by David Hair
He scowled. ‘You know I can’t reach you.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Come back down, you craven ferang.’
His remaining gnosis had been burned out by the catfish incident. He said that the hollowness inside him felt like a cancer, but the yoga helped him deaden it. He no longer laughed at her meditation training.
‘Come and get me,’ she teased, twirling her weapon.
‘You promised: no magic.’
‘I had my fingers crossed.’ She grinned at his annoyance. ‘Catch me if you can.’
He came over the edge of the bridge in a single bound, roaring at the effort. His stave flashed at her – damn, but he was fast these days! – but she managed to block, even though she almost lost her grip at the strength of his blow. His gnosis might be gone for now, but his body was fully operational. He trained bare to the waist now, having announced that he needed to regain some colour, and she’d threatened to do the same, making him blush furiously.
Bang! Thrust and move, duck and run. He was backing her into a corner. She tried to go left, then had to arch her back and pull herself in, desperately trying to put her body out of the way of his stave as he blocked off her escape.
Shit, I’m trapped …
Thwack! She blocked a low kick with her own stave, but she couldn’t move her planted feet quickly enough, leaving her open to his blow. Her free hand flashed upwards and shields flared, battering his stave away.
‘Cheating bitch!’ he roared, and threw himself at her. His body was twice her bulk; he flattened her shield and bore her down, his weight knocking the air from her lungs. One hand grasped her wrist, trapping her hand, and as his stave went flying he grabbed for her periapt. ‘Got you!’ he crowed.
She tried to flip him off as the hand seeking her periapt tore through her buttons and grabbed.
Then he went utterly rigid, his face changing in an instant from triumph to horror as he realised that his hand was not holding a gemstone, but a mound of soft, silky flesh. ‘Uhh—’
‘Easy, tiger,’ she panted. His weight on her felt … too damned good. But he’d accidentally scratched her skin and that was smarting. ‘Get off,’ she said peevishly, when it became clear that he’d frozen in embarrassment.
For an instant it was as if he’d not heard her. His eyes were filled with lust, and then with something worse: the hunger in his gaze that rose whenever the Souldrinker side of him threatened to take over. The latent dread that she might one day have to kill him or be killed herself flashed across her brain.
Then he exhaled, and was himself again.
‘Ahm’s Light, I’m so sorry,’ he gabbled, jerking his hand away as if she was diseased.
He stood quickly and backed off as she tugged her tunic closed. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—’ His face was scarlet.
She bunched the tunic and knotted it shut, feeling both foolish, and very relieved. ‘It’s okay, Kaz – it’s nothing, really. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before.’
‘I just wanted to take your periapt so you couldn’t cheat again.’
‘I know – it’s all right.’ She sat up. ‘You beat me fair and square.’ She traced the line of blood on her breast, swathing the little wound in soft light, cleansing and sealing it.
He took in what she’d just said and slowly beamed: a radiant smile that gave Elena goosebumps. ‘I did, didn’t I? Fair and square.’
‘Don’t get cocky.’ She rubbed the back of her head ruefully. Being smacked to the stones then crushed by someone twice her size had left her more than a little battered. She reached a hand up to him. ‘Just try not to grab my tits again, right? Now that would be cheating.’
He stammered another apology, then clasped her hand and pulled her upright, carefully averting his eyes.
Get dressed, Ella, before the boy dies of embarrassment.
‘Let’s finish for the day,’ she offered. ‘It’s getting late. Your turn to cook.’
He kept his face averted, but she didn’t mind too much: he had a nice profile, and his torso was a beautiful array of toned muscle under bronzed skin. She felt like she was radiating heat herself, and some of that was flooding to parts of her body she didn’t want to think about just now.
From the door, she turned back and called, ‘Kazim?’
He turned and faced her. ‘Ella?’
Ella … He’d not shortened her name before. She felt a little flutter of pleasure and pain at the way he said it. We’re so close, but the barriers are still there – she felt such an urge to rip them down. ‘Kaz, you do see it, don’t you: that these rules and punishments are how they control us? They don’t come from God. They are nasty little strictures invented by men to enslave other men.’
Like the rule that says I’m nefara, and so you won’t see me as a woman …
His face tightened as if in pain. ‘Ella, this last year, I have lost almost everything – my home, my family, my fiancée, and now even my fellow warriors. Everything has been torn from inside me, one by one, and there is nothing left now but a tiny flame, surrounded by God’s mercy. It hurts me when you question that.’
She winced at the bleakness in his voice. ‘The Jhafi Amteh don’t even have the concept of nefara. I’d never heard of it until I met you.’
He shook his head sullenly. ‘Then they are heathen also. You cannot pick and choose the laws of Ahm, Ella. You are either faithful totally or not at all.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Damn it, you’re in a cage and you don’t even see it.’ She recalled other arguments, with Kore priests and Sollan drui, cunning debaters with glib tongues and faultless reasoning who could explain any crime as God’s will.
She stomped away, abruptly sick of the whole subject.
*
Kazim lay on his mattress in his darkened room. Through the small square window the night sky glittered with stars. The mountain winds caressed the leaves of the vines that clad the outside stonework. The cooler weather and daily rain had stirred fresh vigour into the vegetation, bringing it back to life. In Lakh tales, romance always blossomed during the rainy season.
He rubbed his palm on the sheet again, as if trying to wipe away the memory of her breast under his hand. Despite the later argument and his pent-up frustration at their bickering, it was that moment he was carrying with him into the night. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of some unspeakable fall.
She is nefara: utterly nefara. She had boasted of it – admittedly, while she was drunk. Lies. Theft. Murder. And unnatural acts – she said so herself.
But still he couldn’t help but picture her lithe body as he’d seen it that day in the river, could imagine her lying beneath him, moving with him as they coupled. The mental images were driving his cock to new extremes of rigidity.
If she walked through my door now …
His mind went YES! as his door swung open.
But it wasn’t Elena, come to drag him into Shaitan’s fires.
It was Jamil, with his finger to his lips.
27
Mother, Daughter and Widow
Hermetic: Animism
Some there are that even speak with beasts, hear and smell and taste as beasts, and even take their forms. There is no limit to the deviancy of the Magi.
THE KALISTHAM, HOLY BOOK OF AMTEH
Strange though it may sound, I feel closer to Kore in beast-form than at any other time.
SENDARA GARRYN, BRICIA, 791
Javon Coast, Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) to Zulhijja (Decore) 928
5th and 6th months of the Moontide
Smoke rose lazily from the funeral pyre which lit up the surface of the river carving its way through the valley. The low hills all about them were purple with heather, and lush grasslands all but choked the flow of water on this wide delta. The song of passing rose from fluted alien mouths, carrying through the still night air.
Mesuda and Reku, the two Eldest, had died, and every lamia mourned. Mesuda had gone first, dying within a few minutes
of landing in the promised land on this chosen place, here on a river delta five miles inland from giant falls on the west coast of Javon. The Promised Land. The sheer power of her emotions had ruptured her aged heart.
Reku had finally been granted the title she had craved for so many years, only to die that same night, so now Kekropius was Eldest, and his first job was to preside over the double funeral of the first two lamiae to die in their new home.
Alaron found himself weeping, affected by the sorrow of all about him. Mesuda had been almost kindly, though she’d always put the clan’s interest far above his own. He had even come to respect Reku – and he’d proven himself to her in the end, he was sure of that. He’d visited her just before the end and she’d gripped his hand and smiled at him as she nibbled his thumb in jest. He’d even miss her – a little, at least.
Cym reached out and took his hand. They were standing next to the Rondian windshipmen, whose fate was still undecided. Kekropius was trying to work out an oath that might be compelling enough that he could afford to let them go, though there was considerable dissent on the matter.
After he’d finished his words of farewell, Kekropius joined Alaron and Cym. ‘This place is perfect,’ he told them, his voice heavy with emotion. ‘No humans come here. The nearest settlement that the map on the windship shows, this “Lybis”, is more than one hundred miles inland. There is plentiful fresh water and game, even land for cropping, if we can learn the art of it. It truly is the Promised Land.’ He laid a hand on Alaron’s shoulder. ‘This is all thanks to you, Milkson.’
That’s enough about the milk. ‘I was just lucky you were there when that Inquisitor found me,’ Alaron said, the high emotion of the moment making him feel rather uncomfortable.
‘It was a happy day for everyone.’ Kekropius smiled, flashing his fangs. ‘Except the Inquisitor. So, what will you do now?’
‘We have to find my mother,’ Cym interrupted before Alaron could respond.
‘Where is she?’ Kekropius asked. ‘Can we aid you in any way?’
‘We’re both as bad as each other at Clairvoyance,’ Alaron admitted. ‘I think we’re going to need Ildena’s help again. It’s nearly three hundred miles to Hebusalim and the sea’s in the way, as well as mountains.’
He turned back to Cym. ‘You’ve not seen your mother since you were a baby – you don’t even know what she looks like.’ He hated to sound so pessimistic, but as he’d told her over and over again, he doubted they’d be able to do it, even with the lamiae’s help.
Cym pulled up her sleeve to reveal a tarnished silver bracelet. ‘She left me this when she handed me to my father. She took it from her own wrist.’
It’s just a trinket – who knows if your mother had any emotional connection to it? But I found you with a wooden doll, so who knows?
‘It’s worth a try,’ he said, trying to instil some enthusiasm into his voice.
*
They tried scrying for Justina Meiros that very evening. Alaron sat cross-legged in a circle on a hill overlooking their encampment, together with Cym, Ildena, Nia and Vyressa. Ildena cradled her distended belly protectively; she was due any day now.
Kekropius sat to one side, trying to placate Fydro, who was concerned the exertions might harm his wife and their unhatched offspring, even though Alaron was fairly confident that scrying carried no physical risk to her.
‘We’re just testing,’ he told her. ‘You don’t need to work hard – just be careful not to over-exert yourself, okay?’
Nothing happened, and after half an hour Alaron was about to give up when he suddenly recalled something Magister Fyrell had once said: to find a blood relative, one could use actual blood.
After persuading Cym that the spell needed just a few drops, not a flagon of her blood, he pricked her finger with the tip of his knife and carefully dripped three drops into the water in the scrying bowl. Behind his closed eyes he watched as the gnosis links surged and carried them outwards like a web of light. He had no idea which way they were going, for their inner vision blurred from host to host: the spirits of the air and the ghosts of the living.
Then, abruptly, those spirits became fewer and fewer, and he and the lamiae had to push harder to find the next. Ildena’s hand became slick with perspiration and he could feel sweat running down his own brow.
We can’t keep this up much longer …
Then they struck a ward and they all shouted in shock—
They struck the second veil, and Cym cried aloud, ‘Mother?’
A hesitant, stunned mental voice responded, ‘Child?’
Alaron felt Cym’s tears as if they were his own. The ward-veils opened all at once and they saw a woman in a blue mantle, standing in the middle of a cylindrical, open-roofed chamber made of stone. Waves crashed and gulls shrilled.
Cym shouted, her voice hoarse, ‘Mother! It’s me! It’s your Cym—’
‘Sol et Lune!’ The mental image surged closer, revealing a pale, aristocratic face with a haughty nose and harsh mouth. Justina Meiros’ diamond eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled. ‘Cymbellea? Truly?’
Isle of Glass, Javon Coast, Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
Ramita Ankesharan was cooking, a magic she understood more clearly than any of Justina’s gnosis lessons. She had chosen a recipe her mother had taught her and was lightly roasting spices over the gnosis-heated element while soaking chunks of defrosted chicken in the yoghurt she’d made herself. Her body felt lethargic and offcolour, as if she was starting a slight fever. Winter was coming. The air was palpably colder outside now, and it seeped into the stone that enclosed them. The sunlight through the skylights barely lit the chamber, and the gnosis-lights felt wan.
As she entered the seventh month of her pregnancy, Ramita felt like she’d doubled in size. Her belly was so swollen she could no longer walk but was reduced to waddling everywhere. In the mirror-glass her face was pudgy; she looked like her mother. That made her cry.
She barely heard Justina as she came down the stairs, but when she did look round she cried out in alarm. The jadugara was clinging to the railing; she looked as unsteady as a drunk. Her first thought was that she’d been at the opium again, despite all her promises, but then she saw Justina was almost blinded by tears.
She took her frying-pan off the heat and hurried over to her, crying, ‘Justina, what is it?’
Justina stared glassily at her, then let go of the railing and collapsed into Ramita’s open arms. She staggered, and only her involuntarily summoned Earth-gnosis gave her the strength to guide Justina to the nearest chair. Justina collapsed into it and began to cry anew.
Ramita knelt beside her, growing increasingly alarmed. ‘What has happened?’ she asked. ‘Justina, what can I do?’
After several moments, Justina gasped out, ‘My daughter—’
Ramita stared. It took her a minute to work out what Justina was saying, but then her mind took her back to the sad tale Justina had told her, of bearing a daughter, and giving the child away to the father. Was she having some attack of remorse?
‘I am sure she is well,’ she began, but Justina cut her off.
‘She contacted me,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘My daughter contacted me.’
Ramita went cold all over, terrified. All the lessons Justina had pounded into her, of being wary of the tricks and traps other magi might set, of false contacts and cruel games, set off warning bells inside her head. Why would this semi-mythical daughter contact her now, when she was a fugitive, hunted? Her mind went instantly to Alyssa Dulayne, who knew all of Justina’s secrets and vulnerabilities. Concocting some lie to lure Justina out would be child’s play to her.
‘Are you sure it was her?’ she demanded sceptically.
‘I gave birth to her,’ Justina said. ‘I know her.’
‘You had her only a few months,’ Ramita pointed out. ‘D
o you know her now?’
Justina made a conscious effort to gather herself. ‘I know my own child.’ She wiped her eyes and met Ramita’s probing stare. ‘I hear what you are saying – I do. But it was her, I would swear it.’
‘And what are her loyalties to a mother she has never met?’ Ramita replied. ‘She was raised in Yuros. Why would she contact you now?’
‘She’s in trouble. She has something the Inquisition want.’ Justina seized Ramita’s hands. Fear spread over her face. ‘I cannot let those bastards take my daughter. I must protect her.’
Ramita licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘What did you tell her?’
Justina looked away. ‘I told her to come here.’
Ramita stared. She had spent night after night in overpowering loneliness, fending off Huriya’s whispers, though she longed so much to open up and talk to someone – anyone. And now, Justina had cast aside prudence – on a whim! It filled her with an anger that surprised her.
She rose to her feet and shouted, ‘How dare you? We are here to guard your father’s unborn children! You swore to protect them, and now you risk everything for your own selfish wants?’
Justina’s eyes flared. ‘She’s my daughter! She needs me, for the first time ever, she needs me!’
‘You think only of yourself!’
Justina’s aura flared red and her hand whipped across—
—and Ramita caught it. She didn’t know how; she made no conscious move, but reflex and the weeks of training took over. She clamped her stone-hard grip about Justina’s skinny wrist and held on.
As Justina snarled and gathered her energies, Ramita sent her skidding across the room, armchair and all, not even considering the ‘how’. As woman and armchair thudded against the wall, the wooden frame of the seat cracked and Justina’s body was thrown back into the padding.
‘Don’t you ever hit me,’ Ramita shouted.
Justina stared at her, stunned, as the armchair broke apart, leaving her sprawled in the wreckage. They glared at each other from opposite sides of the room as the air crackled with unresolved energies. Then sanity returned.
