Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (53 page)

Timori walked to her side, struggling to maintain a dignified gait. She bent and kissed his cheek, whispered, ‘Well done, little button.’ He jiggled, throbbing with energy.

‘Cera!’ A cluster of Jhafi women began chanting, ‘Cera! Cera!’ They were fervent, holding out hands to her. ‘Ja’afar-mata! Ja’afar-mata!’

Mother of Javon? No! It’s too much . . .

But they kept chanting.

Ever since she’d come back from ‘death’ there had been this undercurrent, first in Lybis, and now here. There was too much reverence – and now silly stories were spreading, like the one that she’d driven back the Harkun merely by standing before them and raising her hands, forbidding their advance. And everyone wanted something of her: a blessing, threads of her clothing, just to touch her hand or foot. It was embarrassing, and frightening.

‘They love you,’ Timori said, looking up at her with shining eyes.

One day he might fear me, for that very reason.

She glanced at Elena – who knew
everything
– then raised a hand to try and make them stop, but they didn’t; the gathering had become a chaotic festival of celebration.

She couldn’t even escape the unwanted rapture inside the palace, where the Nesti court had gathered to sip arak or wine and share the moment. People kept approaching her with flattery and little requests: Comte Inveglio was still trying to wriggle his way onto the emergency confiscations committee; Justiano di Kestria wanted to be made permanent Commander of the Nesti Army, despite being a Kestrian. They both knew the only way that might happen was if he married her – and he’d started dropping hints that he was open to negotiations.

I’ll bet he
is, Cera thought cynically.

Elena appeared at her side. ‘Cera, with your permission, I’d like to leave the celebrations. You don’t need my protection tonight.’

‘Actually, I’m sick of it. Let’s both go.’ She licked her lips nervously as she said the words; being alone with Elena still wasn’t comfortable. But they left together and headed towards the living quarters. ‘Are the prisoners secure?’ she asked.

‘The captured magi – five Argundians and three Dorobon – are in the dungeons; we’ve used a Rune of the Chain on them all, so you’ll be quite safe. Justiano’s got around four thousand prisoners in a camp north of here. Most of them are Dorobon; there’s only eight hundred or so Argundians – the rest got away.’ Elena frowned. ‘There are no Harkun prisoners.’

‘They didn’t take prisoners either,’ Cera retorted stonily. She struggled to feel any sympathy after what they’d done to poor Harshal.
A better person would feel more for an enemy
, she supposed. They walked on in silence to the place where they would normally part.

‘Will Tarita ever recover?’ Cera asked. Her guilt tore at her as she thought of that clever, vibrant,
loyal
girl. ‘Is there any hope?’

Elena gave her a hard look. ‘She shouldn’t have been there, and nor should you.’

‘I tried to make her stay behind – I swear I did—’

‘She saw her duty to be with you.’

‘And I had to be at the front! I had to
see
 . . . It’s all right for you, you can fight – I had to be there, to show them I cared!’

‘Feeding the legend, were you?’ Elena’s eyes burned into her. ‘Cera, you need to find a new champion, because I don’t want the job any more. I’ll fight for you until Gurvon’s beaten, but not beyond. I’m sick of all this.’

Cera nodded mutely; it was obvious protesting wouldn’t change her mind.

Elena gave a sarcastic bow. ‘Goodnight, “Mother of Javon”.’ She stalked away, leaving Cera alone in the back corridors of the palace.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve as loneliness swept in.
I just want someone to talk to – just a friend, that’s all.
But there’s no one now.

Portia didn’t write any more, so neither did she. The young ladies-in-waiting were awestruck by her, rendered almost incapable of speech by her mere presence – and even if they could talk, it would only be about which knight or nobleman they fancied that day or what dress they’d be wearing to the next court event. And all the other courtiers wanted something; a decision or a favour or a problem to be solved, or just to be seen with her. So she drifted along the corridor, subconsciously making her way towards the only real friend she still had.

The infirmary was a small wing of the palace set aside for the well-connected casualties. The Kestrian and Nesti knights here were mostly unconscious. They’d had their wounds cleaned and bandaged, but that didn’t conceal the hideous, crippling injuries most had sustained. It was a relief to pass onwards, into the smaller room set aside for female patients.

Tarita was lying on her bed, bandaged across the nose, her lips swollen and eyes blackened. Clematia was with her, a matronly Ordo Costruo healer in the late stages of pregnancy.

‘Is she awake?’ Cera asked.

Clematia looked at Tarita pityingly. ‘She is.’

The maid flicked her eyes sideways at the sound of Cera’s voice. She was deathly pale, and so skinny her bones could be seen through her skin. They’d been feeding her through straws, but her appetite was non-existent.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tarita whispered, ‘I can’t . . .’

‘Hush, hush,’ Cera murmured. ‘We’ll have you up in no time.’ The words of the cohort commander came back to her:
broken neck, she’s better off dead.
She
sat in the chair beside the cot and took her hand. ‘I’m here . . .’

She didn’t think Tarita heard; she just gazed at Cera and wept until she fell asleep.

‘Will she ever recover?’ Cera whispered, fighting back tears.

Clematia shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. The spinal cord has failed to re-bond with the nerve-endings. She’s paralysed for the rest of her life, from the neck down.’

‘Oh dear gods – that’s hideous!’

‘I know. We’ve tried everything we can, believe me. But our gnosis cannot be fine-tuned enough to repair the nerve connections. If she was a mage herself, she could rekindle the connections using the gnosis: such self-healing cases have been documented, but of course, she’s not a mage.’

More tears stung Cera’s eyes. ‘What can we do for her?’

‘Make her comfortable, and wait and see. Sometimes, after a few years, these things can begin to fix themselves.’ Clematia smoothed Tarita’s hair. ‘I’m not sure you know that Elena Anborn has offered to adopt Tarita and tend for the girl herself. I’m told she already calls herself “Tarita Alhani” anyway.’

Cera swallowed an enormous lump in her throat. ‘Elena is her hero,’ she managed to choke out, then turned away as more tears convulsed through her.

Outside, the victory celebrations raged on.

20

Imperfect

The Reputed Power of Anger

There is a celebrated incident in southern Argundy where a half-blood, filled with righteous rage at a crime committed by a pure-blood against his family, slew that pure-blood in a duel. Some say this proves that anger enhances power in combat. Others claim the revenge was taken in cold blood, and the lesson is in fact that a cool head is more effective in battle. But we’ve found no true proof of either theory. Like many things of this nature, there is no universal rule; different things work for different people. Simple ‘universal truths’ are usually untrue.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
A
RCANUM,
H
EBUSALIM, 774

Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia

Safar (Febreux) 930

20
^th
month of the Moontide, 4 months until the end of the Moontide

Ramita stared at the young Lokistani acolyte lying prone on the bed, his lips blue and his skin pale beneath his native colour. His eyes were closed, thankfully, because she couldn’t bear to see them staring emptily into nothing.

It was the second death in their Ascendancy programme. The first had come when the fifteenth young man, a Lakh, had gone into panicked convulsions as he failed to deal with the fears his subconscious was conjuring, instead falling into a death-spasm. That had been horrible. This second death, four days later, had been very different – unexpectedly peaceful. The novice had just gone to sleep and never awakened.

‘What happened?’ Alaron asked, sounding raw, wounded.

Corinea replied in a distant voice, as if she was disassociating herself, ‘The sephanium didn’t restart his heart. That means the potion was wrong. He might have given you a wrong answer when you questioned him. Perhaps he had a heart weakness . . .’

‘Or we might have measured it wrong!’ Alaron snapped. Ramita gripped his arm, restraining him.

Corinea looked irritated, but restrained herself. ‘We did our best, Alaron.’

‘It’s a bloody waste!’

‘Two from nineteen,’ Corinea retorted. ‘Better than Baramitius.’

Alaron drew from Ramita’s calmness. ‘Sure. You’re right, I know.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘But he was as healthy as the others. And he was a good person.’

Ramita stroked his back, trying to comfort him. ‘It was always likely we would lose some,’ she said sadly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his neck. ‘Tomorrow’s candidate will be a success.’

‘I hope so.’ He bowed his head while Corinea draped a blanket over the dead novice. ‘How is the training going?’

‘Well enough.’ Ramita glanced at Master Puravai. For the past week she’d been leading the instruction of those novices who’d gained the gnosis, teaching them the basics of shielding. ‘But it could be better.’

Puravai chuckled. ‘They are Zain, and obedient. But some are struggling to adapt.’

Ramita snorted. ‘That’s a polite way of saying that nothing a
mere woman
says is worth listening to, as far as they are concerned. I tell them a thing, they look to Master Puravai to ensure it is true.’

Puravai looked a little hurt. ‘They are making progress. Some have managed to create this “mage-fire” already.’

‘How’s Yash doing?’ Alaron asked, yawning widely; he’d mostly been cooped up brewing potions with Corinea.

‘He’s better at burning things than shielding,’ Ramita said with a laugh. ‘Today he broke Haddo’s leg. He is very aggressive.’ In truth Yash was one of the few whose progress encouraged her. ‘The rest – well, they’re very timid,’ she added. That was frustrating when they needed warriors for the days to come.

‘Gateem set Haddo’s bones,’ Puravai put in. ‘He’s a skilled healer.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘It is interesting: most of them are displaying “affinities”, just like you did when I met you, being naturally drawn to certain gnosis and unable to reach others. Only a couple are so far showing the balance of mind to achieve what you and Ramita have in attaining all of the gnosis. But it’s early days.’

‘We’ve got fifteen more to give the ambrosia to, then Corinea and I can help with the training.’ Alaron looked properly exhausted, not just a little bleary-eyed from a late night or two.

Perhaps I should just let him sleep tonight
, Ramita reflected, then her own greedy needs replied,
He sleeps better after we have made love.

As usual, that voice won out.

*

‘Now!’

Alaron surveyed the training yard, as lines of young Zain novices kindled blue mage-fire in their hands. ‘Hold it! Don’t lose it!’ he encouraged, Master Puravai translating his words.

He walked down the rows, trying to impart what he knew. ‘Nurture that spark, feed it – and if you lose it, try again!’ He passed Yash, who was struggling to contain the conflagration in his hands. ‘Not too much! Control!’

Corinea was helping him, speaking in terse Keshi and Lakh. He could only hope she was reinforcing his words, not contradicting them. Ramita was in the other courtyard, helping the last novices to Ascend to catch up with the rest.

Thirty new magi:
they’d lost four. One more to panic and heart failure, and the last one . . . he’d come round all right, but when he’d tried to draw on the gnosis, his aura had been all wrong . . . the Souldrinker curse. He’d been overcome by what he described as a ghastly hunger that felt like claws ripping out his insides. It had only subsided when Corinea bound him with a Chain-rune. But he’d been the only one.

Corinea appeared to be glad of the anomaly, as if the information they might glean from that case was of more interest than the young man’s life. He was now in solitary confinement, but when Alaron confronted her about it, she just looked at him blankly and said, ‘He’s a monk: they enjoy being alone.’

Not slapping her had been hard that day.

From now on, the focus was on training the new Ascendants, and in the evenings, scrying for Malevorn, Huriya and Nasatya. He didn’t know how long it might take to find them – indeed, with the monastery surrounded by the Lokistan Mountains they might not even manage. He figured they would have no choice but to leave in the end, and take their search into the warzone – but before that, these peaceable young men, reared to be monks, had to learn to defend themselves from other magi.

Which brought him back to this moment. He raised a hand: ‘
Now, kinesis!
’
The novices slammed their fists towards a target before them, a clay disc on a string. Some of the discs were swatted into motion, most weren’t.

‘
Again!
’

Teaching the gnosis wasn’t a new thing for him: he and Ramon had secretly taught Cym in Norostein, and he’d instructed the lamiae on their journey across Yuros, pursuing the Scytale. This was only a little different. He and Puravai agreed that learning needed to be engaging, and certainly in his Arcanum days the fun lessons had also been the most productive. So he tried to turn the lessons into games: using kinesis to juggle small objects, or throwing snow at each other – trying to protect oneself from snowballs needed shielding, which required kinetic-gnosis and aura-awareness. He made a game of firing mage-bolts at targets, and challenged them to use wards to lock doors, then have their fellows try to unlock them. ‘Practise all the time, in every available moment,’ he told them repeatedly.