Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (36 page)

The cloaked figure standing over him kicked again, harder. ‘Get up!’

It felt real – but then, everything did, every delusional moment . . . In his delirium he had told Alyssa Dulayne everything – of that he was almost certain. She’d unpicked him so deftly and easily it was humiliating. Every weakness had been turned on him, all his illusions of courage stripped away.

He expected to die now, for what further use could they have for him? But he didn’t want to, not without seeing Cym again. He knew she was also aboard this craft, shut up in the hold; he could sense her, even through the Chain-rune; he would be able to find her anywhere. For her to be so close, but out of reach, was maddening beyond endurance.

Likely Alyssa was merely kindling hope in him for the pleasure of snuffing it out, but he couldn’t help dreaming that the two of them might somehow break free.

Alyssa Dulayne. The golden-haired witch
. He was going to rip her throat out; he just needed to live long enough to get the chance.

‘Get up!’ the Hadishah snapped, hoisting him with kinesis. ‘We’re moving.’

He caught his balance, his ankle chains clanking. His hands were free, but his feet were manacled so closely together so that he could only shuffle. The assassin shoved him to the latrine and stood over him while he peed, then escorted him outside. It was still early evening, but they were on the move again, only a few hours since they’d arrived here – wherever
here
was; he had no idea, but the architecture suggested southern Kesh or the eastern part of Khotri. He staggered up the gang-plank and was locked to the railing in his usual place while the Hadishah settled around him. The craft rose, the large triangular sails unfurling about the two masts. The dhou was smaller than the Rondian warbird he’d seen, but much larger than the two skiffs that rose alongside them; the three craft swung southeast together, the wind rose at the pilot’s call and the wind-dhou surged away, bathed in moonlight. He could feel the renewed energy among the Hadishah and his heart sank as he guessed why.

They’ve got news of the Scytale.

Teshwallabad, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929

17
^th
month of the Moontide

Alyssa stared down at the blood-spattered, alien face and caught the monk’s final thoughts as he faded, his body shuddering into stillness.

Zains
, she thought.
Impotent, pathetic Zains . . .

If there was one thing she despised more than scholars, it was clergy: men who couldn’t deal with the real world disappearing into a fantasy one, preaching love of imaginary beings to hide their in-ability to love real ones, all the while telling their congregations to give freely, to
them
. Kore priests, Amteh Scriptualists, Lakh pandits, Zain monks and all the myriad fringe sects . . . what was the point of any of them? Nothing more than balm for the emotionally needy. If she had her way they’d be eradicated like the parasites they were.

So this afternoon had been a rare treat.

Lesharri stood behind her, distressed. She didn’t like blood, but there were buckets of it here, staining the steps and draining into the river. They’d arrived at night, trapping seventeen Zain monks, forty-two acolytes and twenty-six beggars they were feeding in a badly timed act of charity. Only the dead man at her feet had known anything useful, but the rest had to die for the crime of seeing her face and hearing her questions. She didn’t want the word ‘Scytale’ being bandied about, not even here in Lakh.

The Hadishah agents at court had met her on her arrival in Teshwallabad, but they knew little of what had happened in Septinon,
three
whole months ago. They were unaware Ramita Ankesharan had been here – with a Rondian mage! All they knew was that there had been an attempt on the life of Tariq-Srinarayan Kishan-ji, his Sacred Majesty the Mughal of Lakh, and that Vizier Hanook and his son were dead.

Three months ago – what
incompetent
fools!

Ramita was long gone, though she’d stayed at this monastery for several nights after the mysterious tunnel collapse and the death of the vizier. They’d departed for a monastery in Lokistan and now she knew its name.
I’m closing in on you, Ramita.

She could guess at the purpose Ramita had in coming here: she was Lakh, and a mage in her own right; the mughal would surely crave a mage-bride, to bring the gnosis into the Lakh royal family.
Intolerable
.

There’s much more to learn here, but I don’t have time to get to the mughal, spoiled little brat that he is. I need to find Ramita, before she moves again.
She sighed at the thought of another long and arduous trip, to Lokistan this time.

Am I fated to traverse the whole of Ahmedhassa looking for this damned artefact?

She looked about her, spotted Satravim hovering in the hope of being of value and rewarded him with a smile. ‘Dear Satravim, my sister Lesharri is feeling unwell. Please, take her back to the dhou and see to her comfort.’

The young Hadishah almost swooned in delight as he led Lesharri off.

Next she sought Megradh, the Hadishah captain. He was quite the ugliest, most brutal-looking man she’d met, with a blockish skull and the heavy jowls of a savage, barely covered by a patchy and unkempt beard. He quite clearly loathed her, but still couldn’t keep his eyes off her body.

‘Take the maps, burn the bodies and prepare to leave,’ she ordered. ‘We have far to go.’ She indicated a pair of his warriors, unconscious on the ground. ‘What happened to them?’

Megradh scowled. ‘These monks and their staves . . . We’ve not fought such a weapon before.’

‘It’s a stick,’ she sneered.
I sometimes think Rashid places too much confidence in these people
. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave them behind, but perhaps they’ll have learned from the experience.’

‘What of the prisoner Zaqri?’ Megradh asked. ‘He weighs down the ship and he stinks. Fucking beast-man. What use is he any more?’

The captain has a point . . .
but much about the Dokken that intrigued her. There was something in his memories relating to the old fairytale about Nasette – if there was any truth to that legend, it might be something worth knowing. And while he was alive, she could use his safety to control Cymbellea. But he had slain Justina, and for that he deserved to die.

Let’s see how the mood takes me . . .

‘We keep him for now.’ She clapped her hands briskly. ‘Enough – we go!’

*

Cymbellea groaned, and blinked her way back to consciousness.
They put poppy in my food again . . .

‘I know you’re awake,’ Alyssa Dulayne drawled. ‘How are you, darling girl?’

Cym tried to sit up, groaning at the deep ache inside her skull, until Alyssa put her fingers to her temple and the pain eased enough for her to open her eyes. They were in a broken-down chamber, looking at the desert wilderness outside through the hole left by a missing wall. A large triangular-sailed windship rested on its landing struts on the flat space outside.

She was lying on a rough pallet, dressed only in a thin cotton nightgown. There was no sign of her few personal effects. The only other person present was a dumpling of a woman with the placid composure of a nun. She resembled a softer Alyssa, so it was no surprise when she said, ‘You remember my half-sister, Lesharri?’

‘You’re among friends, dearie,’ Lesharri burbled brightly. She was dowdily dressed, and her face was oddly vacant. But it was Alyssa who filled Cym’s sight. The blonde Rondian was studying her carefully.

A friend wouldn’t imprison me, or drug me . . .

‘Where’s Zaqri?’ she managed to ask at last, her throat rusty with lack of use.

‘Not far away,’ Alyssa said. ‘We’ve travelled a long way, my dear, and you’ve been a handful, so we’ve had to sedate you, entirely for your own good, of course.’

Cym tried to reach her gnosis, but she found nothing. ‘What—?’

‘Just a Chain-rune,’ Alyssa replied airily, ‘only to prevent you from doing something foolish.’ Her face was all concern, but her eyes were predatory. ‘My dear girl, you are so like my poor Justina, aren’t you? Your mouth, your eyes . . . so beautiful.’

It’s like having a lioness describe how succulent you smell
. Cym fought to hide her revulsion, but Alyssa saw it and gave a heavy sigh. She turned to her sister. ‘Lesharri, help Cymbellea sit up, would you.’

Cym brushed Lesharri’s hand aside and pulled herself upright.
I’d like to rip your face off . . .

The blonde woman tutted sadly. ‘So much anger and resentment. It’s what happens when mothers abandon their children: you see it in the streets of Hebusalim all the time, the damage of broken families. You’re a lost soul, aren’t you?’

‘A lost soul,’ Lesharri agreed.

‘Worse than that, really,’ Alyssa went on. ‘A
damned
soul. Zaqri’s told me
everything
about you and him.’ She turned to Lesharri. ‘Leave us, sister, for I fear this may become unpleasant. Send Megradh in.’

The dumpy little woman looked pained, but she scampered away, leaving Cym alone and afraid. Alyssa leaned towards her and her voice dropped to a hiss. ‘You’ve been rukking that Souldrinker animal, you dirty little slut.
And he killed your poor mother!
Justina was my dearest friend . . . and you’ve
made love
to her murderer. Sweet Kore, child! Have you no morals?’

‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that!’ Her drug-addled mind swirled.

‘Of course I don’t understand! I find your behaviour utterly in-comprehensible!’

‘Who are you to judge me? You’re rukking that emir who murdered my grandfather!’

‘Ignorant girl! Rashid Mubarak represents the ideals of the Ordo Costruo more truly than Antonin Meiros did in the end! Meiros chose to stand aside from a war he helped create, not just once, but thrice! It split the Order, and I have to tell you that Rashid was right to take a stand. He had the courage to face that old despot when no others would, and I’m proud to be his concubine and share in his glory!’

Silence fell between them. Alyssa sat back, waiting, until they were joined by a burly, hairy Keshi man with a leering face. He stank of sweat.

They both stared at her until Cym had to speak or scream.

‘Zaqri isn’t evil – he
hates
what he is!’ she burst out. ‘The Scytale can cure them – his whole people!’

‘Nonsense, child,’ Alyssa said dismissively. ‘The first Dokken became what they are
because
they were evil already. So says the
Book of Kore
. Their descendants inherited that nature.’ Her face took on the patient irritation of a disappointed mother. ‘You’ve been raised by gypsies, dear. You don’t know how to judge good and evil.’

You rukking bitch . . .

‘Tell me about the Scytale, Cymbellea dear. And Alaron Mercer. Who is he? How did he gain this artefact, and where is he going with it?’

‘Go to Hel!’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ Alyssa replied lightly. ‘But not for a long, long time. And you’ve got to deal with the here and now, so let me make it simple for you: you’ll tell me everything I want to know, or I will have your Dokken lover executed. “Thou shall not allow the Souldrinker to live”. So says the
Book of Kore
. But cooperate, and I’ll grant you both mercy.’

We should have stayed in the wild!
Cym thought bitterly.
I told him, over and again . . .

But she was Rimoni: the magi had destroyed her ancestors’ empire, taken their lands and driven them to the margins of society. She’d been sheltered by her father and his caravan, but always aware that safety was an illusion; you made the best of what fortune gave and you
survived
. That had always been her people’s way. You found reasons to go on. You salvaged scraps from the ruins. You saved what you could and went on.

Alaron’s not helpless, but Zaqri is, right now . . .

‘All right,’ she said, hanging her head. ‘I’ll tell you what I can. But you have to promise, on your soul, that you will let Zaqri and me leave afterwards.’

‘My dear child . . . Your mother must be weeping in Paradise.’ Alyssa paused cruelly. ‘No, wait: your mother’s soul never made it to Paradise, because your lover
consumed
it.’

Cym looked up at her. ‘I hate you.’

Megradh snorted, but Alyssa just sighed. ‘Child, tell me everything: how did you gain the Scytale?’

Everything came out, as if Cym were vomiting and couldn’t make it stop, all about Alaron and Ramon and the secret gnosis lessons, about finding General Langstrit, and Watch Captain Muhren helping them to hunt for the Scytale. She hung her head when she got to the bit where she’d stolen the artefact from her two best friends, taking it from the dead hands of Alaron’s mother. She left out nothing, not her trek across the continent, seeking her mother and her grandfather, the lamiae, the Isle of Glass, and especially the joy and pain of finding and losing Justina. Meeting Zaqri, and Huriya. Fighting with Zaqri in the Noose for control of the Dokken pack, and then the dreadful attack by the Inquisitors . . . and she spoke of lust, or love, or maybe something of both . . . and finally, she whispered about her aborted child as tears fell silently down her cheeks. She thought she had no more tears left in her, but that clearly wasn’t so.

I killed my own child.

After that came the questions: how could she bear Zaqri’s child but not become a Dokken, like Nasette? She didn’t know. Where was Alaron now? Was Ramita Ankesharan still with him? She didn’t know those either. There were other questions as Alyssa sought to fill in the details, each one draining her until finally there was nothing left to tell, and her voice was a gravelly whisper.

‘I think we have everything.’ Alyssa turned to Megradh. ‘Bring in the Dokken. He can die in front of her.’