by David Hair
I’m coming back to you, my love.
21
Imposter
The Kalistham and the Last Days
The Kalistham, the holy book of Ahm, is remarkably similar to the Book of Kore concerning the final days of Urte. Both speak of a time of suffering, when the chosen people must endure hardship and privation, after which a messianic figure returns to life to gather the righteous for the final struggle. But the Kalistham holds that the Army of Light will defeat the unholy dead and establish the Kingdom of Heaven on Urte while the Book of Kore cedes Urte to the daemons.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, HEBUSALIM 841
Hegikaro, Mollachia
Martrois 936
Valdyr looked across the table at Ogre, bruised and battered after being assailed on his journey to Hegikaro. He’d arrived the morning after the duel and Asiv’s death; when he’d asked to speak to Valdyr in private he’d been brought to the council chamber.
Kyrik and Hajya were still recovering, leaving Valdyr nominally in charge. Outside, those fit enough were burning the bodies of the dead, or guarding the surviving possessed men, who’d been penned in a sunlit stockyard to attempt their rehabilitation.
At least we know how now, Valdyr reflected, thanks to Ogre. I barely know him, but Kyrik trusts him. That’s enough for me. ‘What is it?’ he asked gravely.
‘Prince Valdyr,’ the big construct said formally, ‘these past weeks I have been studying the Daemonicon of my old master. It was encrypted and in an unknown language – but I have deciphered it.’
Valdyr stared. The construct was seven foot tall and built like a Mantaur – one who’d been crudely moulded from clay. Such intellect was unexpected. ‘Then you are a scholar.’
‘I was trained rigorously,’ Ogre rumbled, ‘and now I know what the Master purposes. He has been seeking a captive dwymancer for his plans and I fear he has one.’
‘Jehana.’ Valdyr sighed.
‘The Master proposes to destroy our world and leave himself the ultimate ruler. Any who remain alive will be daemon-possessed. That is his stated intention, written twenty years ago in his Daemonicon, before it fell into Ordo Costruo hands. They failed to decipher it, but Ogre did not,’ he concluded, with a hint of pride.
Valdyr blinked, stunned. He’d been expecting something more earthly: seizing the Imperial Throne, maybe – but this sounded like something from the Last Days.
‘Can he do such a thing?’
Ogre’s big purple tongue emerged to lick his cracked lips. ‘He can. He has a way that he believes will work. Only a dwymancer can stop him – one such as you.’
Valdyr caught his breath. I barely stopped Asiv – surely Naxius is beyond me? Then he paused, because he wasn’t alone. ‘There’s also Nara of Misencourt,’ he told Ogre. ‘I’m not the only dwymancer.’
‘Then you need to warn her,’ Ogre advised. ‘Tell her now. The Master has everything he needs and he may have already begun.’
*
Nara, Valdyr called into the dwyma from the platform on Haklyn Tower, please, I must speak with you.
The Elétfa was immense to his inner eye and his grasp of it more secure than ever before, a legacy not just of the time spent there, but also of killing Asiv Fariddan. He had a new sense of certainty now he had forgiven himself for past weakness; he finally felt worthy of this great gift.
But there was little time to dwell on that accomplishment, for thanks to Ogre he now knew the enormity of what was at stake. Ogre was sitting opposite the brazier, next to a sleeping Gricoama; the wolf’s tail was twitching as he dreamed. The new moon overhead was a glittering scythe in the cold, still air.
Nara . . . Nara . . . He’d felt her presence at times, like a doe flitting through a forest, quiet and elusive. This new reticence to speak to him was troubling: this was the third night he’d tried to reach her without success. With a sigh, he abandoned the effort.
I can’t put this off any longer, he decided. I can’t wait on her . . . she might even be dead. Although he thought he’d have felt it in the dwyma if she’d died. He banished the horrible notion, opened his eyes and looked up at Ogre’s lugubrious face as he concentrated on roasting a rat on a stick over the fire. It was amazing what you could get used to when the granary was empty.
‘What do I do when I’m in there?’ Valdyr wondered.
‘You just look like you’re talking in your sleep,’ Ogre replied, taking an exploratory bite of the rat. He heaved a deep, dissatisfied but resigned sigh and took another mouthful. ‘You reached this Nara?’
‘No. I think we’re on our own.’
‘Then we should go and find Tarita – she might be able to convince the Merozain Bhaicara to aid us.’
Ogre’s open face was easy to read: he wanted to see Tarita, even if it hurt to do so. Valdyr felt a surge of sympathy, but said nothing; Ogre didn’t need his pity.
‘Can’t you just contact her with the gnosis?’
‘The distance and the mountains prevent that,’ Ogre rumbled. ‘I might with a relay-stave, perhaps, but neither the Master nor the Ordo Costruo trusted me enough to show me the art. So unless you have one—?’
Valdyr shook his head. ‘Kyrik never learned that either,’ he admitted. ‘Well, I guess that’s what we must do,’ he decided, placing his own skewered rat into the flames. ‘We might know what Naxius is doing, but we’re only guessing where he is and we don’t know how advanced his plans are. I don’t think the odds-makers would give us a good price on our success.’
Ogre smiled, lighting up his misshapen face. ‘The odds-makers don’t know us. They would have placed money on Asiv, or Semakha, or Alyssa – and lost it every time.’
They shared a grin, which faded as Valdyr looked across to the main tower, where his brother and his wife were still recovering. He felt wretched at the thought of leaving when Mollachia needed him. But I fear we must: it’s all of Urte at stake.
He felt a sudden empathy with Ogre, for all their differences, and an urge to admit something he seldom spoke of. ‘Ogre, I spent my formative years in the Keshi breeding-houses—’ his voice broke and Ogre touched his forearm, his big eyes surprisingly sensitive.
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ he rumbled.
He ignored that and went on, ‘Those girls I had to mate with – they were no more willing than I. They chained me down and gave me drugs to perform. Those poor women had to humiliate themselves to get my seed. Most were in tears. It was truly Hel on Urte. Something like what Naxius is going to create . . .’
‘And yet you survived,’ Ogre noted. His face betrayed his own pain. ‘As did I, despite being an abomination Master Naxius created as a slave.’
Valdyr stared as a long-supressed memory resurfaced. ‘Of course . . . Ervyn Naxius . . .’
‘Ai,’ Ogre rumbled, his eyebrows twitching. ‘You know of him?’
‘Know him?’ The memory set Valdyr to trembling again, but this time as much with excitement as horror. ‘Naxius used to visit the man who imprisoned me – Asiv was his acolyte.’
Their eyes met and Valdyr felt a powerful sense of shared history with this construct creature he’d never met before. They were flies in the same web. He could see that Ogre felt the same empathy. We understand each other. We comprehend what each other has been through. That felt incredibly meaningful. He extended his hand and they solemnly shook. His own big hand was dwarfed, but he didn’t flinch. ‘I offer you my friendship, Ogre.’
The big construct’s eyes lit up. ‘Friends,’ he growled warmly. ‘Friendship is precious.’
It surely is. With that thought, Valdyr rose. ‘Goodnight, Ogre. We’ll leave at dawn – we’ve a long way to go.’
*
Valdyr woke next morning to Gricoama’s wet tongue on his cheek. They tussled playfully for a few moments, then he rose, sluiced icy water over his face and scarred body, dressed and buckled on his zweihandle and dagger.
When he emerged into the square, sunlight was slanting through the charred timbers
and broken walls of the outer bailey. The castle was crowded with refugees, with families even sleeping in the eaves of the wreckage. Many were awake, watching his departure curiously.
Kyrik was waiting too, his battered face full of concern. He’d finally come to the previous night. ‘Brother,’ he said, placing a shaking hand on his shoulder, ‘I wish that—’ Then he stopped himself. ‘No, what I really wish is that I could come.’
Valdyr put an arm around his brother. ‘No, you don’t. You’ve got to get better yourself, then work on making different tribes one, feeding and housing your people and loving your wife back to health. You don’t want to leave them behind.’
‘Ysh, I know – but who’s going to look after you if I don’t?’
‘Like you did when you accepted that stupid duel?’ Valdyr reminded him. ‘Brother, I need to know you’re here, putting our home back together. Without that, how will I find the strength I need?’
Kyrik pulled him close. ‘I will rekindle the home fires. They’ve burned very low.’ He chuckled, ‘It’s like one of the Fey Tales. You’ve killed your draken, Sir Rynholt, so now go and rescue the Skydancer.’
Kyrik bent and hugged Gricoama, which the wolf permitted grudgingly, then a low growl resounded through the square, and everyone drew back a little as a something halfway between a horse and a wolf stalked out of the stables. It was saddled, with baggage tied to its back.
Valdyr wasn’t at all comfortable about riding his companion, but Ogre had insisted, and he had to agree it would certainly make passing through hostile lands easier.
So he gave Kyrik one last hug, whispering, ‘Kiss Hajya for me.’ He mounted Ogre’s back and without fanfare, departed through the town gates.
*
Kyrik watched his brother ride off in silence, crushed by sadness, but proud too. When he’d found Valdyr after so many years lost, he’d been a wounded animal. But now he rode tall in the saddle and looked the world in the eye.
Kore and Ahm be with you, brother.
He looked around him, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of all that needed doing. But he wasn’t alone – he had the strength of Kip’s Bullheads and the Mantauri to draw on, as well as the manpower of the Sydians and the good people of Mollachia. The farms were recoverable, the mines were still operable and the pastures would thrive as spring advanced. It would take time and they might never know true prosperity in his lifetime, but Mollachia would recover.
It has to.
Sensing eyes on him, he turned to see Hajya leaning on the doorframe, a shawl about her shoulders and squinting in the sunlight – but she wasn’t flinching from it. She still looked dreadfully thin, a shadow of the robust, self-assured Sfera headwoman he’d first known, but her lived-in face had regained some of its old imperious command as she called, ‘Husband, will you join me for breakfast? I’m ravenous.’
His stomach rumbled at the thought. ‘Me too.’ He gathered her in his arms and felt the tentative beginnings of his world being hammered back into shape. ‘I could eat a bullock.’
‘Don’t tell Maegogh,’ she advised wryly, then she stretched, arms wide. ‘By the Stallion, I love the sun.’
‘Do I have to add the Sollan Faith to the religions of Mollachia?’ he laughed.
‘Why not?’ she chuckled. ‘I hear their priests lay with virgins every Solstice – that’s my kind of religion. It makes us Sydians look positively staid.’ She stroked his face the way she used to and forgetful of the people watching, they kissed, at first tentatively, then with passion, drinking in the tastes and textures they’d missed for too long.
In that moment, Kyrik finally found his wife again.
Norostein, Noros
How can a person be right here with you and yet miles away? Waqar wondered, watching his lover’s face as it turned in every direction except towards him. Any other woman would be fussing over me, trying to cement my gratitude at the very least – but she’s barely here . . .
He was naked and lying on cool cotton sheets – but that was as romantic as things got. Tarita was squirming on the small stool beside the bed, bored and clearly anxious to be elsewhere. In her lap lay Cadearvo’s crumpled mask, retrieved after the construct and his dead draken had crashed into a mansion in Ringwald. Waqar hadn’t wanted the ugly thing, but Tarita was fascinated by it. She’d even tried repairing it.
And she’d helped repair Ajniha too, resetting bones broken by the draken’s claws, and for that Waqar was profoundly grateful. The roc was recovering faster than he was, by all accounts.
I slew Cadearvo . . . But it didn’t feel like a victory, not when his body was so ruined. Cadearvo’s dagger had gone in under Waqar’s ribcage, sliced, then cauterised his stomach muscles and punctured a lung. He’d almost drowned in his own blood. The mage-healers – the Rondians had far more power and expertise than any of the Shihad’s magi – were saying he was lucky to be alive, but it was doubtful that he’d ever fully recover.
And Tarita had no use for him any more – she wasn’t entirely heartless, he knew that, but being here was a torment to her. He knew that after spending more than a year paralysed, she’d developed a real horror of sickbeds. But that was only part of her discomfort.
She wants to continue the search for Jehana – and whatever we had feels like it’s over.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked, to break the silence.
‘Latif,’ Tarita replied absently, gazing up at the painted ceiling, a gaudy scene of Kore saints and angels. ‘I helped him escape from the massacre of Salim’s household and here he is on another continent, passing himself off as Salim again. What a strange life.’
‘It’s no stranger than a maid who becomes an Ascendant mage, joins the Merozains, spies for Javon and becomes the concubine of a Keshi prince,’ he replied, forcing a laugh. ‘If that’s still what you want?’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted her answer to be.
‘I suppose,’ she said absently.
He couldn’t work out which she was replying to: his initial statement, or his question. Should I just get my rejection in first? he wondered. ‘Where’s my sister?’ he asked instead. ‘Why can’t we find her?’
‘We’ve tried everything we can,’ she answered tersely. They’d even used the blood-scrying and still got nothing. ‘She’s being veiled too strongly, or she’s deep underground.’ She sat up. ‘The mountains, a wall of stone thousands of feet high, are just south of us. The scrying spells that led us here were directional – what if we got the southerly readings before she passed beyond our reach and now it’s the mountains blocking us?’
‘Then what else can we do?’ he demanded.
‘Cross the mountains and scry again.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I have a pierced lung.’ He sagged into his pillow. ‘Take some of my blood and go,’ he said, trying very hard not to sound bitter. If he didn’t recover fully, he would never be sultan, and Latif’s ruse wasn’t sustainable, which meant Teileman would claim the throne – maybe he’d even fly his court home and abandon the broken Shihad to its fate.
But what if Teileman’s also a Mask? he thought suddenly, his heart going cold. There’s still a possessed army outside our walls – and Xoredh’s still alive.
Since the Yurosi and Shihad forces had united, almost a week ago, and he’d killed Cadearvo, there had been no further attacks. Xoredh’s daemon army had retreated to the plains outside Lowertown, which were still flooded. The sultan’s banner flew, but he’d not been seen since that night.
‘You should go,’ he told Tarita. ‘I need to rest.’
She looked at him squarely and he could almost hear her words before she said them. ‘I’ve thought about our agreement, Waqar,’ she started. ‘We both know your people would never accept a known Jhafi spy in the court – I’d be a danger to you, and to myself. And anyway, turns out, I don’t want to be a princess. Who knew?’ She sighed. ‘I’m happier on my own.’
He tried to sit up, but a jab of pain racked his chest and he end
ed up coughing up more blood instead. By the time his vision had cleared, she was standing over him, clearly torn between her desire to leave and genuine concern. She placed the mask on the bed, but he waved it away.
‘Take it,’ he croaked. ‘I don’t want it here.’
Then he dissolved into another coughing fit and when his eyes cleared Tarita and the mask were gone. In her place was a white woman with kindly eyes who held his hand, gifting him her healing energy.
*
Tarita slipped out of the sickroom, waved to the Rondian healer-woman and walked onwards blindly, feeling odd now the words had been said. Thank Ahm it’s over, she thought morosely, and then, What’s wrong with me? I just jettisoned a prince, for Ahm’s sake – and a handsome one at that.
She went to his suite and after eating and bathing, stared in the mirror at herself naked: small and skinny, maamehs too big for her size. Normally she was proud of her body, but today she felt ugly. She tugged on undergarments and men’s clothes, better for fighting than woman’s skirts, tied up her hair and packed her things, wondering what came next.
The common factor in all my failed relationships is me.
Someone had once told her that infatuation lasted nine weeks and love for nine months – the time that it took to birth a man’s child and for him to look for the next conquest. Eternal love was a myth.
Most of my affairs last between nine hours and nine days.
Since the Shihad’s retreat into Copperleaf, the Ahmedhassan leaders had been given a disgraced nobleman’s palace as their headquarters, but Waqar and Latif had accepted guest rooms in the Governor’s Mansion. Since then there had been little integration, but no outbreaks of serious violence either. Thankfully, Xoredh hadn’t attacked either, although why, she had no idea – perhaps he needed time to mop up resistance.
The peace within the walls here was entirely due to Latif – Sultan Salim – and the Rondian general, Seth Korion, who seemed a decent man for a slugskin. Remarkably, he and Latif knew each other; they’d told her, laughing, that Korion, believing Latif to be Salim, had captured him during the Third Crusade.
