Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (112 page)

‘Which we din’ believe,’ those listening chorused, ‘not at all.’

‘And now you’re here!’ Taft concluded heartily. ‘Kore’s blessings on ye, lad!’

‘Well,’ Seth said, mind racing.
The papers never made it back . . . so I’m still a Korion. And why the Hel not?
He took another sip of beer while they all waited on his word.
‘It seems Mother and I must go to the Governor and put an end to these lies for good.’ He raised his mug to them. ‘Thank you all, my faithful friends, for keeping the old house so well, and making me welcome. There are a few soldiers a mile down the road, men from the Crusade who have no other life. I have promised them a home here. And my new wife also awaits word that she can join us. We have much work to do to make the old house ready for her.’

They raised a cheer at that, congratulating him, while he beamed and nodded. The new ring on his finger felt strange, as did the mere thought that he was now a married man. But Carmina would make a good wife, faithful and placid. He drained his mug, and then held it out for a refill, feeling light-hearted and lightheaded.

‘My dear friends, it’s so good to be home.’

Domus Costruo, Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

Rami (Septinon) 930

Three months after the end of the Moontide

It was a state occasion –
another one
. Alaron Mercer sighed inwardly. He was getting used to them, but they were wearying. Ramita skipped most of them, but she was beside him tonight, because this one was special.

Today the Merozain Brotherhood formally stepped onto the tabula board of power.

East and West were here: Regis Sacrecour, Duke of Pontus, an obscure royal from a distant line unfortunate enough to fall out of favour at Pallas so thoroughly that they were sent to the far end of the continent, represented the Rondian Empire. Quite what that meant no one could say; Treasurer Dubrayle and Arch-Prelate Wurther were either preserving the Sacrecour dynasty or hastening its end, according to gossip. Some said Constant’s young children would rule once they reached their majority; others that the infamously imprisoned Princess Natia was to be crowned. Or that she was already dead. It all stank of war. But Duke Regis was affable enough, and more importantly, he appeared to understand that without Alaron and Ramita, his palace in Pontus would be nothing but a smashed and sea-scoured boneyard.

The East was represented by Sultan Salim himself, who was smart enough not to bring Rashid Mubarak. Word was the emir had returned to Halli’kut to convene his new order of magi. He was trying to buy the freedom of Alyssa Dulayne and the other Hadishah prisoners, though a price was still to be agreed.

Building up the Merozain numbers was a priority. Alaron, Ramita and their Brothers numbered only a dozen now, but they planned to return soon to Mandira Khojana and see how amenable Master Puravai was to widening their net to other monasteries.

The Ordo Costruo themselves numbered only thirty, but Rene Cardien claimed that many more must still be prisoners of the Hadishah breeding-houses, a subject Alaron would shortly be raising with Salim.

Alaron didn’t see the Ordo Costruo as rivals, and of course, they were at pains to befriend him: he had the Scytale, after all. Cardien argued that only the Ordo Costruo could protect the artefact from the Rondian Empire. Alliance or even merger was possible, but there were many, many issues to be resolved first. In the meantime, the Ordo Costruo’s main concern was the Leviathan Bridge. In the wake of the damage done by the Sacrecours’ attempts to destroy it, the Towers were all depleted, and the Bridge was unlikely to survive being submerged. But Cardien had plans to recover the situation, and Alaron and Ramita were eager to help.

After the speeches – Alaron got through his by pretending he was talking to his father with whom he’d been joyously reunited, and to Ramita in the front row – he introduced one final speaker, knowing that her words would be the one thing this night would be remembered for in the decades to come. The speaker was a willowy, silver-haired woman with a timeless face who took to the podium unidentified and waited for silence before her gentle, distant voice filled the room.

‘My name is Lillea Selene Sorades.’

She paused as the whole room went silent with the accursed name resounding in their ears. Everywhere faces suddenly were attentive, confused, or stunned. Some shook their heads in denial. And in their seats on the right-hand side of the central aisles, the Kore clergy who’d come went white.

‘Most of you know me by another name: Corinea. All your lives you’ve been told stories about me, but I’m here to tell you the truth. This is my story . . .’

Mount Tigrat, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Shawwal (Octen) 930

Four months after the end of the Moontide

The sun rose, sending hazy slabs of light through the pillars of the gallery on the east side of the monastery. The robed woman closed her eyes momentarily and soaked in the warmth. Her firm, rounded belly weighed on her as she trod the walkway, looking out over the plains below as they emerged misty and moist from the night.

I do love this land. Despite all it’s taken from me.
Elena stroked her stomach.
Feel that heat, little Serena? It’s the warmth of your homeland.

She found a stone seat where at times she used to sit with Kazim in the afternoon, sweating from their training bouts, still a little hostile and wary, but slowly feeling their way towards each other through the maze of prejudices and circumstance that lay between. This was where they’d really fallen in love.

One day you’ll leave here and find your place in the world, Serena. But I don’t know if I will ever leave again.

Kazim joined her, dressed in work clothes and ready to clear the lower levels of all the debris from their hurried abandonment last year. He’d made coffee, and they shared a cup, savouring the tang.

‘We could house fifty people down there, easily,’ he commented.

‘What a horrible thought,’ she replied.

They grinned, each knowing the other would unbend at some point. Communication crackled between them, wordless, intimate and endlessly loving. Time slipped past. ‘Molmar’s bringing timber from Brochena tomorrow,’ Kazim told her. ‘He says your Queen Cera – sorry,
Ambassador
Cera – is running rings around the Royal Council. Massimo relies on her for guidance, and his liking for her grows. She has been put in charge of Justice and the Courts.’

‘That didn’t take long,’ she remarked. ‘Not that I thought it would.’

The click of wood on stone caught their ears and a small figure with stick-like arms and legs, clad in thin cotton, shoved a wooden frame through the door and leaned on it, panting heavily. Then she thrust it a few inches forward, and lurched in its wake. Several times she almost fell, but caught herself with a nudge of gnostic force. When Tarita sensed their eyes on her, she called out, ‘Look, Alhana! See! I can walk! I can do it!’

Elena wiped at her eyes.

I have two beautiful daughters: my adopted one, and Serena inside me.
She stroked her belly.
Dokken or mage – what are you, little one? No matter: I’ll love you, and so will your father.

The child inside her kicked as if she heard.

Baranasi, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

Zulqeda (Noveleve) 930

Five months after the end of the Moontide

The streets of Aruna Nagar were teeming with noise and movement, the rich tang of spice and heat and sweat forming a heady brew. The alleys were at shuffling pace only, the buildings garlanded with brightly coloured ribbons of ochre and red: auspicious colours for the marriage season. Pandits read the stars to determine the optimal dates for the betrothed couples, and somehow managed to squeeze them all into autumn when the weather was cool but the nights warm: the best weather for such celebrations.

There were at least seven such festivals that afternoon within a stone’s throw of each other around Aruna Nagar Square, where the market brought together buyers and sellers. Most residents were going to all of the weddings, even if just for a few minutes, because everyone was related to everyone else around here in some way. Family matriarchs felt honour-bound to see them all and pass judgement on the food, on the clothing, on the gifts, on the beauty of the couple and every other aspect. Families’ social standings rose and fell on such things.

Ramita Ankesharan felt like a stranger in her homeland today. Half-familiar faces flashed by, girls she’d schooled with who were now young mothers, boys who’d once run riot with Kazim now labouring for their father’s businesses, while a new generation of youths tore through the market like a whirlwind, stealing handfuls of roasted nuts and sweets and waving kalikiti bats.

‘You grew up here?’ Alaron muttered incredulously, holding her hand and buffeting his way through the press.

‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘That’s not the word I was thinking.’ He pulled her from the flow and stared about him. His pale face was discernible beneath his hood, but Rondian traders were not wholly unknown here, so while his pale skin didn’t trigger panic, he did attract curious glances and beggars: because
everyone
knew that Rondians were both inexplicably rich
and
stupid with money. ‘But it is
amazing
,’ he added fervently, which made her proud. ‘I like it, I do.’

‘If you like it now, then soon you will love it,’ she said.

‘Where do your family live?’

Ramita had to think for half a second. ‘That way.’

Once back in Mandira Khojana, Ramita had finally had the opportunity to scry her family, and to her faint surprise, they were back in Baranasi. She supposed that once the money stopped flowing, they’d decided that there was no other place they would rather be. They were in a different house, of course: the money might have stopped but even the initial payment Meiros had made for her had been
lifetimes
of wealth. Their new house overlooked the river, among the well-to-do, and there were servants and house-guards.

My sacrifice did that.

They arrived unheralded at the gatehouse and with a touch of mischief told the doorman that Lady Ramita Meiros was here to see Master Ispal. The doorman looked at her strangely, then at Alaron’s pale face, and fled, shouting ‘Master! Master!’

I suppose he knows who I am, then . . .

Father and Mother came together, Ispal’s face wide-eyed and his whole body shaking, her mother Tanuva pale and weeping. She didn’t feel that she was home until she was enveloped in her mother’s arms and pressing Dasra into Father’s grasp. Then Jai sprinted in and lifted her and swung her around and around, and Keita waddled in with their toddler and her belly large again, then the twins exploded through the middle of them, the two surviving triplets arrived to see what the fuss was, and all was the merry chaos she’d grown up in.

Welcoming Alaron into the family required explanations and assurances, but he spoke Lakh credibly by now, enough that they could work out what was intended. Fear of ferang magi was not easily overcome, but her family was made of love and they drew him in. She skirted the details of what had befallen Kazim and Huriya and said little of her own transformation. Her parents weren’t blind: they’d realised within minutes that this was a visit, not a homecoming. They made no demands, and she loved them all the more for that.

‘Did I do wrong, Daughter?’ her father whispered, much later, before she went to join Alaron in their room. ‘I sold you to a stranger. I’ve been haunted ever since.’

‘I don’t know, Father. There is no way of knowing how things might otherwise have been. But the gods have been kind to us all. Our family is safe, and better off. And I now have another fine husband and two beautiful children. I cannot say you did wrong.’

‘Makheera-ji was merciful,’ her mother said.

Ramita smiled at what Alaron would think of that. ‘We can only do our best with what is put before us. When is anything ever perfect?’ She looked away, thinking of Nasatya, lost somewhere in the world.

We will see you again, little one, if the Goddess wills.

*

It was night in Baranasi, but it wasn’t dark. Holy Imuna was basted in silver by the moon hanging above like a giant eye. Alaron stood on a balcony and stared out at the river. Thousands of tiny leaf-boats bobbed past, each bearing a candle lit in prayer for remembrance of the dead, by the thousands of worshippers who came to the banks every evening. He’d lit one for Cym earlier and set it in the current.

We’re all just candles floating on the river of life.
He wondered if they were lines of a poem he’d once read.

Ramita slipped into the crook of his arm. She was carrying a drowsy Dasra. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? This is Imuna at her most beautiful.’ She giggled. ‘It’s too dark to see how filthy the water is, and it’s too far away to smell it.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Alaron told her, sincerely. He plucked Dasra from her and pointed to the river. ‘Look, little man. This is your mother’s home. Maybe yours one day too.’

Ramita took his free hand. ‘Husband,’ she said seriously. ‘My parents approve of you. They think you will make a fine father for our daughters.’

Phew.
He grinned, then stared. ‘
Daughters?
Are you . . . Have we—?’

She drew his hand to her stomach, smiling widely.

THE END OF THE MOONTIDE

APPENDICES

Timeline of Urte History

Year Y500BV
^*
: Approximate beginning of the Rimoni conquest of Yuros.

*
(BV = Before Victory)

Year Y1: Rimoni republics unite as Rimoni Empire, and new calendar adopted.