Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  ‘We are woman,’ Bunima replied. ‘We know.’ She touched Cym’s belly. ‘We understand. Men don’t choose. Gods don’t choose. Is our choice only.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘Life is circle. All souls return, again and again. Life finds a way.’ That sounded more like Omali beliefs than Ahm, but South Dhassa was a strange intersection of cultures. Whatever the reason, she was grateful that Bunima’s world view could find a way to forgive her.

  She was passed down the line of women, hugging her and blessing her in a mix of tongues, then, suddenly wobbling on coltish legs, she was standing in front of Zaqri. He caught her and held her erect. She inhaled his scent and regained some steadiness.

  ‘Can you ride?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve prepared a camp for us, not too far away. Can you manage?’

  ‘I think so. If it’s not too far?’ She glanced at the princely Keshi leader and his cavalry entering the camp.

  ‘It is close. I’ve picked out a place south of the march of the army. I thought we had a few more hours, but it won’t matter. These are just scouts and outriders.’ Zaqri looked worried. ‘Are you strong enough?’

  She still felt wrung-out, but they couldn’t stay here. ‘I’ll manage.’

  He didn’t look convinced, but said, ‘I need to get to the Dokken in Salim’s army without being noticed; I’ll ask them to get me an audience with Sultan Salim. We’ll need help if we’re to find your friend Alaron and the Scytale.’

  ‘The Dokken won’t care about Alaron or Ramita,’ Cym whispered. ‘They will just want the Scytale for themselves.’

  ‘Perhaps, but the Scytale represents salvation for my kind: for us, it is more important than the war itself. I will persuade the Dokken here to aid us, Cymbellea. They will beg to help us find your friends.’

  She was struck by a sudden sense of foreboding so strong she almost choked, but she pushed it away. The Keshi cavalry were getting closer and they had to go. ‘Then let’s get out of here.’

  5

  The Key to Empire

  Zain Monks

  We of the Zain faith don’t learn to fight: we learn to defend ourselves. The distinction is important. Our aim is not to commit violence but to prevent it. We’re sworn not to kill, when maiming is sufficient, not to maim when stunning is sufficient, and not to stun when deterring is sufficient. It is a hard path, requiring courage and judgement, but what righteous path is ever easy?

  MASTER GURAYAD, MANDIRA KHOJANA, LOKISTAN, 766

  So we corners this little beggar in orange, an’ all he’s got’s a stick, right? Easy picking, you’d think. ’cept he’s not, cos he wields that stick like it’s Bullhead’s Hammer. He taps Myro and Sim afore they can e’en blink, an’ then he comes for me. I jus’ bloody ran for it!

  LONN BRINDIU, PALLACIAN RANKER, SECOND CRUSADE, 918

  Aruna Nagar Market, Baranasi, on the continent of Antiopia

  Shawwal (Octen) 929

  16th month of the Moontide

  Ramita Ankesharan pulled her dupatta tighter about her head, concealing her face deeper in the folds. This was how every modest young Lakh woman dressed in public; no one looked twice at her. That was a good thing here in her home town.

  Baranasi. Aruna Nagar. The words sang inside her. She had come home.

  Aruna Nagar market was an assault on the senses. There were great swathes of colour everywhere you looked – the bright stall awnings; the women’s vivid saris, contrasting with the men’s dirty white robes; the pungent spice piles, their fragrant scents mingled with the acrid stinks of untold numbers of people and beasts in a head-swimming brew. Animals brayed and barked and yowled amidst the clamour of the sellers and buyers, the buzz of chatter and negotiation rising and falling as each deal, however humble, was beaten like copper coins into its final shape. Each look and word told a tale of prosperity or desperation; each transaction was a duel. Just being here sent a tremor through her bones: this was the place where she’d been born, where she’d grown up, where she’d first fallen in love. It was where she’d laboured from the day she was old enough to pass her father goods to sell, the place where she’d giggled and gossiped with the other girls, eyed the boys, argued with other stallholders and dreamed of better things. Tears stung her eyes. This is my home.

  But it didn’t feel quite the same and she knew the difference was in her, not the bellicose thrum of the market. She’d passed the house where she’d been born and raised, one of many fragile-looking piles of bricks leaning against each other and relying on the neighbours’ properties to stay up. It looked so small now; it would have been swallowed up by even one wing of Antonin Meiros’ house in Hebusalim. How had they all fit, she and her parents and her many brothers and sisters – and the Makanis, too? But it wasn’t even her family’s home any more, and knowing that left a bubble of emptiness in her gut.

  Alaron and Corinea were waiting with the windskiff outside the city, but Ramita wasn’t alone; Yash was following her, discreetly – it wouldn’t be fitting for a Zain monk to be seen travelling with a woman. She’d claimed that only in Aruna Nagar would they find all the ingredients they’d need for the Scytale potions; maybe that wasn’t entirely true – no doubt Teshwallabad, Kankritipur or any of a dozen other cities would have the same things – but she needed to come here, perhaps to see if her parents really were gone, perhaps just to show Dasra, bundled in her arms, the city she called home, although he was so young she knew he’d never recall this day.

  She needed a bulk dealer, so naturally she sought out Vikash Nooradin, who’d been her father’s closest business ally – but he wasn’t in his usual spot, and when she’d asked a trader where to find him today, the man looked frightened and his response was brusque, just, ‘He is gone, girl.’

  She tugged at the trader’s sleeve. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  The man clearly didn’t recognise her, though her family had worked just a few stalls away from his for years. He snapped, ‘Chod! I’m busy, girl!’

  ‘Ram Sankar, talk to me!’ she snapped back, and the man blinked and peered into her gauzy dupatta. ‘Who are—? Ramita? Ramita Ankesharan?’ He dropped his voice and his face turned ashen. He started looking left and right, but Aruna Nagar Market was its usual chaotic self and his just one voice in thousands. No one had noticed them. He touched her shoulder. ‘Little Ramita? Is that really you?’

  She could remember her father Ispal and Ram Sankar laughing together so many times, at the massive wedding celebrations that filled the autumn months in Aruna Nagar, and the time they’d found a snake in a carpet consignment and the panic it caused . . .

  She swallowed heavily. ‘Yes, it is me.’

  Ram went to hug her, then stopped. Ramita had left with mysterious strangers, after which her whole family had vanished. Then he forgot his wariness and hugged her anyway. ‘Dear girl, it is so good to see you! But we cannot talk here – come to my home. Sunita would love to see you!’

  ‘Thank you, Ram Sankar-ji. But I must make some purchases first,’ Ramita told him. ‘I will need a buyer, as there will be too much for me to carry.’ She steeled herself for the worst, and asked, ‘Where has Vikash Nooradin gone?’

  Ram shook his head sadly. ‘Later, Mita. Not here.’

  Sweet Parvasi, what has happened?

  ‘Will you be my buyer?’ she asked, and at his emphatic nod, gave him her list and a pouch of coins and agreed to meet at his house in an hour or so. That left her free to wander down to the bathing ghats and immerse herself in Imuna’s healing waters. The wide stone steps were filled with clothes-washers now that the morning pooja was done, soaking their laundry in the muddy water and beating the cloth against the flat rocks before leaving them drying on the hundreds of lines that had been strung from every high place. No one stole – there was no point; no one had anything of quality to wash here. The rich had their own places inside their palaces. Once Ramita had wondered what that would be like, but now she knew: palaces were dangerous traps. They marked you out as a target and left you isolated from those
you loved. Antonin Meiros had died in his palace. No one was safe.

  All along the ghats hump-backed cattle sacred to the Omali wandered freely. Many were in the river, no doubt pissing and shitting in the same water that people used for drinking and cooking. The pandits said Imuna was the cleanest water in the world, but that was a different kind of cleanliness – spiritual, not physical – and she knew the difference now.

  There were girls just like her, clustered or alone, fetching water, washing clothes or praying, bombarding the gods with prayers asking for money or status or a good husband, for love or children or blessings on their family.

  It is well that there are so many gods to pray to.

  She left Dasra on the steps playing with the lapping waters, knowing Yash was watching, and waded until she was waist-deep. The thick silt on the bottom steps oozed through her toes. She put aside her foreboding and prayed to Sivraman and Parvasi. They represented the wilder part of humanity, attuned to nature and the passionate emotions; her life had been so beset by turmoil and strife that only Parvasi could see her through. But there was more: she and Alaron had learned new ways to use the gnosis, symbolised by a statue of Sivraman and Parvasi conjoined; they held the keys to all powers. The Omali taught that there were many gods, but they were all an aspect of one, Aum; each person found their personal divinity through identification with one of the many aspects of Aum. Parvasi was her gateway.

  And Alaron’s gateway is Sivraman. He might not know this yet, but it is so.

  It was a pleasing thought, that the earnest young Rondian was slowly opening his eyes to Aum, but it was also troubling, for Sivraman and Parvasi were husband and wife. She knew Alaron cared for her, that he wanted her – the danger and their shared trials had bound them close. She knew the rhythm of his heartbeat from the nights pressed to his chest, trying to sleep in the cold wilds. And now that her prospective marriage to the mughal could not happen, she was free to follow her heart.

  Parvasi, Mother, she prayed, is it right to give him my love? It feels too soon after the loss of my husband. One of my twins is missing, the world is at war and we hunt a deadly treasure. What room is there for love?

  Fear that giving in to his desires – and hers, she reluctantly acknowledged – might weaken them both when they so desperately needed to be strong, paralysed her emotions. They had to rescue Nasatya, and recover the Scytale. And yet . . .

  I miss the good things that love brings, she admitted.

  She lost track of her prayers, asked for forgiveness, then sloshed back up the ghats and sat in the baking sun, watching the people and the cows and the goats and the elephants and all the rest of the world as they drank and washed and prayed. She fed Dasra with the last dregs of her breast milk; she was becoming dry. She missed her other son.

  An hour bell rang. It was time to learn what had happened to Vikash Nooradin.

  Afterwards, she wished she hadn’t.

  *

  They’d hidden the windskiff in the broken lands some two hours’ walk from Baranasi. Now Alaron Mercer filled the waiting hours practising different aspects of the gnosis. His new way of wielding it meant he had theoretical access to every Study, far more than he yet knew how to use, but theory was different to practise. He needed to master each equally, and that was an ongoing struggle.

  It was hard to concentrate when he was alone with the Queen of Evil. Not that Corinea had done anything even remotely evil since they’d met her. Up close she was just like someone’s grandmother: an old white woman with a serene face and long silver hair. She was disconcertingly ordinary, but that didn’t banish his fears.

  If all went well, Ramita and Yash would be back by dusk. Apart from a herd of cattle below them, tended by a scrawny old man with a matted beard to his waist who’d spent most of the day asleep, they had seen no one. Sunset was perhaps two hours away.

  Setting his worries aside, Alaron focused on a new exercise: scrying through different media, using water, stone, flame and even the air before him. Earth had been his first affinity and he had to fight to keep the other bonds as strong, which took all his concentration. Scrying was delicate work, not something he’d used much since he learned this new path as he’d concentrated on more combat-oriented gnosis. So he called up a close up image of a distant tree, first conjuring it in a stone, then a pool of water, then a flame and finally in the empty air before him. He clenched a fist triumphantly when he managed Water, the most difficult for him.

  ‘How is it that you can do all this?’ Corinea said, snapping Alaron out of his reverie. The ancient woman had been silent since dawn, apparently lost in her own trance of memory and regret, and for a while he’d forgotten she was here.

  ‘Do what?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘I’ve seen you using every element and almost every one of the Sixteen Gnostic Studies in the past four hours. Most magi can only use two or three well, and another two or three at all. How can you do that?’

  In their solitude Alaron had forgotten that what he was doing would be considered impossible by most magi – including Corinea, clearly. That was a weird feeling, to know more than such a legendary person.

  ‘It’s a new training technique,’ he admitted after some thought. ‘It’s taken a lot of work to get this far.’

  ‘Interesting.’ She studied him, clearly with her gnostic sight engaged. ‘I had to teach myself, of course. Air and Water, and Sorcery . . . those were what I found my affinities to be. I spent a lot of time spying on other mages and trying to duplicate what they did.’

  ‘Was it dangerous?’

  ‘Of course: everyone knew what I’d done – or what they thought I’d done – and there was a king’s ransom on my head. I became very good at hiding and disguise. I didn’t have living teachers, but I found other ways to learn – when people started writing things down and I could steal books, that made it easier.’

  ‘It must have been lonely, to be in hiding for so long,’ Alaron commented, hoping not to cause offence.

  ‘Oh, I was seldom alone. I was a needy person, once I got over mourning for Johan. The hard part was trying to learn the gnosis while concealing my skills from whoever I was with.’ She sighed reflectively. ‘I’ve been married eight times, and had many lovers.’ She looked at him frankly. ‘Some as young as you.’

  He blushed. ‘I’m . . . um . . .’ Is she flirting with me?

  She laughed drily. ‘Don’t worry, boy, you’re not my type. And I’m not blind: you only have eyes for one person, and she isn’t me.’

  ‘Oh.’ His colour deepened. ‘No, that’s just . . . No, you’re right. It’s just that there’s so much happening to us, and I won’t take advantage of her, not when she’s still grieving for her husband, and for Nasatya. Her needs come first.’

  ‘Well, well . . . And you’re how old? I’ve met few grown men with the maturity to see beyond their own appetites. Well spoken, Master Mercer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He ducked his head and changed the subject. ‘I didn’t recognise the ingredients of the base compound that you wrote down for Ramita . . .’

  She smiled indulgently. ‘They’re mostly poisons – in the wrong quantities they’ll stop your heart. But there is also senaphium, which Baramitius called “jolt-root” because he said it could restart the heart if given in the right quantities.’

  ‘So the ambrosia kills and then revives you . . . and that’s how the gnosis is freed?’

  ‘The objective is not to kill but to almost kill, then pull the drinker back from the brink. The rest of the ingredients, the ones that are personalised, are designed to moderate the poisons and awaken those parts of the brain conducive to gnostic use. Without them, the potion is just a poison. With them, it almost always works.’

  ‘Then why did so many of those given the ambrosia the first time die or get twisted into Souldrinkers?’

  ‘Because these refinements came later – that first potion was just poison, senaphium and a couple of extra herbs – what Baramitius did that
night was reckless, almost insane. But that was Baramitius.’

  ‘But how did you know that you would gain the gnosis?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘We didn’t! We had no idea – even Baramitius didn’t know: he thought he was transporting us bodily into Paradise! We thought we were all going to sprout wings and turn into angels! The gnosis was all an accident, a fluke. Yet afterwards, Baramitius swore he received “visions from Kore”!’ She sighed reflectively. ‘They were mad days. I lost everyone I cared about that night, and had to kill the love of my life to escape. If I could go back I’d knife Baramitius and burn his rukking research to ash.’

  Alaron couldn’t imagine a life without his own gnosis – it hadn’t always been easy, being a quarter-blood mage, but he knew he really was blessed. ‘But you’re still willing to allow a new Ascendancy?’ Suddenly the idea of drinking a cup of mixed poisons brewed by this woman felt a lot more frightening.

  She looked at him intently. ‘You know what I want: a platform to tell my side of the story. In the end, all we have is our reputation, and I want mine cleansed. So yes, I will help you. The gnosis has been unleashed on the world, Master Mercer, and there is nothing I can do to change that; we are now blessed and cursed to live with it. I promise you, I will brew the ambrosia honestly.’ Her mouth curled bitterly. ‘I only hope that your Zain monks are as angelic as you think they are, or they’ll be just as monstrous as the Pallas magi.’

  ‘They aren’t like that.’

  ‘Power will change them, Alaron Mercer. I’ll warrant that in a few years you won’t be able to tell your monks from any other mage who thinks himself semi-divine.’

  That was another worry Alaron really didn’t need. ‘We don’t have any choice,’ he said firmly. ‘They’re the only ones we’ve notes for – unless you’d rather I just chose a random village and poisoned their well?’

  ‘No, Master Mercer, you’re playing the only game you can, given the state of the tabula board. And I’ve met worse people than Zains to gift the gnosis to.’