Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts)

by Moeller, Jonathan

  She suddenly felt overwhelming relief that she had left Nicolai in the amphora shop. Otherwise he would have been with her when Sicarion found her. And the gods only knew what Sicarion would have done to Nicolai.

  “Oh, quite lovely, thank you,” said Sicarion, flexing his right hand. “A bit large for my taste. I prefer more agility in my fingers. But sometimes strength is simply what is needed.”

  “A question,” said Caina, looking for an escape.

  “Anything, mistress,” said Sicarion.

  “Why do you think I am the Moroaica?”

  “Because you are the Moroaica,” said Sicarion.

  “That is absurd,” said Caina. “I slew Jadriga myself. And I have no talent for sorcery.” Thank the gods for that. “Did you use your necromancy to graft a monkey's brain into your skull? Because I can think of no other reason for you to believe that I am the Moroaica.”

  Unless, of course, Kylon's theory was correct, and a portion of Jadriga's power had lodged within Caina.

  “A monkey's brain,” said Sicarion with a dry chuckle. “Ah, the mistress ever had a rough edge to her tongue. And you are the Moroaica, my dear. You simply don't know it yet. But you will.” He beckoned, and some of his men moved forward. “Which is why I'm simply going to capture you unharmed.”

  “How thoughtful,” said Caina. There was something strange about his mercenaries...

  “Thank you,” said Sicarion. “In fact, once your memory returns, you will reward me quite handsomely. Take her. But gently.”

  The mercenaries started forward, and Caina turned to run.

  Only to freeze in astonishment.

  She had seen one of those mercenaries before. In fact, she had last seen him lying on the floor of the burned warehouse, dying from a cut throat. Caina had killed that man.

  Yet he was walking toward her, his expression slack, and she saw the ragged wound upon his throat. How this even possible? She had killed him, she...

  The crawling tingle of necromancy brushed against her skin.

  Oh. Right.

  Caina ran as fast as he could manage.

  The dead men were faster.

  They moved with uncanny speed, legs pumping up and down as if something other than muscles moved them. Caina threw herself to the side and changed direction, remembering her tactics against Kylon. But whatever necromantic force bound the corpses granted them superhuman agility to match their speed. Caina managed another five steps, and then a dead hand seized her shoulder. She twisted aside, but stumbled and lost her footing, and the dead men grabbed her.

  Cold hands wrapped about her arms, holding her fast. She tried to twist away, but the hands of the dead men felt like iron bands.

  Sicarion approached. “Hold her head.”

  One of the living mercenaries yanked off Caina's hood and mask, her head gripped between his callused palms. Sicarion pressed something cold and wet over her mouth and nose, a chemical smell flooding her nostrils. Caina tried to hold her breath, but the odor made her head spin, and the world dissolved into nothingness around her.

  ###

  Caina found herself standing in a ballroom.

  The vast room was floored with polished marble, the vaulted ceiling rising overhead. Elaborate crystalline chandeliers hung from the ceiling, adorned with hundreds of glowing glass spheres manufactured by the initiates of the Magisterium. Balconies ringed the ballroom, offering galleries where guests could speak with one another privately. Caina knew this place. It was Lord Haeron Icaraeus's ballroom, in his mansion at Malarae.

  Maglarion had destroyed it.

  This was obviously a dream.

  Caina looked at herself. She was wearing the elaborate blue gown she had worn on the day Maglarion had destroyed the ballroom, the day she had tried and failed to kill him. Blue with black trim, silver jewelry glittering upon her fingers and ears. She had masqueraded as Countess Marianna Nereide, hoping to infiltrate Haeron's mansion and find Maglarion.

  It had worked. Haeron Icaraeus was dead, and Caina herself had killed Maglarion.

  So why was she dreaming of this ballroom?

  “Because,” Caina said to herself, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “I thought I killed Maglarion here. But he was on his feet again moments later, and he almost killed me. That's it, isn't it?”

  “A keen insight, child.”

  Caina turned, and saw the Moroaica walking toward her.

  Jadriga wore a blue gown identical to Caina's, even with the same silver and sapphire jewelry. The Moroaica’s black hair had been piled in an intricate crown, and Caina reached up and found that her own hair had been coiffed identically. Jadriga was taller, and her eyes were black, not blue, but other than that...

  Other than that, she looked a great deal like Caina.

  “You're not Maglarion,” said Caina. “I killed you. You fell into the fallen angels' prison. You are dead.”

  Jadriga smiled, her eyes as black and cold as that pit below Black Angel Tower. “You saw me die.”

  “Then why,” said Caina, “do I keep having dreams about you?”

  Jadriga shrugged. “Perhaps my memory is pleasant to you.”

  Caina gave a hard laugh. “Hardly.”

  “Then perhaps you have asked the wrong question.”

  Caina thought it over for a moment.

  “Why,” she said at last, “does Sicarion think that I am you? Why does Kylon think that some of your power is inside me?” The thought still made Caina's skin crawl. Having any of Jadriga’s power within her would be like having her hands covered in filth that would never wash away.

  “Maglarion and Sicarion both,” said Jadriga, “are wrong.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” said Caina.

  “Sicarion is a loyal servant,” said Jadriga, “and Maglarion was a brilliant student. Even if he turned against me. But they believed immortality lies in the flesh. That the flesh can be made to last forever.” She shook her head, the sapphires in her earrings glittering. “All mortal flesh fails. No matter how capable the necromancy, no matter how great the sorcery, all flesh dies in the end.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jadriga smiled. “That means that true immortality lies in the spirit, not in the flesh. Maglarion thought to make his body live forever. He was wrong. Sicarion thinks to live forever by replacing his body parts as they fail. He will be wrong, eventually. Mortal flesh dies, but the spirit lives forever. And when something wears out, what do you do with it?”

  “You replace it,” said Caina. “Does that mean you will live again in a new body? That you'll be reborn, that some woman carries you unknowingly in her womb? I killed you once before, and I can do it again.”

  “Already you understand,” said Jadriga. “Maglarion rebelled against me, and Sicarion is my loyal servant. But neither one of them truly understood. Had they done so, they would not have wasted such efforts of sustaining their bodies. They could have simply claimed new ones.” Her black eyes glinted like the edge of an obsidian knife. “But Scorikhon understood this.”

  “So he really was your student,” said Caina.

  “And loyal to his teacher, as well,” said Jadriga. “He had the rare understanding that true immortality was found not in the flesh, but in the spirit.” Her cold smile widened. “As Andromache will soon understand.”

  “As Andromache will understand?” said Caina. “She thinks to live forever with the power from the Tomb?” Somehow Caina did not think that was it. From what Kylon had said, Andromache wanted to use the power to become preeminent among the Archons of New Kyre.

  “She will understand,” said Jadriga. “As will you.” She glanced at the ceiling. “You will awaken now. Remember what I have told you. For just as Andromache will understand...you, too, will soon understand.”

  Caina opened her mouth to ask another question.

  The floor trembled beneath her, and Lord Haeron's ballroom dissolved into nothingness.

  Chapter 27 - The Tomb o
f Scorikhon

  Caina awoke to the sound of an argument.

  Her head throbbed with pain, and for a long moment she did not know where she was. Then bit by bit her memory returned. The attack on Marsis. Andromache and her powerful sorcery.

  Sicarion's ambush.

  Caina's eyes flickered open.

  She hung between two of the dead men, their clammy hands around her arms. Their touch filled her with revulsion, and she wanted to pull away. But she forced herself to remain motionless and limp, and let her eyelids flutter open.

  She was in a round chamber of rough stone, the ceiling supported by thick pillars. On the far wall stood two large bronze doors, their surface carved with Maatish hieroglyphs. She felt dark, necromantic power radiating from the doors.

  The Tomb of Scorikhon.

  Andromache's sharp voice cut into Caina's thoughts.

  “Why did you bring her here?” said Andromache.

  “Because,” said Sicarion, “she is the Moroaica. She is the mistress.”

  “She is not the Moroaica!” said Andromache, her voice angrier than Caina had ever heard it. “Undoing these wards is delicate work, and I will not have your foolishness interfere with...”

  “She's awake,” said Kylon. “And has been for some time, I think.”

  Caina opened her eyes the rest of the way.

  Andromache and Sicarion stood besides the Tomb's bronze doors. Kylon waited some distance away, his sword drawn. He had positioned himself, Caina noted, close enough to strike Sicarion down.

  Or Caina, if necessary.

  Andromache's mouth twisted. “Why should I be surprised? She is a Ghost, as Rezir said. The Ghosts are spies. I should have let Rezir kill her.”

  “Rezir failed to kill her,” said Kylon, looking at Caina, “because Rezir was stupid enough to let him frighten her horse.” He hesitated. “She is...dangerous, sister.”

  “She is the Moroaica,” said Sicarion.

  “Gods of the storm,” said Andromache. She stalked closer, glared down at Caina. “Are you the Moroaica? Speak plainly.”

  “No,” said Caina. “I did kill her, though.”

  “Absurd,” said Andromache, turning away. “Kylon, kill her. I do not want her to interfere when I open the Tomb.”

  “There...may be something to Sicarion's theory, sister,” said Kylon.

  “What?” said Andromache. "Surely you do not believe that she is the Moroaica reborn."

  “No. But if this Ghost truly killed the Moroaica,” said Kylon, “then it is possible a portion of the Moroaica's power is trapped within her. And I sense...something. Like sorcerous scarring upon her aura.”

  Andromache looked at Caina, eyes narrowed.

  “Forgive me,” said Sicarion, “but there is a way to test the truth of my claims.”

  “Oh?” said Andromache.

  “Have her open the doors of the Tomb,” said Sicarion. “The Moroaica laid the wards over the Tomb. If she is truly the Moroaica, then she will open the doors, and the wards will unravel for her.”

  “And if she is not?” said Kylon.

  Sicarion shrugged. “And if she is not, then the wards will burn her to ash. A simple test, no?”

  Andromache stared at Caina for a long moment.

  “Very well,” she said at last.

  The dead mercenaries released Caina. She caught her balance, rubbing her arms. Her shadow-cloak was gone, but they had not taken her weapons. Indeed, why would they bother? If she attacked Kylon, Andromache would blast her with lightning. If she attacked Andromache, Kylon would cut her down.

  And if tried to run, Sicarion would find her.

  “Open the doors now,” said Andromache, lifting her hand, “or I will kill you. I care not which.”

  Caina took a deep breath and walked to the bronze doors. With every step, the sense of powerful necromancy grew stronger, until her skin felt as if she had been dipped in filth and ice. She stopped before the doors, the necromantic aura washing over her. Nicorus hadn't told her what the wards sealing the Tomb did, but she guessed it wasn't pleasant.

  Caina grasped the bronze rings upon the doors.

  Nothing happened.

  She pulled on the rings, muscles straining. For a moment the doors remained motionless. Then with a low groan, they swung open. And as they did, Caina felt the wards fade away, unraveling into nothingness. Beyond the doors a broad corridor sloped downward into the darkness, its walls carved with more Maatish hieroglyphs. But Caina hardly noticed.

  She had been able to open the warded doors. Did that mean some of Jadriga's power had passed to her? How much of it?

  All of it?

  The thought horrified her.

  “You see?” said Sicarion, his rusty voice cutting into Caina's thoughts. “She is the Moroaica.”

  “Doubtful,” said Andromache. “Most likely she slew the Moroaica, and a portion of the Moroaica's power is trapped inside her spirit. I have read of such things happening, though I never thought to encounter it.” She pointed at Sicarion's men. “Take her with us and keep her under guard. I can examine her at leisure after I have claimed Scorikhon's power for my own.”

  For a moment Caina considered running, but Sicarion's men blocked the exit. And even if she eluded them, Sicarion could find her anywhere.

  If she was to escape from this, she needed to use her wits.

  Unfortunately, her wits offered no solutions.

  “Come,” said Andromache. She lifted her hand, a ball of pulsing silver light appearing above her palm, and entered the stone corridor.

  “After you, mistress,” said Sicarion, beckoning.

  “If I commanded you to let me go,” said Caina, “would you heed me? Since you seem to think I am the Moroaica?”

  “You would not reward me if I did, mistress,” said Sicarion. “And you are the Moroaica.” His yellow teeth flashed in a grin. “For how else could you have opened the doors?”

  Caina had no answer for that.

  They descended into the corridor, Andromache's silver light dispelling the darkness. Rows of intricate hieroglyphs covered the walls, alongside complex diagrams of arcane symbols. Caina looked over the symbols and shuddered. She had seen similar diagrams on the ancient Maatish scroll that had cost her father his life, the scroll Maglarion had tried to use to become a god.

  Kylon walked between her and Andromache. He looked at Caina, his sword still in hand. His face was calm, but the muscles around his eyes kept twitching.

  “You know this is madness,” said Caina, voice low, hoping Andromache would not hear.

  Kylon said nothing.

  “You told me that necromancy is a monstrous crime,” said Caina. “And you know that the power in the Tomb must be necromantic. Andromache thinks she can wield it. What do you think the power will do to her if she claims it? Or what she might do with it? You went into the tavern, didn't you? You saw the bodies?”

  “You lie, Ghost,” said Kylon. “I went into the tavern. There were no bodies.”

  Caina took a gamble. “But was there blood?” Even if Andromache had destroyed the bodies, Caina doubted the stormsinger would have bothered to mop up all the blood.

  Kylon said nothing, but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “You know what she did,” said Caina. “Her power came from somewhere. The Moroaica was a necromancer. Why wouldn't she teach Andromache necromancy?”

  “Necromancy is an abomination,” said Kylon, voice hoarse. “The ancient laws of Old Kyrace forbid it. Any necromancers found in New Kyre are killed. No noble of a Kyracian House would ever do such a vile thing.”

  “Are you sure?” said Caina. A new tactic occurred to her. “What if the Moroaica lied to Andromache? What if the power here will only destroy her?”

  Kylon frowned. “I...”

  “Brother?” said Andromache. “What is it?” Her gaze fell on Caina. “What lies are you telling him, Ghost? Deceit is the weapon of your kind.”

  Caina met her gaze. “I told him that opening th
e Tomb of Scorikhon is folly, that the power will destroy anyone foolish enough to claim it.” Andromache lifted an eyebrow, but Caina kept speaking. “I hoped he could dissuade you before you destroyed yourself.”

  “She's telling the truth,” said Kylon. "I can sense it."

  “You believe her over your own blood?” said Andromache.

  “No!” said Kylon. “Of course not. It's just...the Ghost believes that she is telling the truth. Sincerely and completely. She believes what she is telling you.”

  Andromache stared down at Caina.

  “She may be sincere,” said Andromache, “but she is wrong.”

  “I'm not,” said Caina. “This is madness and you know it. Necromantic power will lead to your death. Or worse.”

  “No,” said Andromache. “Necromancy is merely another tool.”

  Sicarion nodded, and Kylon's breath hissed through his teeth.

  “Necromancy is an abomination, sister,” said Kylon. "Surely...surely you have not...”

  “Of course not,” said Andromache. “But understand this, Ghost. I will do whatever is necessary for the security of my family.”