Unholy War (87 page)

You won’t be kicking me around again, you Noorie slut …

She clutched the child to her, her pupils dilating.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s time to renegotiate our relationship?’

‘In what way?’

I’ve got the gnosis back, but I’m now a creature of anathema. I need this Scytale, to become my old self … No, better – an Ascendant.
He recalled what Adamus Crozier had said about the Scytale of Corineus: that the artefact was not an instant answer. It required understanding and knowledge he didn’t have. And he was a Souldrinker now, and the Inquisitors would kill him on sight. He needed allies …

Why not her?

‘A new deal,’ he said, looking her in the face.
Her gorgeous, hedonistic face
. ‘Equals,’ he said, laughing internally at the very word.
I have no equals, girl, but I’m prepared to pretend.

‘Equals?’ she sneered. ‘I have the—’

‘Powers of an Ascendant. I know. But you don’t know how to use them and you don’t know how to fight. However, you do know this land, and you know your Dokken secrets. We need each other, Huriya.’ He tapped his chest. ‘You’ve made me one of your kind, and that has perforce altered my loyalties. I won’t pretend I don’t resent it, but it’s done. We move on. You are the Alpha Female of your kind. I’m going to be the Alpha Male. You need a partner, and so do I.’

There were noises coming from behind him, wary footsteps. Pretty soon they were both going to have to run or fight. He didn’t care which – he felt strong enough to take down a legion – but it would be wasted energy. He wiped his bloody mouth and applied a little healing-gnosis, just enough to cleanse and close the wound; it wouldn’t prevent a scar as he’d never been a terribly good healer. Then he tapped the Scytale impatiently against his thigh.

Huriya stroked the stolen baby’s head and licked her lips. ‘You and me? You despise me, slugskin. You always will. And it’s mutual.’

‘You’re wrong. I’d have done exactly what you did to me, in your place. We think alike, Huriya. We’re practical and ruthless. I even admire you a little. We could work well together.’

‘How could I ever trust you?’ she demanded. ‘You think it beneath you to have any dealings with me.’

‘Maybe, but there’s nothing I won’t do to win.’ He tapped the Scytale impatiently again. ‘Come on, Huriya: decide. Do you want my partnership, or do you want to fight me, right now?’

She glowered, then, narrowed her eyes. ‘Throw me the Scytale first. Then he’ll see.
Partner
.’

He considered, then casually tossed the artefact to her. He walked cautiously towards her. ‘You asked if there is some way that we can trust each other. I know one.’ He lifted a hand and kindled gold light on it. ‘Touch my hand.’

She frowned warily. ‘Why?’

‘Just do it. I swear, all you need to do if you don’t like what I have to say is to let go.’

She looked at him curiously. From somewhere above and behind her, Hessaz called out, ‘Seeress? Is that you?’

‘We’re coming,’ she called over her shoulder, without taking her eyes off Malevorn. Then slowly she lifted her hand and placed it against his palm.

The golden light in his hand coursed through them both and he felt his heart jolt and thud. He gasped despite himself, and she did the same. He met her eyes as the gnosis continued to hum through them both, coiling around each other’s hearts. ‘Feel that?’

Her eyes were huge in the pale light. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m aligning our hearts – it’s a tricky little spell involving healing and mysticism – neither of which are strengths but I can just about reach them. It takes about twenty seconds and at the end of that, our hearts will, quite literally, beat in time. Linked. That means we’re bound together: if one of us dies, the other will too, about six seconds later, and there is nothing the survivor can do to stop that.’

She stiffened in fear. ‘You are serious?’

‘Deadly. This spell is almost never used, because most consider what is gained not worth it, but I don’t think there is any other way we’ll ever trust each other.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Can you feel it?’

She nodded fearfully. ‘But why—?’

‘You want to be able to trust me? You’ll have that, in another fifteen seconds. If you want it to stop, just pull your hand away.’ He met her eyes. ‘Then I’ll have to kill you.’

She swallowed. ‘You’d do this? With a “mudskin”?’

‘Oh, you have your charms, Huriya. And so do I, for a slugskin.’

She swallowed, and so did he, because he hadn’t really been sure she would go through with this, or if he even wanted her to. But otherwise it would be a fight to the death and she had Ascendant-level gnosis, though he had the training. He had no idea who’d win, and that made the risk too great.

‘Time’s running out. Are you going to go through with this?’ He thought about Raine Caladryn, the brief dreams they’d harboured. Strangely, though she’d been as ruthless as he was, he’d felt a better person when he was with her. He’d never feel the same for this Keshi harlot; life with her would be a form of torture. But if he was to get what he wanted, this was the required price.

She looked away, no doubt filled with her own misgivings. Then she looked back at him, closed her eyes and kissed him as the spell bonded. Her lips were full and soft and her tongue deliberately teased his raw lip, making him wince. ‘Done.’ She stroked the Scytale. ‘I like a man who gives me something long and hard,’ she purred, then stepped away. She thrust the whimpering baby at him. ‘Let’s go then, “Heart of my Heart”.’

*

One of the mughal’s soldiers went after the intruders, but Ramita doubted he’d tried very hard to catch up with the dreaded ‘afreet’. In the meantime, she and Alaron waited, holding Dasra, as the chamber filled up with Tariq’s soldiers, who stationed themselves in front of them: a fearful wall of steel. A tongue of fire was dancing on Ramita’s palm and that was holding them at bay.

Beside her Alaron gripped his staff wearily and tried to look like he could do the same. She appreciated the gesture, but she knew he was on his last legs. Hand-to-hand fighting was incredibly draining, and he’d been fighting for his life.

Please
, she thought,
just let us go
.

Godspeaker Vahraz had returned and was earnestly berating Tariq, who was visibly wavering. She picked up a few words:
Rakas. Afreet. Sacred Duty
. To her it sounded like they were building up the nerve to order the soldiers to attack.

She didn’t know if she had the strength or skill to kill them all, but she knew she had the will. Whether they deserved to die didn’t matter: she had to live if she was ever to get Nasatya back.

Tariq edged through the soldiers, right to the front of the line, barely four yards away from her. His manner was changed: fear still lingered, but there was a new respect for her. He’d seen what she could do, but he had also seen that she had protected him. That was reflected in the new deference in his voice.

‘Lady Ramita, what is happening? Why did you come here?’ Tariq was anxious, and she could understand why: the Godspeakers were listening with avid ears for evidence of heresy and evil, and she did not doubt that they could bring down even a mughal if he uttered a misjudged word here.

She glanced at Alaron, who didn’t understand Lakh. There was not time to confer. ‘Exalted Lord, my intention here was honest, and as stated by the vizier. But he is now dead, with nothing resolved.’

There, I’ve given you a way out. You clearly want one.

Tariq seemed to understand. ‘I would never have agreed to what was proposed by the vizier,’ he said slowly, ensuring that Vahraz heard him clearly.

‘Nor I,’ she could not resist saying, although right now he was doing far more to raise himself in her eyes than he would ever know. ‘And now it is impossible.’

Tariq nodded slowly, aware of the faint insult – but he’d seen what she could do and he was afraid. ‘You will leave now?’ It was framed as a question, but she knew it was a command.

We saved your life, boy
. But she didn’t truly feel angry, only dread for Nasatya, and the urgent need to be gone.
We brought the danger here
, she acknowledged silently.
And you’ve been stripped of the best advisor and protector you could ever have had.
‘We will leave immediately, Exalted Lord.’

The only exit they were offered was the tunnel; they had to hope Huriya was long gone. She looked up at Alaron: exhausted, sweat-stained and bloodied, but steadfast.
He gave up the prize of prizes for the sake of my child
. Her heart quavered at the thought.

She lifted her head, faced Tariq, ignoring the Godspeakers and soldiers who made evil eye signs and either glared or squirmed under her gaze. ‘Farewell. We depart in peace. Please do not follow us.’

*

On the street above, Alaron lifted his cowl and peered about. The Souldrinkers were gone, and he was deeply thankful, because he was exhausted. Ramita asked one of the crowd of milling people where they had gone, and those who responded pointed up into the skies. A line of rubble ran half a mile back to the vizier’s mansion. The mughal’s archers surrounded them, uncertain and afraid.

Ramita whispered to Alaron, ‘In our folklore, mortal weapons cannot harm an afreet, and that is what these soldiers think they face.’

He nodded, then said, ‘We need to get back to the skiff.’ He spotted a mounted officer and began to walk towards him, lighting his shields. The crowd fell back, and when he kindled light in his hands, everyone ran, except the horse, because he had gripped its mind with animagery. The officer panicked, leapt from the saddle and fled, but the horse stayed.

He turned to Ramita. ‘We’ll have to share.’

‘Shukriya, bhaiya.’ She levitated calmly to the horse’s back and sat side-saddle, the ruined sari draped around her. She had nothing else, just her child. She hugged Dasra to her while Alaron scanned for danger, terribly aware of the thousands of eyes on them. He stowed his satchel in one of the saddlebags; it still held his notes.
But not the Scytale
. The loss throbbed inside his brain.
We lost the Scytale. Kore forgive us!

He slid his kon-staff beneath a strap and secured it, then climbed up behind Ramita and slid his feet into the stirrups. He had to put both arms around her to grasp the reins, which felt unavoidably inappropriate, but what else could he do?

He clicked his tongue and nudged the horse into motion. ‘Where do we go?’

‘To get my son back,’ she whispered. ‘The Scytale too.’ She looked up at him. Their noses and mouths were almost touching; he could feel her breath on his face. Her eyes held so much intensity he couldn’t look away. ‘Will you come with me, bhaiya?’

‘Of course. You don’t have to ask.’
Ever again.

EPILOGUE

A Meditation on Dawn

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS
, H
EBUSALIM, 854

Ramita Ankesharan walked down to the ghats where the River Imuna flowed by the monastery. It was here that Yash had come after delivering them to the vizier, and the Zain monks had opened their doors to the fugitives when they came knocking. Holy Imuna, which sprang from the eternal Nimtaya Mountains and joined Teshwallabad, Baranasi and the north with the distant south, was the artery that flowed through the heart of Lakh. The tide was high, lapping at the stonework hungrily, and it wasn’t safe to bathe, so Ramita just sat and watched the waters flow past.

Yash and Alaron were in the shade not far away, playing a game with little Dasra that involved a lot of face-pulling. The baby boy was giggling and chortling, but she knew he would cry again soon, when he remembered that the other half of his heart was gone.

Nasatya, where are you?

Her eyes went back to Alaron. He looked so grown-up, so different to the youth who’d flown into the Isle of Glass that night nine months ago. He was broader, taller, more assured. The puppy fat had been chiselled from his face, leaving a pleasing, honest visage. And the way he looked to her gnostic sight sent a thrill of recognition through her: four arms holding the elemental forces; many faces crowding behind his own, and a lion pelt across his shoulders. To her Lakh eyes, it was clear:
Sivraman is with him.

This is Destiny. Even the theft of my son … all these things are fated and so I will not fear.

Oh, but it was dreadfully hard not to be scared when she thought of tiny Nas, caught up in Huriya’s hands. Or when she remembered that sneering, hateful Inquisitor, the darkness to Alaron’s light.
Malevorn … an ugly name for an ugly soul! And he’s got the Scytale … If Al’Rhon and I don’t stop them, they’ll wake Shaitan himself …

She sighed heavily, and climbed to her feet. She had only one other solace: that the Gods might hear her prayers. There was nothing else to hope for. ‘Al’Rhon,’ she called softly, ‘I’ll be in the temple. Just for a while.’

He looked up, holding Dasra on two wobbly legs, showing him how to be upright, and nodded.

The Zains had been keeping their presence here a secret but that wouldn’t last long, and they’d promised the Master that they’d be gone by dawn. Alaron said he had an idea, a place they could go, and that was enough for her, for now.

There was a small Omali temple inside the monastery – the Zains were not Omali, of course, but they kept a shrine here, as at Mandira Khojana in the mountains. She rang the bell over the arch, entered the temple and fell to her knees. No one else was here and she was grateful to be alone. She didn’t want others here, not when her grief was so fresh. She lost herself in prayer, taking comfort in the rote words and the benevolent gaze of the statuary that crowded about her. ‘Vishnarayan-ji, Protector of Man, hear me! Aid me! Darikha-ji, hear me! Help me, Queen of Heaven! Hear me, Dar-kana-ji, Demon-Slayer! Come to my aid! Makheera-ji, Goddess of Destiny, alter your weaving to save my son!’

Ever since she got here, she’d been more than praying, for she had begun to think that if magi and Souldrinkers were real, then surely the gods could hear her. She prayed not just with her words, but with the gnosis too: she called upon heaven with her voice and her mind, sending her prayers up, into the heavens, willing the gods to be real and to come down and find her child.

But the only answer thus far had been heaven’s silence.

Finally she had cried and prayed herself into numbness. The only sounds were distant ones, from the river and the city outside. She rose and and turned to leave – as the statue of Makheera-ji moved, and she froze in shock.

The statue had blue skin and six arms, and snaky black tresses. Fruit and knives and a cup and other symbols of power were held in her hands. Her eyes of burnished gold caught the lamplight and gave back more. Those eyes pierced Ramita through, burning into her heart, as she stepped down from her pedestal and glided towards her.

She fell to her knees, mouth opening and closing until finally she whispered, ‘
Makheera-ji?
’

The statue laughed, and changed again, to an utterly unexpected face and form. ‘If you wish to speak to me, use my real name,’ she said. ‘Call me Corinea.’

Ramon Sensini poked a finger into the tiny hand of the infant in his lap. She was gurgling blindly, her rosebud mouth blowing kisses into the air. The little hand batted at his finger, then gripped it, and he felt tears well up and tried to blink them away.
I have a daughter.

‘Ooo, look at the big brave man who doesn’t cry,’ Severine teased gently. It was the fondest she’d been for months, let alone the last few hours, during which she’d screeched abuse at him for ruining her body and implanting the creature that was about to kill her as it ripped its way out.

‘I love you,’ he said, to her and to the little piece of them both lying in his lap.

They were in the kitchen of an abandoned farm house they’d found on the march towards the Tigrates. The tiny building was now at the centre of the Southern Army’s camp. He’d been preparing to go and view the Vida Bridge when Lanna Jureigh had shouted into his mind,

So he left Seth to handle things for a while.

The next twelve hours had been among the most harrowing of his life, and that included the battle at Shaliyah. He’d seldom felt as truly helpless as he had here. He had no healing-gnosis, nor knowledge of what to do, so all he could do was bathe Sevvie’s brow whilst whispering words of encouragement and soaking up her abuse. He didn’t mind her words – he’d had worse, and for worse reasons – but the helplessness was agony.

Occasionally he thought of Cym and tried to picture her going through this, and then decided he’d rather not.
A mage pregnant to a Souldrinker … what did that even mean?
Thinking of her led to thinking about Alaron, and wondering if his hapless friend really was somewhere in Lakh. The Alaron he knew could barely leave his front door without tripping over his laces. And what the Hel could he hope to do with the Scytale in Lakh?
I bet it’s that Lakh girl pulling your strings! She’ll have you wrapped around her little fingers.
He beamed at his daughter.
Girls can do that to a man. You’ll learn that too, little one. You’ll practise on me.

He heard boots outside and looked up as the scout Coll came in, struggling to avoid looking at Severine, who had her body covered but was otherwise not at her glamorous best.

‘Sir? I have a message.’

Ramon held up the child. ‘I have a daughter.’

Coll forced a quick smile, and said, ‘Congrats, Magister. Ma’am.’ He bobbed his head at Severine, then thrust a piece of paper at Ramon. ‘From the General, sir.’ He saluted and hurried away, probably worried that he’d be given the baby to hold if he stayed.

Ramon noted that his daughter was still making divine little kissing movements with her tiny mouth. ‘She’s hungry again,’ he commented, giving her to Severine. They shared a look, a moment of warmth, then while she put their child to her breast, Ramon gave his full attention to the note.

It was brief, just ten words that changed everything:

The Inquisitors have destroyed the bridge at Vida. Come quickly.

Zaqri of Metia hunched over the cooking fire, turning the roasting partridges on a spit. The hillside was far above the net of campfires of the refugee camp, three miles down the valley. He’d had to leave, now his heritage had been revealed to the refugees. Though the legions had gone, Salim’s army was still days away and those left inside the pen were reverting to the laws of beasts.

Cym lay on the other side of the fire on a dirty blanket, sipping an astringent tea, her deep-set eyes and narrow face rendered gaunt and ancient by the flickering firelight. She’d spent days in a sweating, torrid delirium and he was certain she would have been murdered for what she was if he’d not managed to get her out. He couldn’t begin to guess what she was going through. He’d been terrified of infection, but the legion’s healer, a patient, gentle Rondian women called Lanna Jureigh, had cleansed her before the army left. After that, Cym’s life had been in his hands, some measure of payback for the months she’d spent tending him when he’d nearly died. It felt like they were always paying off debts to each other and he was sick of it.

After they’d eaten, he studied her face, and decided she was ready for the conversation they had to have. ‘Cymbellea, why? Why kill our child?’

She turned her head away. ‘You know why.’

‘It was my child – you had no right—’

‘It’s
my
body and I have
every
right. And you killed my mother.’

‘Do you think that killing our unborn child makes that right?’ he snapped. ‘How can you think that?’

‘A life for a life,’ she replied, ‘that’s what the oath of vendetta states. It doesn’t try to balance the worth of those lives.’ Then she paused before saying, ‘There is a war going on, and my friend is lost in Antiopia with the greatest treasure on Urte. I need to be able to run and fight, not waddle around like a cow. And I didn’t want your child anyway.’

‘You’re my wife! You can’t make a decision like that without my consent.’

‘No, I’m your
mate
. I don’t really know what that means, but you know under what circumstances I agreed to be such a thing. I am not beholden to you for every action I take. You say you love me: but if you don’t support my choices, it’s not me you love, just some idea of me you’ve conjured in your own head.’

Her harshness stung him, making him wonder what it was he actually loved in her – no, it was still there, that tenacious vivacity, the coltish vibrancy … but it was being filtered through bitterness right now.

‘Perhaps I don’t know you at all, Cymbellea. I thought you were someone who loved life, but you’ve just killed our child.’

‘Rich, to be condemned by a Souldrinker. How many lives have you taken lately, Dokken?’

He looked away.
Is she right?
He didn’t know any more. Didn’t know anything.
Let Pater Sol or Kore or Ahm work it out. It’s beyond me
. For a moment he missed Ghila and the simple, uncomplicated anger that had fuelled her; it had made her explicable and knowable – then he recalled that her lack of mystery had been one of the things he’d been impatient of. Compared to Cym, Ghila had been made of clay.

Is it the mystery of love or the love of mystery that keeps bringing me back to you?
The old Rimoni lament had it spot-on.
I don’t know the answer to that either
. ‘So, what do we do now?’

‘We?’ She looked at him.

He nodded slowly, solemnly. ‘Yes,
we.
’ It might take years to forgive her; it might never happen. But he was sworn to her: pledged and mated. They needed each other, even if she didn’t yet recognise that fact. And he had no other reason to go on: she was all that was left.

She looked at him thoughtfully, her face shrouded by black hair and shadows. She seemed carved out of moonlight; Mater Lune come to life: Queen of Magic and Madness.

‘I’ll be able to get up again tomorrow,’ she said at last. ‘The Keshi are coming, and your people are with them – leaderless, if what Ramon said about Arkanus is true. And Seth Korion’s name will see us given audience with the Sultan, Ramon said.’

‘How will that help your friend Alaron?’

‘I don’t know, but we are so far behind the chase now that we need to try anything to catch up, even if that means using Salim or your people to help find him.’

He breathed deeply, in and out. As plans went, it was pretty desperate. ‘The Keshi lock up magi in breeding dens. And I’m packless, with no standing among the Brethren any longer. The Keshi would take the Scytale off your friend and kill him without remorse.’ He shook his head. ‘It is not a good plan.’

‘Do you have a better one?’

Queen Portia Tolidi screamed as if sound alone would drive the child from her body. Her maids and midwives clustered on the far side of the room, scared of the uncontrolled winds that ripped through the chamber, tearing the shutters from the window frames and rattling the furniture, and the light that was seeping from her fingertips. They had been warned that the queen had been cursed with the dreaded gnosis of the magi, but they’d never seen anything like this before and they were utterly terrified. Only the presence of the Sollan priest in the corner gave them the courage to stay in the room.

Every time the queen’s contractions paused and the magic died down they would scurry in and swaddle her in wet cloth and bathe her brow – then flee as the next crisis of labour began.