Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (39 page)

Then she dashed towards the crypt and Huriya’s cell. She didn’t know how much time she might have, but she assumed it wouldn’t be long. Malevorn had chosen his prison cleverly: there was only one way in or out, and the cells were underground, so even a powerful Earth-mage couldn’t dig fast enough to reach them without Malevorn sensing it. She had to get in and out before Malevorn realised what she was doing.

I have to kill Toljin and get Nasatya out. Huriya too . . .
Toljin was the first problem; she had a disturbing certainty that Malevorn was somehow linked to him.

But she was a shapechanger, and a hunter.

Around the corner from Toljin’s post, out of sight, she shed her pack and weapons again, and then her clothes. Relying on the gnostic echoes from the plaza above to mask her efforts, she drew on her strongest affinities: Morphism and Animagery. Like most of her kind, she knew four or five animals well; the one she chose now wasn’t one she took often, for it disturbed her. But tonight it was her best choice: so she pressed arms and legs together and let the gnosis-energy shiver down her spine, changing in a flood of sensations, an agonised ecstasy that hurled her to the stones and made her twist and bend and flow.

Twelve seconds later, a cobra the size of a full-grown python slithered its way along the passage, then using kinesis she flowed to the roof and began to coil her way forward.

She took the final bend and saw Toljin, standing to attention like a statue. His eyes were unfocused, and there was a strange emptiness to him.

She reached a point above him, opened her mouth—

—as he suddenly became aware and shields began to flare. She lunged, burst through the unformed wards and six-inch fangs clamped onto his left shoulder and flooded the wound with venom. She wrenched, pulled him upwards and hammered him against the ceiling beams, then the wall. He tried to reach his sword, but she tossed a coil around him, pinned the arm and bit again, constricting all the while.

He burst into flame, and as her scales seared, the sudden pain sent her squealing and writhing away. Her convulsions threw him from her, momentarily out of reach, and she slithered backwards, beginning to lose control of the shape-change in the pain. As they both rolled apart, a new agony gripped her as the spell reversed and suddenly her tail was splitting and shortening to legs, her burned skin screaming in protest. A few yards down the corridor Toljin was trying to rise, but his shoulder was mottled black and yellow and he was choking and struggling to breathe, asphyxiating before her eyes. They stared at each other in the full throes of agony, each unable to move, each in a race to recover first. Hessaz screamed at herself to
change-change-change
, plucked arms from her side, snatched up his scimitar then hacked down with all her strength.

His head rolled from his body and the blade snapped on the flagstones beneath his neck. She fell over him, clinging to the hilt with six inches of broken blade remaining, gibbering prayers.

Nasatya wailed from behind his cell-door, and she thought that maybe Huriya gurgled something; those sounds gave her something to cling to, forcing her to go on. Shaking like a newborn colt, she pulled the keys from Toljin’s belt and scrambled to Nasatya’s door.

As she flung it open the little boy squealed at the sight of her, standing there bloody and naked and terrified, and hid his face. That left her at a loss for a moment; somehow she’d thought he’d be silent and compliant, even eager to see her. ‘Stay there!’ she told him, praying he would obey her.

After a moment she turned to Huriya’s cell door, and as she did, the eyes in Toljin’s severed head opened.

‘Hezzaz, Hezzaz,’ it slurred, ‘what are you doing, Hezzaz? I’m coming for you.’

She’d never fainted in her life, but she almost did then; everything lurched as she clung to the doorframe and fought off a wave of dizziness. She steadied herself as the head fell silent, jammed the key in the lock, twisted and threw the door open.

Huriya looked up at her, eyes bulging in hope and dread as Hessaz ran to her, wrenching at the chains; she tried to smash them, but her blade was already broken, and the gnostic bindings threaded through them were well beyond her ability.

Lord Ahm, please help us!

Huriya looked at her with desparing, pleading eyes.

Hessaz understood immediately: there was no way to get Huriya out, not in time. She had to get Nasatya out before they were trapped here. But it still brought a lump to her throat as she stared down at the tiny Keshi girl.

I despised you. I resented that you took Sabele, who was our guide, then toyed with our pack for your own purposes. If it wasn’t that you are also Sabele now, I’d leave you to your fate.

She placed the broken blade over Huriya’s heart and looked her in the eyes; she saw only calm acceptance now. ‘This is for Sabele,’ she said softly.

She drove the blade in, and kissed the girl on her lips.

*

‘Get to her! Now—! Kill anyone who comes between you and her!’ Malevorn strode through his Ablizians, shouting orders, the scarlet diamond necklace glowing in his hand, his senses extended to instruct his charges. But the command he wielded felt sluggish, for the lines of control were still taking shape. He’d lost Toljin a few seconds after seeing the face of the bitch who’d killed him.

I should have killed the
fucking
Noorie cunni.

The danger he was in was all too apparent; he hadn’t yet managed to undo the heart-binding that linked his own life to Huriya’s.

How the Hel did she slip past me?
He gripped his sword tighter and sent the guards sprinting to the cell to protect the one thing that made him vulnerable. ‘Hurry! Bring—’

He staggered as something burst in his ribcage, a feeling like being torn apart by giant invisible talons. Strength drained from his limbs; he stumbled and fell to his knees, and the Ablizians all turned their faces towards him, their eyes filling with curiosity at this newly unveiled weakness.

‘Get me . . .
out
 . . .’ he gasped at the nearest. ‘Hide me . . . protect me . . . Bahil-Abliz, I
command
you to protect me!’

The Ablizians cocked their heads as if listening to other voices while Malevorn slid down the wall.

*

‘I am . . .’

The Lokistani woman stared at her hands . . . if they were still hers. ‘I am . . .’

Huriya hung like a broken doll in her manacles, limp as a puppet with snapped strings. She was as dead as it was possible to be . . . and yet she lived on.

In me . . . She lives on in me . . .

There had been sounds in the passage outside but they’d receded and gone silent a few moments after she’d taken the other woman’s soul. It had been unlike any other taking: somehow more solid, more tangible, and the burst of memories had been so vivid she’d lost all grip of reality, on identity and purpose; she had floated in a sea of voices until she woke to this.

I was a huntress . . . I was an archer . . . And for a brief time, I was a mother . . . I was Hessaz
 . . .

‘I am . . .’

I am Sabele.

She rose and cautiously opened the door, finding the corridor empty of all but Toljin’s corpse. She retrieved her gear and dressed with calm haste before going to the other cell. She went down on her haunches in the doorway, and called in her kindest voice, ‘Nasatya . . . come here, my dear. Come to Mami.’

15

Moksha

Religion: Omali

There are many lives that the soul may be clothed in during
samsara
, the endless wheel of life. Did I say endless? Then I misspoke, for it isn’t endless: but only those who have attained perfect harmony may leave the wheel for the state of
moksha
, that blissful freedom enjoyed by the gods, from which no mortal returns.

T
HE
S
AMADHI-
S
UTRA (
T
HREAD OF
E
NLIGHTENMENT),
H
OLY
B
OOK OF THE
O
MALI

Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia

Zulhijja (Decore) 929 to Moharram (Janune) 930

18
^th
and 19
^th
months of the Moontide

‘Are you sure?’ Alaron asked, looking hard at Yash.

Two weeks earlier it had been Ramita, Puravai, Corinea and Yash sitting around
his
bed in the sickbay. But this time it was Yash on the bed and Alaron beside it, looking on anxiously as his friend prepared to take the ambrosia.

With fragile calm the novice said, ‘Yes, Al’Rhon, I’m sure.’ He waggled his head in the Lakh way, which was enough to make Alaron smile through his fears.

He and Corinea had talked Yash through the experience, explaining exactly what they’d gone through and how they’d survived, and Puravai gave Yash assurances of his own skills and discipline. But the young man was putting his life on the line, and he was the only one who would be able to pull himself through.

‘Remember,’ said Corinea, ‘that everything you go through is just a dream. Any dangers you face will be of your own making, and the only thing you need to do to overcome them is wake up.’

Yash threw Puravai a sly look. ‘You know me, Master. I’m a very bad monk, but I’m a very good fighter. And a bad sleeper.’ He raised the thimble as if toasting the old monk, then drained it in one swallow.

Alaron gripped Ramita’s hand and they settled down to wait for their friend to die and live again. Her strong little fingers entwined with his and their eyes strayed from the young man as he fell into slumber, to each other.

The past two weeks had been full, working with Corinea to brew the individual vials for each of the thirty-four candidates, ensuring that each ingredient was at its optimal potency, each measure precisely measured. Alaron had been an indifferent student of potions: like the other boys, he’d preferred blasting things. But under Corinea’s tutelage, he was gaining an appreciation of the niceties of the art. They had scheduled one transformation a day for the whole of Octen and into Noveleve. They would all be devastated if a mistake led to a death, though they were steeling themselves for the possibility. But losing Yash would be a crushing blow.

Working with Corinea hadn’t been easy. She was irritable, sharp-tongued and waspish, and remained entirely sceptical of the Zains’ ability to deal with power or the real world. She was also scathing of his burgeoning relationship with Ramita.

In her usual hectoring tone she’d said, ‘East and West are incompatible, and lasting love is impossible, so you are doubly doomed.’

And as proof, she’d cited all her failed relationships as evidence, until he’d snapped
,
‘
Perhaps it was you!
’

That hadn’t helped their own relationship, but it had shut her up for an hour.

Despite this, Corinea was invaluable, and he doubted they’d have managed without her. Alaron had even mixed potions for Cym and Ramon – because you just never knew. He’d calculated their individual ambrosia recipes on a whim one night, when they still had the Scytale, and he couldn’t stop himself daydreaming of being able to hand them both their vials, imagining the looks they’d have on their faces . . . but in his heart he feared them dead.

As Yash’s breathing slowed until it was barely perceptible, Ramita said quietly, ‘Al’Rhon, please remember that he must get through this himself. It’s not your fault if he doesn’t come through.’

‘It is if the mix is wrong,’ he replied tersely.

‘We’ve been careful,’ Corinea said, ‘but Ramita is right: we can’t do it for him.’

‘He has much determination,’ Puravai noted.

‘What will we do if he becomes one of
them
 . . . a Souldrinker?’ Corinea asked. It wasn’t the first time the question had been raised, but they hadn’t come up with an answer.

‘No one who must kill to gain the gnosis will be permitted to do so,’ Puravai said. ‘We’re Zains. We don’t kill, except at the utmost need.’

Corinea scowled but said nothing; she’d been arguing over the morality of war with the Zain master for weeks now. Alaron could see both sides: the need for every novice they could get, and the invidious nature of the Souldrinkers poisoning all they were trying to achieve.

‘If any become Souldrinkers, they will accept being kept in isolation,’ Puravai said firmly. ‘Each has agreed this, should the worst occur. That is my decision.’

‘What causes it?’ Alaron wondered.

‘I don’t know,’ Corinea said, ‘and to the best of my knowledge Baramitius never worked it out. Something lacking in the potion? Something chemical in their body reacting with the ambrosia? Or maybe even something in their personality? I’ve heard one theory that something in the aether may have been involved – some kind of daemon who was present at the first Ascendancy – but no Souldrinker I’ve encountered was possessed. The reality is we don’t know.’

Unexpectedly, Puravai spoke up. ‘Antonin Meiros spoke with me once about this. He said those afflicted had been of all types, some virtuous, some immoral, so he ruled out personality or “spiritual” reasons. He too had examined Souldrinkers and found no trace of possession, though he said that there was a level of psychic linkage he couldn’t trace or explain. So he believes it is an unknown physiological reaction to the ambrosia.’

‘Johan Corin realised what he was, during our shared vision,’ Corinea mused. ‘Of course, I say “shared”, but at that point, I was the only one with the gnosis: he only experienced it because I was subconsciously sharing it with him. I foresaw what he would become; he tried to make that happen.’ She sighed. ‘It’s so tangled.’