by David Hair
‘I thought a healer-mage was immune to such things?’
‘If only.’ She coughed, gagging slightly. ‘You reach a point where the drunkenness prevents you from functioning properly, gnosis included. Then you’re just as screwed as anyone else.’ Her face turned a sickly colour, her eyes went wide and she fled.
She refused the call of the wine bottle on the table that night with stoic strength. And she was back training the next day.
*
‘Kazim,’ she said one evening. ‘Hold still.’
He looked at her, sitting across the dinner table from him. Her drunken episode a few weeks ago had left an uneasy peace, one they didn’t prod at too hard. It felt comfortable between them again. Almost.
‘What?’ he asked warily. She was still a jadugara, and an enemy.
She reached out slowly and he forced himself to stay still as she touched his chest. Light and heat throbbed through him, a surge of energy that struck resistance, then something gave way inside him.
Energy flared around his fingertips. He quailed, and it vanished.
‘What did you do?’ he asked, quivering with trepidation.
‘I freed your gnosis from the Chain-rune,’ she said. ‘It’s time you learnt how to use it.’
17
A Message from the Grave
The Keepers
‘Keepers’ was the name taken by the first Ascendants, denoting their keeping of the secrets of the sacred ritual through which they had ascended. The name now refers to those original Ascendants still living, a shrinking group as time passes. However, a devoted mage is occasionally rewarded by being permitted to attempt Ascendancy. The last man known to have been permitted to seek Ascendancy was Fabian of Defonne in Andressea, in 907. He died in the attempt.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, HEBUSALIM CHAPTER, 920
Isle of Glass, Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 928
4th month of the Moontide
Ramita slapped the door of her husband’s room. ‘I wish to go in here.’
Justina stared at her like she’d just suggested they both pray together to Shaitan. ‘Of course you can’t go in there, bint. It’s my father’s room.’
‘Your father. My husband.’
‘I can’t believe your presumption. He was one of the original Ascendant Magi – you’re a street-girl.’
‘Market-girl.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘All the difference in the world. One sells things, the other sells herself.’ Ramita coloured furiously at the mere suggestion that she might be the latter. Her family were not rich – well, they hadn’t been – but they were proud. They had standards. This arrogant cow needed to know this.
‘Mmm. And how did you come to be my father’s wife?’ Justina made to brush past.
Ramita gripped the taller woman’s arm, fully expecting to provoke a reaction, and true to form, Justina wrenched her arm away. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled.
At least she didn’t fling Ramita across the room with a flick of her finger, though she could see her stepdaughter was visibly tempted.
‘I’m not discussing this again.’
‘He was my husband. He cared for me.’
‘He purchased you.’
‘At least he chose me. He was stuck with you.’
Justina’s face contorted in anger. ‘How dare you?’
‘And how dare you?’ Ramita countered.
Justina bellowed in exasperation, ‘You just don’t get it, do you? You were nothing to him but a convenient womb!’
‘And you were nothing to him but a disappointment. He told me he loved me, at the end. When did he last say that to you?’
Justina went white, and her whole body trembled. ‘You push me right to the edge, girl. The very edge. If you weren’t pregnant with his children—’
‘But I am. And I demand to see his room!’
‘You don’t demand anything around here!’ Justina stomped away and slammed her bedroom door.
Ramita stared after her, thinking, I’m making progress with her.
*
‘Hit the damned thing!’ Justina’s voice went up another octave.
She should sing traditional Omali songs. She has the vocal range for it.
Ramita was standing in front of a sand-filled leather bag that hung from the ceiling of the big room by the pool. It was still swaying faintly, and her knuckles were sore from punching it. Her saree was not the best choice for combat training, but she was sick of her limited range of salwar kameez. ‘I did hit it.’
‘Kore’s sake, it barely moved.’ Justina flounced away, as if to leave. She did this every few minutes; there was a rhythm to it. ‘Pretend it’s me, if that helps.’
I did.
Justina made for the door, as she always did when she was particularly frustrated, then turned and stalked back into the middle of the room again. ‘What’s the angriest you’ve ever been? How about your precious market: who was your worst customer ever?’
‘You don’t lose your temper with a customer.’
‘Huh! What about your sister?’
‘We were best friends. We were family.’ For a while.
‘Kore above, I hated my brother.’ Justina said it like this was normal.
‘I’m sure he felt the same way about you.’ Ramita balled her fist. Right, let’s try again … Summon the gnosis … think of stone … be strong …
‘How did it feel when you watched my father die?’ Justina asked bleakly.
Smash.
Her fist ripped through the leather and sent the bag flailing wildly as it sprayed sand about the floor. A scream echoed about the chamber and Ramita stood blindly staring into space, panting like the air had been sucked away. She dazedly realised that she’d been the one who screamed.
Justina smiled grimly. ‘That’s more like it. That’s the place you go to when you want to really hurt someone.’
Ramita turned and faced her, blinking back tears. ‘Rashid held me on my knees, and made me watch as’ – Kazim – ‘as one of them stabbed him, here.’ She jabbed herself up under her chin. ‘I hate them.’
Justina said slowly, ‘Rashid … Did you get any other names?’
Ramita shook her head.
‘Then I’ll have to ask Rashid. Very firmly.’ Her face was like the snowy peaks of Ingashir. ‘And Alyssa. She’ll know.’
Ramita turned away and wiped her eyes, then looked back at Justina. ‘You were close to Alyssa.’
‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Justina flexed her fists. ‘She’s none of your business.’
‘My bloodsister Huriya helped them,’ Ramita said. ‘She murdered Jos Klein in her bed, then let them in.’ That was as close to the truth as she dared come with Justina.
‘I remember her. Little Keshi minx with a smart tongue.’
‘She was my sister, all my life. But she put the shihad first.’
‘Alyssa was my friend for sixty years,’ Justina said grudgingly. ‘I thought we shared the same soul.’
Ramita wrinkled her nose. ‘Alyssa Dulayne stole secrets from my head when she taught me your language.’
Justina’s eyes narrowed. ‘What secrets?’
‘Little things. Just to hurt me.’ Kazim. ‘She told them to Rashid.’
‘Then think of her also when you want to hurt someone.’ Justina made a gesture and burned an image of Alyssa’s face on the stone wall. ‘Target practice.’
Ramita snorted softly and gathered blue mage-fire at her fingertips. She spent the next hour sending lances of light blasting into the image of Alyssa Dulayne’s face until it was blackened and unrecognisable. She felt a lot better afterwards.
*
‘May I have some?’ Ramita asked, picking up the almost empty bottle of red wine in front of Justina. It was late at night and the jadugara was drunk again. It did not happen as often as it had the first month here, but it was still more than once a week. It made training the next day particularly slow an
d bad-tempered.
‘Father always said pregnant women should not drink.’
‘He and I drank together at Southpoint. And other times after he knew I was with child.’
Justina sighed heavily. ‘Very well. In fact, what he said was no more than one glass every few nights. Another good reason not to fall pregnant. Not that that will ever happen again.’ She blinked, and coloured slightly. ‘Go on, finish it, I’ve had too much.’
Ramita took another glass from the tray and poured the few remaining mouthfuls into it, then sipped it cautiously. It tasted heavy and rich, filled with red Yuros fruits she’d been told of but never seen. ‘You said “again”.’
Justina muttered something. ‘Yes. I really have drunk too much.’
‘You have a child?’
‘Yes.’ Justina had a resigned look on her face. ‘I’m only telling you this now so you won’t spend the next six weeks nagging me.’
‘Oddly, I am known for my cheery nature by everyone I’ve ever met except you. One child? Two? Boy or girl? How old? Who with?’
‘A girl. She’d be almost nineteen now. Her name is Cymbellea.’
‘That’s a pretty name.’
‘It’s a Rimoni name. I didn’t choose it. I gave her away as swiftly as I could and have not met her since.’
Ramita cocked her head. ‘Never?’ The woman has no heart at all.
‘I didn’t want her. It was an accident. I gave her to the father when he was next in Hebusalim and sent him on his way. Told him I never wanted to see or hear of him or her again. To date he has abided by this. Thankfully.’
‘Where is Rimoni?’
‘In Yuros. He returned there. At least there she’ll grow up regarded as a blessing, not the spawn of Shaitan.’
‘Were you and he married?’
Justina snorted. ‘Not fucking likely.’
Ramita shook her own head. Surely Justina’s affinity should be stone: she’s made of it. Was there such a thing as an affinity to glass? She was also brittle, and cracked too easily. She dared another question, though, while Justina was feeling talkative. ‘Were you and Alyssa … what is the word?’
‘Safian? No.’ Justina swore under her breath. ‘We did try it once, for the novelty. But she prefers men. And I … I don’t really like anyone.’ She stretched awkwardly on the sofa. ‘Sex is … I could never really get interested … and I hated the afterwards part, when you had to talk and pretend you’d liked it.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’d rather smoke opium.’ She rolled over. ‘Pathetic, aren’t I?’
Yes. ‘No.’ Ramita tried to think of something nice to say. ‘You just haven’t met the right person.’
‘There is no right person for me.’
Ramita decided that this conversation, while fascinating, was going places she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tired. Goodnight, Daughter.’ She went to rise.
Even the old jibe didn’t get a rise tonight. ‘Uh uh.’ Justina waggled her finger slowly. ‘It’s your turn to talk.’
‘What about?’
The white witch’s face took on a gently yearning look that Ramita had not seen before. ‘You say my father said he loved you.’ She dipped her head defensively. ‘What was that like?’
Ramita felt a little bubble of tears form behind her eyes. She slowly sat down. ‘He loved you too,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Even if he never told you.’
Eventually they opened another bottle of wine.
*
Ramita sat watching the ocean heave. There was a viewing platform at the pinnacle of the Isle of Glass, walled in for protection but open to the elements. On a still day with the sun beaming down it was the most beautiful place in the world. The view was west, high above the tumult of the ocean. You could feel the whole rock vibrate to the boom and crash of the waves. Watching the sun falling scarlet over the horizon, painting the clouds orange, pink and gold, was like watching the gods at play.
She was learning constantly now, basic things that every mage should know: how to lock and unlock a door, even one with no handle or lock of its own. She could blast a target with raw mage-fire. She could move things by what Justina called ‘kinesis’. She had learnt how to hide herself from scrying. She could even shape hard stone as if it were wet clay.
And all the while, the babies were growing. Her belly was swelling swiftly, developing silvery stretch-marks. Her breasts were painfully large. It was only her fourth month, but time was passing so quickly.
What is happening out in the world? Where is Kazim? Where is Jai? How are my family? She wished she could scry them, but her clairvoyance was virtually nonexistent. Mental communication might not rely on Air-gnosis, which was how she’d first contacted Justina, but she was warned not to seek to do the same with anyone else. Apart from her family in Baranasi there was no one she wanted to speak to anyway.
Then one day a voice whispered across the sky, both massive and intimate at the same moment, calling her name.
For an instant she was tempted, out of sheer loneliness, to answer, but it was a fleeting moment, and instead she hid behind the walls of solitude Justina had shown her how to build. Hiding-wards: she was inside a tower of shadow, and there was nothing here to be seen …
The presence lingered a second longer, and then was gone.
It tried again a minute later but she was ready this time. She bit her lip, wondering who it was. Rashid or Alyssa, most likely. Once the voice had faded, she hurried back into the tower, where stone and water would render her wards unnecessary.
‘Justina,’ she cried, ‘Justina!’
Her stepdaughter was not in the lounge; Ramita found her emerging from Antonin’s room and that fact alone almost drove the scrying attempt from her mind – as did the pallor on Justina’s face.
She put those questions to one side and concentrated on the present danger. ‘Justina, I was watching the sunset when someone tried to scry me.’
The jadugara’s eyes widened. ‘They didn’t succeed, did they?’ she asked, her face becoming even more sickly.
Ramita shook her head firmly. ‘I blocked them.’
Justina exhaled. ‘Thank Kore!’ She reached out and fleetingly touched Ramita’s arm. ‘Well done,’ she said, her first words of praise ever. ‘But …’ She clutched at the wall.
Ramita stared at her pointedly. ‘Are you all right? What did you find in there?’
‘There is something you need to see,’ Justina said reluctantly. ‘In Father’s room.’
Ramita’s throat went desert-dry. ‘In there?’
‘You may go in.’ Justina hesitantly stood to one side.
Now she was finally permitted to do so, Ramita was almost too frightened to go in. But she steeled herself, holding onto the stone doorframe and letting the earth – her element – steady her. The room before her was full, but orderly. There was a large bed, and a writing desk facing a transparent wall revealing a southeastwards view, as clear as if it were a hole in the rock. She stared at it, trembling. The other walls were covered in hanging carpets in all hues, from Lokistan, Ingashir, Gatioch and Mirobez. A tall dresser was topped by a pair of elaborate Lakh candlesticks, and the desk was covered with papers.
In one corner stood two life-size statues, carved of white marble. She felt tears sting: one was of her, the other of him. Hers stood just over half his height, wrapped in a saree, looking tiny and defiant. He wore robes, the hood cast back, his head shaven and beard trimmed in the manner she had cut it for him. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she walked to it and stroked his cold marble cheek. ‘Is this what you wanted me to see?’
Justina stepped into the room. ‘No. That.’ She pointed to a stone slate on the desk. ‘Touch the base, where the green gem is set.’
Ramita reached out, then paused. ‘What is it?’
‘A message.’
‘From my husband? Have you read it already.’
‘Give me some credit, bint,’ Justina replied indignantly. ‘Anyway, you don’t read it; it will speak to you.�
�� She dropped her chin. ‘I was wrong: you should have been allowed in here from the start.’
She’s just admitted being wrong … unprecedented. Ramita decided not to comment, though. She stared at the slate before slowly reaching out to the green gem – then she stopped again, suddenly afraid of what it might reveal. ‘My husband has left a message? For me?’
‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’ she said impatiently.
Ramita nibbled at her lower lip, scared that it might be some kind of repudiation. I only pretended to care for you; You’re only a market-girl. Or worse: I know about Kazim.
She looked back at Justina. ‘I want to be alone.’
Justina exhaled sharply. ‘He’s my father.’
‘Then listen to it yourself later.’
Justina wrung her hands in annoyance, then turned and stomped out, slamming the door behind her.
Alone, Ramita sat on the end of the bed, trying to build up her courage. At last she reached out and firmly touched the green gem. It tingled at her touch as imprisoned gnosis energy was released, energy that came with the mental impression of dry paper she had always associated with her husband. It made her feel both comforted and sad. Then a cloud of light shimmered above the plinth and her husband appeared, a tiny foot-tall version of her husband, seated in an armchair. He looked relaxed, and her pulse quickened to see him. Her throat went dry. No sound came, but his voice filled her head.
Ramita tried to send back:
