Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (111 page)

Thank you, Pater Sol!
She turned to Elena, saw a faint look of satisfaction.
And thank you, Elena Anborn!
She hung her head, dabbed at her eyes to imply that she wept, then nodded with apparent reluctance.

Ambassador for Kesh . . . ? In
my own lands
 . . . ?

The opportunities would be infinite, and she would still be at the heart of events.

‘A woman can only obey,’ she managed, improvising desperately. ‘Though obedience in this matter breaks my heart.’ She stood suddenly, to the ambassador’s visible alarm, left the dais and dropped to her knees before Barra Xuok. ‘Bless me, Godspeaker! Absolve me! Give me the consolation that the Prophet still loves this poor handmaiden, adrift on the stormy seas of life!’ She bowed her head expectantly.

The granite-faced Godspeaker looked totally put out, as well he might.

If a rumoured safian regicide once married to a heathen and now widowed, drops to her knees and demands your blessing, what’s the precedent? Has your holy book got anything on that?

With a visible swallow, the Godspeaker looked about him, seeing a room full of people who either believed Cera Nesti was a living saint or a very clever ruler, and loved her either way. Then he showed exactly why he’d risen through the ranks of his calling.

‘Lady Cera, it is known that the nephew of the Prophet’s third son, Ul-haj II of Bindesh, once absolved his wife Sadah of adultery and stoning by deeming that the Harkun abducted her and took her unwillingly. The Godspeakers gave her their blessing, and she went on to devote her life to the poor.’

Cera had no idea whether this tale was true, or made up on the spot. Either way, it was just what she wanted. ‘A praiseworthy example for any woman,’ she said loudly. ‘Let Sadah of Bindesh be my guide and inspiration!’

The Godspeaker blessed her, then helped her to her feet. She deliberately clung to him, to leave an indelible impression of royalty and clergy working together: an allegory of the relationship between spirituality and temporal power, perhaps. Something for the court painters to muse upon.

To cover his confusion, King Massimo told the musicians to play, and began drinking heavily with his inner circle, while well-wishers flooded towards Cera to congratulate or commiserate – not everyone had quite worked out which was the more appropriate yet.

She didn’t get the chance to corner Elena until sometime later. ‘How did you do it?’ she murmured when Elena hobbled over.

Elena smirked. ‘The solution wasn’t hard to find, once I told them that you were indeed a safian, and that other young women find you utterly irresistible. I warned them that within weeks you’d have seduced all of Salim’s other wives, and converted them to your desires.’

Cera stared queasily. ‘
You said that?
’

‘Of course I didn’t.’ Elena cackled drily. ‘It was the Beggars’ Court they were worried about. They were frightened of you, Cera, and only too glad to find a compromise.’ She fixed her with a hard look. ‘You have a unique opportunity to make the lives of many, many people here in Javon better: women, children, people who are different and shunned, all will look to you for succour. I hope you take this chance and use it –
Mater-Javonesi
.’

‘I will, I swear!’ Cera promised fervently.
Oh yes, I will . . .

*

That night, while the court celebrated – or in the case of the lords of Javon, huddled in corners and tried to make sense of this changed world – Elena Anborn slipped into the healers’ ward. The patients were slumbering and their attendants looked as if they’d collapsed asleep in the midst of their duties, hunched over in chairs or on floors.

Her bags were packed and it was time to leave.

‘
Wear your gems,
’ a ghost whispered.

She found the curtained recess she sought and slipped inside. Tarita was awake, staring bleakly at the ceiling. She turned her head when she realised Elena was there, the only movement she was capable of herself. Elena sat on the bed and took Tarita’s limp right hand in both hers. ‘Hello Tarita. How are you?’

‘Lady Alhana!’ The maid tried to force a welcoming smile, but she couldn’t hold onto it. ‘Why am I still alive?’ she asked in a despairing voice.

Elena looked at her squarely. ‘Tarita, may I speak frankly of your condition?’

The maid swallowed, then nodded bravely.

‘You’re paralysed, beyond the skill of any healer, mage or otherwise. You will never be able to move again. You will live and die in a bed, with someone cleaning up your bodily wastes.’ She stroked Tarita’s cheek to soften her words. ‘I don’t say this to be cruel, but to be clear. The only way someone could heal your spine and reconnect the nerves would be to inhabit your head and make the connections from the inside. The only person who can do that is you, and you aren’t a mage.’

‘I can bear it,’ Tarita whispered. ‘Ahm will come for me soon.’

‘Perhaps, but I’ve got a better offer.’ Elena pulled out a small phial of liquid. ‘This contains
ambrosia
. If you drink it, you might die. But if you don’t die, you’ll become an Ascendant mage with the power – though not the knowledge – to heal yourself. The knowledge will have to be acquired: it isn’t a magical, instant fix; it is a slow and dangerous process. But if you are willing, this phial of ambrosia is the first step.’

Tarita’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you get this?’

‘I called in some favours.’
From my nephew, of all people
. ‘I take it that’s a yes?’

‘Yes! Yes-yes-yes!’ Tarita’s eyes began to shed tears of joy. ‘Alhana, should I drink it now?’

‘Not here. Kazim and I are going to take you away, somewhere safe.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Somewhere
all
of us can grow and learn in peace.’

By dawn, they were soaring over the city, Tarita wrapped in blankets on the fore-deck. Elena looked up at the rosy dawn kissing the sky, and then at kazim, the wind ruffling his tangled hair and light in his eyes as he piloted them. He set a course straight into the sun as it rose over Mount Tigrat, far away to the east, back to where she and Kazim had found each other. The only place left she regarded as home.

E
PILOGUE

Moontide’s End

A Naïve Optimism

In Julsep 904, a Bridge my order built to promote peace was used to make war. I had the opportunity to destroy the Bridge but didn’t, for the sakes of tens of thousands of innocent (a relative term, and many didn’t remain so by any criteria) men marching across the span. I refuse to regret that decision, despite the suffering I have seen unfold.

My defence is that conflict cannot be resolved without contact. Understanding cannot be reached without interaction. It is an imperfect answer, that naïvely assumes that some on both sides desire peace and fellowship. But that naïveté has never been disappointed in the long term. Despite the prevalence of war, the majority crave peace. Among that majority there is a sub-group who are prepared to give their lives for the sake of that peace, and they are the true heroes of any conflict. It is to them that I look, as the Third Crusade approaches.

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS,
H
EBUSALIM, 926

Retia, Silacia, on the continent of Yuros

Julsep 930

One month after the end of the Moontide

The window was open, like an invitation, but Ramon didn’t enter; he remained in the shadows, listening with all of his manifold senses. There were guards, of course, but none had the eyes required to detect him. A conversation in his own tongue floated to him on the gentle breeze, like music after so many years away. He closed his eyes and listened to the feelings behind the words.

His mother was arguing with Pater-Retiari about the bottle of wine they were drinking. It wasn’t really an argument though, more like cook-fire banter. ‘We opened it too soon, Vitor!’

‘Too soon? Fanisia, this achantia is
perfect
, right now. It’s a 924, it’s been cellared six years, as the vintners say an achantia should. It is perfect!’

‘Ha! Your palate died with your libido.’

‘You bend over this table and I’ll show you my libido isn’t dead— I should have eloped with the gardener’s wife!’

‘Pah! As if she’d have you! She is half your age and frankly too good for you! Anyway, this 924 vintage needed longer, as all the growers warned! The season was wet, remember? They all said to give this vintage an extra year – but no, you
had
to open it now, when next year it would be divine!’

And on it went. They called each other names, laughed and thought up worse ones, then toasted their marriage: twenty years together. Then they toasted the vintners, the bottlers and everyone else they could think of while getting steadily more drunk. They rambled on about the weather and the news from the north, and the doings of the neighbouring familioso as if they were kin, not rivals in crime.

But what’s crime here anyway but a job? The empire permits us little else . . .

They also spoke of their daughter, growing wild and free on country living.

My half-sister
, Ramon thought, staring at Pater-Retiari from the darkness.
Damn it, I came to kill you, old man. I came to free my mother from you!
He’d thought to unlock a gaol, but here was a woman who’d grown fond of her chains. Perhaps she’d been so for years, but he’d not seen it.

At first it made him angry.
Did I peddle opium, issue fraudulent promissory notes and destroy the Crusade economy for this?
But then it made him somehow, strangely reassured.
Love can grow in strange places.
He drifted backwards, into the deeper shadows, and stood there, gnawing his lower lip.

She’s not supposed to love him.

He closed his eyes, tried to think it through. Pater-Retia had taken her in, a rape victim – perhaps his motives were not entirely pure; her child would carry the prized mage’s blood – but he had protected her and raised her son as his own.

All the way from Pontus to Silacia, he’d heard the rumours: the empire was in ferment, trade was breaking down, people suffering as shortages began to bite. The coinage was worthless and food increasingly scarce. The traders said that Estellayne and Argundy were about to rebel, and set the world aflame. The free city of Becchio, in South Rimoni, was the recruiting station for mercenary legions. Battle-magi could just about name their fee, and he now had a power none of his peers could match.

Yet here in Retia, his mother, his half-sister and his son by the maid were kept by a man he’d sworn to kill.

Is that what I really want to do?

Other futures offered themselves like Divination visions:
I could kill Pater-Retiari, certainly, and inherit his whole organisation. Or I could return as a loyal son and protect my family from the storms to come.
His thoughts went further afield as other options raised their hand. He felt the legion call him: Seth, Kip, Lanna, all of them. But the army was disbanding, the men returning to their civilian lives.

Lanna has my daughter: I could go back to them and learn to be a father.

Hel, I could even go and join Alaron’s people and see if being a scholar and a peacekeeper suits me.

Or I could return to Ardijah, and duel Renn Bondeau for the calipha’s hand.

He didn’t move for a long, long time, watching the house settle to sleep while fondling the hilt of his dagger.

Or I could just let them all be . . .

He sighed, and slipped away.

Mounting his horse, he left Tomasi Fuldo and Silvio Arturo waiting in the copse to the north, still dreaming of gold they’d never see, and took the road towards Becchio.

House Korion, Bres, on the continent of Yuros

Augeite 930

Two months after the end of the Moontide

Seth Korion rode alone up a long carriageway lined with colonnades mounted with busts of his father. Most were stained with birdshit and moss, and a few were broken. The gardens and woods that surrounded the mansion looked unkempt, as if the gardeners and woodsmen had abandoned them.

He lost the sun before he even reached the manor, but he could have found his way blindfold. There was light in an upper window, and more shining from the servants’ wing as he dismounted outside. Familiar faces poured out from all sides, calling uncertain greetings. In many ways the servants had been more of a family to him than either his mother or his father.

‘Milord Seth,’ the old gamesman Hobin kept shouting. ‘You’re back!’ Others bowed and curtseyed, took his horse away, offered water or ale. He took a mug of the latter, and after greeting them all, asked at the state of disrepair that was so evident.

‘Well, Milord,’ the butler Taft drawled, ‘It’s a drimmy lay, and that’s the truth of it. Your mother, Lady . . . ah,
Fetallink
, has shut herself in the top suite and won’t come out, in case the bailiffs take her away. Not that they’ve come, but she’s scared, Milord. Word came that you were disinherited.’ The old man paused anxiously. ‘Outraged, we were!’

Maybe they had been; he had, after all, been the heir apparent for twenty years, and their fate was uncertain if other families took over the manor.
How can I protect them, if I’m thrown out of here with Mother?

‘Go on,’ he told Taft.

The butler smiled wryly. ‘Well, the thing was: no papers have been brought to court. Several bastard sons
claimed
that they were to be legitimised, but no paperwork ever made it back here. So there’s a legal dispute, y’see. Informal documents claim you’re disowned, but there’s nothing formal. So the estate’s frozen, we en’t been paid for months – we’ve been living off the cellars, begging yer pardon. An’ yer mother won’t come out of her rooms. You were supposedly dead,’ – Taft raised a cautious eyebrow – ‘then you were a traitor, according to reports—’