Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (37 page)

There was a beauty in it, in her – not in her weathered face or her spare form but in the perfection of her balance and poise, her elegant motion. She danced through his dreams as she did through his days, humiliating him, both awake and asleep. He hated her. He envied her. He even admired her, grudgingly.

*

The bout began like any other: him scrabbling in the dust at her feet clutching a knee she’d rapped forcefully when he’d parried too slowly. It ended with a ridiculous fall backwards from the bridge’s parapet into the dry pond, winding himself horribly.

But in between – he struck her shoulder.

Their blades had locked, just for an instant, and for once he’d been able to use his superior size and strength. He’d shoved, forcing her weapon away, then he’d whipped his own back before she could line up the parry.
Thwack!

He went down on his knees, screaming his triumph as if he’d just hit the winning run in a kalikiti match back at Aruna Nagar. She stumbled, then straightened and almost smacked him about the head, and he’d have deserved it for dropping his guard, but right then he didn’t care.

Instead, she gave a rueful laugh.

Their eyes met and he found himself sharing a smile.
Sharing
.

It made him uncomfortable, such familiarity with the nefara bitch.

She proceeded to thrash him for the rest of the afternoon, but that didn’t matter; the breakthrough had been made, and there were more as the days passed until somehow they’d been here for three months. The rest of the world had ceased to exist; there was only her and him.

It wasn’t a harmonious relationship, however: she was openly blasphemous, with no fear of any god, not even her Rondian Kore. That angered him, as Ahm was all he had left to cling to after so much had been stripped from him. He found himself parroting Haroun’s teachings, trying to
educate
her – to
save
her – but she cared nothing for that, nor even acknowledged the risk he was putting his own soul in to be here with her. She was nefara and her state was contagious, but when he tried to explain, she just listened with a condescending smirk on her lips.

‘Every sin blackens the soul,’ he started, one night over dinner. She’d brought out a bottle of wine – never a good sign; it made her rude, abusive and intolerant. He’d taken to leaving the table early when she drank, but tonight he was too hungry. She’d offered him some but his refusal had offended and now she was drinking too much, too quickly, gulping it down like water. It made her truculent, which goaded him to argue. ‘Why should I drink with you? Even sharing food with you endangers me, nefara.’

‘Poor boy,’ she sneered.

‘You should not drink, you’ve said so yourself.’

She deliberately swigged more. Her pupils dilated. ‘Do you think it’s easy for me, dealing every day with your utter contempt? I’ve met some pricks in my time, but you’re up there with the worst. At least the men of Yuros acknowledge the skills I’ve got, even if they don’t like me. You’re just a self-serving hypocrite.’

His own temper flared. ‘I’ve let you teach me—’

She laughed scornfully. ‘Oh ho: you “let” me teach you – how rukking
noble
of you. You don’t fool me, boy. You spout Scripture like a trained bird, but you don’t believe half your own bullshit.’

He balled his fists angrily. ‘I am a true believer!’ he protested vehemently, though he was frightened she might be right.

‘Sure you are. How many times do you pray, Amteh boy? Aren’t you supposed to grovel on your prayer mat every three hours? I’ve not seen you do it once, and Kore knows I’m with you most of the rukking day.’

‘I pray alone,’ he retorted, his face colouring. In truth, he’d
virtually forgotten prayer at all, without the bells and the call of the Godsingers to remind him. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. ‘Do you?’

She scoffed. ‘Why bother? I’m already damned in your eyes.
Nefara
.’ She ticked them off with his fingers. ‘What were they? Lies. Theft. Murder. Adultery. I’ve done all that.’

He stood up. ‘I don’t want to hear this.’

‘I’ve even
worn red
, damn me for ever to Hel.’ She scowled. ‘I’ve not knowingly drunk urine, but with Lantric wine, who can tell?’

He was shaking with rage, but he was also frightened. This wasn’t like her. ‘Elena, stop this, please. It demeans you.’

Her voice went up a register. ‘
Demeans
me? Listen, you bigoted baby: your nasty little rules mean nothing to me. If you don’t think I’m good enough for you to learn from, then you can just rukk off.’

‘You are drunk.’

‘So what? Amteh men drink, despite their precious rules. I bet you’ve drunk plenty in your time.’

His face went hot again. ‘That is between myself and Ahm.’

‘Oh sure: you can just ask for forgiveness because you’re a man. But if a woman sins, she’d damned for all rukking eternity, right?’

‘Men and women are different.’

‘Sure. I bet you’ve screwed a few whores too, right? They’re nefara, right? What penance did you do for that?’

He flushed, remembered a woman in Baranasi, in the wake of losing Ramita. ‘None of your business, woman!’

‘What
unnatural
acts did you do with them?’

He bunched his fists, his chest suddenly a furnace. ‘You have no right to judge me!’

‘Ha! But you think you have the right to judge me?’

‘Because you’re a damned heathen!’

‘Too right.’ She tipped up her cup, missed her mouth and emptied half the red wine down her front. ‘Unnatural acts, eh? Yeah, check, check, check.’ She cackled horridly. ‘On campaign you didn’t want to end up pregnant but you still needed a fuck, so when you were fertile, you had to make your fun
unnaturally
.’ She went to fill her cup
again, found the bottle empty and threw it into the fireplace. The dregs sizzled as shards flew. ‘And you know what?
I loved it.
’

He trembled on the edge of striking her, took half a step, his hand lifting.

She stuck out her chin. ‘Just try it, prick.’

Somehow, he held back, spun on his heel and stormed away.

*

They didn’t train the next morning. She spent the night vomiting and slept past midday. He was practising alone in the tiny courtyard when she appeared at the entrance. Her face was downcast, her cheeks greenish and eyes bloodshot. ‘Kazim?’

He stopped and faced her, feeling something between pity and vindictive pleasure at seeing her like this. ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. I was drunk.’ Her voice was heavy with self-disgust. She ran her fingers through the tangled wreckage of her hair. He’d never seen it untied before, never seen her look so dishevelled. ‘I said stupid things and I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t mean it,’ he snapped, turning away.
Let her beg
, he thought, knowing she wouldn’t.

She gripped the doorway unsteadily. ‘If you mean that I still believe what I said, you’re right – but I shouldn’t have said what I did. I gave unnecessary offence and I’m sorry for that.’

He sensed that apologising wasn’t something she did easily. He could empathise with that, at least. He nodded brusquely. Maybe she was sincere after all.

‘Sordell’s drinking has messed my body up. He drank at least a bottle of wine a night and my body still craves the damned stuff. But I’m trying to fight it.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Don’t let me drink again.’

‘And how will I do that, jadugara? I can’t
make
you do anything. Fight your own battles.’

She flinched. ‘I deserve that.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘If you are still willing to train with a nefara ferang, I still want to train with you.’

He made a show of considering because he knew it would rankle
with her. ‘I am permitted to associate with you if you do not transgress, nor seek to corrupt me,’ he said eventually. He wasn’t actually sure on this point but it sounded right, and anyway, training with her was making a big difference. He was learning more from her than even Jamil and Rashid. He needed her, though he didn’t like it.
Another damned compromise …

‘I’ll keep my opinions to myself in future,’ she said, although he doubted she was capable. She rubbed at her temple, wincing. ‘And I won’t drink again.’

‘Shall I destroy the filthy stuff for you?’ he asked, the jibe becoming serious even as he voiced it.

She swallowed, then said, ‘No. Put a bottle on the table every night. Let it be a test for me.’

He blinked.
Interesting
. ‘I will do so tonight.’ He turned to face her. ‘So, are you ready for a tumble?’

To his surprise, she blushed furiously. ‘
What?
’

‘A tumble.’ He made fencing gestures.

‘You mean a “bout”,’ she said, snickering softly. ‘A tumble is … something different. No, I don’t feel well today.’

‘I thought a healer-mage was immune to such things?’

‘If only.’ She coughed, gagging slightly. ‘You reach a point where the drunkenness prevents you from functioning properly, gnosis included. Then you’re just as screwed as anyone else.’ Her face turned a sickly colour, her eyes went wide and she fled.

She refused the call of the wine bottle on the table that night with stoic strength. And she was back training the next day.

*

‘Kazim,’ she said one evening. ‘Hold still.’

He looked at her, sitting across the dinner table from him. Her drunken episode a few weeks ago had left an uneasy peace, one they didn’t prod at too hard. It felt comfortable between them again.
Almost
.

‘What?’ he asked warily. She was still a jadugara, and an enemy.

She reached out slowly and he forced himself to stay still as she touched his chest. Light and heat throbbed through him, a surge
of energy that struck resistance, then something gave way inside him.

Energy flared around his fingertips. He quailed, and it vanished.

‘What did you do?’ he asked, quivering with trepidation.

‘I freed your gnosis from the Chain-rune,’ she said. ‘It’s time you learnt how to use it.’

The Keepers

‘Keepers’ was the name taken by the first Ascendants, denoting their keeping of the secrets of the sacred ritual through which they had ascended. The name now refers to those original Ascendants still living, a shrinking group as time passes. However, a devoted mage is occasionally rewarded by being permitted to attempt Ascendancy. The last man known to have been permitted to seek Ascendancy was Fabian of Defonne in Andressea, in 907. He died in the attempt.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE
, H
EBUSALIM
C
HAPTER
, 920

Isle of Glass, Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 928
4
^th
month of the Moontide

Ramita slapped the door of her husband’s room. ‘I wish to go in here.’

Justina stared at her like she’d just suggested they both pray together to Shaitan. ‘Of course you can’t go in there, bint. It’s my father’s room.’

‘Your father. My
husband
.’

‘I can’t believe your presumption. He was one of the original Ascendant Magi – you’re a street-girl.’

‘Market-girl.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘All the difference in the world. One sells things, the other sells herself.’ Ramita coloured furiously at the mere suggestion that she might be the latter. Her family were not rich – well, they hadn’t been – but
they were proud. They had
standards
. This arrogant cow needed to know this.

‘Mmm. And how did you come to be my father’s wife?’ Justina made to brush past.

Ramita gripped the taller woman’s arm, fully expecting to provoke a reaction, and true to form, Justina wrenched her arm away. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snarled.

At least she didn’t fling Ramita across the room with a flick of her finger, though she could see her stepdaughter was visibly tempted.

‘I’m not discussing this again.’

‘He was my husband. He cared for me.’

‘He
purchased
you.’

‘At least he
chose
me. He was stuck with you.’

Justina’s face contorted in anger. ‘How
dare
you?’

‘And how dare you?’ Ramita countered.

Justina bellowed in exasperation, ‘You just don’t get it, do you? You were nothing to him but a convenient womb!’

‘And you were nothing to him but a
disappointment
. He told me he loved me, at the end. When did he last say that to you?’

Justina went white, and her whole body trembled. ‘You push me right to the edge, girl. The very edge. If you weren’t pregnant with his children—’

‘But I am. And I demand to see his room!’

‘You don’t
demand
anything around here!’ Justina stomped away and slammed her bedroom door.

Ramita stared after her, thinking,
I’m making progress with her.

*

‘Hit the damned thing!’ Justina’s voice went up another octave.

She should sing traditional Omali songs. She has the vocal range for it.

Ramita was standing in front of a sand-filled leather bag that hung from the ceiling of the big room by the pool. It was still swaying faintly, and her knuckles were sore from punching it. Her saree was not the best choice for combat training, but she was sick of her limited range of salwar kameez. ‘I
did
hit it.’

‘Kore’s sake, it barely moved.’ Justina flounced away, as if to leave.
She did this every few minutes; there was a rhythm to it. ‘Pretend it’s me, if that helps.’

I did.

Justina made for the door, as she always did when she was particularly frustrated, then turned and stalked back into the middle of the room again. ‘What’s the angriest you’ve ever been? How about your precious market: who was your worst customer ever?’

‘You don’t lose your temper with a customer.’

‘Huh! What about your sister?’

‘We were best friends. We were family.’
For a while.

‘Kore above, I
hated
my brother.’ Justina said it like this was normal.

‘I’m sure he felt the same way about you.’ Ramita balled her fist.
Right, let’s try again … Summon the gnosis … think of stone … be strong
…

‘How did it feel when you watched my father die?’ Justina asked bleakly.

Smash.

Her fist ripped through the leather and sent the bag flailing wildly as it sprayed sand about the floor. A scream echoed about the chamber and Ramita stood blindly staring into space, panting like the air had been sucked away. She dazedly realised that she’d been the one who screamed.

Justina smiled grimly. ‘That’s more like it. That’s the place you go to when you want to really hurt someone.’

Ramita turned and faced her, blinking back tears. ‘Rashid held me on my knees, and made me watch as’ –
Kazim
– ‘as one of them stabbed him, here.’ She jabbed herself up under her chin. ‘
I hate them.
’

Justina said slowly, ‘Rashid … Did you get any other names?’

Ramita shook her head.

‘Then I’ll have to ask Rashid. Very firmly.’ Her face was like the snowy peaks of Ingashir. ‘And Alyssa. She’ll know.’

Ramita turned away and wiped her eyes, then looked back at Justina. ‘You were close to Alyssa.’

‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Justina flexed her fists. ‘She’s none of your business.’

‘My bloodsister Huriya helped them,’ Ramita said. ‘She murdered
Jos Klein in her bed, then let them in.’ That was as close to the truth as she dared come with Justina.

‘I remember her. Little Keshi minx with a smart tongue.’

‘She was my sister, all my life. But she put the shihad first.’

‘Alyssa was my friend for sixty years,’ Justina said grudgingly. ‘I thought we shared the same soul.’

Ramita wrinkled her nose. ‘Alyssa Dulayne stole secrets from my head when she taught me your language.’

Justina’s eyes narrowed. ‘What secrets?’

‘Little things. Just to hurt me.’
Kazim
. ‘She told them to Rashid.’

‘Then think of her also when you want to hurt someone.’ Justina made a gesture and burned an image of Alyssa’s face on the stone wall. ‘Target practice.’

Ramita snorted softly and gathered blue mage-fire at her fingertips. She spent the next hour sending lances of light blasting into the image of Alyssa Dulayne’s face until it was blackened and unrecognisable. She felt a lot better afterwards.

*

‘May I have some?’ Ramita asked, picking up the almost empty bottle of red wine in front of Justina. It was late at night and the jadugara was drunk again. It did not happen as often as it had the first month here, but it was still more than once a week. It made training the next day particularly slow and bad-tempered.

‘Father always said pregnant women should not drink.’

‘He and I drank together at Southpoint. And other times after he knew I was with child.’

Justina sighed heavily. ‘Very well. In fact, what he said was no more than one glass every few nights. Another good reason not to fall pregnant. Not that that will ever happen again.’ She blinked, and coloured slightly. ‘Go on, finish it, I’ve had too much.’

Ramita took another glass from the tray and poured the few remaining mouthfuls into it, then sipped it cautiously. It tasted heavy and rich, filled with red Yuros fruits she’d been told of but never seen. ‘You said “again”.’

Justina muttered something. ‘Yes. I really have drunk too much.’

‘You have a child?’

‘Yes.’ Justina had a resigned look on her face. ‘I’m only telling you this now so you won’t spend the next six weeks nagging me.’

‘Oddly, I am known for my cheery nature by everyone I’ve ever met except you. One child? Two? Boy or girl? How old? Who with?’

‘A girl. She’d be almost nineteen now. Her name is Cymbellea.’

‘That’s a pretty name.’

‘It’s a Rimoni name. I didn’t choose it. I gave her away as swiftly as I could and have not met her since.’

Ramita cocked her head. ‘Never?’
The woman has no heart at all
.

‘I didn’t want her. It was an accident. I gave her to the father when he was next in Hebusalim and sent him on his way. Told him I never wanted to see or hear of him or her again. To date he has abided by this. Thankfully.’

‘Where is Rimoni?’

‘In Yuros. He returned there. At least there she’ll grow up regarded as a blessing, not the spawn of Shaitan.’

‘Were you and he married?’

Justina snorted. ‘Not fucking likely.’

Ramita shook her own head.
Surely Justina’s affinity should be stone: she’s made of it
. Was there such a thing as an affinity to glass? She was also brittle, and cracked too easily. She dared another question, though, while Justina was feeling talkative. ‘Were you and Alyssa … what is the word?’

‘Safian? No.’ Justina swore under her breath. ‘We did try it once, for the novelty. But she prefers men. And I … I don’t really like anyone.’ She stretched awkwardly on the sofa. ‘Sex is … I could never really get interested … and I hated the afterwards part, when you had to talk and pretend you’d liked it.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’d rather smoke opium.’ She rolled over. ‘Pathetic, aren’t I?’

Yes
. ‘No.’ Ramita tried to think of something nice to say. ‘You just haven’t met the right person.’

‘There is no right person for me.’

Ramita decided that this conversation, while fascinating, was going places she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tired. Goodnight, Daughter.’ She
went to rise.

Even the old jibe didn’t get a rise tonight. ‘Uh uh.’ Justina waggled her finger slowly. ‘It’s your turn to talk.’

‘What about?’

The white witch’s face took on a gently yearning look that Ramita had not seen before. ‘You say my father said he loved you.’ She dipped her head defensively. ‘What was that like?’

Ramita felt a little bubble of tears form behind her eyes. She slowly sat down. ‘He loved you too,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Even if he never told you.’

Eventually they opened another bottle of wine.

*

Ramita sat watching the ocean heave. There was a viewing platform at the pinnacle of the Isle of Glass, walled in for protection but open to the elements. On a still day with the sun beaming down it was the most beautiful place in the world. The view was west, high above the tumult of the ocean. You could feel the whole rock vibrate to the boom and crash of the waves. Watching the sun falling scarlet over the horizon, painting the clouds orange, pink and gold, was like watching the gods at play.

She was learning constantly now, basic things that every mage should know: how to lock and unlock a door, even one with no handle or lock of its own. She could blast a target with raw mage-fire. She could move things by what Justina called ‘kinesis’. She had learnt how to hide herself from scrying. She could even shape hard stone as if it were wet clay.

And all the while, the babies were growing. Her belly was swelling swiftly, developing silvery stretch-marks. Her breasts were painfully large. It was only her fourth month, but time was passing so quickly.

What is happening out in the world? Where is Kazim? Where is Jai? How are my family?
She wished she could scry them, but her clairvoyance was virtually nonexistent. Mental communication might not rely on Air-gnosis, which was how she’d first contacted Justina, but she was warned not to seek to do the same with anyone else. Apart from her family in Baranasi there was no one she wanted to speak to anyway.

Then one day a voice whispered across the sky, both massive and intimate at the same moment,
calling her name
.

For an instant she was tempted, out of sheer loneliness, to answer, but it was a fleeting moment, and instead she hid behind the walls of solitude Justina had shown her how to build. Hiding-wards: she was inside a tower of shadow, and there was nothing here to be seen …

The presence lingered a second longer, and then was gone.

It tried again a minute later but she was ready this time. She bit her lip, wondering who it was. Rashid or Alyssa, most likely. Once the voice had faded, she hurried back into the tower, where stone and water would render her wards unnecessary.

‘Justina,’ she cried, ‘Justina!’

Her stepdaughter was not in the lounge; Ramita found her emerging from Antonin’s room and that fact alone almost drove the scrying attempt from her mind – as did the pallor on Justina’s face.

She put those questions to one side and concentrated on the present danger. ‘Justina, I was watching the sunset when someone tried to scry me.’

The jadugara’s eyes widened. ‘They didn’t succeed, did they?’ she asked, her face becoming even more sickly.

Ramita shook her head firmly. ‘I blocked them.’

Justina exhaled. ‘Thank Kore!’ She reached out and fleetingly touched Ramita’s arm. ‘Well done,’ she said, her first words of praise
ever
. ‘But …’ She clutched at the wall.

Ramita stared at her pointedly. ‘Are you all right? What did you find in there?’

‘There is something you need to see,’ Justina said reluctantly. ‘In Father’s room.’

Ramita’s throat went desert-dry. ‘In there?’

‘You may go in.’ Justina hesitantly stood to one side.

Now she was finally permitted to do so, Ramita was almost too frightened to go in. But she steeled herself, holding onto the stone doorframe and letting the earth –
her element
– steady her. The room before her was full, but orderly. There was a large bed, and a writing desk facing a transparent wall revealing a southeastwards view,
as clear as if it were a hole in the rock. She stared at it, trembling. The other walls were covered in hanging carpets in all hues, from Lokistan, Ingashir, Gatioch and Mirobez. A tall dresser was topped by a pair of elaborate Lakh candlesticks, and the desk was covered with papers.

In one corner stood two life-size statues, carved of white marble. She felt tears sting: one was of her, the other of him. Hers stood just over half his height, wrapped in a saree, looking tiny and defiant. He wore robes, the hood cast back, his head shaven and beard trimmed in the manner she had cut it for him. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she walked to it and stroked his cold marble cheek. ‘Is this what you wanted me to see?’