Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (12 page)

“Will the world live or will the world die?” said Samnirdamnus, circling around the frozen figures of the past, Morgant’s long black coat billowing around him. “Behold, you have already made that choice.”

“I don’t understand,” said Kylon. “What does this have to do with the world?”

The djinni gestured at Caina. “Why didn’t you kill her on this night?”

“Because,” said Kylon, the grim memory of Andromache’s death burning through his mind. “Because Caina was right. She warned Andromache against opening the Tomb of Scorikhon, she warned us both. We should have listened to her. I should have listened to her.”

“So you let her go,” said Samnirdamnus, looking at the frozen image of Caina.

“Yes,” said Kylon. He had been a stormdancer of New Kyre and she had been a Ghost of the Empire, their nations at war, yet he had let her go. At the time, he had never thought to see her again. Yet that one decision had shaped his life in ways he had not understood at the time. 

“Do you see, my stalwart stormdancer?” said Samnirdamnus. “Had you slain Caina here, she would not have been able to help you at Catekharon. Likely you would have perished. She would not have been able to help you save your wife…and she would not have been there to stop the Destroyer of Maat on the day of the golden dead. Do you not understand? You spared her life, and you chose for the world to live. On that day, anyway.” 

“I saved her life because I was tired of death, because she warned Andromache of what would happen and she was right,” said Kylon. “What did that have to do with choosing to let the world live? I couldn’t see the consequences of sparing Caina’s life, even if they were all good ones.” 

“Ah,” said Samnirdamnus. “You are indifferent to the abstract, and prefer instead the concrete? You are the kind of warrior to whom your comrades matter more than the ideal of the nation or the sovereign. Admirable, in its way. It affords a sort of clarity. It can lead to madness, true…but less quickly than devotion to an ideal. Callatas is devoted to an ideal.”

“Caina told me that Callatas bound you,” said Kylon. “That you could not hinder him, and you had to report any intrusions into his Maze.”

“Why, I am not hindering Callatas, am I?” said Samnirdamnus, Morgant’s face smirking. “I am merely repeating simple and obvious truths, at least for those with eyes to see. Callatas is devoted to an ideal, to a god he has forged from his own thoughts. A new and better humanity, a humanity that will replace the corrupt and fallen humanity that now populates your world. Or so he thinks.”

“How?” said Kylon. “His Apotheosis will summon a tremendous number of nagataaru. How will that lead to a new and better humanity?” 

“That, I fear, you must discover upon your own,” said Samnirdamnus, “though all the pieces are there before your eyes. You must simply assemble them. But let us instead speak of you, my stalwart stormdancer, the man who cares more for the concrete than the ideal.”

“I cared for ideals,” said Kylon. “For New Kyre, for the defense and protection of the Kyracian people. I still do.”

“You did,” said Samnirdamnus, “but that, I suspect, was only the shell around something stronger. You loved your sister. You loved your wife. For you, Kylon of House Kardamnos, they were New Kyre. They were what you fought to defend. Why have you not returned to New Kyre?” 

“Because I was banished,” said Kylon, another wave of anger going through him. “I do not know how matters are conducted among the kingdoms of spirits, but I failed to defend my guests and my wife, and so I was banished from New Kyre under pain of death.” 

“You could still fight to defend your city,” said Samnirdamnus. “New Kyre has many enemies. Do not Kyracian exiles traditionally become privateers? Yet instead you are here, following the Balarigar.” 

“If Callatas works his Apotheosis,” said Kylon, “then New Kyre will die alongside Istarinmul.” He was circling the djinni now, as if in preparation for a fight, and Samnirdamnus circled him right back. The frozen images of Kylon’s past self and Caina remained motionless nearby. 

“You speak the truth,” said Samnirdamnus, “but it was not the Apotheosis that brought you to New Kyre. It was vengeance. You came here to slay Malik Rolukhan and Cassander Nilas in vengeance for your wife and child. You would have preferred to die in the process. Now here you are, still alive. What changed?”

“I learned of the Apotheosis,” said Kylon. “Malik Rolukhan and the Red Huntress slew my wife with Cassander’s help, but they were merely the outer edge of the cancer that has grown in Istarinmul. Many, many more people will die the way that Thalastre died if Callatas succeeds.” 

“Again you speak the truth,” said Samnirdamnus, “but that is not why you stay.”

“Why don’t you show me, then?” said Kylon.

“As you wish,” said Samnirdamnus. “You prefer the concrete. Let us see it.”

He gestured, and the Citadel dissolved around them and reformed into a bleak, lifeless plain. Jagged crystal pillars rose from the ground, standing eight or nine feet tall and shining with a pale azure light. A low wind moaned past him, sending eddies of dust dancing between the pillars. Kylon recognized the place at once. It was the Desert of Candles, the wasteland where Iramis had once stood before Callatas had burned it. The strange pillars gave the desert its name. No one knew what they really were. Caina had thought they contained the memories of those who had died in Iramis when Callatas burned the city, but Kylon thought that unlikely. Why would Callatas create such a thing?

“Behold,” said Samnirdamnus, Morgant’s black coat stirring around him, “the concrete.” 

Caina stood a short distance away. She looked just as she had on the day they had met again in the Sages’ Tower of Study, wearing a blue gown with black trim, the neckline cut just low enough to entice. Silver glittered on her ears and around her neck, and her black hair had been arranged in an elaborate crown. Her eyes were like blue pools in her pale face, calm and steady and clear. He had thought her beautiful then, but knew it was a perilous beauty. She was a dangerous woman, and death often came to those around her.

He had been right, hadn’t he? Here he was in Istarinmul, following Caina’s vision to stop the Apotheosis. For Caina drew others around her, made them into her allies, and then led them against her enemies. He might have thought her manipulative, but he had sensed her emotions far too often for that. He knew the pain and rage that pushed her on, that drove her to defy powerful enemies. 

Kylon understood such pain better after Thalastre and the Red Huntress. 

Caina stepped towards him, her blue skirts rustling against the dusty ground. She smiled at him, and brought her hand to his right cheek. Kylon felt something within him tighten, and Caina leaned up on her tiptoes, her mouth reaching for his. He had thought about doing this a dozen times in the last few weeks. Every time his better judgment had stopped him. They faced deadly enemies. She had lost Corvalis. He had lost Thalastre. More accurately, he had failed to protect Thalastre. He might fail to protect Caina too…

Kylon caught Caina’s wrist in his hand and very gently pushed her away.

“Stop,” he said, looking at Samnirdamnus. 

The Knight of Wind and Air looked amused. “I thought you preferred concrete reasons for your actions, stormdancer.”

“This isn’t real,” said Kylon. “That’s not Caina.” He stepped back, and the image of Caina watched him, still smiling. “This is a dream, and that’s an image you’ve pulled from my memories. Stop playing games with my head. You said I had a choice to make. Tell me what the damned thing is already.”

“The same choice you have made before,” said Samnirdamnus. “Like Morgant, you will get to choose whether the world lives or dies.” 

“How helpful,” said Kylon. “Morgant saved the world by finding a damaged Maatish relic, is that it? What am I going to do? Save the world by finding a broken wagon wheel in a ditch?”

“Not at all,” said Samnirdamnus. “A choice, my stalwart stormdancer. Soon you shall face a choice. You will hold the life of Caina Amalas in your hands. Save her life, and the world dies. Let her die, let her sacrifice herself, and the world will live.”

Kylon stared at the djinni for a few heartbeats.

He did not remember making the decision to move, but suddenly he was standing over Samnirdamnus, the djinni sprawled at his feet, his fist throbbing with the pain of a recent impact. 

“You hit me,” said Samnirdamnus, astonished. 

Kylon blinked, trying to throttle back the rage that burned through him. 

“You hit me,” said Samnirdamnus, scrambling back to his feet. “Morgant never hit me.”

“If this is dream,” growled Kylon, “then I didn’t really hit you.”

“An excellent point of logic,” said Samnirdamnus. 

“Are you trying to get me to kill her?” said Kylon. “I won’t.”

“Of course not,” said Samnirdamnus. “There is a choice before you. I merely hope to prepare you for it.”

“No,” said Kylon. “I thought Caina said you intended to help her.”

Samnirdamnus smiled. “She might be the one I have been looking for all these years.”

“I’m not going to let her die,” spat Kylon. “Not even if it means letting the world die.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he realized that they were true. 

“The choice of the Balarigar’s life and death are in your hands, my stalwart stormdancer,” said Samnirdamnus. “Think well upon my warning.”

Kylon awoke in his room in the Inn of the Crescent Moon, reaching for his weapons. 

But his room was deserted, and only a faint ray of moonlight leaked through the shutters. From below he heard two teamsters arguing over the right-of-way, their horses snorting with impatience, but he did not sense any threat. 

A dream. It had only been a dream.

A dream with a message.

Kylon lay back down.

Sleep did not come again that night. 

Chapter 7: Traps

Caina tossed aside the last of her clothing and sank into the hot water of the stone tub. 

It felt glorious. 

Hot baths were common in the Empire, but they were a rare luxury in the more arid climate of Istarinmul. The heat spread into her tired, aching limbs, and she rested her head against the back of the tub, closing her eyes. It had been such a long time since she had been able to rest. She could just close her eyes and relax, and maybe…

The door banged open.

Caina surged to her feet, hot water cascading down her body, her wet hair slapping against her shoulders and back. She snatched up the dagger she had left next to the tub, fearing that the Teskilati or the Kindred had found her. Just once, just once, she had let her guard down, and her enemies had found her…

Kylon walked through the door. 

“Kylon?” said Caina. “What…”

She remembered that she was naked, started to cover herself, remembered that she was holding a dagger, and for a moment froze in a combination of embarrassment and confusion.

In that moment of hesitation, Kylon stepped forward, seized her arms, pulled her close, and kissed her long and hard upon the lips. 

Caina went rigid with surprise, and then melted against him with a little moan, throwing aside the dagger and pulling him closer. Her feet slipped for purchase in the tub and she fell against him, and his arms coiled around her, lifting her from the water with ease. She kissed him again, harder this time, her hands pulling at his shirt to get it out of the way. He helped her remove his clothes, and she pressed herself against him. 

“Now,” she whispered, “now, Kylon, Kylon, don’t make me wait, now…”

He obliged, lowering her to the floor. Caina reached up and pulled him down after her, heart hammering against her ribs as she opened her arms and legs to…

A blade of shadow and purple fire exploded from Kylon’s chest in a burst of gore. His eyes went wide with shock, and Caina screamed. The blade stabbed into her, through her, and into the floor, agony erupting within her as she was pinned to Kylon like a bit of meat upon a skewer. She felt him shudder with death, felt his hot blood pool against her breasts and stomach even as the blade of shadow and dark fire sank deeper into her. 

A breath of hot air touched Caina’s neck, and a familiar voice filled her ears.

“You should have let me kill you,” hissed Kalgri the Red Huntress, “at Silent Ash Temple. I told you it would have been easier that way.” 

She laughed, wild and mad, and Caina screamed. 

###

Caina jolted awake, sitting up so violently she almost pitched off the cot. She looked around wildly, certain that Kalgri was standing over her, that the Red Huntress was about to sink her blade into Caina’s heart…

But the Sanctuary was empty and quiet, the glass spheres still giving off a gentle glow from their iron stands. A wave of dizziness went through Caina and she fell back against the cot, sweat rolling off her. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

“Oh, hell,” she whispered. “Hell, hell, hell.”

She had never experienced frustrated lust and raw terror at the same time before, but they were not a pleasant combination. Caina had vivid nightmares on a depressingly regular basis, but that…that had been something else. 

Caina waited until her arms and legs had stopped trembling got to her feet, taking slow, deep breaths.

At least one part of the nightmare had been irrational. Kalgri would come back someday, Caina was certain of it, but not for a few years. The Huntress had endured catastrophic injuries at Silent Ash Temple, and even a nagataaru would take time to rebuild a human body from those kind of wounds. Granted, Kalgri had recovered much quicker when Kylon had knocked her from the top of the Tower of Kardamnos, but the Red Huntress had taken far greater wounds at Silent Ash Temple. Caina at least had a few years before the Huntress came after her again. 

Perhaps if Sulaman’s prophecy was correct, if Caina died in the attempt to retrieve the Staff and the Seal, perhaps she would die before Kalgri found her. That was its own small mercy, really.