Ghost in the Storm (The Ghosts) (36 page)

“Can you get through it?” said Kylon.

“Yes,” said Andromache. “The Moroaica could have lifted the wards with ease. But she showed me how to unravel them. You must guard me, brother, while I work the necessary spells.”

Kylon nodded, and Andromache began to work her spells. He gazed at the bronze door, at the robed men with their skull-crowned staffs. Something about the warding spells made his skin crawl. They had been cast by a necromancer of great power, and Andromache had admitted the Moroaica wielded necromancy. 

He doubted that anything good waited behind those doors.

But soon he would find out one way or another.

Chapter 26 - Dead Men

Lightning flashed overhead as Caina hurried through the darkened streets, making her way toward the Citadel.

Bands of Istarish soldiers ran in every direction, grabbing whatever valuable objects they could carry. As she drew closer to the Plaza of the Tower, she saw the ashtairoi retreating down the Avenue of Governors in good order. No doubt Kylon or Kleistheon had kept the ashtairoi in formation, but with Rezir Shahan dead, it was doubtful the Istarish would recover.

Caina permitted herself a grim smile. She had killed many people in her time as a Ghost, and their deaths sometimes weighed upon her conscience. But she doubted Rezir Shahan’s death would ever trouble her.

Too many Kyracian and Istarish soldiers filled the Plaza of the Tower, so Caina circled through the side streets, ducking into doorways and behind barrels when groups of soldiers hurried past, and made her way to Foundry Square. 

Someone had taken the trouble to fortify the massive foundry that dominated the Square, and a maze of barricades filled the Square itself. Caina saw women and old men standing atop the foundry's roof, crossbows in hand. They didn't see her, of course, not with her shadow-cloak. She wondered who had been clever enough to organize the foundry's defense. One of the veterans, perhaps. 

She slipped past Foundry Square, arrived at the massive stone ramp that led to the Citadel’s gates, and turned her mind to a more important puzzle.

Namely, how to kill Andromache. 

Caina had killed sorcerers of power before – Maglarion, Kalastus, Jadriga. Yet those had been very close fights, and Caina had only been able to prevail by exploiting the errors of her enemies. Directly confronting a sorceress of Andromache's power was madness. 

So. An indirect approach. An ambush, an assassination. Caina's belt held a flask of poison she had taken from Halfdan's safehouse, along with the remaining flask of Radast’s explosive elixir. With the poison, she could coat the head of a crossbow bolt and send it into Andromache. Andromache's storm sorcery let her deflect crossbow bolts with ease, but Caina had the shadow-cloak. With it, she could catch Andromache unawares, and shoot her in the back before the stormsinger raised any defense. 

Kylon would stop her, if given the chance, and would come after Caina if she killed Andromache. 

That was a risk she would just have to take. 

She rounded a corner and stopped. 

A broad paved area, not quite large enough to be a proper plaza, rested at the base of the Citadel's ramp. Lord Hiram had told her the Legions sometimes drilled here. Now the area was deserted, save for a dozen dark figures standing at the base of the ramp.

Sicarion and his mercenaries.

Sicarion stepped toward her, drawing back his hood. Another lightning bolt flashed overhead, throwing stark shadows across his scarred face. 

“Mistress,” said Sicarion with a polite bow. “I'm glad you could join us. Thank you for taking off your shadow-cloak, by the way. It was not easy to find you.”

“How's your new hand?” said Caina, looking back and forth. Three streets branched away from the base of the ramp, though they all headed toward the Avenue of Champions. If she started running now...

She suddenly felt overwhelming relief that she had left Nicolai in the amphora shop. Otherwise he would have been with her when Sicarion found her. And the gods only knew what Sicarion would have done to Nicolai. 

“Oh, quite lovely, thank you,” said Sicarion, flexing his right hand. “A bit large for my taste. I prefer more agility in my fingers. But sometimes strength is simply what is needed.”

“A question,” said Caina, looking for an escape.

“Anything, mistress,” said Sicarion.

“Why do you think I am the Moroaica?” 

“Because you are the Moroaica,” said Sicarion. 

“That is absurd,” said Caina. “I slew Jadriga myself. And I have no talent for sorcery.” Thank the gods for that. “Did you use your necromancy to graft a monkey's brain into your skull? Because I can think of no other reason for you to believe that I am the Moroaica.” 

Unless, of course, Kylon's theory was correct, and a portion of Jadriga's power had lodged within Caina. 

“A monkey's brain,” said Sicarion with a dry chuckle. “Ah, the mistress ever had a rough edge to her tongue. And you are the Moroaica, my dear. You simply don't know it yet. But you will.” He beckoned, and some of his men moved forward. “Which is why I'm simply going to capture you unharmed.”

“How thoughtful,” said Caina. There was something strange about his mercenaries...

“Thank you,” said Sicarion. “In fact, once your memory returns, you will reward me quite handsomely. Take her. But gently.” 

The mercenaries started forward, and Caina turned to run.

Only to freeze in astonishment. 

She had seen one of those mercenaries before. In fact, she had last seen him lying on the floor of the burned warehouse, dying from a cut throat. Caina had killed that man. 

Yet he was walking toward her, his expression slack, and she saw the ragged wound upon his throat. How this even possible? She had killed him, she...

The crawling tingle of necromancy brushed against her skin.

Oh. Right.

Caina ran as fast as he could manage. 

The dead men were faster.

They moved with uncanny speed, legs pumping up and down as if something other than muscles moved them. Caina threw herself to the side and changed direction, remembering her tactics against Kylon. But whatever necromantic force bound the corpses granted them superhuman agility to match their speed. Caina managed another five steps, and then a dead hand seized her shoulder. She twisted aside, but stumbled and lost her footing, and the dead men grabbed her. 

Cold hands wrapped about her arms, holding her fast. She tried to twist away, but the hands of the dead men felt like iron bands. 

Sicarion approached. “Hold her head.”

One of the living mercenaries yanked off Caina's hood and mask, her head gripped between his callused palms. Sicarion pressed something cold and wet over her mouth and nose, a chemical smell flooding her nostrils. Caina tried to hold her breath, but the odor made her head spin, and the world dissolved into nothingness around her.

###

Caina found herself standing in a ballroom.

The vast room was floored with polished marble, the vaulted ceiling rising overhead. Elaborate crystalline chandeliers hung from the ceiling, adorned with hundreds of glowing glass spheres manufactured by the initiates of the Magisterium. Balconies ringed the ballroom, offering galleries where guests could speak with one another privately. Caina knew this place. It was Lord Haeron Icaraeus's ballroom, in his mansion at Malarae.

Maglarion had destroyed it.

This was obviously a dream. 

Caina looked at herself. She was wearing the elaborate blue gown she had worn on the day Maglarion had destroyed the ballroom, the day she had tried and failed to kill him. Blue with black trim, silver jewelry glittering upon her fingers and ears. She had masqueraded as Countess Marianna Nereide, hoping to infiltrate Haeron's mansion and find Maglarion.

It had worked. Haeron Icaraeus was dead, and Caina herself had killed Maglarion. 

So why was she dreaming of this ballroom? 

“Because,” Caina said to herself, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “I thought I killed Maglarion here. But he was on his feet again moments later, and he almost killed me. That's it, isn't it?”

“A keen insight, child.”

Caina turned, and saw the Moroaica walking toward her.

Jadriga wore a blue gown identical to Caina's, even with the same silver and sapphire jewelry. The Moroaica’s black hair had been piled in an intricate crown, and Caina reached up and found that her own hair had been coiffed identically. Jadriga was taller, and her eyes were black, not blue, but other than that...

Other than that, she looked a great deal like Caina. 

“You're not Maglarion,” said Caina. “I killed you. You fell into the fallen angels' prison. You are dead.”

Jadriga smiled, her eyes as black and cold as that pit below Black Angel Tower. “You saw me die.” 

“Then why,” said Caina, “do I keep having dreams about you?”

Jadriga shrugged. “Perhaps my memory is pleasant to you.”

Caina gave a hard laugh. “Hardly.”

“Then perhaps you have asked the wrong question.” 

Caina thought it over for a moment.

“Why,” she said at last, “does Sicarion think that I am you? Why does Kylon think that some of your power is inside me?” The thought still made Caina's skin crawl. Having any of Jadriga’s power within her would be like having her hands covered in filth that would never wash away.

“Maglarion and Sicarion both,” said Jadriga, “are wrong.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Caina. 

“Sicarion is a loyal servant,” said Jadriga, “and Maglarion was a brilliant student. Even if he turned against me. But they believed immortality lies in the flesh. That the flesh can be made to last forever.” She shook her head, the sapphires in her earrings glittering. “All mortal flesh fails. No matter how capable the necromancy, no matter how great the sorcery, all flesh dies in the end.”

“What does that mean?”

Jadriga smiled. “That means that true immortality lies in the spirit, not in the flesh. Maglarion thought to make his body live forever. He was wrong. Sicarion thinks to live forever by replacing his body parts as they fail. He will be wrong, eventually. Mortal flesh dies, but the spirit lives forever. And when something wears out, what do you do with it?”

“You replace it,” said Caina. “Does that mean you will live again in a new body? That you'll be reborn, that some woman carries you unknowingly in her womb? I killed you once before, and I can do it again.”

“Already you understand,” said Jadriga. “Maglarion rebelled against me, and Sicarion is my loyal servant. But neither one of them truly understood. Had they done so, they would not have wasted such efforts of sustaining their bodies. They could have simply claimed new ones.” Her black eyes glinted like the edge of an obsidian knife. “But Scorikhon understood this.” 

“So he really was your student,” said Caina.

“And loyal to his teacher, as well,” said Jadriga. “He had the rare understanding that true immortality was found not in the flesh, but in the spirit.” Her cold smile widened. “As Andromache will soon understand.”

“As Andromache will understand?” said Caina. “She thinks to live forever with the power from the Tomb?”  Somehow Caina did not think that was it. From what Kylon had said, Andromache wanted to use the power to become preeminent among the Archons of New Kyre.  

“She will understand,” said Jadriga. “As will you.” She glanced at the ceiling. “You will awaken now. Remember what I have told you. For just as Andromache will understand...you, too, will soon understand.”

Caina opened her mouth to ask another question. 

The floor trembled beneath her, and Lord Haeron's ballroom dissolved into nothingness.

Chapter 27 - The Tomb of Scorikhon

Caina awoke to the sound of an argument. 

Her head throbbed with pain, and for a long moment she did not know where she was. Then bit by bit her memory returned. The attack on Marsis. Andromache and her powerful sorcery. 

Sicarion's ambush.

Caina's eyes flickered open. 

She hung between two of the dead men, their clammy hands around her arms. Their touch filled her with revulsion, and she wanted to pull away. But she forced herself to remain motionless and limp, and let her eyelids flutter open. 

She was in a round chamber of rough stone, the ceiling supported by thick pillars. On the far wall stood two large bronze doors, their surface carved with Maatish hieroglyphs. She felt dark, necromantic power radiating from the doors. 

The Tomb of Scorikhon. 

Andromache's sharp voice cut into Caina's thoughts. 

“Why did you bring her here?” said Andromache. 

“Because,” said Sicarion, “she is the Moroaica. She is the mistress.”

“She is not the Moroaica!” said Andromache, her voice angrier than Caina had ever heard it. “Undoing these wards is delicate work, and I will not have your foolishness interfere with...”

“She's awake,” said Kylon. “And has been for some time, I think.”

Caina opened her eyes the rest of the way. 

Andromache and Sicarion stood besides the Tomb's bronze doors. Kylon waited some distance away, his sword drawn. He had positioned himself, Caina noted, close enough to strike Sicarion down. 

Or Caina, if necessary. 

Andromache's mouth twisted. “Why should I be surprised? She is a Ghost, as Rezir said. The Ghosts are spies. I should have let Rezir kill her.”

“Rezir failed to kill her,” said Kylon, looking at Caina, “because Rezir was stupid enough to let him frighten her horse.” He hesitated. “She is...dangerous, sister.” 

“She is the Moroaica,” said Sicarion.

“Gods of the storm,” said Andromache. She stalked closer, glared down at Caina. “Are you the Moroaica? Speak plainly.”

“No,” said Caina. “I did kill her, though.” 

“Absurd,” said Andromache, turning away. “Kylon, kill her. I do not want her to interfere when I open the Tomb.”