by David Hair
Theurgy: Spiritualism
The Ritual of Corineus enabled the powers of the soul, normally triggered at death, to be channelled during life. The Body and the Soul are linked, but they can be separated again. This link defines the art of the Spiritualist: to walk out of his own body, to exist as pure thought and energy, unlimited by physical constraints.
THE HIGHER GNOSTIS BARAMITIUS, PUBLISHED IN PALLAS, 604
They clearly thought my spirit form some kind of harmless illusion, when they realised that weapons couldn’t touch me. I corrected their error emphatically!
JANETTE DE MERE, SPIRITUALIST
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 929
14th month of the Moontide
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ Cym whispered from beneath her cowl.
Zaqri turned out to be right: the breaking in was simplicity itself. They simply joined the end of an incoming column, as all was confusion. They had both subtly changed their faces to match the Keshi look: a bigger nose, sharper chin and high cheekbones. Cym’s olive Rimoni skin was sun-darkened enough that she could have been local, especially wrapped in her sleeping blanket, which was as dirty as anyone’s and pinned in the Keshi way. Only their height set them apart, so they were both stooping a little.
The guards barely looked up as they shuffled by. They found a place to sit inside the refugee pen and tried not to attract attention, which turned out to be easy enough in a place where the struggle to secure food and water occupied what little energy the refugees had. They were near the latrines, which turned out to be badly dug, overflowing with raw sewerage and infested with sand-rats and crows.
Cym closed her eyes, covered her face and waited for darkness.
They ate from their own small store of dried meat, then Zaqri wrapped his arms about her and cradled her in a chaste embrace that slowly became sleep. The dismal nature of the camp killed any physical desire stone-dead, but his warmth anchored her, kept her here when she wanted so desperately to fly away.
She awakened in the chill of morning, lying on her side, moulded to his body. His hand was over her belly and she worried that he knew that she still hadn’t bled. That made her eight weeks gone. It would show soon. She had other fears too: their gnostic auras were apparently binding together. It was worse after sex, and it scared her.
She must have dozed again, because it felt like just a few seconds later when she was startled awake by trumpets and the crunch of hooves in gravel. She fumbled free of Zaqri and knotted her breeches about her waist, which felt tight and swollen. An old woman saw and gave her a hard, knowing look.
The camp came alive with movement and bustle. Fires smoked, pots emitted cooking smells and children squalled. They rose, wrapped in their filthy blankets and joined the hundreds of others pressing their faces through the wire, staring out at the Rondian Inquisitors. Four Acolytes were trailing the man who was obviously their Commandant. One of them was a grey-haired female with a face carved out of bone. The eleventh rider, the one they’d followed all the way into this Helish camp, was readying his horse, moving stiffly. They caught a glimpse of a drawn, pale figure with a shaven skull inside the hood.
‘He’s definitely one of us,’ Zaqri whispered in her ear.
‘A Dokken riding with the Inquisition? Impossible.’
‘Anything is possible in this world. Don’t draw attention to yourself, and cloak your aura, otherwise they may detect us if they look our way.’
She nodded mutely, straining her ears as the Commandant of the Inquisitorial Fist ordered his riders into line, then turned to the legion maniple commander. His voice carried across the stony ground. ‘I am Commandant Ullyn Siburnius of the Twenty-Third Fist of the Inquisition. Where is Tribune Gestryn?’
‘Commandant Siburnius!’ The maniple commander hurried forward, his face anxious and confused. ‘You were not expected until the third bell, Commandant …’ The look Siburnius returned withered whatever other protests he might have made. ‘Er, we are almost ready, sir.’
‘I don’t want to hear the word “almost”, Tribune. Assemble them, immediately!’
‘But I was told—’
‘Now, Tribune!’
Gestryn saluted, spun and began to bellow orders, sending his soldiers scattering. Some strode into the pens and began to herd adults towards the gates.
They were shouting something that sounded like Ishpardi to Cym. She looked at Zaqri as they retreated into the crowd.
‘A work detail,’ Zaqri whispered. He was looking around him carefully. He went off to talk to an older man, then returned a few minutes later to whisper, ‘Every few days a work group is assembled and taken away. They don’t come back. He says they’re kept at another place, a labour camp.’
Cym looked at him sceptically. ‘A labour camp? Out here?’
‘I know. I don’t think it’s likely either. But these are ordinary people – they don’t believe in evil, not truly. They try to rationalise things; they tell themselves that really bad things can’t really happen.’
Cym felt a sick lump in her belly. ‘Then what’s really happening? And why is that Dokken here?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I have never heard of such a thing – Inquisitors and Brethren are mortal enemies. I don’t understand what’s going on here.’
After the work detail left there was no excuse to linger near the gates. There was little to do but watch and wait so they returned to their spot and ate furtively, trying not to attract the attention of gangs of Dhassan and Keshi men who prowled the interior of the pen, forcing those who looked vulnerable to surrender their valuables. The scenes when the Rondians brought in the sacks of dried lentils – the only rations they apparently provided – were ugly as the refugees fought tooth and nail over the meagre supplies.
After a while they noticed the remaining five Inquisitors outside the fences were hammering carved wooden rods into the ground. Gnosis surges started to prickle at their awareness.
‘What are they doing?’ Cym whispered.
‘Sealing the camp with wards,’ Zaqri replied. ‘To alert them if anyone escapes.’ He rubbed at his beard. ‘Typically, those sort of wards also disrupt scrying and communications – but why would they want to block scrying on a slave camp?’
‘We can still disable them and get out … can’t we?’ Cym tried not to sound worried.
‘We could … but if we fumble it, we’ll alert them to our presence.’ He sucked in a deep breath of smoky air and coughed. ‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ he admitted. ‘You were right after all.’
‘Of course I was right. I always am.’ She watched the Inquisitors work, wondering what to do. ‘If we talked to that Dokken, do you think he might tell us what is going on?’
‘I don’t know. I thought so at first but every time we see him, he’s cooperating so willingly.’
‘There’s something … stupid … about him though, isn’t there? It’s like he can’t tie his own bootlaces without help. Perhaps they’re controlling him somehow?’
‘If that’s the case, talking to him might be an even bigger risk.’
‘But we have to try something, right? Or just get out and move on?’
They shared another one of those moments: when a blank future without purpose loomed ahead, leaving them alone and adrift. ‘No,’ they said together, then, recognising what was happening, each stammered into silence.
After a moment, Cym ploughed on. ‘The spirit-walking … like I did in the Noose. I could do that to get close to him.’
Zaqri considered that, his face betraying his worry, then he nodded.
So they made a plan – a simple plan, that shouldn’t go too wrong. That night she lay on her blanket, Zaqri huddled over her, and she …
… breathed her soul out of her m
outh. It left more easily than before, as if impatient with the bounds of flesh and gravity, and she shot into the air, taking the shape of an owl as she went, just in case anyone with gnostic sight was watching – the spiratus would be visible to such a one, but so long as it looked natural, they’d not realise what it was. She swooped low over the masses of huddled sleepers. Looking upwards, she got a fright when she saw a dome-like canopy of pale blue light covering the camp, then she realised that it was the Inquisitors’ wards, a mesh of thin strips of radiance visible only to gnostic sight. It was like a gauzy spiderweb, with lots of gaps, though they were all small – too small for a man-sized creature to go through, but easy enough for a bird-sized spiratus. She picked the biggest hole she could find and darted through.
Outside the dome of light, the vastness of the night called. She was pleased and relieved when no alarm was raised. Turning on a faint breeze, she headed for the barracks. They’d noticed that the eleventh rider didn’t mix with the Inquisitors but kept to himself in his own small mudbrick shed. The other cabins were bright with wards and enchantments, but his was quiescent, a dim mound in the darkness. She landed nearby, became a lizard and scuttled forward, unseen by the human guards.
There was no door – probably because the heat was suffocating even at night, especially for these Yurosian soldiers – and she reached the opening unchallenged. Her senses were quivering as she probed ahead, listening and sniffing. She found the Dokken sitting cross-legged on the floor of his hut, hood down, eyes vacant. His aura was a shifting mess of tendrils akin to Zaqri’s but his were somehow raw-looking. The periapt on his breast was so bright it was painful to look at, and different from any she’d seen. And Dokken did not use periapts anyway. Another mystery.
He turned his head and looked straight at her. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was a broken scratch, twigs on glass. There was a Lantric rune branded onto his forehead: a triangular shape, a delta.
She squeaked in fright and took a second to recover her poise. ‘I’m … No, who are you?’
‘Who?’ His bleak eyes grew larger. ‘I am.’ He stopped, tried again. ‘I am … I am … I am …’ His voice began to rise, his tones becoming fearful. ‘I am Delta,’ he suddenly announced, relief flooding his face. He sagged slightly, the energy in his expression dissipating. ‘Delta. I am Delta.’ Then his eyes focused again. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
She hesitated, then spoke. ‘I’ve been sent by Zaqri of Metia.’ It was a faint hope but not unreasonable, that this Dokken would recognise the name of a Dhassan packleader.
‘Zaqri.’ The Dokken’s face betrayed that he knew the name, then twisted as an internal struggle took place. His eyes became sly. ‘I know that name. Zaqri. Yes, I know it.’ His fleshy face looked sickly this close, and she could sense there was something wrong with him, like a disease emanating from that horrifically strong periapt. He gripped it tightly and sparks crackled down his arms.
She glanced backwards instinctively and that one look saved her.
A blast of blue fire ripped through the air from the shadow of the next hut. Normal reflexes couldn’t have helped, but she was in astral form, quick as thought, and in the instant before the bolt struck she was arrowing upwards, her shape a blur of light. More bolts arced out of the night from three other points while Delta’s harsh voice rose to a howl, screeching, ‘Master! Beware! Enemies!’
Rukka mia! He must have been alerting the Inquisitors even as he talked to me!
She cast a glance back over her shoulder and was horrified to see three Inquisitors rising into the night, armoured shapes riding the winds, blasting at her with needles of energy. Hel, they’re fast! But they were flesh-bound, and she was spirit. A naked soul was hyper-vulnerable to the gnosis, but it was also blindingly quick and she flashed away from the camp, leading them into the hills, where she made sure she lost them before heading back towards the dome of light and finding a gap in the web and—
—was suddenly inside her body again, coughing and spluttering as she jerked upright. Zaqri caught her, pinned her to his chest and held her tight. ‘Easy, easy, lass, you’re back. It’s all right.’
After a few moments catching her breath, she looked towards the Inquisitors’ huts. Torches were flaring into life and men shouting, an uproar that was waking the camp; they could see armoured figures milling about and hear Siburnius’ voice loud in the darkness.
She buried her head against Zaqri’s chest, shaken and scared now the immediate danger was gone. Exhaustion filled her, a backlash from so much concentrated use of power, and she stayed there until she stopped trembling.
‘What happened?’ Zaqri asked, his voice low.
‘He betrayed me to them – he pretended to be talking, but all the time he must have been calling them. I tried to lead them away – I’m sure I lost them before I came back.’
He stroked her hair. ‘Well done. So you actually spoke to him?’
‘Yes! He recognised your name, and said he was called Delta – but that’s not his real name. It’s just what they’ve branded him, on his brow.’
Zaqri’s eyes narrowed. ‘They’ve branded him?’
‘Yes. It’s barbaric.’ She slurped some water. ‘I think they’re controlling him somehow. He was strange, like he couldn’t think properly for himself. He spoke really slowly, almost like he was drugged.’ She described the strange periapt he wore. ‘I think it was killing him, burning him up.’
Zaqri looked perplexed. ‘Our kind don’t use them. And I’ve never heard of such a thing.’ Then he looked hard at her, and his hand slid over her stomach. ‘We need to talk.’
Cym jerked away. ‘What, were you inspecting me while I was out there?’ she snarled disgustedly.
He patiently ignored her flash of temper. ‘Are you with child?’
She flinched. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Our business.’
She jabbed a finger at him. ‘No! That’s where you’re wrong. My body, my business.’
His face was blooming with wonder, despite her fury. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, glowering. ‘But it means nothing.’
He beamed. ‘All those years, Ghila and I couldn’t manage it. I blamed myself, blamed her, blamed Pater Sol and Mater Lune. But now this …’
She clutched her stomach protectively. ‘It means nothing. You mean nothing.’
‘We were wed before the pack, Cymbellea di Regia. You are my wife, voluntarily, uncoerced, and consummated willingly, and many times over. Don’t try to deny it.’
She stared wildly about her at the night. The Inquisitors were still shouting and storming about outside the pen, and the refugees were wondering aloud what was going on. No one was paying her and Zaqri attention. ‘I don’t deny it,’ she whispered. ‘But you killed my mother. You don’t deserve my child.’
‘But it’s happening regardless,’ he said, taking her hands. ‘Look at me, Cymbellea.’ He waited until she did. ‘I love you. I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. Now the gods have gifted us a child. Will you please, please set aside this childish vendetta and love me in return?’
‘Rukka te! The gods haven’t gifted us a child – my stupid body has! My weakness has! And don’t you ever tell me that wanting retribution for my mother is childish, ever.’
Something in her blazing eyes made him stop whatever he was going to snap back at her and instead he drew her closer, so that their noses almost touched. ‘But you feel something for me too. Admit it.’
She tore her hands away and clutched them over her breast. ‘Yes, I feel something – but that’s not what’s important! It never has been! Leave me alone!’
It was as if he couldn’t hear her – as if he didn’t want to hear her. He clasped her face and kissed her lips until she kissed him back, then he gathered her into the wide expanse of his arms and bore her down onto the blanket.
‘I love you, Cymbellea di Regia, and nothing will tear us apart. Nothing.’
*
Over the next couple of days Cym and Zaqri kept largely to themselves, though Zaqri was forced to drive off a trio of Dhassan refugees who tried to rob them of their remaining food. One of the self-appointed camp leaders tried to enlist Zaqri in security, which gave them the opportunity to learn a little more about the camp. The Rondians had indiscriminately rounded up people in the southern rural areas, but they had said nothing of where they were going, or what their ultimate fate would be. Attempts to escape were dealt with brutally, and most had become resigned to a life enslaved.
The next work party was assembled three days later with a lot less fanfare, and it caught them unawares. A cluster of legionaries entered the pen and began herding people into a group, and Cym and Zaqri were too close to the action to move suddenly. They kept their heads bowed and hoped to be overlooked. Cym found herself terrified; she had to close her eyes and pray for the armed men tramping past to not notice them. She’d thought the refugees timid and subconsciously scorned them, but suddenly she knew exactly how they felt.
Then the worst happened.
‘You! Up! Into line.’ Cym felt her heart flutter as the legionary jabbed his sword in Zaqri’s direction.
‘Me?’ asked Zaqri mildly, putting a Keshi inflection into his voice.
‘Yes, you,’ the ranker replied sarcastically, unsurprised that Zaqri knew a little Rondian – many of the Ahmedhassans here did. He glanced at Cym. ‘And her.’
‘My wife is pregnant,’ Zaqri replied tersely.
The man went to shrug, then he relented. ‘Just you then. Join the workers.’
Zaqri threw Cym a concerned look, but stood.
Fear of separation made her forget her supposed indifference.
