Child of the Ghosts (12 page)

“Did he sneak in?” said Caina. “Is he here to spy on us?”

“Suspicious, too,” said the magus. “I am going to enjoy this, I think.”

“This is Rekan,” said Halfdan, “a brother of the Imperial Magisterium. Do you remember what I told you about motivations?”

Caina nodded, keeping her eyes on Rekan. “Find out what your enemy wants, and use it against him.”

“The Magisterium puts up a united front in public,” said Halfdan, “but like the rest of the Empire, it has factions. Politics. And some brothers and sisters of the Magisterium find that their interests align with ours.”

“So he spies for you,” said Caina. “Is that why he’s here?” 

Rekan chuckled. “I think of it as passing along information of mutual interest.” 

“Yes,” said Halfdan. “He’s also here to train you.”

“To do what?” said Caina.

“To defend against sorcery,” said Halfdan.

Again Rekan chuckled. “Insofar as someone without the talent can defend against the arcane sciences, after all. Properly wielded, arcane science can defeat even the most prepared adversary.”

“But sorcery has limits,” said Halfdan, “and sorcerers, even more so. Fighting a sorcerer is no different than fighting a man with a sword or a bow. A sword or a bow has limitations, and so does sorcery. And if you know where those limitations are, and if you know the limitations of your enemy, you can defeat a magus.” 

“In theory, of course,” said Rekan, glancing at Halfdan. “Shall we begin?”

“Are you ready?” said Halfdan, looking at Caina.

Caina nodded. 

“You are being trained as a Ghost,” said Rekan. “And that means you have secrets, secrets that the Magisterium would like to know. And a skilled magus can break into another’s mind, ferret out its secrets. Or turn that mind into a puppet - control it so thoroughly that the victim doesn’t even realize that anything is amiss.” His smile widened, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “Do you notice, my dear, how friend Halfdan hasn’t told me your name?” 

“Just as well,” said Caina. “I wouldn’t have told you, either.”

“There’s no need to ask your name,” said Rekan, “when I can merely reach into your mind and find it for myself.”

He lifted his hand, whispering under his breath. And Caina felt the electric surge of sorcery, her skin crawling, her stomach clenching.

And then Rekan’s will battered upon her mind.

Caina gasped and fell back a step. Rekan’s will felt like groping fingers, digging and rummaging through her thoughts. She saw the magus smile with pleasure, saw Halfdan frown. 

“Tell me your name, child,” said Rekan, “I command it.” 

Rekan’s will squeezed against her, compelling her to obey. 

And the old familiar fury welled up in Caina. Her mother had done this to her, again and again. Caina had hated it then, had hated her mother…and she hated it now.

“No,” she growled, hands shaking with the effort.

Rekan’s eyes narrowed, and his outstretched hand curled into a fist. 

“You will tell me your name!” he said.

“No!” said Caina. Maglarion had been able to overpower her, to dominate her will. But Maglarion had been powerful beyond the reckoning of most magi. Rekan was stronger than her mother had been…but not by very much. 

She filled her mind with rage, her hatred of sorcery, and Rekan’s will scrabbled against it. 

“Tell me your name!” said Rekan, his will flexing against Caina’s thoughts.

“No!” said Caina.

Rekan’s mind strained against hers, and Caina’s will started to buckle. She pulled up memories - the things her mother had done to her, the things Maglarion had done to her, and let them inspire fresh rage. 

She saw Rekan’s eyes widen a bit, saw sweat bead on his forehead. Then she pushed against his will, meeting the scrabbling hand of his sorcery with a wall of her fury, and shoved.

Rekan stumbled back a step, staring at her.

Halfdan smiled, briefly.

“She pushed me out!” said Rekan.

“So it would seem,” said Halfdan. 

“Is she a magus?” demanded Rekan, glaring at Halfdan. “Does she have any talent of her own? A fourteen year old girl should not be able to resist my spells!” 

“Her mother had some training at the Magisterium’s motherhouse in Artifel, I understand,” said Halfdan. “Evidently she used to break into the girl’s mind on a regular basis.”

“You could have told me that she had been trained!” said Rekan. “Entering a mind is a dangerous business! I could have damaged myself.” 

“Or you could have damaged her,” said Halfdan. “But, no harm done, true? One girl without arcane talent could not possibly harm a skilled wielder of arcane sciences.”

The look Rekan shot him was just short of murderous. 

“She still hasn’t told you her name,” said Halfdan. “Try again?”

###

“You could have told me what was going to happen,” said Caina, as she left the library with Halfdan.

She wasn’t quite angry. Or she couldn’t decide if she wanted to be angry or not. She loathed the magi, hated everything about them, and confronting Rekan had brought a score of dark memories.

On the other hand, the magus had failed to break into her mind. Utterly.

“I could have,” said Halfdan, “but that would have defeated the purpose. You’ll be spying on the magi, one day, and you’ll need to know how to resist their mental attacks.”

“And you don’t trust him,” said Caina.

“Not in the least,” said Halfdan. “How did you know?”

“You didn’t leave me alone with him,” said Caina. “You’ve left me alone with Akragas, Sandros, Riogan, all the others. But not Rekan.”

Halfdan nodded. “By Imperial law, a magus can only enter the mind of another with proper writ from a magistrate. In practice, the magi tend to disregard that law. And some magi have the habit of taking mind-enslaved lovers.”

“Oh.” That was a revolting thought. 

“And Rekan is still a magus,” said Halfdan. “I don’t trust him at all. He works with the Ghosts because it happens to align with his interests.”

“Which are?” said Caina.

“Wealth,” said Halfdan. “We bribe him.”

“Ah.”

“But he would turn on us in a minute, if he thought he could enhance his standing by doing so,” said Halfdan. 

“So that was why you brought me here to practice,” said Caina. “You wanted to…take Rekan down a notch. You knew I could fight him off. You wanted him to fail against a fourteen-year-old girl.” 

“Very good,” said Halfdan. “And you need to learn more about sorcery, anyway. You know the mission of the Ghosts. We defend the people of the Empire against brutal lords, against slavers…and against the magi, or against outlaw sorcerers. So you need to know everything you can about sorcery…and who better to teach you than a magus?”

“So I can know my enemies,” said Caina, “and know what weaknesses to use against them.”

“Exactly,” said Halfdan.

###

So Rekan became one of Caina’s regular teachers. 

She did learn a great deal from him. In a fight, he said, magi preferred to use blasts of psychokinetic force, charging their thoughts with the force of fists and clubs, or to stun the minds of their enemies. They also had the power to ward themselves against steel weapons. And some magi, the more powerful ones, could command the earth itself to swallow their enemies, or the wind to turn to ice, or water to erupt from the ground. 

But the magi were dependent on their sorcery, Caina realized. They trusted too much in their power, and neglected their bodies. If she could close to hand-to-hand with a magus, she could kill him. Or if she could kill a magus before he could even work a spell, that was better. 

She continued to train, and another year passed.

Chapter 12 - Harvesting Death

Maglarion stood on the balcony and watched the crowds. 

The docks of Malarae, the Imperial capital, never grew quiet, not even for a moment. Wagons laden with goods rolled up and down the streets below the inn’s balcony, while a forest of masts crowded the harbor and the Megaros River. Ships came from the Empire’s farthest corners, and from a score of nations beyond, from New Kyre and Catekharon, from Istarinmul and Anshan, from Alqaarin and Nhabatan. Dozens of languages filled the streets with a constant babble, and the stream of wagons never stopped, climbing the streets to the grand mansions and high towers of the city’s nobles and magi, some even reaching the lofty towers of the Imperial Citadel itself, perched upon its mountain spur. 

So many people.

Maglarion watched from the inn’s balcony, his lip curling with contempt.

Vermin, every last of one of them. Stupid animals, rutting and eating in their own filth. They spawned like rabbits, or perhaps like rats, filling the world with their useless, worthless offspring. They cared about nothing but filling their bellies, or filling the bellies of their brats. Their concerns were petty, material. 

Meaningless.

Maglarion had transcended them. He had mastered death itself, had already lived four times longer than even the strongest of them would manage, and he would live longer yet. He was above them, like a man looking down at rats.

Like a god looking down at rats. 

He smiled at the thought. A god could do as he pleased with his creation.

And one day Maglarion would put the people of Malarae to very good use indeed. Not yet, not quite. He had a great deal of work to do first. But…soon, very soon. 

And then their lives would have more meaning than they had ever dreamed. 

His left eye, the eye that was not flesh, saw their potential. 

Maglarion turned and descended from the balcony, into the inn.

Malarae’s dockside inns were well-known for their danger, but the Grey Fish Inn had a particularly evil reputation. According to rumor, if a man drank too much in the Grey Fish, he might wake up naked in the gutter, his possessions gone - or he might wake up manacled to the oar of a Kyracian galley, or chained in the hold of an Istarish slaver. 

Or worse things might happen to him.

Maglarion smiled.

Worse things had happened.

The common room was empty, save for the innkeeper, a sullen, doughy man named Drugen. Or he had been sullen, at least, until Maglarion shattered his will and took control of his mind. Drugen still acted the same, spoke the same - and it would take a sharp-eyed observer to notice the glassy cast in the fat innkeeper’s eyes.

Drugen was not his own man any longer.

“Master,” said Drugen. 

“Take me to the cellar,” said Maglarion. “I wish to resume my work.”

“Of course, Master,” said Drugen, hurrying to a door behind the bar. He slid back the massive iron bolt, undid the lock, and opened the door. Stone stairs descended into the darkness, and Maglarion hobbled down them, his cane scratching against the steps. The door boomed shut behind him, the lock slamming home. Maglarion approved. No mere lock could contain him, of course, but he did not want any of his…experiments to escape. 

The Grey Fish Inn had quite an extensive cellar. Drugen had once dabbled in slave trading, snatching victims from the streets and selling them to the Istarish slavers for a considerable profit. Later, fear of the Emperor’s Ghosts had forced him to stop, but the cellars had remained - deep, dark, and soundproof.

Maglarion had a better use for them.

He walked to the table in the center of the cellar, his left eye unhindered by the darkness. A row of newly made bloodcrystals stood in a row atop it, alongside the curled Maatish scroll. A stack of papers held his notes, the records of his experiments.

“Is anyone there?” came a cracked, shaking voice.

A man hung in iron shackles from the wall. Ikhana’s men had kidnapped him from one of the dockside tenements. 

“Have no fear,” said Maglarion. “It’s only me.”

He lifted the patch from his left eye, ghostly green light spilling over the cellar. 

The shackled man shied away from the light. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Let…let me go. I have a wife, a daughter.”

“I know,” said Maglarion, examining the row of bloodcrystals. “Your daughter was…four years old? Five? I killed her first, in front of your wife. She screamed and begged me to spare the child, even offered to go to my bed, if I would but spare the girl. After I killed the child, I killed your wife, slowly, draining away her blood drop by drop until she grew cold and limp.”

Maglarion was watching, so he saw the exact moment when the prisoner’s mind snapped. The man bellowed and raved, flinging himself against his shackles until the blood ran down his wrists and ankles. Maglarion suspected that a charged emotional state lent all the more power to the stolen life energies. Savor to the stew, as it were. 

Besides, to watch these petty mortals break, to see them shatter, was something of a thrill. 

He took a moment to refresh his memory with one of the scroll’s spells, and then picked up a dagger and a bloodcrystal, the one made from the blood of the man’s wife. The prisoner thrashed and cursed as Maglarion approached, his eyes filled with grief and madness.

Maglarion gestured, summoning power. The man went rigid as the spell held him in place, his rage no match for Maglarion’s arcane power.

Then Maglarion lifted the dagger and began to cut. 

He severed the tendons in the man’s wrist, making sure to leave the veins intact. He worked the dagger over the prisoner’s arms and chest, cutting deep furrows, poking the blade into the nerves below the skin. The man could not scream, not with Maglarion’s spell holding him, but sweat poured down his face, and his eyes bulged in agony.

Which reminded Maglarion to put them out. 

Some time later, Maglarion stepped back, wiping blood from his forehead. The prisoner was still alive, but reduced to a crippled husk of a man. If he survived his injuries, he would be helpless for the rest of his life, his body ruined by Maglarion’s blade. 

A perfect test.

Maglarion pressed the bloodcrystal into the prisoner’s ragged wounds and whispered another spell.

Green light flared in the crystal’s black depths. The bloodcrystal shivered in Maglarion’s grasp and shrank, the green glow spilling over the man’s torn flesh.

And then the prisoner’s wounds began to heal.

The hideous cuts vanished, the skin knitting itself shut, the wounds closing as if they had never been. Maglarion released his spell, and the man’s arms and legs shook as the tendons repaired themselves. White fluid filled his eye sockets, and a moment later his eyes returned, wide and terrified. The regeneration continued as the life energy from the bloodcrystal poured into the man’s flesh, restoring him.

And then the bloodcrystal vanished into nothingness, and the prisoner was healed.

In fact, he had gotten younger. 

Maglarion gripped the prisoner’s chin, turning his face back and forth. The man had been in his early forties. Now he looked no more than twenty, his body lean and muscled, his face bright with the energy of youth.

Interesting. He hadn’t anticipated that, not at all. 

“What,” whispered the prisoner, “what did you do to me?”

“It healed you,” said Maglarion. “The stolen life force of your wife, stored in the bloodcrystal. It even rejuvenated you.” He smiled. “So in a way, I killed your wife…and forced you to eat her. Ironic, really, if you think about it.”

The prisoner started to scream and rave again, thrashing at his chains. It was rather annoying. 

Fortunately, Maglarion had no further use for him, and cut the prisoner’s throat. The man thrashed for a few moments, drowning in his own blood, and then died.

Maglarion felt it. His left eye, the eye that was not flesh, saw the power released by the man’s death, the dark energy crackling free. It also saw the power…captured, sucked down towards a small wooden table in the corner of the cellar. 

He smiled, retrieved his cane, and crossed the room.

His own bloodcrystal, the one he had made from the blood of Laeria Amalas’s virgin daughter, sat on the corner table. It was perhaps half again the size of a large man’s fist, grown potent with the lives of his victims over the last two years. Even as he watched, the thing seemed to swell a little larger as it drank the life of the man hanging in chains from the wall. 

And it would continue to grow, until at last he was ready. 

Time for another test. 

Maglarion slashed his left palm with the dagger, his own blood welling forth. It hurt, but physical pain had long ago ceased to mean anything to him. He put his right hand on the jagged bloodcrystal and whispered a spell. Arcane power surged through him, and he tapped a portion of the bloodcrystal’s strength, the tiniest part of its stored energy.

The wound on his hand sealed, the skin smooth and unmarked. 

His smiled widened.

He was close now, very close. A few more years of work, and then he would at last ascend to true immortality. He would leave the flesh behind forever, stand above the world of common mortals like a god towering over insects. 

But first, he had more work to do. 

Best to get on with it.

Maglarion left the cellar, leaving the dead man hanging in his chains.

###

He washed the blood away and put on better clothes, covering his left eye with the patch once more. 

No sense in terrifying the poor fool before it was necessary. 

Ikhana waited for him in the common room, cold as ever. Besides her stood a stout figure wrapped in a heavy cloak. No doubt the cloak was meant for anonymity, but the richness of the material rather gave it away. 

A lord of the Empire. 

Maglarion hid his smile and approached, making sure to lean on his came.

“He came, Master,” said Ikhana.

“So I see,” said Maglarion. “May I welcome you, my lord?”

The stout figure drew back his hood. The nobility of the Empire divided into petty factions, and Maglarion never bothered to keep them straight. But one of those factions, the Restorationists, desired to restore slavery and see the magi returned to power. They often worked with the magi…and with outlaw sorcerers like Maglarion.

And the stout man, Lord Haeron Icaraeus, was one of the most powerful Restorationists lords in the Empire.

Where he led, others would follow.

“So,” said Haeron Icaraeus. He had a thick, corpulent face, and a receding hairline, but eyes that glittered with deep cunning. “You are the famous Maglarion. I have heard so much about you. I believe the Ghosts offer fifty thousand denarii for your head, and the Magisterium thirty-five thousand.”

Maglarion bowed. “The Ghosts are fools, my lord, as you well know. And the Magisterium…let us say that many brothers and sisters of the Magisterium recognize that the ban on necromancy is foolish.”

“Perhaps,” said Lord Haeron. “But I shall be blunt. How can you be of use to me?”

Maglarion smiled. “How would you like to live forever?”

Lord Haeron remained impassive, but Maglarion saw the lustful glitter in his eye.

Yes, he would put this fool to very good use, indeed.