Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (7 page)

Cera recognised the faint look of concentration on Elena’s face even as her white dress began to glow, the effect so subtle it looked entirely natural, just as if the light shone slightly brighter on her than on mere mortals. On a roof above, a single white songbird fluttered its wings and broke into song.

Then a woman in the front of the crowd burst into a loud, joyous wail of thanks to Ahm and sank to her knees, and slowly, the rest did the same, a wave of homage that swept backwards through the plaza.

Cera almost fell to her knees herself, bowled over by relief, but she kept her legs straight, locked in place, her eyes gazing into space, as Elena had instructed: this was only the first step, and there were so many more to take.

*

Kazim Makani sipped a peach sharbat and wished the evening would end as yet another kohl-eyed Jhafi lady glided up and enquired, ever so subtly, if it was indeed the case that he, a Keshi lord, was wed to a Rondian mage. He wasn’t married, but that was not because of any lack of commitment, which went deeper than anyone here could imagine. He was a Souldrinker, but he no longer had to kill to maintain his power, for their bond of love had become a gnostic bond, replenishing him as if they were one being. It was far easier to gravely assure the noblewoman that he was indeed married to Lady Alhana, and that Ahm had been generous to give him such a wife, blessed as they
both
were with the gnosis. He had to restrain himself from laughing as the woman scrabbled to get away, all but poking his eye out with a gesture against the evil eye.

It’s either laugh or go mad.

The hardest part of the evening was still to come: dinner. Elena had been drilling him on table etiquette among the nobility, and though it sounded simple enough there was much to remember. Eat with the right hand – slowly! – and don’t finish everything on your plate. Sip your drink; don’t eat when someone talks to you; take your time and lots more besides.

‘You can always eat in your room afterwards,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not really a meal; think of it as more like a conversation with nibbles.’

But it was the nuances that were confusing him; like what to do with his left hand, and how to remember all these accursed titles. He was deeply regretting leaving Elena’s side, but right now she was in earnest conversation with a Jhafi lord on the other side of the room. Her shining blonde hair marked her out in this sea of glossy black hair and dark skin. Her face was tanned but recognisably Yurosian, with crow’s feet around her eyes that gave away that she was much older than him. He didn’t care: she was a mage, and would enjoy a long and vigorous life. With him.

‘Lord Makani?’

He turned, and found the one person in the room he’d been avoiding: Cera Nesti, a young woman with thick black hair plaited around her head, deep-set eyes and a grave manner. Elena had exchanged Cera and Timori for the life of the Rondian spymaster Gurvon Gyle, and he still doubted they’d got the best of that deal. Timori might make a good king one day, but this Cera Nesti seemed untrustworthy – she’d already betrayed Elena once. Was she truly worth losing the ferret-faced Rondian? He was someone who could turn the tides of war with a single knife-thrust – and he was Elena’s former lover. Not that he was jealous of the man; far from it; he just knew he’d sleep easier if Gyle was dead.

He turned his attention to Cera, who’d been waiting patiently for him to acknowledge her. He sketched a bow. ‘My Queen,’ he said politely, though she wasn’t his queen at all.

‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ Cera said, ‘ever since the news came to Brochena that Elena and an unknown Keshi had been attacking Dorobon soldiers. I’ve been wondering who you were.’

Kazim had never been a shy youth, or modest – but that was before he’d become a Hadishah assassin, killed Antonin Meiros, the most famous mage in the world, and discovered he was a Souldrinker. Now he’d rather talk about almost anyone other than himself. ‘My parent was Ordo Costruo,’ he lied, giving the agreed story. ‘There’s not much more to tell.’

Cera looked sceptical. ‘Were you raised in Dhassa? Your accent is unusual.’

‘Er, no . . . in Lakh.’

‘Really? Teshwallabad?’

‘No, Baranasi.’

‘Ah – but your parents were Keshi, yes?’

‘Yes.’
This much is true
. ‘My father was severely wounded in the First Crusade and taken in by a Lakh trader. He took my parents south to Lakh so he could care for him.’

‘That was a great kindness.’ Cera studied him frankly, but not in the way that women usually did. He was used to women looking at him speculatively, but her eyes were cool and distant. She’d been condemned as a safian, and though it was clear most Jhafi thought it a lie concocted by the Rondians to justify ridding themselves of a troublesome young woman, Elena believed it to be true. It felt odd to be in the company of such a one. There had sometimes been gossip in his youth about this or that girl liking her female friends far too much, but he’d never met someone he actually knew was . . .
that
. It left him unsure how to react.

‘How did you come to return to the north?’ Cera asked.

‘I heard the call for shihad,’ he said after a moment. That too was at least part of the whole story. ‘I should join Elena—’

‘Wait! Would you please tell Elena that . . . that I won’t let her down again. I swear it.’ Cera looked up at him, her dark eyes full of pain.

‘Can’t you tell her yourself?’

‘I don’t think I can,’ she admitted. ‘Not in a way she’ll believe. I was so stupid to listen to Gyle – but I was scared, and . . . I thought I was protecting Timori.’

Elena hadn’t told him the details of what had happened – she had to come to that in her own time. But he thought his lover did want to find a way to forgive. ‘I’ll tell Alhana what you said,’ he promised.
And it is time for her to tell me what happened, so I will know the signs if it happens again.

She turned away, then stopped. ‘Does Elena have a plan to get us out of here?’

He grinned, despite his wariness. ‘Most certainly, yes.’

*

Elena Anborn tied down her pack and buckled on her sword belt, then looked around the room where she and Kazim had spent the past week. She was thankful to be able to cast aside the bekira-shroud and courtly manners and get back to being who she really was: a mage and a warrior.

Beside her, Kazim flexed and stretched, as impatient as she to be moving. For a week they’d been laying plans with Mekmud, Cera and those of Mekmud’s advisors he really trusted. Lybis was no place to try and start a war from, not when the Nesti’s main strength was in Forensa, on the far side of the kingdom, and Mekmud accepted this, though he clearly wanted Elena and Kazim to stay. The best he’d been able to wrangle from Cera, who’d grown into a shrewd negotiator despite her youth, were unspecified promises of aid. Once they’d gone, Mekmud would fight on regardless, and hope the Rondians withdrew once open war broke out.

‘Where is Gyle now?’ Kazim asked.

Elena sighed. ‘I don’t know. He might be in Lybis town, just a few miles away, or he might be back to Brochena by now. But if I were him, I’d be trying to pen us in here, and that’s why we need to get out.’

‘I can’t wait,’ he said fervently.

In her gnostic sight, Kazim’s nature was clear: she could clearly see the tainted aura of the Souldrinker, the tendrils embedded in her own aura, but they were so entwined now that the further she and Kazim were apart, the more it hurt; even a few hundred yards was hard. They were Mage and Dokken in love, bound together in unprecedented ways, with nothing in history or legend to guide them – they were making it up as they went.

‘Then let’s go,’ she said firmly.

As they left the room together, her eyes lingered over the stone latticed windows where they’d sipped coffee and watched the sunset from a tangle of pillows and blankets. It had been a beautiful interlude.

They descended a spiral stair, emerging on battlements overlooking the valley. The dawn air was cool, for all that it was summer. Elena’s eyes were drawn upwards to two small Rondian windskiffs circling high above. Was Gurvon Gyle up there, or Rutt Sordell? Neither, she hoped.

A mental touch nudged her consciousness and she responded, then signalled to the waiting group below to join her. Cera and Timori were among them, dressed in travelling clothes and rubbing bleary eyes.

A sentry shouted as a large windship swam into view from around a bluff. Its sails bore the emblem of the Holy Inquisition of Kore: a scarlet Sacred Heart impaled on the Dagger that slew Corineus. Alarm bells clanged wildly in the gate-tower and men began to pour from the barracks.

Elena pursed her lips as the two windskiffs darted toward the ship, no doubt sending greetings back and forth. The next few moments would tell her whether this was going to go smoothly or not. She gripped the stone wall, watching as the skiffs ran up alongside the Inquisition vessel. Beside her, the emir’s men peered anxiously upwards.

There were only half a dozen sailors visible on the warbird, which was some fifty yards long, with swivel-mounted ballistae fore and aft. The rough-clad captain was exchanging words with the nearest skiff-pilot, though they were too far off for Elena to make out what they were saying.

Suddenly shapes rose from concealment on the Inquisition ship and the ballistae, giant crossbows on swivel-mounts, swung round. She saw fire ignite as the crew set alight the bundles of rags that had been tied behind the spearheads – then the bolts went searing across the sky like comets.

The nearest skiff was swatted sideways as the bolt slammed into the mast and sent the little ship spinning over and over. Arms and legs flailed in vain as the pilot fell towards the ground just as his craft burst into flames. But he was the fortunate one. The other mage-pilot was convulsing wildly as he was pinned to the mast by the bolt, engulfed by the flames that roared up his sails. Without his gnosis to move it, his craft lost impetus and just hung, burning, in the air.

On the walls, the soldiers were bewildered: enemies fighting enemies in the skies above was quite beyond their experience. Elena frowned as the falling pilot engaged Air-gnosis and soared away down the valley, arms spread and robes flapping madly. He wasn’t as fast as a skiff, and he’d not be able to get far, but she’d hoped to kill both men.

She looked to the warbird, calling mentally,

The emir’s officers had succeeded in reassuring the soldiers that the incoming windship was friend, not foe, and when the trumpeter blared a few notes, the call to attention, and the noise in the courtyard barely lessened, Emir Mekmud shouted, ‘Be still!’ When his men were once again silent and giving him their full attention, he called, ‘No matter what you now see, keep your hands from your weapons!’

‘What’s happening?’ Timori asked loudly.

‘The windship does indeed belong to the Rondian Inquisition – but it has been stolen by friends!’ Mekmud shouted. He was greeted by cheers which died away as he added, ‘Those onboard are allies of Lady Alhana – and
they are not human
.’

The onlookers gasped, and as one the eyes of the soldiers flashed as they stared at Elena. This would be as near to a demon as any of these men would ever see, and she hoped they would be able to keep calm. ‘The ship is piloted by men,’ she called in Jhafi. ‘But the fighters aboard are Naga!’

A palpable sense of superstitious awe was generated by her words: though the emir’s people were Amteh, most would know something of Omali mythology and the tales of the snakemen who helped the gods to create the world – though she doubted any here would ever have believed in them.

And quite rightly
,
she added wryly to herself.
Well, they’re in for a surprise now!

The windship sailed right to the walls and came about, silhouetted by the rising sun against the glorious pink and gold dawn sky. She heard cries of wonder as a shape swarmed up the masts and furled the sails, moving with incredible agility – thanks to the massive snake-tail he had instead of legs. As the creature came into sight the watching Jhafi could see that his skin was scaly and green, and a crest like a rooster’s adorned his skull. Others appeared on deck, equally inhuman – and heavily armed.

Though Elena had called them ‘Naga’ so the Jhafi would know what to expect, these creatures named themselves ‘lamia’, from Lantric legend – although that was no more accurate, for they hadn’t been created by gods, but constructed by magi, illegally using Animagery to blend men and reptiles in a bid to make better soldiers.

l still can’t believe my wayward nephew is responsible for me having an Inquisition windship full of escaped constructs at my beck and call
, she thought, and offered up a heartfelt,
Thank you, Alaron!

‘Lady Elena?’ the largest male ‘Naga’ called as ropes were thrown down and lashed to stanchions along the wall.

‘Kekropius – you’re right on time!’

The emir’s men stared in fear and fascination: few had even seen windships this close, let alone creatures straight out of myth, and they backed away as the lamia Elder flowed down a rope to the battlements. Kekropius had a human upper body broad enough to rival even Kazim’s, but the length of his thick, lithe snake trunk made him a giant. Though his face was almost human, his slitted amber eyes, skin tones and musculature made him look utterly alien.

Elena swept into a respectful bow. Kekropius might not pick up the nuances of the greeting, but the men watching would certainly understand her open acknowledgement of friendship and equality.

Hopefully that will be enough to prevent any of Mekmud’s men from panicking and doing something stupid.
‘Welcome, welcome, and thrice welcome,’ she cried aloud in Rondian, seizing Kekropius’ right hand with both of hers. ‘It is very good to see you, my friend!’

‘And you, Elena,’ the lamia replied, before embracing Kazim, causing murmurs of wonder among those watching. ‘The kin of Alaron our Guide has only to ask and we will come.’