Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (14 page)

Alaron grinned at the young monk. ‘You’re home!’

‘This was never really my home,’ Yash muttered. Of all the young acolytes Alaron had befriended here, Yash was the least suited to monastic life. ‘Let’s not stay too long,’ the young acolyte added fervently. He pulled a face and said, not for the first time, ‘I doubt you’ll find many takers for the ambrosia.’

Of course
, Alaron thought,
even if any of the Zains are willing to drink the ambrosia, I wonder how many will survive the experience? We could be sending many of them to their graves.

But what choice have we got?

*

Alaron and Ramita had hoped their return to Mandira Khojana would be a joyous occasion. They’d been happy here, and it was only a few months since they’d left, believing that by delivering the Scytale – and Ramita herself – to Vizier Hanook was the right path forward. Instead, they’d not just brought down death upon the vizier and his son, and so many others, they’d lost the Scytale.

Nevertheless it was a genuine pleasure to bow before Master Puravai as they stepped from the windskiff onto the courtyard.

‘Brother Longlegs, welcome back.’ The old Zain addressed Alaron gravely. His skull was freshly shaven and his beard plaited. His robes of dark grey were the only sign of his rank. He looked Alaron up and down, then ran his eye over the rest of the group. Yash was still bowing deeply. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘all of you. I see you’ve a tale to tell, so let us go somewhere more private.’

He ignored the curious crowds, the monks and novices in saffron and crimson, and the villagers from settlements further down the valleys who’d all found reason to be in the courtyard as the windskiff descended. Mandira Khojana was the heart of several communities spread over more than thirty miles of rugged terrain, providing spiritual and physical succour for thousands of precarious lives. Although the Order was agnostic about both religions and gnostic powers, the Ordo Costruo had a relationship with this and other Zain monasteries that stretched back hundreds of years.

Master Puravai gestured to a group of novices loitering near the skiff and set them to work unloading the baggage, then he escorted the four of them to the guest suites.

Alaron introduced Corinea as Lily; they’d all agreed that publically identifying Corinea should wait until it was absolutely necessary; there would be shocks enough in their story without adding
that
to the mix.

‘Lily is an Ordo Costruo mage aiding our quest,’ Alaron told the Master, and if Puravai didn’t seem to believe him, he didn’t say so.

Before dining, and the stressful conversation that would follow, came baths, and they all revelled in the sheer bliss of scrubbing away the grime of the journey in copious quantities of warm, scented water. That the Zains placed great store on cleanliness was a monumental positive in Alaron’s view. He prepared himself for a barrage of questions as he followed Yash to the communal baths, where several dozen novices just happened to have decided they needed to wash too. They all knew he’d gone to Teshwallabad, and he had to fend off many questions in halting Rondian about what he’d seen and done – Yash just ducked his head under the water and ignored his friends. Most of these young men were the very ones Alaron wished to offer the ambrosia.
I wonder how they’ll react?
he thought.
Although that’s
assuming Master Puravai even allows them the choice.

And what do I do if he doesn’t?

With that worry added to the pile, he and Yash put on gloriously fresh clothing – crimson acolyte robes had been waiting on their pallets – then headed off for some much-needed food. Ramita and Corinea, also freshly washed and attired in the new clothes Ramita had bought in Baranasi – plain salwar kameez in similar blue-green hues – joined them for a plain but filling meal of curried vegetable and flatbread.

They ate largely in silence, not just because they were nervously awaiting Master Puravai’s summons, but because there was little need to discuss what was to come: Huriya and Malevorn had vanished with the Scytale, inevitably they would use it, and the only chance they had to counter them was to create their own Ascendancy.

‘I’ll do the talking,’ Alaron said as they stood, looking at Corinea. He didn’t want her contempt for the Zains turning Master Puravai against them.

‘I’ll speak as and when I wish to,’ Corinea retorted shortly.

‘Do not undermine us,’ Ramita told her.

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

Ramita looked at Alaron. ‘You are right. We should do this without her.’

Corinea scoffed. ‘Go ahead, if you think you can brew the ambrosia without killing half of the monks and driving the rest insane. See if I care. I’ll mind your baby.’

The next instant Ramita had whirled upon her, her hand extended with fingers splayed, and pale light flashed. Corinea was lifted from her feet and slammed to the rug. With gnostic sight instantly engaged, Alaron saw lines of force like an extension of Ramita’s right arm wrapped around Corinea’s throat. The old sorceress convulsed helplessly in her grip.

‘Did you threaten my child?’ Ramita demanded, bending over Corinea. Alaron was stunned by her sudden ferocity.

Corinea squeaked, ‘You misunderstood—’

‘Did I?’ Ramita interrupted. ‘I’m through being patient with you, you arrogant
kutiyaa
! You complain about this, you whine about that. We’re all sorry for your sad story, but if you can’t shut up and help us we’re better off without you—’

Corinea’s eyes bulged as she tried again to push herself from the floor. The veins in her neck went blue as she pushed, her own gnosis gathering behind her, and to Alaron it felt like the air was being sucked from the room. Yash, the only non-mage, was backing away, his face pale.

Then Corinea sagged. ‘All right,’ she choked out. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you’re stronger than me.’

‘No. Try again,’ Ramita snapped.

‘That I’m not behaving well,’ Corinea muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ramita straightened and slowly withdrew the energy, all the while holding it ready.

Holy Kore, she just faced down the Queen of Hel . . .

But the old woman on the floor looked nothing like the demoness of legend right now; she was just Lillea, an aged Estellan widow with a bruised throat and aching body, her youth and vitality a distant memory.

‘Get up,’ Ramita told Corinea, not turning her back.

Corinea groaned and got her feet under her, but she had to accept a hand from Alaron to stand. She looked at him from under lowered brows as he did, humiliated. ‘My thanks,
lordship
,’ she said in a low, resentful voice. ‘I’m
so
grateful.’

‘Why are you like this?’ he asked tiredly. ‘What have we done to you? Anyone else would have run screaming when you said your name. I don’t understand your attitude: you came to us, remember?’

‘
Think
, trader’s son,’ she panted. ‘Think what would have been, had Johan not forced my hand. I would have been
empress
! Johan’s tragic death would have left me, the tragic heiress of his movement, as the first and only Empress of Rondelmar.
I should have had EVERYTHING!
And now, after lifetimes of hiding, it’s come to this: I’m trailing after a fool, a peasant and a eunuch, hoping a group of emasculated hermits will take up arms against men born to fight and kill. And you say I should be
rejoicing
to be part of your pitiful venture?’

They greeted her words with stony silence. He’d seen something like this coming, though he’d not really seen the depths of her bitterness until now.

If things had turned out as she’d hoped, she’d have been no different from Sertain and the rest.

‘Well, why don’t you just rukk off and join Malevorn?’ he offered, in his most reasonable voice. ‘He’s everything you seem to admire: a ruthless villain with a mountainous ego. I’m sure you’d get on famously.’

‘I’m with you because there’s no other choice – none at all,’ she spat. ‘But that doesn’t mean I think you’ll triumph. You asked once whether I’d rather choose a random village? The answer is yes, only I’d select a legion camp: I’d rather kill nine in ten, knowing at least that the remaining survivors were trained to kill.’

All right, she really is the Queen of Evil . . . Or maybe she’s just a desperate old woman in desperate times . . .

‘That won’t be happening,’ he said calmly. ‘Never suggest it again.’

‘You’re an idealistic fool.’

‘No. I learned more about how to fight here in this monastery than in six years at the Arcanum, and the same with the gnosis. So why don’t you show a little faith?’

She snorted. ‘Don’t you know one of my many titles is “The Faithless One”?’ But she looked away, her face more thoughtful than angry.

‘Doesn’t mean you have to live up to it.’ He looked at Ramita, who caught and squeezed his hand briefly. It calmed him like nothing else could have.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see the Master.’

*

Explaining to Master Puravai what had happened in Teshwallabad took a long time, and Alaron’s voice was hoarse by the time he’d told it all: Hanook’s true lineage, Ramita’s betrothal arrangement with the young Mughal Tariq, and then the horrors of that night when Huriya and Malevorn attacked. He left out nothing: the bloodbath in Hanook’s manor, the underground flight to the Mughal’s Dome, and the loss of Nasatya and the Scytale. When he paused to recover, Ramita filled in the details, telling him about Mughal Tariq, and the nature of the Dome.

Puravai took some time to grieve over Hanook: in their youth they had been the closest of friends; though they had not met in years, the loss clearly hurt deeply.

Then it was time to outline their plan and beg Puravai’s permission to implement it. Alaron explained everything that he had discovered and worked out about the Scytale before losing it.

Finally, he said, ‘I have the crucial details of almost forty of your monks here. Remember? I researched their details when I still had the Scytale, trying to formulate the recipe that would give them the gnosis. At the time it was just an exercise, to try and understand the process better. Now it is a lifeline!

‘Master, it is the dream of every mage – probably of every person in Yuros – to be made an Ascendant. They have stronger gnosis than even the pure-bloods.’ He paused, worried the Master would think that power was all he cared about. ‘I wouldn’t offer this to someone I didn’t think would use it well. You and your monks are the best people I have met, in Yuros or Antiopia.’ He looked at Ramita, who smiled her encouragement as the old man remained silent, and said beseechingly, ‘I know this is in part selfish. We
must
regain the Scytale – and Nasatya – from Malevorn and Huriya, and we can’t do it alone. But it’s far more than that. Even without that, I would still wish you to accept this gift.’

The room fell silent. Alaron realised he was holding his breath and released it slowly. Yash was fidgeting, barely able to contain himself from falling to his knees and begging the Master to allow him at least to try. Corinea’s face was unreadable, and her mere presence made Alaron increasingly uneasy. He dreaded her opening her mouth.

‘We Zains are sworn to peace,’ Puravai said finally, his voice pitched as if he were speaking to someone unseen. ‘We are permitted to defend ourselves, and others also. We step away from the world to understand it better, but we remain a part of it. Yet the principles of moksha are clear: we can only detach ourselves from this world having made peace with it.’

He took a sip of water and fell silent, as if listening for a god to reply.

‘Power . . .
absolute
power . . . is a venom that poisons the soul,’ he said eventually. ‘To hold life and death in one’s hands, unconstrained . . . Who can deal with that and still keep their soul intact?’

He closed his eyes, though his lips continued to move in silent debate.

Alaron looked at Ramita, his heart beginning to sink.
He’s going to refuse?

Then his heart went to his mouth as a cool female voice cut across the silence.

‘I rather think you’re overstating the matter, Master Zain,’ Corinea said, her voice dry. ‘Even an Ascendant mage doesn’t have ultimate power. There are already dozens of other Ascendants, hundreds of pure-bloods, and tens of thousands of less powerful magi – and several thousand Souldrinkers too, so they say. And there are millions upon millions of ordinary people. Even an Ascendant is only one fish in a turbulent ocean. I should know: I am one. Do you think I could walk into a city and demand the throne? I’d end up dead, or ruling a cemetery. Dominion over others requires more than just personal might. The world is vast, and it will pull down any tyrant eventually.’

Puravai turned to face her while Alaron and Ramita held their breath.

‘Yet your “Blessed Three Hundred” conquered an empire,’ Puravai replied, his face intent.

‘And now look at them,’ Corinea replied. ‘Divided, tearing themselves apart, their dissipated bloodlines spreading across the lands while their secrets fall into the hands of their enemies. Kingdoms rise and fall. Sometimes it’s swift, other times it’s with a slow toppling, but it all ends in dust.’

‘So you say that I should let my charges lose their souls to power, for in the end it won’t matter? I believe it will: it will matter very much. Our lives are a quest for oneness. By allowing this to happen, I will be allowing these young men who have put their souls in my charge to damn themselves.’

‘Don’t be so pompous! You’re giving them a little gnosis, not the keys of Pallas! The gnosis is only one form of power in this world, and it ranks far below many: like legitimate kingship, or religious supremacy. Though by your terms maybe it is the ultimate test: can they stick to their vows in the face of real evil, not just the slow insanity of staring at brick walls until their eyesight goes? I’ve read your books, Zain: your guru talks about testing the soul, but you just hide away – that’s not
overcoming
a test, that’s
sidestepping
it. If you think your charges can handle some real tests, then you should be begging us for this opportunity, not whining about it.’