Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 07 - Ghost in the Ashes (27 page)

“As do I,” said Muravin. “Still, his son shall carry on his memory.”

Caina nodded, spoke with them for a few moments longer, and then left.

Corvalis awaited her in the sitting room, sharpening one of his daggers.

“Ah,” he said, looking up. “You’re smiling. The baby is well, then?”

“He is,” said Caina. “They named him for me.”

Corvalis grinned. “I know.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” 

“I thought you would enjoy the surprise,” said Corvalis.

Caina laughed, kissed him, and threaded her arm through his as they left the foundry. 

Her thoughts turned to the future as they walked through Malarae’s streets. She need not become the Moroaica’s ally or the sorceress she had seen in the netherworld. There was another path open before her, that of the Ghost circlemaster. Of a woman who used her influence and knowledge to save others, to help those like Muravin and Mahdriva and Tanzir. 

Mahdriva’s son was alive because of her, and that knowledge made Caina’s heart feel lighter than it had been in a long time.

Someday, she knew, she would stop being a Ghost nightfighter.

But not quite yet.

Epilogue

Tanzir Shahan, emir of the Vale of Fallen Stars, strode into the solar of his family’s mansion in the heart of Istarinmul.

His mother reclined on pillows, attended by a pair of slaves. Even in her late forties, the amirja Ashria was still beautiful, with skin the color of bronze and long, glossy black hair. But the black eyes that turned towards him were cold and hard as obsidian knives.

“So,” she said, voice dripping with disdain, “you have returned from groveling before the Emperor’s throne? Pitiful. Send Sinan to me. I would have words with him.”

Tanzir quailed before the scorn in her voice, and wanted to leave the solar and hide in the library.

He started to turn, but then he remembered the words of the blue-eyed Ghost, and nodded to himself.

“Angry that he failed to kill me, I suppose?” said Tanzir.

Ashria’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you mean. Cease this foolishness and tell Sinan to attend me.”

“He is dead,” said Tanzir.

For the first time, a hint of surprise went over her face. “What? How did he die?”

“Of his own folly, as it happens,” said Tanzir. He took a deep breath. “Mother, you are under arrest for plotting the assassination of the emir of the Vale of Fallen Stars. Namely, myself.”

Ashria laughed with disdain. “How amusing! Do you think to threaten me, boy? You cannot lay a hand on me.”

“I cannot,” said Tanzir, “but the Immortals the Padishah loaned me think otherwise.”

He clapped his hands, and a half-dozen of the Padishah’s personal Immortals strode into the solar.

“What is this?” said Ashria, her voice rising to a screech as the Immortals hauled her to her feet. “Do you think this is a joke? Morazir will never stand for this!”

“They arrested Morazir on our way here,” said Tanzir.

“Unhand me!” shrieked Ashria, clawing at the Immortals. “I command you to unhand me at once!”

“The penalty for hiring assassins is traditionally death,” said Tanzir, “but I persuaded the Padishah to show leniency. You are being exiled to the monastery on the Isle of Seven Stairs. I understand the monks consider physical labor to be cleansing for the soul. I do hope you enjoy tending gardens, Mother.”

She screamed curses at him, threatened him with death and mutilation and worse, but the Immortals dragged her from the room, and her threats faded away.

Tanzir let out a long breath, his heart racing, sweat dripping down his face.

He saw his mother’s slaves staring at him in shock. 

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. Um.” He thought for a moment. “That silk hanging there, by the window. Could you take it down? I really never cared for it.”

The slaves leapt to do his bidding.

It really did improve the look of the rom.

Tanzir had never asserted himself before…but he thought he might come to enjoy it.

###

Darkness fell over the Imperial capital of Malarae. The burned-out ruins of the Lord Ambassador’s residence jutted against the night sky, like blackened bones rising from the earth.

It reminded the Moroaica of the pharaohs’ pyramids rising from the sands of the Maatish desert.

She stood outside the mansion, gazing at the ruins. Her spirit still wore the flesh of Mihaela the Seeker, and she had kept Mihaela’s preferred costume of leather vest, trousers, and heavy boots. Much as the Moroaica preferred skirts, she had come to appreciate the trousers’ freedom of movement. 

She had grown Mihaela’s black hair out, though. 

The pharaoh’s priests had shaved her head, long ago. They had embalmed her, bound her spirit to her undead flesh, and sealed her within a tomb, condemning her to serve the pharaoh as a drudge for all eternity.

Jadriga felt her lips curl into a smile. 

The priests were all dead, and the souls of the pharaohs had been bound upon the desert wind to burn screaming for all eternity.

How they had begged for mercy! 

They were all dead…and she was not. They had paid for the pain they had inflicted upon her. 

But there were more to repay.

The gods themselves would pay for what they had done.

Caina Amalas would have said that was madness, but she did not understand. Some of Caina’s memories flooded through the Moroaica’s mind, and she remembered lying in Corvalis’s arms, his mouth against hers, their bodies pressed together…

A wave of longing went through the Moroaica, sharper than anything she had felt in centuries.

She pushed it aside with annoyance. The memories were not hers.

Jadriga looked against at the mansion, focusing upon the reason she had come to Malarae. 

“Well,” said the Moroaica to the woman standing next to her. “What do you think?”

The woman was eighteen years old and beautiful, with long red hair, bright green eyes, and curves of hip and bosom accentuated by her close-fitting green gown. Her eyes were full of hatred as they stared at Jadriga. 

“It seems,” said the young woman, “that your guess was correct, mistress.” Her voice was hard and confident beyond her years. “The Alchemist failed utterly.” 

“Indeed,” said the Moroaica, examining the emanations of spent sorcery that echoed around the ruined mansion. “He underestimated the child of the Ghosts. He should not have done that.”

The young woman scowled. “You should kill her immediately. That wretched…”

Jadriga looked at the other woman.

The woman lowered her eyes at once. “Forgive me, mistress. I spoke out of turn.”

The Moroaica nodded. 

“But you can see,” whispered the red-haired woman, her voice filled with loathing, “why I wish her dead.”

“I can,” said Jadriga. The woman standing at her side – or at least the spirit wearing the woman’s body – had betrayed her. But Jadriga never cast aside a useful tool, and the woman would be useful to her yet. 

There had been no particular reason to bind the spirit of Ranarius, once the preceptor of Cyrioch, to the body of a woman. 

But even with all the centuries Jadriga had seen, watching Ranarius’s discomfort at his new form was still amusing. 

A dark shadow emerged from the mansion’s broken doors, and Jadriga walked forward, Ranarius trailing after her. A short man in a black cloak walked from the ruins. A hint of moonlight touched the face beneath the cowl, revealing a ghastly patchwork of scars. One eye was a sulfurous orange-yellow, while the other was a pale blue.

He must have replaced it recently. 

“Mistress,” said Sicarion with a deep bow. He looked at Ranarius and grinned. “And you, my lovely lady.”

“Be silent,” hissed Ranarius. 

“The Ghost killed you the first time,” said Sicarion, his rusty voice dripping with mockery, “but perhaps I’ll get do it the second time.”

“Enough,” said Jadriga, voice calm. “Did you find it?”

Sicarion bowed again. “Indeed I did, mistress.”

He handed her a metal flask carved with blue-glowing sigils. At once she felt the tremendous power within the flask, the latent energy in the gathered phoenix ashes.

“Good,” said Jadriga. “Very good. The fool Alchemist used only the smallest part of the ashes. Prudent, if futile. But all the more convenient for us…and for the great work.”

She had the Staff of the Elements. She had the phoenix ashes.

And now she needed one more thing, just one more, and she would remake the world.

And make the gods themselves pay for their cruelties. 

THE END

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Turn the page to read the first chapter of the next book in the series, 
Ghost in the Mask
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GHOST IN THE MASK Chapter 1 - Dust and Ashes

Caina didn’t think she had to kill anyone at dinner, but she came armed anyway.

She sat on one side of the long table, her blond hair piled in an elaborate crown. For clothing she had chosen a rich gold-colored gown with black trim, the waist tight and the bodice low. Jewels glittered on her fingers, ears, and throat, and she had spent the better part of an hour applying slightly too much makeup. The net effect made her look like a merchant’s concubine, a peasant woman come into more money that she knew how to handle.

Which was exactly what Caina wanted. 

When the powerful men looked at her, she wanted them to see Sonya Tornesti, the flighty mistress of the coffee merchant Anton Kularus. She did not want them to see Caina Amalas, a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar.

She especially did not want the magi to see the nightfighter of the Ghosts. 

Given that the magi surrounded her. 

She sat with Corvalis Aberon in the grand hall of the Magisterium’s Malarae chapterhouse. Just as Caina masqueraded as Sonya Tornesti, so too did Corvalis wear the black coat and white shirt and gleaming boots of Anton Kularus, master merchant. Kularus was rich, but not noble. In the Empire’s social hierarchy, that meant he had received an invitation to the new preceptor’s banquet, but he sat among the merchants and the lower-ranking members of the Magisterium.

“I must say,” said Corvalis, gesturing with his wine cup. He had grown a mustache and a short goatee, making his face look thinner and sharper. Caina did not care for it, but it helped disguise him, just as her dyed blond hair helped maintain her disguise. “Your new preceptor looks rather like an overfed owl.” 

The magus sitting across from them, an emaciated-looking man in his middle twenties, blinked in surprise. Caina detested the magi, but Vanius was so timid that she only felt pity for him. 

“Master Kularus,” said Vanius. “Septimus Rhazion is the new preceptor of the Malarae chapter, and deserves our respect.”

“I didn’t deny that,” said Corvalis, flashing a smile beneath his blond beard. “Is not the owl the wisest of all birds?”

“This is so,” said Caina, making sure to mask her formal High Nighmarian with a heavy Szaldic accent. Sonya Tornesti was Szaldic, even if Caina was not. “In the stories of the Szalds, the owl is often a bearer of wisdom.” 

“Precisely, my dear,” said Corvalis. “I am sure the preceptor is most wise. Like an owl. Though he simply looks like an owl that has been overfed.” 

Vanius blinked. “Ah…you may have a point.”

Caina looked across the dining hall of the Magisterium’s chapterhouse. Like the rest of the chapterhouse, it had been built of dark stone, enspelled glass globes throwing light over the walls and vaulted ceiling. Long tables ran the hall’s length, holding food and drink, and lords and merchants and magi and priests talked and ate. A dais with a high table rose at the end of the hall. The chapter’s master magi and the more prominent nobles sat there. 

Septimus Rhazion, the new preceptor of the Malarae chapter, sat at the center of the high table. Halfdan, the circlemaster of the Ghosts, had secured invitations to the preceptor’s inaugural banquet, and sent Caina and Corvalis to discern whether Rhazion presented any threat to the Ghosts in Malarae. Rhazion had a formidable reputation within the Magisterium, had written several books dealing with the defeat and banishment of creatures from the netherworld.

Though Caina had to admit that he did indeed look like a balding, overweight owl. 

And she suspected he was even less dangerous.

Caina listened with half an ear as Corvalis bantered with Vanius, her eyes on the high table. Rhazion had not stopped talking for nearly an hour, and even from a distance Caina heard his voice droning on about theories of arcane science. The eyes of the lords near him had grown glassy, and the master magi ignored their preceptor as they spoke with each other in low voices. 

Their disdain for the man was palpable, as was Rhazion’s obliviousness to it.

Clearly, the man was no threat to the Ghosts of Malarae. 

Of course, that sword was two-edged. Had Rhazion been a more capable leader, he could have forged the Malarae chapter into a formidable force, one capable of hounding the Ghosts. But a stronger preceptor would have kept the magi under tight control…and under Rhazion some magi might feel free to pursue the forbidden arcane sciences of necromancy and pyromancy…

The doors swung open with a massive boom.

Caina looked up, saw the man standing in the doors…and her right hand strayed to the throwing knives concealed in her left sleeve. Corvalis looked away from Vanius and frowned, hand falling to his sword hilt.

A silence fell over the hall. 

The man was barefoot, clad in a ragged black magus’s robe with a soiled red sash. His graying hair stood up in an unruly shock, and several days’ worth of stubble shaded his jaw. He looked even more emaciated than Vanius, and his eyes glittered with something like madness.

His hand grasped the hilt of a sheathed dagger at his sash.

“Septimus Rhazion!” roared the magus, striding into the hall. He stopped between two of the long tables, twenty paces from Caina.

The dagger at his belt drew her eyes. The hilt was black, and she saw the gleam of a crystal in the blade. Caina sensed sorcerous power gathered within the weapon. A necromancer had wounded her as a child, and ever since, she had the ability to detect the presence of sorcery. The many minor spells employed by the magi had grated on her during the banquet.

But those were only pinpricks compared to the power within the dagger.

“Corvalis,” whispered Caina.

He nodded, eyes on the ragged man. 

Rhazion rose with affronted dignity. “And who might you be?”

The ragged man spat. “You do not remember me, Rhazion? Have the years made your wits as feeble as your limbs?”

Rhazion’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Your impudent tongue is…wait. I remember you. Jurius?”

“So you do recall me,” said Jurius. He took a step closer to the dais. A dozen master magi sat at the high table, and between them they had enough sorcerous power to crush Jurius to bloody paste. All the lords carried swords, and Magisterial Guards in their black armor lined the hall. If Jurius tried anything, either the magi would rip him apart, or the swordsmen would cut him down.

Yet she still felt the power radiating from his dagger. Power that felt disturbingly familiar…

“Indeed,” said Rhazion. “You should count yourself fortunate that I remember so minor a malefactor.”

“You cast me out of the Magisterium,” said Jurius, “because my knowledge frightened you, because my power terrified…”

Rhazion laughed. “That is not how I remember it. I cast you out of the Magisterium because you abused your arcane sciences to help the smugglers of the Inner Sea evade Imperial tax collectors. And you turned quite a pretty profit, as I recall. You were banished from the Empire for ten years…so I suppose you are within your rights to return. Though I will not accept you back into the Magisterium.” 

“I did not come here to grovel,” said Jurius, “for I have grown far, far beyond your petty Magisterium.” The master magi chuckled among themselves. “Instead, I came to deliver a message.”

The magi laughed, as did the lords and merchants. Yet Caina and Corvalis remained silent. 

She noticed how Jurius’s knuckles tightened against the dagger’s hilt. 

“You should be grateful you did not try this foolishness in front of Decius Aberon,” said Rhazion. “He would have had you killed on the spot. But I do not wish to mar my first week as preceptor with bloodshed. So. Speak your message, and then remove yourself from the presence of your betters.” 

Jurius laughed. “Very well. I come to herald a new age! For you shall all see the glory of Anubankh!” 

Again the magi laughed. 

“Ridiculous!” one shouted. “You have taken in with a foreign cult? Go sacrifice a sheep and trouble us no more.”

Caina expected Jurius to take offense at the mockery, but the outcast magus only smiled. She searched her memory, trying to remember where she had heard the name Anubankh.

Because she was sure she had heard it before.

“You will see his glory,” said Jurius. “For his power is certain, and his prophet has spoken! The Empire shall fall, and a new power will supplant it. The Kingdom of the Rising Sun shall rise anew!”

And that made Caina sit bolt upright. 

She knew what the Kingdom of the Rising Sun was, or what it had been. The Maatish nation had been ruled by god-pharaohs and necromancer-priests, sorcerers without equal. The Kingdom of the Rising Sun had fallen long ago, but its relics remained. 

The necromantic knowledge contained in one scroll of ancient Maat, just one, had cost her father his life…and had almost killed every last man, woman, and child in Malarae. 

“Anton,” she hissed under her breath, and Corvalis look at her. “We’ve got to kill him. That dagger. It’s a weapon of ancient Maat. Something of old necromancy.” 

“Madam?” said Vanius. 

“Vanius,” said Caina. “Warn the preceptor. The master magi. Anyone who will listen. That weapon is enspelled, and he’s going to attack.”

Vanius gave her a smile that tried for condescending, but only managed to make him look more nervous. “Madam, fear not. The master magi of our chapter are potent, and…”

“The spell to sense sorcery,” said Caina. A woman like Sonya Tornesti would not speak forcefully to a brother of the Imperial Magisterium, but they were in deadly danger. “Cast it at the dagger. Right now.” Vanius opened his mouth to answer again. “Do it now and I’ll pay you a thousand denarii.”

The young magus’s eyes widened.

“Make it two thousand,” said Corvalis, his face grim. 

Vanius nodded and turned to face Jurius, his fingers moving in the beginnings of a spell. Caina felt the crawling tingle of sorcery as Vanius summoned power. 

Meanwhile the gale of laughter that answered Jurius’s pronouncement had finally faded away.

“The Kingdom of the Rising Sun?” said Rhazion with a scoff of derision. “Had you bothered to pay attention to your studies in history, Jurius, you would know Maat fell two thousand years ago. Provincial brigands pose more of a threat to the Empire than do the Great Necromancers of ancient Maat. And the Empire has never been stronger. The Emperor has taken the desert of Argamaz from the Padishah of Istarinmul, and soon Lord Corbould will utterly crush New Kyre!”

A cheer greeted his words. 

“No,” said Jurius. “Istarinmul will be laid waste. New Kyre will fall into the sea. And the Empire shall burn, and you all shall be slaves of Anubankh.”

Vanius finished his spell, and Caina felt the faint whisper of power.

His eyes got even wider, and the young magus surged to his feet. 

“Preceptor!” he shouted, interrupting Jurius’s rant. “Preceptor!”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Yes?” said Rhazion. “It’s…Vanius, isn’t it? What is it?”

“Preceptor, his dagger,” said Jurius. “There is a necromantic spell of surpassing power upon it! We are all in danger! Preceptor, we must act as once, we…”

The sound of scores of magi casting the spell to sense sorcery drowned out his words.

A heartbeat later the magi rocketed to their feet. 

“What is that?” thundered Rhazion, and Caina saw the hint of fear on his face. “Where did you get that?”

Jurius began to laugh. “Do you not know, wise preceptor? Perhaps you should have paid closer attention to your studies of history! Permit to be your tutor!”

He yanked the dagger from it sheath and raised it high.

Caina had never seen a weapon quite like it. It had been forged of peculiar black steel, the blade marked with five glyphs of glowing green light. A rough emerald-colored crystal had been embedded in the base of the blade, just above the hilt.

She did not recognize the weapon…but she recognized that crystal. It was a thing of necromantic sorcery. It held the lives of its victims, and fed that stolen power to its wielder. She had seen one n the torque of the Kindred Elder of Cyrioch, and a far larger one atop Haeron Icaraeus’s mansion in Malarae.

A bloodcrystal. 

“Behold!” shouted Jurius. “The Empire falls…and the Kingdom of the Rising Sun rises anew!” 

“Kill him!” said Rhazion, and a score of magi began casting spells. Corvalis drew his sword, and the magi near Caina began summoning power. She jumped to her feet, reaching for a throwing knife in her sleeve.

Jurius laughed, high and wild, and swept the dagger over his head. 

Caina felt a surge of sorcery from the weapon.

All around Jurius, the floor boiled with gray smoke, like dust swirling in a hurricane. 

Dozens of human-shaped wraiths rose from the smoke, fashioned  of dust and dense gray smoke. The creatures had no features, their bodies rippling and undulating. Yet Caina felt power within them, raw necromantic force. 

“Kill them all!” said Jurius, and the chaos began.

The shades surged forward. Screams and shouts echoed through the hall, and the lords and the merchants fled for the doors. Caina saw one of the shades touch a plump merchant, its arms sweeping through the man’s chest. 

At once the man shriveled into an emaciated corpse, like a husk left to dry for a thousand years in the desert, and collapsed to the floor. 

More men and women died as the shades continued their attack.

Caina yanked the throwing knife from her sleeve and flung it at Jurius with all her strength. The weapon struck his neck and bounced away from his skin in a spray of sparks, deflected by a warding spell. The renegade magus did not even notice the attack.

And still the gray shadows continued their attack. 

“Die!” screamed Jurius. “Die, all of you, and rise anew as servants of great Anubankh!” 

“Stand fast!” thundered Rhazion. “Brothers and sisters of the Magisterium, stand fast! Cast the third and the ninth warding spells! Quickly!” 

Caina’s eyes swept the chaos, her mind working through plans. She did not know what kind of creatures Jurius had called up, but they were obviously deadly. And just as obviously, they were under his control. If she could kill him, or get that strange Maatish dagger away from him, the magi would overpower him.