Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (6 page)

Huriya really isn’t the mothering kind
, Malevorn noted. But Hessaz didn’t look displeased as she clutched the infant to her and hurried after Huriya.

Malevorn was left eyeing up the six men, gripping the hilt of his scimitar. ‘Well?’ he challenged. ‘Try me, if you think you’re up to it.’

‘Go rukk yourself, Inquisitor,’ Tkwir muttered as they backed away.

I might as well; there’ll be no other fun to be had amongst this lot.

*

They travelled northeast, skirting the immense mountains from which rose the springs that fed the Imuna. They raided the few villages they found for food, striking the thatched mud-brick huts like a hurricane; their gnosis meant they had no fear of pursuit or retribution. In two weeks they reached the highlands south of Ullakesh, the chief city of Gatioch. It was a rugged, arid landscape, where spaden trees clustered in sheltered places between the stark ridges – like hairy armpits, Toljin joked.

It took another two days for Malevorn to find the perfect tree, one whose trunk was long and straight enough to make a decent relay-stave.

Certain gnostic actions – ‘spells’, as the layman called them – were enhanced by using a specially created tool, and using Clairvoyance to contact a known person was one such. At the Arcanum, they’d described it as ‘astral harmonics’. Naturally, Malevorn had been the most skilled in his class, even better than his pure-blood friends, and far ahead of Alaron Mercer.

Thinking of that fool Mercer reminded him of something troubling: at one point in the fight at the vizier’s house in Teshwallabad, Mercer had used Illusion to disable and almost kill three Dokken – but Malevorn
knew
that Mercer had no affinity as an Illusionist. He shouldn’t have been capable of using the gnosis like that . . .

Was it really Mercer? Or has he been possessed by something?
But possession didn’t work that way, which left the uncomfortable thought that Mercer had somehow changed.
He’s had the Scytale for months – surely he couldn’t have used it?
But no, Mercer hadn’t been unusually
strong
during the fight, just
competent
 . . . and with unexpected powers.

What did it matter? Mercer was probably dead by now, and hopefully his Lakh peasant was too . . .
Ramita,
Huriya’s once-friend. She’d also been able to use her gnosis under the Mughal Dome. Huriya’s strength was equivalent to an Ascendant, which made Ramita just as strong. Pregnancy manifestation, where a human who bore magi children developed the gnosis, had never been recorded at more than pure-blood level. Another puzzle.

Perhaps Mercer and his bint did escape – and perhaps they are still hunting us
.

It didn’t worry him overly and he turned his attention back to his relay-stave. While he worked, the surviving Dokken found their own amusements – hunting and sleeping, mostly. Huriya and Hessaz shunned the males, leaving them moody and violent – and stinking; only he and the two women were inclined to wash in the icy streams running from high up the slopes. Neither approached him, and he had no desire to get close to a mudskin woman, even Huriya, who had a certain dusky beauty to her. The heart-bind spell they shared was said to have emotional effects, but none had yet manifested. Unfortunately, the spell was nigh on impossible to negate.

He buried himself in his task: paring the selected wood into strips, then rebinding them as if creating a recurved bow, only perfectly straight. He sanded it while attuning it with sylvan-gnosis. As a non-Clairvoyant, his call wouldn’t have great range, but his knowledge of Adamus would help.

It wasn’t until the New Moon rose in Octen, while Toljin and Huriya were away negotiating aid from the local shapechanger pack, that he was finally able to climb to a high point, gripping the stave, and begin his call.

You betrayed Dom and Dranid, you bastard.

And for selling Raine into death, I’ll gut you.

*

‘You must kill the Inquisitor,’ Hessaz told her, over and over, but Huriya refused to listen.

I can’t. Not with that damned binding spell that links us. My heart is his heart: if he dies, I die.

She couldn’t tell Hessaz that, though. ‘He’s useful,’ she replied, avoiding the Lokistani’s burning eyes.

The two women had spent much of the last few weeks together, but it wasn’t an easy companionship. Hessaz was a brooding mass of resentments, jilted by the man she desired and disappointed by the mates she’d settled upon instead. But Huriya was discovering there was another side of Hessaz. She’d been raised in unforgiving Lokistan and she was both inured to hardship and committed to family and clan, because you couldn’t survive alone. Those values shaped her loyalty to the Souldrinker pack. She was a soldier in the long war against the magi, and she was willing to give her life to the struggle. And she fussed over Ramita’s baby as if he were her own.

Hessaz lives for this pack
, Huriya reflected
,
but I can’t see why she gives a damn about these wretches
.

The contrast between the two women couldn’t have been stronger: Hessaz was lean and muscular without an ounce of spare flesh; her skin was dark and hard, her face like leather stretched over bone, framed by close-cropped black hair. Huriya was small and lush and curvaceous, her face soft and pouting, her every movement sensuous. Neither liked the other, nor pretended to, but they were dependent on each other now and both knew it.

‘Does the Seeress still speak inside you?’ Hessaz asked.

Huriya shuddered. The Seeress Sabele did indeed still linger inside her: they were at war for her body and soul, a war neither was winning. Sabele’s essence had saved her on occasion, giving her wisdom she didn’t have. But her presence frightened Huriya beyond anything else.

‘Yes, she’s in me still.’

Hessaz gripped her hand. ‘Huriya, make peace with her. Let her guide you. We need her, you and I.’

And lose myself for ever?
She snatched her hand away. ‘No, Hessaz, I will
not
become just another body for her to inhabit. I will not give in! I deserve a life of my own!’

‘The moment the Inquisitor solves that artefact, that . . .
Sk’thali
 . . . he will betray us, you know this.’

Yes, I do know it.

‘Embrace Sabele, please Huriya! She always worked for the Brethren – she devoted all her lives to our cause. Yet now when we need her most, she is lost inside your mind.’

Huriya rose abruptly. ‘No! And don’t ask again!’ she snapped, and stalked away.

3

The Return of the Queen

The Rimoni of Javon

After the opening of the Leviathan Bridge, many Rimoni, outcasts in their own lands since the fall of the Rimoni Empire and the rise of the Rondian magi, crossed into Antiopia and settled in Javon. Rival Houses were forced to cooperate if they were to survive: Kestria, Nesti, Gorgio, Aranio and others, whose feuds are enshrined in the annals of the Rimoni, buried their rivalries – but they still simmer, even today.

R
ENE
C
ARDIEN,
O
RDO
C
OSTRUO,
H
EBUSALIM 873

The Kiskale, near Lybis, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Rami (Septinon) 929

15
^th
month of the Moontide

Cera Nesti, Queen-Regent of Javon, wrapped anonymously in a bekira-shroud, waited nervously on the steps of the inner keep of the Kiskale Fortress, watching the plaza filling up with people and wishing the approaching scene was already done so she could take her little brother home. Not that that was likely, not imminently. Beside her, Elena Anborn whispered to her Keshi lover, Kazim Makani. Cera didn’t know Kazim, and her own relationship with Elena was . . .
troubled
. They had been as close as sisters until Gurvon Gyle had found a way to tear their bonds apart, and she was desperate to find a way to rebuild that trust. She had missed Elena, in so many ways.

Mekmud, the Emir of Lybis, had retreated here after a maniple of Endus Rykjard’s mercenaries had seized Lybis. The Kiskale – the White Keep – had been built high up in the mountains, above the winter snowline, and even the well-equipped and experienced Rondians were leery of attacking the fort. The approaches were commanded by bastions from which flaming oil and boulders could be dropped, and heavy ballistae guarded the approach. So for now an impasse reigned: Mekmud couldn’t get out, and Rykjard’s men, encamped below on the plains, couldn’t get in.

She laid a hand on Timori’s shoulder.
Only nine years old, and he’s been through so much . . .
He was eagerly watching the plaza fill with a great crowd of the emir’s people: Mekmud had promised a great revelation and the air buzzed with speculation.

If this goes badly, there will be a riot
.

A trumpet blared and the emir’s herald stepped forward. ‘The Emir of Lybis, Mekmud bin al’Azhir, wishes to announce the presence of great allies, who have joined him here to take the fight to the enemies of Ja’afar!’

This caused a stir among the crowd. As one everyone pressed forward: the wealthy men at the front, the poorer men in the middle and even some women at the back, all tried to get a better view.

The herald’s voice boomed as he announced, ‘Emir Mekmud welcomes to his realm a new ally and friend of Lybis . . . Lady Elena Anborn!’

The name sent a shiver of interest through the gathered Jhafi, nobles, soldiers and commoners alike, and drew muted cheers from the latter. The noblewomen peered intently through their veils while the men stared more openly, respectful, but wary. They all knew who Elena was: Alhana, the White Shadow, once bodyguard to the Queen-Regent Cera Nesti, more recently a ghost stalking the northern roads killing Rondians. Cera saw approval, but there was fear too, and more than a few evil-eye gestures.

She is magi. No matter how much she gives this kingdom, some will always suspect her.

‘The emir also welcomes Lord Kazim Makani of Baranasi,’ the herald shouted.

Cera studied the Keshi as he lowered his hood. He was a young man, but tall and well-muscled, and he looked every inch the warrior-lord, despite his rough clothing. In fact, he was no aristocrat at all, but a title was needed if the Jhafi nobles were to give him any credence. Elena went to Kazim’s right side, prompting a murmur of interest, as that was where a wife would stand.

And now, at last, came the moment she’d prayed and ached and suffered and almost died for.
How will they react?
she wondered.

‘And Emir Mekmud is
most honoured
to welcome Timori Nesti, Crown Prince of Javon,’ the herald shouted. His eyes bulging with pride, he cried, ‘
LYBIS WELCOMES OUR FUTURE KING!
’

Cries of shock went through the plaza and people spilled forward, all crying out the boy-king’s name. The crows in the towers rose, their beaks clacking at the sudden clamour below, as if they too honoured their sovereign. Cera thought she would burst with emotion as the slender boy walked to the top of steps as he’d been coached, dropped his hood and waved his hand. The soldiers began to hammer their spear-butts against the stonework, a rhythmic thumping that echoed off the peaks.

Welcome to public life, little brother. May it be merciful.

Of course, Timori had been presented to crowds before, but not in these circumstances. He had been a prisoner of the Rondians for more than a year, but he was free now. The Nesti needed all Javonesi, Rimoni and Jhafi both, to rise to his command if they were to be restored and the Rondians driven out.

The emir, his iron face grave, raised a hand for silence and signalled for the herald to go on.

‘And finally, Emir Mekmud welcomes Princessa Cera Nesti, Queen-Regent of Ja’afar.’

A hush fell as Cera lowered her veil. For a moment she was almost overwhelmed, feeling all those eyes piercing her like spear-points. But she too had been bred for public life: she
belonged
to these people. Though most had never seen her in person, they
knew
her: they had sung hymns to her and gossiped about her, judged every known deed, from defying the Rondians to capitulating and marrying one – and speculated on others that were only rumour. When they heard she’d been stoned as a safian, some would have believed, others not.

What would they do if they knew the truth?
she wondered for a moment, then drove that thought away; right now the heart of the matter was this: she, Cera Nesti, was supposed to be dead.

They mourned me for days on end. They thought me condemned and shamed, stoned and cremated.

There was a long moment of utter silence, the fullest silence Cera had ever felt. She held her breath and clutched Timori’s hand for courage.

It’s much easier to love a martyr than a living person.

Perhaps, left to human nature alone, it might have gone badly: the crowd might have believed her to be an imposter, put forward by the emir to rally the people for war. The serious-faced girl in the plain shift was surely too imperfect to be their princessa, because everyone knew princessas were special, creatures of beauty, not bookish and plain. But leaving things to chance had never been Elena’s style. Cera had spent the morning being made up, her hair washed and combed, and she was dressed as a supplicant, come to appeal for forgiveness. The dark circles beneath her eyes, like her other imperfections, had been concealed. Elena wanted her to look like she’d stepped down from on high.