Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  They all reflected on this. Alaron wondered if he could have ever had the courage to do the same.

  Langstrit spoke again. ‘All of this leads to an important question: what to do with the Scytale when we recover it? There are only two courses: to destroy it, or to use it. To destroy it would be wrong, I believe – for all the evil that has been wrought, the gnosis has also done much good. It’s the key to righting the wrongs of this world. Pallas will never fall of its own accord, so a stronger force must arise to eclipse it. To destroy the Scytale is to condemn us to Pallas’ domination for ever.

  ‘Great things can grow from small beginnings. Just as the magi sprang from a few fortunate individuals, so together we can grow something special, something vital. We must use the Scytale, carefully and seeking only the sort of mage who shares our aims. I have tried open war, and war failed. We must try something else. It will take years, but with patience, we can create a network of allies and break Pallas’ power.’

  ‘Give it to the Ordo Costruo,’ Cym urged, as she had once suggested to Alaron.

  Langstrit shook his head. ‘They may prove to be allies in the end, but they were compromised by the Crusade and now Pallas controls them. How could we be certain that Antonin Meiros would aid us? For now we must look to ourselves and those we can trust.’

  Cym frowned, looking like she wanted to argue.

  ‘How will we retain control of the Scytale if we go about adding others?’ Ramon asked.

  ‘You told me of your own pact, and I agree with it. Let we five become the new Keepers of the Scytale. Please believe me, I do not seek to cheat you, or to plunge this land into war again. I do not seek to open old wounds. I only want the opportunity presented by the Scytale to rebalance the wrongs that Pallas inflicts daily.’

  Muhren was nodding as Langstrit spoke, but Alaron needed to look at Ramon for reassurance before agreeing. Cym gave her assent last of all, clearly fighting her doubts.

  Langstrit gathered their hands together in the middle of the circle. ‘Let us be the Ordo Pacifica: the Order of Peace. We five shall be the Inner Circle, to stand as equals dedicated to bringing peace to Yuros. Peace shall be our banner. War will be our enemy. Are we agreed?’

  Alaron felt a sense of unreality – these were the sort of things that legendary magi swore, not a motley collection of people like them. It felt pretentious. I am a failed mage, he thought. Cym is Rimoni and Ramon is Silacian. It was surreal. But here we are – and it feels right. He looked around the circle. Everyone looked so determined, and it made him feel braver.

  They released each other’s hands and sat down again. It was a few moments before Langstrit spoke up once more. ‘Now we must recover the Scytale, lest we be accused of putting our cart before the horse. We have a few problems to overcome: I buried it deep, and I still have some issues to resolve regarding gnosis-workings.’ He raised a hand and, grimacing, strained to produce a very modest gnosis-fire. ‘One, I’m out of practice. Two, I’m currently bound in a Rune of the Chain, put upon me by Vult himself. Fortunately, my power after Ascending surpasses his – that enabled the instinctive use of the gnosis you tell me I occasionally displayed. And as you can see, I can still produce a little force when I try. But I must be fully unbound to be of use: I can do it myself, but in doing it, Vult will be aware of exactly where I am.’

  ‘Do we need to remove the Chain-rune at all?’ Ramon asked. ‘Can’t we regain the Scytale without you?’

  Langstrit thought for a moment. ‘Probably, yes – recovery of the Scytale will require only moderate Earth-gnosis and Water-gnosis – and knowing where to look. As I didn’t know who would come looking, I didn’t protect it so strongly that only an Ascendant could regain it. The clues had to be enough to lead the right people to it, while keeping the wrong people away.’

  ‘We can remove the Chain-rune anytime,’ Muhren said. ‘What we can’t afford is to be found.’ He pursed his lips, considering. ‘Does the Scytale itself have powers that will aid us once we have it?’

  The general shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. Fulchius told me the Scytale is not an artefact of intrinsic might; it’s a repository of knowledge: how to make the ambrosia in such a way that precisely suits the recipient. It is of no use in battle.’

  ‘So where is it?’ Alaron finally asked the question burning in his mind.

  Langstrit looked up. ‘Ha! Of course, I haven’t said, have I? It’s beneath the waters of the lake in the flooded area of the Old Town. Inside the plinth of a broken statue of the king, actually. It’s inside a metal cylinder about eight inches round and two feet long, lined with lead to keep out the damp.’ He looked at them. ‘We need to get to Lower Town undetected, and one or more of us will need to go down under the waters to find it – preferably me, as I know exactly what I’m looking for.’

  Lower Town was around a mile north of where they were, spread around the shores of the lake. It was a good twenty minutes’ walk through curfewed streets. Langstrit described the route carefully, and the whereabouts of the statue, in case they had to split up.

  ‘What are our chances of being detected along the way?’ Alaron asked.

  ‘Small, if you stay here,’ Ramon replied.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Think about it Alaron: you’re the name and face Vult knows. He can’t detect the general, Muhren can block him and he doesn’t know Cym or me – so it’s safer if you aren’t with us.’

  ‘But—’ Alaron stared at him in frustration.

  ‘I know, amici, but it makes sense. You are the rod that could bring the lightning down on us.’ He waved his hands apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He’s right, Alaron,’ Muhren said. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter which of us gets it: we’re all going to share in it. We’ll only be gone an hour – and then we can work out how we’re going to get the Scytale out of Norostein.’

  Alaron slumped and hugged his knees. It makes sense … but it’s not fair. He felt numb as he listened to the others getting ready, gathering their weapons, putting their cloaks back on. Langstrit, dressed in some of Vann’s old clothes Cym had found, looked much more confident now, reconciled to what had happened to him and ready to make the most of his rescue. He buckled on a sword, his face clouded by memories.

  Ramon patted Alaron’s shoulder. ‘We won’t be long, amici. I promise.’

  Alaron watched as Ramon led the way up the ladder, Muhren behind him.

  Cym gave him a small wave and a wink.

  Ramon pushed open the hatch at the top of the stairs, something twanged and the Silacian gasped and folded in half, clutching his belly as he fell backwards on top of Muhren. Alaron cried out in horror as he saw the feathered tip of a bolt protruding from Ramon’s stomach. Muhren caught Ramon, then twisted and hunched over, shielding him with his body as flames washed down the ladder.

  35

  Souldrinker and Assassin

  Heathen

  To all religions, those outside the faith are heathen, an enemy whose very existence endangers the soul, for if the heathen can exist without God, their example undermines the faithful. Therefore all religions are at war with those who deny them. At least the Amteh are frank about their wish to put all heathens to the sword. The Kore mouths platitudes of tolerance, but murders just the same.

  ANTONIN MEIROS, ORDO COSTRUO, 643

  Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

  Jumada (Maicin) to Akhira (Junesse) 928

  1–2 months until the Moontide

  Kazim knelt in prayer, alone in the largest Dome-al’Ahm in Hebusalim, prostrating himself to heaven, asking Ahm’s forgiveness and blessing. The enormity of his mission was beginning to fully dawn upon him. It had never been just a game, not really, but training was not reality. To perfectly execute a killing stroke with a blunted wooden knife was not to drive a steel blade into a man’s heart.

  Footsteps echoed in the vast space and he turned to see Rashid, Jamil and Haroun, striding across the stone floor.
They were booted, despite the prohibition on footwear in an Amteh holy place, and part of him was offended by this subtle expression of Hadishah arrogance, but the thrill of trepidation was greater. Was this the moment?

  It felt like he had been preparing for ever, that this daily cycle of exercise, eating, prayer and sleep was some kind of nightmare wheel that would never stop turning. The only person he saw every day was Haroun, who quietly read him the words of the texts, of self-sacrifice, of striking the necessary blow, of the evil of the unbeliever. He could have quoted them backwards now: the Only God is the One God who is Ahm. There is no salvation for the Unbeliever. But they were just words; only the act of killing Antonin Meiros could release him. Only through death could he live again, somewhere far away, just Ramita and him, with their children.

  ‘Kazim,’ said Rashid. ‘Come.’

  He led them to a Hadishah safe house, deep below the house of a merchant near the gold souk. They were admitted silently, unquestioned and unchallenged. There was an underworld here, dealers in opium and gambling and money, all in the service of Ahm. The Hadishah ruled that world, and Rashid led the Hadishah. Kazim saw fear mixed with reverence in all who recognised him. He wondered what role the man lived openly; he had seen or heard virtually nothing since he came here, and Hadishah did not ask more than they were told.

  They descended, the deepest into the earth he had ever been, to a dimly lit pillared cavern some hundred paces long. An old woman stood hunched over before a plinth with an open book on a stand. To Kazim’s amazement, Rashid fell to both knees and prostrated himself before her, and the others did the same. Kazim hastily followed suit. Who is she, that Rashid kneels to her?

  ‘At last,’ the old woman said. Her harsh, dry voice was oddly familiar. Despite himself, he lifted his head, and he realised that he did know her after all: the ancient crone in Aruna Nagar Market who had first told him that his fate was tied to Ramita Ankesharan. A thousand questions boiled up, but he swallowed them fearfully as her eyes pierced the gloom and fixed on him.

  ‘Sal’Ahm, Kazim Makani,’ she rasped. She rose and offered him her arm. The others, even Rashid, remained behind as she guided him to an alcove that she had obviously prepared. There was a brazier and a few artefacts – a knife, some small crystals that looked like large chunks of salt, and a pair of beaten copper goblets.

  She motioned for him to sit on the richly patterned carpet that covered the floor, then, moving stiffly, sat cross-legged herself. ‘My name is Sabele,’ she told him. Her irises were yellowish, he noticed with a shudder – amber-coloured, like a jackal. ‘You may call me Grandmother, though that is not precisely correct.’

  Grandmother? He studied her fearfully. She is another Hadishah mage. This is a test.

  ‘Rashid argued against my seeing you until after the deed is done,’ the crone told him. ‘He felt the risks were too great.’

  ‘What risks?’ he found the nerve to ask.

  ‘The risk that you fail and my presence is torn from your mind under questioning.’ Her voice was cool and emotionless. ‘I recognise the risk, but I overruled him.’

  She overruled Rashid. He nodded nervously.

  ‘Rashid does not know all that is at stake. He knows what you are, but he does not know all that you are.’ Sabele leaned forward. ‘He does not know what we can gain if we play our hand correctly. He has chosen you for this mission because he deems you capable, because your sister or this Ramita will open the door for you, because you are Raz Makani’s son. But he does not know all that Raz Makani was.’ Her eyes met his intently. ‘Nor do you. It is time you learned.’

  He was suddenly afraid of what he was about to be told.

  ‘Raz Makani was a descendant of mine,’ Sabele said, ‘as was Falima, his wife.’ Then she suddenly changed the subject. ‘Do you know the tale of the Rondian magi, of Corineus and his followers?’

  Kazim nodded; Rashid had told him. ‘They gained their Shaitan-powers, destroyed the Rimoni and conquered Yuros,’ he replied.

  The woman sniffed diffidently. ‘I was there,’ she told him, and he felt his skin go cold.

  The woman’s eyes challenged him to disbelieve. ‘I was born in Yuros almost six hundred years ago. I was one of Corin’s followers; we drank ambrosia together. But only one third of the thousand people gathered there gained the gnosis and became magi. Fully one third died in their sleep. But that left another group: those who did not gain the gnosis that night, but who did not die. I was such a one.’

  ‘But—?’

  ‘Hear me out, boy.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘Listen. Those of us who failed to gain the gnosis that night were left in a strange position: witness to the miracle, but not party to it. Those who had gained the power declared that we had been proven unworthy, and once they destroyed the Rimoni legions and established their rule, they turned their attention to us. Sertain and his cronies wrote a holy book for their new religion, the Kore, and in it they named us “Kore’s Rejects”. First they hounded us, then they went so far as declaring us heretics and condemned us to death.’ Her voice was harsh as she spoke, thick with remembered bitterness. ‘Our numbers dwindled, and we began to believe that we had been indeed found wanting. Within a decade, we were hunted almost to extinction. Only through our courage and loyalty to each other did we survive.’

  She fell silent for a long while, as if pondering this thought. Kazim waited until he could not refrain from asking, ‘What happened then?’

  She looked up. ‘An accidental discovery: I came upon a dying mage who had been caught unawares by a rival and left for dead. His body was ruined beyond healing and as I bent over him, he died. For an instant, as I was checking to see if he breathed, I thought I glimpsed a tiny puff of luminous smoke rising from his nostrils, and I inadvertently inhaled that vapour. It was his spirit, departing the corpse.’ She gestured at the brazier with a curling hand and caused the smoke rising there to twist, a prop to her tale. ‘I had inhaled his soul – and gained the gnosis. And because my fellows were as kindred to me, I shared my discovery, which paved the path to our salvation.’

  Kazim stared. Rashid had never mentioned anything like this.

  ‘We know now that the ambrosia had not quite worked on us, the so-called Rejects: there had been a flaw in the mix, or maybe some unknown element in ourselves that had retarded the process, leaving us with the potential for the gnosis. To gain it fully required a trigger: a soul imbued with the gnosis.’

  Kazim’s mind raced ahead and began to make connections as Sabele went on, ‘My fellow Rejects, desperate to gain the gnosis, followed my lead, but dying magi were not readily available. In desperation, some turned on each other, and to my sorrow, this worked: transformation could also be triggered by absorbing the soul of a Reject. Drinking a human soul replenished our powers, but it could not trigger the gnosis. In essence, we had to kill to gain our powers.’

  Kazim watched her in sick fascination. She told me to call her ‘Grandmother’.

  ‘The magi learned of us, and they were appalled. They call us “Dokken”, “Souldrinkers”, “Shadowmancers”, and many other such names. A purge was declared, and the few of us remaining went into hiding. We have been hiding ever since.’

  ‘And you are my great-grandmother?’ Kazim asked fearfully.

  ‘Add a few greats, boy,’ she told him. ‘I fled here when the first windships came, hundreds of years ago.’

  Hundreds of years – Ahm have mercy! Kazim forced himself to think, despite the hammering in his chest. He recalled what he’d been told of the magi. ‘Then the blood must have dissipated through the generations …’

  ‘These things work similarly: you are one-sixteenth blood, so the gnosis in you is thin, but not too thin. You will make a Shadowmancer, if you have the will.’

  He gasped and jerked away. ‘But I don’t,’ he choked out, ‘I don’t want your Shaitan-gifts.’ All I ever wanted was to be was a good man, a happy man, with Ramita beside me.

  ‘If the childr
en growing in her belly are Meiros’, then your woman has the gnosis already.’

  ‘The children are mine!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She smiled indulgently. ‘If she had the gnosis, why would she want one who has not?’

  ‘She does not – and she loves me.’

  ‘She is falling under Meiros’ spell.’

  ‘Never!’

  She looked at him pityingly. ‘You think she is unchanged by all she has seen and experienced here? You think, even if she could, she would return to the south? She is his prisoner, until you cut her free.’ She held out her hand, palm upward and let flame dance on it, and he found himself watching in fascination, unwillingly wondering what it would be like to be able to perform such miracles – to do it and not be damned. ‘Would you not like to pilot your own skiff, boy? Or rain down fire on the infidel? To bestride the world like a prince?’

  His mind went back to the joy of soaring above the ground with Molmar, and he recalled the humiliation of being thrashed by Rashid in the arena. I would never be treated so again. I would be his equal … It was not a dream he could easily reject.

  ‘You say I would have to kill a mage and consume his soul?’ he asked, nauseated at the thought.

  ‘You keep on consuming souls to replenish expended energy,’ Sabele replied. ‘There is something in our condition that retards normal recovery. A mage can regain his powers by rest; we must feed on others.’

  ‘Are – are we—?’ Saying ‘we’ was almost the strangest part of this conversation. ‘Are we as strong as the magi?’