Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (60 page)

Gurvon bent over him.

he asked.

Betillon gasped for air, cradling his left arm and fighting the pain, gathering his gnostic energy to do something. Before he became a threat, Gurvon lifted his foot, then slammed it down on the broken arm. Betillon screamed and his spell-energies dissipated.

‘Have you anything to say, Butcher?’

‘I’ve done nothing I wasn’t ordered to do,’ Betillon gasped.

‘Exactly, Tomas: too little initiative, and too much ambition. That’s never going to be enough to satisfy the throne.’

Gurvon pulled out his dagger and gouged it under Betillon’s chin.

The Butcher of Knebb’s wide-eyed stare said he didn’t understand, so Gurvon took it upon himself to clarify.
likes
you. You’re just a bully whose only skill is making others afraid. But making people feel threatened takes you only so far before they begin to align against you.>
He waggled a finger in Betillon’s face.

He grinned triumphantly.
>

He drove the dagger into Betillon’s skull and the most hated man in Noros and Hebusalim fell sideways with a soft deflation, his eyes rolled backward and the tent filled with the sudden stench of voided bowels.

You always were full of shit, Betillon.
Gurvon wiped his blade on the governor’s velvet doublet, then looked around, nodding thanks to his people, then proffered a hand to Grandmaster Wilfort. ‘Thank you, Lann. A pleasure to meet you.’

The scar-faced knight clasped hands slowly, measuring him. They’d not known they were to align with each other until an hour before, when Lucia and Wurther had contacted them both, personally. ‘You appear to be in high favour, Gurvon,’ Wilfort commented. ‘I have no idea how, or why.’

‘Don’t fret, Grandmaster, it’s not so mysterious. After Forensa, it was clear that we had to pull together. The problem is, my people were not about to rally behind Betillon at any price, whereas you and the Dorobon are happy to do as Lucia wishes. So there was only one real candidate.’

He’d also had to waive the last part of his fee, but that was going to be paid in Treasury promissory notes anyway, and he doubted they’d be worth the paper they were written on.

‘You’re aware that my first loyalty is to the Holy Church?’ Wilfort asked coolly.

‘Of course.’ Gurvon smiled. ‘I go to church on Holy Days myself, when I can. I understand you’re to be inducted as Prelate of Javon? I look forward to a long association between us.’

They shared a brief moment reflecting on their newfound destiny while studying Tomas Betillon’s corpse.

Ah well, another ‘immortal’ gone . . .
Gurvon turned to the rest of the gathering. ‘Shall we thrash out the details, yes? Oh, and can someone get rid of this damned carcase littering the place?’

A low chuckle lifted the tension a little, and minutes later they were all focused on the tasks at hand, like the well-seasoned conspirators they were.

There were sticking points, of course, because Wilfort and his Kirkegarde could barely conceal their disgust of Staria’s people. Gurvon compromised by agreeing that Staria’s legions would be stationed at the Rift for another two years, which angered Staria, but she wasn’t in any position to refuse. And he had to request an amnesty for Drexel, who’d once assassinated an Inquistor. Then the rest of the Argundian battle-magi were brought in. They’d already been shown Betillon’s corpse and there was no dissent amongst them; the rest of the meeting was purposeful and united.

‘The next time we take on the Javonesi, it’ll be different,’ he declared. ‘We’ll have one command tent, not two. It’ll be on ground of our choosing, and we’ll be the ones throwing the surprise punches. Forensa was a minor setback. We’re going to win, I promise you.’

‘You
promise
, Gurvon?’ Staria Canestos raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s uncharacteristically bold of you.’

‘But I do promise,’ he told the room, ‘because we’re going to abandon the Rift. I’m going to bring the whole Harkun nation up here. We’ll let the nomads loose on their own kind.’

He saw Staria stifle a shocked gasp, and watched her carefully as she shared a look with Leopollo.

‘Much good they did us in Forensa,’ Wilfort commented.

‘On the contrary, they gave us the men we needed to run a battle of attrition. We almost won, because of the Harkun. We lost because of the Ordo Costruo.’

Staria spoke up. ‘Gurvon, these Harkun are
savages
– they’ll be a bigger problem than the Jhafi.’

‘Then we’ll deal with them in their turn.’ He met her eyes, forestalled her retort.

—
>

she sent back, with stiff sarcasm.

He stared at her coolly, then turned back to the room. ‘All right, let’s get down to business. We’ve got an army to pull together, and a war to win.’

Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Safar (Febreux) to Awwal (Martrois) 930

20
^th
and 21
^st
months of the Moontide

Kazim wants us to have a child.
Elena hadn’t known what to reply. His desire enfolded her – the need to have something other than death in his life. And when he said the words out loud, a part of her that had never before spoken suddenly sang, a ringing tone of pure love that brought tears to her eyes. It felt right, when it never had with any other man.

But then the doubts began. She wasn’t even sure that she could bear children any more: some months she barely bled, and a mage-woman struggled to conceive at all times, but especially out of her twenties. And he was a Dokken; she had no idea what kind of child a mage and Dokken would create – or what it would do to her. Would she suddenly become like him? Would their unique Mage-and-Dokken bond disintegrate? And could he even father children himself? Perhaps he was almost sterile, the way high-blooded magi were? They’d been consciously avoiding conception thus far, so none of this had been put to the test.

What if I did conceive, tonight?
The Moontide still had more than four months to run, during which time she’d be suffering morning sickness, and then she’d begin to bulge . . . She tried to picture the remainder of the Crusade spent in the background, unable to fully contribute. Perhaps it would be more prudent to wait until the Moontide was over?

Except the Moontide might not be the end of this fight. The Rondians were in Javon to stay this time; the war didn’t have an end date.
And what if I lose him?
That was the thought that froze her mind. She couldn’t imagine separation, or how she’d endure it.
It’d be like an amputation
.

She sighed and sipped her wine, waiting for the sounds that would tell her that he was back from the baths below the palace, freshly washed and ready to hear her answer. The sun was creeping towards the horizon, a big pink-orange disc shimmering in the haze of the cooking smoke. The Godsingers began to wail, calling the people to the sunset prayers, and the Ringers in the Sollan Churches joined in, tolling their bells. The warm fug of an eastern city enveloped her, made her feel sleepy and peaceful, despite all her worries. When she heard Kazim enter the chamber behind her, she felt languid and willing.

Willing to make love, of course . . . but to try and conceive?

She adored that he was willing for it to be her choice – throughout Yuros and Antiopia alike, the unspoken rule was that it was the man who decided if and when a woman should conceive, and Kazim had been raised with the same expectation. Instead, he was deferring to her.

She finished her wine and drifted through the gauzy curtains, drinking in the sight of him, waiting on the bed like a Lantric god descended from the Holy Mountain to seduce a mortal.

She shed her clothes while he watched, feeling as desirable as a nymph, then crawled across the sheets and kissed him, drank his mouth, stroked his chest and belly, let him know he was wanted, let him suckle her and stroke her, tease out her juices. Then she reached out and grasped him, and guided him to her.

‘You do wish this, love?’ he whispered, his eyes bright.

‘Yes,’ she said, firmly, ‘I do want your child, Kazim.’

When he pushed into her, she felt an almost suffocating kind of joy, her breath shortening and her heart so filled with liquid warmth she thought she would dissolve into him. Then her body responded to his movements, and the spirituality of her feelings blended and blurred with the animal lust now surging through her, until wanting became needing.

*

Later, she lay on her side, still glowing inside, while he slumbered beside her. She should have been sleeping too, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Part of that was because of the gnosis; there was a prickling feeling nagging at her awareness, the sensation of being stalked. Someone was trying to find her using spiritual-gnosis. They were skilled, narrowing down on where she lay despite her wards. She could shield herself and prevent any contact, but she wasn’t sure if she should, even though the touch was unfamiliar.

She edged from the bed, wincing at the deep ache in her loins from being ridden so hard – her consent had enflamed him, driving him to fill her, over and over. No wonder he slept so deeply now. She smiled to herself, feeling fecund as a drui priestess who’d been ploughed at the Sollan rite to renew the sun. She stood, wrapped their discarded blanket around her and went to the balcony doors. They were shut and warded. Cautiously, she extended her awareness.

Something surged at the edge of her senses and began to form outside her wards, on the balcony. A ball of silver became a man-shaped being, a sleek cat-headed man with shifting grey fur, holding up his right hand in both greeting and placation. It was a spiratus, a projected soul – it could be any shape the mage willed. It was a skill she had, but not one she’d used a lot of late; leaving one’s body in war-time wasn’t something one did lightly.

She kindled a spiratus-sword in her hand, unseen to the naked eye but deadly effective against such a spirit, then spoke.

the cat-man purred in Rondian, with a heavy Estellan accent. His voice suggested that he was habitually very pleased with himself.

Staria’s spymaster . . .
A quiver of excitement run through her.

Elena restrained the urge to punch the air.
love
to see her again.>

*

A week later they met in person, at a small Dom-al’Ahm above the Rift abandoned to the elements decades ago. Vultures now roosted in the broken dome, and the interior stank of bird-shit, but from the takiya – the raised open-air prayer hall for the worshippers – the views over the desert below the Rift were spectacular. Amteh worshippers prayed facing Hebusalim, and the platform of this Dom-al’Ahm extended northeast, towards the cliffs.

Elena and Capolio agreed to four in each party. Elena brought Kazim – together, they could deal with any treachery – and Cera Nesti and Piero Inveglio to do the talking. She knew Staria’s party would all be magi, which was worrying Kazim.

‘I doubt there’ll be any tricks; Staria has always been a straight arrow in the past,’ she told Kazim. ‘Well, unless crossed.’

‘And have you?’ Kazim asked as they waited. ‘Betrayed her, that is?’

‘Not really.’ Elena cast her mind back. ‘A woman of her legion tried to seduce me once, and I broke her jaw – but I don’t think that counts.’

Kazim wrinkled his nose, clearly uncomfortable at the thought.

But he’ll follow my lead; I can trust him on that.

‘This could change everything,’ she reminded them all. ‘In my experience, her people are like anyone else, with the same human wants and needs. And we
need
them.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ Cera said, but Piero Inveglio was less comfortable. He was a very traditional Sollan, and profoundly concerned about the idea of two legions of openly frocio men and safian women. On the other hand, he didn’t want to lose the war.

‘Here they come,’ Kazim called, pointing to a skiff approaching from over the desert. It came in below the line of the Rift and landed south of the ruined dome.

Four figures disembarked, and Elena called, ‘Shoes off, please. This is still a holy place.’ All her party were already barefoot, at her insistence. ‘And no weapons or periapts either.’

The newcomers made show of disarming, taking off their gemstone necklaces and their boots before climbing onto the takiya. Elena hadn’t seen Staria for a long time, but the crook-nosed woman hadn’t changed much; she might look stringy, but she had strong shoulders, and her long black hair was thick and glossy. She was a three-quarter-blood mage, no one to take lightly. Her skin was tanned, but her feet were almost white.