all. I doubt you even see them as men; they’re just pawns in the tabula of politics.’

  ‘But I don’t find them even a little bit attractive.’

  ‘Cera, you’re – what, eighteen? You’re not yet grown-up. Many people don’t develop any interest in the opposite sex until they’re in their twenties. You’re going through more than any young girl should, and you’re holding up magnificently. You’ve got far more important things to worry about than whether your heart goes thump when a boy smiles at you. Frankly, I’m glad it doesn’t.’

  Cera ducked her head and nodded apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll sleep now. Thank you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Cera,’ Elena told her, feeling emotionally drained as she sought her own bed. The memory of Lorenzo’s face swam before her as she slid between the sheets. In her dreams she watched him on his knees again, proposing alternately to Cera and herself, before turning into a knife-wielding Gurvon Gyle. He slashed and whirled and in a trice Cera was dead and Elena was staring in disbelieving horror at the dagger in her own breast. She woke unsure if it were nightmare or omen.

  Gurvon Gyle sat entirely still, like a lizard on a wall afraid to move in case it is seen by a predator. And the man in the chair opposite was assuredly a predator. The decrepit room they shared had no other furnishings. The stone was crumbling, bugs crawled in the corners and it stank of rot and decay.

  The man was weaving strands of light with his fingers. He didn’t look like a torturer, but his reputation hung heavily about him. Inquisition Grandmaster Fraxis Targon was neat and clean, so fastidious that he shaved twice daily. He wore hair cream despite the crippling midday heat, slicking his thin blond hair and thin moustache. He looked like a shopkeeper. Only his eyes, so pale as to be almost white, betrayed the cold distance that he maintained from life. His stare was utterly dispassionate, utterly uncaring. He might rip a man’s heart out with the gnosis as blandly as he crushed a cockroach. Rutt Sordell clearly thought so – the scarab housing Sordell’s soul was hiding in Gyle’s pocket, and had not stirred for hours.

  The pattern of light frayed as the Inquisitor lowered his hands and scowled. Another blocked scrying. Targon could blast through Elena’s wards, but that would alert her instantly, so for now they had to probe, and to rely on information from Gyle’s small network of spies within the palace. None were highly placed, nor capable of taking aggressive action, but at least they were inside.

  ‘Have a care you aren’t detected,’ Gurvon told the Inquisitor sourly. His agents had reported that Elena had formed a friendship with the commander of Cera Nesti’s guard, Lorenzo di Kestria. They insisted it was just friendship, but the thought made his stomach tighten.

  It is not jealousy. It is just a matter of honour that I castrate and disembowel the man.

  ‘Her skill is insufficient to detect my probing,’ the Inquisitor rumbled. ‘I grow impatient at your caution, Gyle.’

  ‘We need to get Coin into position first,’ he argued.

  ‘With the Anborn woman dead, no one could stop us.’

  ‘No, but the whole of Javon would erupt into war against all things Rondian. It is only the continued reign of the Nesti Regency that is keeping that in check.’ Surely Mater-Imperia told you this, he thought angrily.

  ‘Mater-Imperia did tell me that,’ Targon said, answering what Gyle had believed a private thought. He felt himself go cold. ‘You play your little games of king-making and think yourself subtle and perceptive, Gurvon Gyle, but I was raised to the Ascendancy by Magnus Sacrecour and I will act as I see fit. When I choose to strike, I will strike, and you had best pray that you are well out of my way.’ The Inquisitor leaned back in his chair. ‘In the meantime, spymaster, I believe it is time to go on the offensive. The local criminals are hunting for you house-to-house. It is time to give them pause.’

  Gyle redoubled the shields about his mind as he bowed his head. ‘You will begin it?’

  Targon nodded. ‘And then you will start upon the princessa.’ The man’s smile never reached his eyes. ‘Leave me and send in the serving girl.’ His eyes were hooded. ‘I must continue her instruction.’

  Cera Nesti sat on the window seat, the perfumed night wafting through the open casement. Elena had set the wards – she had seen the grille of light as her protector lit them – and nothing else could get inside. She looked up as something landed on the sill just beyond the unseen wards. A crow?

  ‘Shoo,’ she called, ‘get away—’

  But the bird turned a beady eye towards her, and then changed.

  There was nothing gradual about it: one moment it was a big black bird and the next a grey-clad man. She opened her mouth to scream, but he put his fingers to his lips and whispered, ‘Shhh – wait.’ He put a hand up as if reaching for her and the wards lit up, a mesh of blue-skeined light. ‘See, I cannot reach you. This illusory form cannot penetrate Elena’s wards. You are quite safe.’

  She knew him. ‘You are Gurvon Gyle.’

  The man inclined his head. ‘I am.’

  Cera stared at the man, trembling slightly. I should get Ella …

  Gyle raised a placating hand. ‘I am only here to talk.’

  She swallowed. Her enemy, so close – what do I do? ‘Why should I talk to you?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you? I cannot hurt you, so please, hear me out. I will be brief.’ His face radiated sincerity. ‘I do not wish to see you harmed, Cera, nor do I wish to harm your little brother.’

  Elena was probably doing her evening exercises, Cera remembered. Sol et Lune, this is my enemy, talking to me. Maybe I can learn something from
this …

  She looked around, checking that she was alone, feeling guilty, as if she were betraying herself, then said, ‘You killed my family. How could I trust you?’

  Gyle looked sad, almost apologetic. ‘I was commanded to remove Javon from the shihad. I had no choice. If you soften your policy towards the shihad, I will guarantee the safety of you and Timori.’

  She felt her temper flare. ‘My people would never let me – nor will my conscience.’

  ‘When all of your house are ash and all those who have pinned their futures on you are dead, how will your conscience feel then?’

  She sucked in her breath. In one sentence he had cut to the bones of her greatest fear. ‘Ella?’ she called, her voice quavering.

  ‘Elena is in the Jade Tower exercising – unless she’s busy somewhere with Lorenzo di Kestria,’ he added archly.

  He’s testing me and I will not respond. But the queasy sense of fear his words aroused became a flash of temper. ‘Ella slew your Sydian whore!’ she fired back.

  Gyle smiled blandly. ‘Elena Anborn leaves a trail of destruction wherever she goes, girl. She has neither pity nor remorse. Do you think she’s on your side? She’s on her own side and none other.’ His voice sounded pained, even regretful. ‘I could tell you all about her, girl.’

  His words awakened all her fears and she batted them away. ‘Liar!’

  ‘Calm yourself, girl.’

  ‘Rukka-tu, Neferi!’

  ‘Such language, Princessa!’ His voice was condescending. He stood, effortlessly floating on the air. ‘Cera, you have a choice: align Javon with the Crusade and you and your family will live and prosper. Choose the shihad and you will lose everything.’

  She opened her mouth, but he was already gone.

  She stumbled backwards to her chair and huddled in it like a child.

  When Elena came soon after, freshly washed and glowing, she just knew that Gyle had spoken truly about her and Lorenzo. She couldn’t articulate why the thought of her protector and her first knight together made her ill, but it did. So she didn’t mention Gyle’s visitation at all.

  24

  Manifestation

  Magic

  The term ‘magic’ is incorrectly applied by laymen to all gnosis-workings. To a mage, the term means the channelling of raw energy into bursts of fire, protective shielding and moving objects. A ‘mage-bolt’ can be a useful and often lethal weapon; a shield is vital to any mage in a dangerous situation and the ‘telekinesis’ applications of ‘magic’ are innumerable. Mastering magic is the first task of any student.

  ARDO ACTIUM, SCHOLAR, BRES 518

  Hebusalim, Dhassa, Antiopia

  Thani (Aprafor) 928

  3 months until the Moontide

  Casa Meiros was in a state of semi-celebration since a healer-mage had confirmed Ramita’s pregnancy. Antonin Meiros openly wept for joy, and treated her like an apsara sent from on high. He had told her a dozen times a day that she was the bravest and most wonderful bride in all of history, and his kindness had further softened her heart towards him.

  It also doubled her guilt and shame, and she felt like the worry was driving her insane. The city was suddenly fearful as rumours of Keshi armies on the move intensified, and increased security meant no visitors. But Huriya was endlessly inventive, and persuaded Ramita to ask Meiros for the chela from Omprasad’s temple to come and light candles for their peace and safety. So Jai and Kazim duly visited Casa Meiros, improvised some prayers to the Omali gods and then took tea in the outer quarters. Ramita was so desperate to talk to Kazim she could barely contain herself, but Kazim was clearly full of a different need. He kept glancing over her shoulder at the doorway, but the servants were hovering.

  ‘Settle down, Kazim,’ Huriya hissed in Lakh. ‘You’re like a bull in the mating season.’

  ‘I am a bull!’ he retorted. He looked at Ramita and groaned. ‘How are you, my love?’

  ‘How do you think I am? Pregnant to the wrong man, in daily danger of discovery and stoning, in a city where war could break out any moment!’ Hysteria was threatening to break through any moment. ‘We need to talk, Kaz, not go to bed.’

  ‘But Mita—’

  Ramita felt a sudden and alarming urge to slap him. ‘Listen to me: I’m going to have a child, probably more than one, if my mother’s line holds true, and when he realises they aren’t his, my husband will have no choice but to hand me over for stoning. And don’t think he won’t come after you too. He may be old but he is Antonin Meiros, and he will pull you apart.’ She dropped her voice to a hiss. ‘You have to run, Kaz: go home, go anywhere, but go.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without you, Mita. I love you—’ His voice was almost loud enough to reach the ears of the housemaids. Huriya shushed him.

  Ramita found herself wishing he had never come. ‘Kaz, please listen to me: your only chance is to be so far away that he can’t find you. Please go – you don’t know what it’s like here now. He’s so happy, and I feel sick, having to lie and pretend. I could betray us with a stray thought at any second. I can hardly bear it. The only way I can endure this is if I know that you’re safe. When Huriya next visits you at the temple, all three of you run. Please, if you truly love me.’ She felt close to tears.

  Kazim was unmoved. ‘No, Mita, there is another way. I have friends who can help us. We don’t have to leave you behind.’

  ‘I can’t come with you, Kaz. They might not pursue you, but they will come after me, whether they believe the children are his or not. No man can tolerate an adulterous wife and maintain face.’

  ‘You’re not thinking clearly, any of you,’ Jai put in quietly. ‘I have found a woman who can remove unwanted children from a woman’s womb. If we can bring her here, pretending she’s a midwife—’

  Huriya looked at him scornfully. ‘Antonin Meiros is never going to let some backstreet hag from the eastside near Ramita and his precious babies, you idiot. He’s got magi-healers watching over her.’

  ‘What if we bring the woman to the Sivraman temple and then have Ramita visit?’

  ‘Oh and the soldiers are just going to stand by as this woman sticks a poker up Ramita’s passage, are they? That’s even assuming Meiros lets her leave the palace grounds now she’s pregnant.’ Huriya glared at Jai. ‘What did you need to find such a woman for, anyway? Is your Keita knocked up too?’

  Jai nodded miserably, and Ramita felt like someone had punched her in the throat. ‘Jai? You’ve got Keita pregnant? Oh, sweet Parvasi, what are you boys thinking with?’ She stood. ‘Just get out! You’re children, not men.’

  Kazim grabbed her arm, then looked round. The servants were fortunately chatting amongst themselves, not paying them any attention. ‘No, Mita, please: hear this. I have a plan.’

  ‘You have a plan? Two thoughts that follow one another in logical sequence? I wouldn’t have thought it possible – what on Urte did I ever see in you, you fool?’ she hissed harshly.

  Kazim flushed. ‘Mita, we’re doing this for you – I love you, you know that. I have a plan, and good people who will help.’ He leaned forward. ‘Don’t give up hope. Just hold on a few more weeks, then everything will be resolved.’

  ‘In what way? What is your plan?’

  Kazim leaned forward, his face intent. ‘We’re going to kill him.’

  She felt the colour drain from her face and her bones weakened. No – that is wrong. It is impossible. It would be evil. No— ‘You can’t,’ she whispered. ‘You cannot.’

  Kazim shook his head, misunderstanding her. ‘Don’t worry, it will be well planned. We can do it.’ His voice brimmed with suppressed excitement. ‘We will kill him and become heroes of the shihad.’

  Her husband lay behind her in the gathering dusk, his body pressed against her back, his arm around her. The air was warm, even though the sun had gone and the silver of the waning Mater-Luna lit the room. Three weeks had passed since she’d last seen Kazim and Jai. She would have bled this week, had she not been
truly pregnant, but she hadn’t, of course. Her belly was swelling, even this early. Her breasts were tender and she woke queasy most mornings. I will have twins, even triplets, like Mother.

  That night, to celebrate, Meiros had produced a dusty bottle of wine and prevailed upon her to enjoy a glass of heady pale amber fluid that had tasted divine: a chard from Bres, he’d told her. ‘This is to celebrate the conception of our children, Wife.’ He was so clearly relieved and happy that she found herself feeling genuine affection for him. And then he had done patient things with his fingers that had brought her as much pleasure as she had ever derived from her body before entering her gently. Despite the guilt and the fear, there had been long moments of bliss in their coupling.

  ‘It will not harm the babies?’ she had asked anxiously, but he had just laughed and reassured her.

  Now he sat up abruptly, a decisive look on his face. ‘Wife, there is something I need to tell you.’

  She sat up also. ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously.

  He stroked her arm. ‘Do not fret; this is good news, not bad. I had hesitated until your condition was better-established, but it can be delayed no longer. I apologise that I have not spoken sooner, but this is something you must know, about when a male mage mates with a female non-mage. The act of carrying the child to term necessitates a sharing of body tissue between mother and child, and this results in a manifestation of the gnosis in the mother. Normally it is temporary, and minor – too minor to have any real effect. But I am Ascendant, and you are carrying twins, and I believe the manifestation will be potent and permanent.’

  Ramita sat up and hugged her knees. ‘What do you mean, lord?’ she whispered. It sounded like nonsense, but it was clearly important to him.

  Meiros put a hand on hers as if to comfort her. ‘What it means, my good and brave wife, is that in a few weeks those first manifestations will become apparent.’