Ghost in the Pact

by Jonathan Moeller

  Caina nodded, and they followed the tracks along the beach.

  Chapter 12: Emissary

  The army of the emir Tanzir Shahan marched north in the name of the prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, rightful heir to the throne of the Padishah.

  The nomad horsemen of Tibraim and the other headmen went first, scouting the path of the army for any foes. Then came the heavy horsemen, the retinues of the emirs and the mercenaries hired by Tanzir, the Company of Shopur and the Black Wolves and a dozen others. Kylon was not sure how loyal the mercenaries would remain if the battle went sour, but Tanzir had foreseen the danger and scattered the mercenaries among the Istarish nobles, keeping them from forming a unified force.

  After the horsemen came the Kaltari warriors, grim and armored in chain mail shirts with spiked helms, and then the militia raised from the free farmers of the southern emirates. They might have been farmers, but they were nonetheless battle-hardened by frequent skirmishes with Anshani raiders, Sarbian nomads, bandits…and, recently, the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul.

  For all that Caina had blamed herself for the start of Istarinmul’s civil war, Kylon knew it would have happened eventually even if Caina had done nothing. The Brotherhood had been kidnapping people from the southern emirates for years, and anger had been building for all that time. Caina’s attacks on the Brotherhood had just sped up the inevitable unraveling.

  After the militia came the supply train, and two companies of mercenary engineers. The supply train was better organized than Kylon had thought. Tanzir had made the emir Kuldan Cimak the army’s quartermaster, and when Kylon had met Cimak in the Vale of Fallen Stars, he had seemed like a drunken wastrel more interested in composing epic poetry than in doing anything useful, but the man seemed to have a talent for organization.

  “I suggest,” said Nasser as Kylon rode next to him, “that you remain near Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. When the Huntress strikes, she will almost certainly target the leaders of the army.” Nasser was armored for war, in chain mail with a shield slung over his shoulder, the reins gripped in his right fist.

  “I am surprised,” said Kylon, “that she hasn’t attacked yet.”

  “I fear,” said Nasser, “that you know her methods better than anyone else here.”

  That was all too true.

  “Then she’s likely following us,” said Kylon, “or disguised as a soldier in the army or one of the camp followers. She’ll have her shadow-cloak so I can’t sense her nagataaru. Probably she will try to strike at the time she can do the most harm. The height of the battle, most likely. She will cut down Tanzir and Sulaman and as many others before she can get away safely.”

  Nasser nodded. “You see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”

  Kylon shook his head. “Or she’ll do something clever we haven’t foreseen, like at Rumarah.”

  Nasser smiled. “Then you can definitely see why we wish you to remain near Sulaman and Tanzir.”

  “I can’t be everywhere at once,” said Kylon.

  “No,” said Nasser, “but the Huntress will not show herself openly, not when you carry that sword.” He nodded at the valikon riding in its sheath on Kylon’s back. “She may try to come for the Emissary, I suspect.”

  “Then let the Emissary see the future and avert it,” said Kylon. The words came out harder than he intended.

  They rode in silence for a moment.

  “We do appreciate your help, Lord Kylon,” said Nasser.

  Kylon snorted and looked towards the north, thinking of Pyramid Isle. “You know why I am doing this.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Nasser.

  “Though you and Lord Martin seem to have taken over the army,” said Kylon.

  Nasser blinked, and then let out a laugh, amusement rolling through his emotional sense. “Hardly. It is the emir Tanzir’s host. He commands here, and were Lord Martin and I to attempt to usurp his authority, we should find ourselves executed in short order. No, this is Tanzir’s army…and Sulaman’s, now that the Emissary has proclaimed him the rightful heir of the Padishah. Lord Martin and I simply have more experience commanding men in battle than Lord Tanzir, and the emir is wise enough to listen to advice.”

  “And I suppose you are wise enough,” said Kylon, “to phrase your advice as eminently reasonable suggestions, so that all can agree the emir Tanzir came up with the idea?”

  Nasser’s white smile flashed over his dark face. “Why, Lord Kylon. You are far too young a man to be so cynical.”

  “I am a man who is both experienced in politics while completely inept at them,” said Kylon. “If that does not make a man cynical, nothing does.”

  Nasser raised an eyebrow. “Or the influence of Caina Amalas?”

  Kylon hesitated. His outlook had changed a great deal since meeting her, long before he had even kissed her for the first time. Once he had followed his sister and the Assembly unquestioningly, and it would never have occurred to him to think that a war with the Empire was a bad idea. Once he had been served by the slaves of House Kardamnos, and he had never questioned it, and if he had even thought about it at all, he would have assumed that it was the proper order of life.

  A lot of things had changed since he had first laid eyes on Caina Amalas in the Great Market of Marsis.

  “Or I’m just older,” said Kylon.

  Nasser laughed. “We all are, I fear.”

  The army marched for the rest of the day and at last made camp, straddling the Great Southern Road. Tibraim and the rest of the scouts thought it probable that they would meet the Grand Wazir’s host tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. Likely Erghulan would try to parley at first, to convince the rebels to stand down.

  When that failed, he would attack.

  Kylon stayed near the heart of the camp, where Tanzir and Sulaman and the other leaders raised their tents. So far he had seen no sign of the Huntress. For that matter, he had seen no women save for Lady Claudia and Kirzi, though he had no doubt that some of the minor emirs had smuggled a few camp followers into their tents.

  Tanzir and Sulaman and Nasser and Lord Martin and the others were dining together, but Kylon was not in the mood for company. It was the sort of dinner he would have enjoyed under other circumstances, but he knew the value for morale of fighting men, and he didn’t want his grim mood to infect the others.

  So he sat alone on the back of a wagon not far from the center of the camp, eating a piece of bread and drinking from a cup of bitter wine. He kept his sense of water sorcery at a low level, the emotions of the camp brushing against his mind. A great deal of fear came from the camp, but also determination. No man wanted to look a coward in front of his fellows, of course, but at least some of the men also believed that their cause was just, that they were marching to restore the lawful ruler of Istarinmul and drive out the villains who had seized control of the city. The rumors of Callatas’s crimes had spread through all of Istarinmul.

  Of course, Kylon mused, even the rumors could not match up to the reality of the things Callatas had done.

  His arcane senses were extended, so he was not surprised when the abbot Karzid approached him.

  “Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow. The setting sun threw stark shadows across his lined face.

  “Lord abbot,” said Kylon.

  “Ah,” said Karzid with a smile. “I am not really a lord, my lord Kylon.”

  “Neither am I,” said Kylon, watching him. “Not any longer.”

  “I come with a message,” said Karzid. “The Emissary would speak with you.”

  “No,” said Kylon.

  Karzid blinked. “I am sorry?”

  Kylon got to his feet, looming over the shorter man. Karzid took a hasty step back, and a flicker of guilt went through Kylon. He could probably have broken the old monk in half even without using water sorcery.

  “I do not,” said Kylon, sitting back down, “wish to speak with the Emissary.”

  Karzid lifted his wispy eyebrows. “There
are men who traveled thousands of miles to speak with her.”

  “I am not one of them,” said Kylon.

  “The Balarigar herself traveled to Silent Ash Temple to consult with the Emissary,” said Karzid.

  “She needed this,” said Kylon, tapping the hilt of the valikon that rose over his shoulder.

  “She also set the Balarigar,” said Karzid, “on the path that led her to you.”

  Another wave of anger rolled through Kylon. He did not want to talk about Caina, and he certainly did not want to talk about Caina with the Emissary. Yet the Emissary had given Caina vital information, information that had let her recover the Staff and Seal of Iramis and rescue Annarah from the Inferno.

  “I am not the heir to the Padishah’s throne,” said Kylon. “I am not an emir of Istarinmul. I am not even a lord any longer. I am a man with a sword and a few spells. If your Emissary is so eager to dole out cryptic advice, let her present herself to Tanzir and Prince Sulaman. Unlike me, they will be eager to hear every word.”

  Karzid nodded, unsurprised. “The Emissary thought you might say that.”

  “Saw that in the future, did she?” said Kylon.

  The old abbot either missed the barb or chose to ignore it. “If you said that, she said to give you a message.”

  “And what message is that?” said Kylon.

  “The silver fire is your only salvation,” said Karzid.

  Kylon said nothing.

  Some of his anger must have shown on his face, because Karzid took another step back.

  “I know not what those words mean,” said Karzid, spreading his hands. “If you wish to know their meaning, you must speak with the Emissary.”

  “I know what they mean,” said Kylon. It was an effort to keep his voice calm. “What I want to know is how the Emissary heard those words.”

  Caina must have told her. Except she couldn’t have. Caina had spoken with the Emissary several weeks before she and Kylon had met in the Ring of Cyrica, and she hadn’t been back to Silent Ash Temple since. The Emissary must have overhead them from Nasser or Laertes, both of whom had been at Rumarah. Yet Nasser and Laertes kept their secrets as well as Caina kept hers. There was no way the Emissary would have heard those words from either men.

  “Damn it,” muttered Kylon. “Fine.” He got to his feet, finishing his wine with one quick swallow. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Karzid led him a short distance through the camp to a tent of yellow-orange cloth. If the Emissary was trying to remain inconspicuous, Kylon thought, that bright tent was a bad way to go about it. Karzid lifted the flap for him, and Kylon ducked inside. Four of the monks waited along the canvas walls, and a wooden table filled the center of the tent.

  The Emissary stood on the other side of the table, leaning upon the cane in her right hand. Her dark eyes settled upon Kylon, and again he felt the power behind her gaze strike him like a physical blow.

  “Lord Kylon has come, Emissary,” said Karzid.

  “Yes, I see,” said the Emissary. “Thank you, abbot. We…”

  “How did you know to say that?” said Kylon.

  “Because I have seen it in your future,” said the Emissary.

  Kylon shook his head. “Wrong. It was in my past.”

  “And your future,” said the Emissary.

  “So you’ve seen my future, then,” said Kylon. “I’m sure you’ll be filled with helpful advice.”

  “I have seen your possible future,” said the Emissary, “for it wraps around the futures of many others. And I have seen your path, written upon your spirit in letters of fire and blood.”

  “How poetic,” said Kylon.

  “I have seen the line you have woven in the tapestry of the world…”

  “Destiny thread,” said Kylon.

  The Emissary blinked. Likely she was not used to people interrupting her ominous little speeches. “What?”

  “I’ve heard a spirit call it a destiny thread,” said Kylon. “As if we were all threads in a tapestry, our lives woven together. It was very poetic. I think you would have appreciated the spirit who told it to me.” It was the sort of glib remark Morgant would have made, but Kylon was too angry to care.

  “It is a good metaphor,” said the Emissary without rancor. “Then I have looked at your destiny thread, Kylon of House Kardamnos, and I have seen the kind of man that you are.”

  “And what kind of man,” said Kylon, his voice soft, “am I?”

  “You are the kind of man,” said the Emissary, “who is defined by the women you have lost.”

  Kylon went very still, but something inside him snarled.

  “Your mother, murdered when you were a child,” said the Emissary. “Your sister, slain by her own hubris at the height of her power…”

  “Stop,” said Kylon.

  “Your wife, murdered by a lord of the nagataaru and its willing vessel,” said the Emissary.

  “I said to stop,” said Kylon.

  “Your daughter, slain within her,” said the Emissary.

  Daughter? The child would have been a daughter?

  “And the demonslayer herself,” said the Emissary, “the Balarigar, the bane of sorcerers and perhaps even the liberator to come. She should have died in your arms, but you cheated destiny and brought her back…”

  “That’s enough,” said Kylon, his voice soft.

  “And she is lost to you again,” said the Emissary, “for she faces…”

  The snarling thing within Kylon snapped.

  “That is enough!” he roared, and he slammed his left hand against the table. The table shattered with a loud crack, collapsing into itself, and the monks took a shocked step back. The Emissary’s dark eyes were wide with fear as she looked at his left hand.

  Kylon glanced down and saw that he had called his power, that he had sheathed his hand in a gauntlet of ice harder than granite. The wooden table had been an inch thick, but he had shattered it like glass. The Emissary’s eyes remained wide, and Kylon felt her agitated emotions even through her aura of power.

  Her fear was not feigned.

  Kylon took a shuddering breath, releasing the sorcery of water, and the gauntlet dissolved into white mist.

  “Do not,” he said, “play games with me. Not ever.”

  “I am the Emissary of…”

  “I do not give a damn,” said Kylon. “I am sick to death of oracles and prophecies and riddling spirits with their riddling talk, and I am not some supplicant who traveled a thousand miles to hang on your cryptic nonsense. Either tell me plainly what you want, or go spout your prophecies to Tanzir or Sulaman.”

  For a moment a brittle silence filled the tent. The monks looked as if they were about to flee in terror. Kylon felt a twinge of guilt for frightening them, but he was still too angry to care.

  The Emissary let out a long breath.

  “She chose wisely,” said Emissary.

  “What?” said Kylon.

  “That valikon upon your back,” said the Emissary. “One of the last of the valikarion, dying of his wounds, appointed my predecessor the custodian of the weapon. I, in turn, made the demonslayer the custodian, free to give the valikon to whomsoever she chose. It seems she chose wisely.”

  “This was a test, then,” said Kylon, still angry.

  The Emissary shrugged. “I needed to know what kind of man you were, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Now I know.” She drew herself up. “Ask me what you will.”

  “What?” said Kylon.

  “You face a tremendous task,” said the Emissary, “for you must battle foes that have slain mighty warriors and powerful sorcerers. You will face them again, before the end, and it is in your hands that many lives rest. So ask me what you will. Knowledge may not be as direct a weapon as the valikon, but it has a keen edge nonetheless.”

  “Fine,” said Kylon, pushing back his irritation. “The Balarigar. Can you tell me if she is alive?”

  “I cannot,” said the Emissary, “for she is valikarion, and the valikar
ion are immune to all forms of arcane sight.” She hesitated. “Yet I strongly suspect that she still lives.”

  “Why?” said Kylon.

  “For I cannot see her ‘destiny thread’, as you put it,” said the Emissary, “but even when she stood before me in Silent Ash Temple, already countless threads pulled around hers, their courses changed by her decisions, and even more have been caught in her wake since that day. The warping has only grown stronger since. If she was slain, the threads would move into a different pattern.”

  “I see,” said Kylon, but some relief went through him.

  “Countless destiny threads are pulled in her wake, stormdancer,” said the Emissary, “but yours is pulled the closest of all. Yours is entangled with hers.”

  “I knew that already,” said Kylon.

  “Because your life is now entangled with hers,” said the Emissary, “her enemies are drawn to your path. You will face two of them. Both of them are slaves and servants of the nagataaru, and both are inhabited by powerful lords of the nagataaru.”

  “The Huntress,” said Kylon. The identity of the second enemy came to him. “And Master Alchemist Rhataban.”

  “The fate of uncounted lives rest in the hands of the demonslayer,” said the Emissary. “But her fate is in your hands. You must be her shield, Kylon of House Kardamnos. For if you fail, Rhataban and the Huntress will find her, and she will not escape them…and the world shall die.”

  “Fine,” said Kylon. “When they show themselves, I will kill them. I’ve faced the Huntress before, but I didn’t have the valikon then.” Of course, he had barely kept Rhataban at bay during their fight even with the valikon, and if the Master Alchemist had taken the threat of Kylon’s frost sorcery more seriously, he might well have killed Kylon.

  “To slay them,” said the Emissary, “you must understand them. And you must know your own destiny.”

  “Explain,” said Kylon.

  “Those who carry the nagataaru are slaves,” said the Emissary.

  “To the nagataaru?” said Kylon.

  “No. It is subtler than that,” said the Emissary. “Those who carry the nagataaru are slaves to their own darker natures. For the nagataaru hunger for pain and death the way a starving man hungers for bread. That hunger fills their hosts, twists their thoughts, and makes them slaves to it…even though they know it not.”