Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (32 page)

Kharnaces pointed, and the sphere of black fluid struck Caina in the face. 

Pain exploded through her, and had she been able to move she would have screamed, would tried to have wipe the icy black liquid from her face. Its touch was freezing agony, and she felt it oozing over her head, twitching back and forth like a living thing. 

Then it started flowing up her nostrils and forcing its way between her lips and down her throat, and Caina could not breathe. Every muscle went rigid, pain surging through her as the black slime flowed into her, seeming to fill her with icy coldness. The chill should have numbed her, but it was as if she had been filled with razors.

Then all at once Kharnaces’s spell vanished, and Caina stumbled, clawing at her throat. She hit the wall, lost her balance, and fell hard to the floor, twitching as she tried to stand, tried to breathe. She rubbed at her face, trying to get the slime away, only to feel nothing. 

It had poured itself into her, and she felt it spreading through her body like poison. 

Darkness closed around her vision, her thoughts shattering, and the last thing she was Kharnaces staring down at her, his face impassive.

###

Caina jerked awake.

For a panicked instant she could not remember where she was. She sat up, snatching the ghostsilver dagger from the floor next to her. Her head spun with the movement, her arms throbbing, and she put her left hand on the floor for balance. Cold sweat dripped down her jaw and neck, and despite that she felt feverish and hot. 

Was she ill?

No. It felt…it felt as if she had been poisoned.

She looked around, her throbbing mind coming back into focus. Rows of shelves laden with papyrus scrolls stretched into the gloom. The library, she was still in the library. She turned her head and saw the Staff and the Seal of Iramis lying upon their table. Caina remembered coming into the library, remembered finding the relics, and then…and then…

Her memory got a bit foggy. 

There was…something. A green beetle? A white robe? The pieces danced at the edges of her consciousness, but she could not pull them together. 

The library swam around her. Caina closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, and bit by bit her head stopped spinning. Yet the throbbing, feverish sensation remained. Caina raked her free hand through her hair and realized that her cowl was down. She pulled it back up and stood, trying not to fall over.

What had happened to her?

She must have blundered into a trap. A poisoned needle or knife that had broken her skin. Worse, the poison seemed sorcerous in nature. She felt the cold sensation of necromantic power, but this time it was coming from beneath her skin. Caina realized that she had to hurry. Even if the poison had not been fatal, it was weakening her. She had to get the Staff and the Seal to Nasser and Kylon before she collapsed.

And then…and then…

Perhaps this was her promised death. 

Caina went the table and picked up the Staff and the Seal. The power of them made her skin crawl, made her bones hum in time to their mighty auras. The Staff of Iramis allowed its wielder to call up legions of spirits from the netherworld, while the Seal allowed its bearer to command those spirits. She dropped the Seal into her satchel and kept the Staff in hand. Idly Caina wondered what the Star of Iramis did. Perhaps it provided power to the other two relics. Callatas still had the Star, wore it around his neck…

Another wave of dizziness shot through her, worse than before, pain shooting up and down her arms and legs. Caina closed her eyes and leaned against the Staff for balance, its end rasping against the stone floor. She had to get the relics out before her strength failed. Otherwise Kylon and Nasser would not be able to pass the nagataaru and the chamber of the bloodcrystals, and Caina’s bones would lie here alongside the relics for all time.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and froze. 

Her mother stood a few paces away, glaring at her.

Laeria Amalas looked exactly as Caina remembered, the same blue eyes, the same long, thick black hair, the same features, all of them so similar to Caina’s own. Caina had taken her looks from her mother, not her father, and Caina had never been pleased about that. Laeria wore a golden dress with black trim, jewels sparkling on her fingers and ears, and she glared at Caina with icy hatred. 

“You,” whispered Caina. “No, you’re dead. I killed you and you’re dead.”

Laeria’s smile showed her white teeth. “Murdered by you, my useless daughter. What a failure you are. Again and again you have failed, and you are about to fail once more.” 

“She is right,” said a man’s voice. Caina flinched as Halfdan walked around a shelf, clad in the robes and merchant’s cap he had worn on the day Sicarion had killed him. His chest was wet with blood, and the tip of Sicarion’s sword still jutted between his ribs. “How I regret saving you. I should have let you die in Maglarion’s lair. I took you in, I trained you, I made you what you are…and you let me die.”

“No,” said Caina, shaking her head. “No, I tried to save you, I swear…”

“I doubt that,” said another man’s voice, low and sardonic, and Caina’s blood turned to ice. 

Corvalis Aberon stepped next to Halfdan, folding his arms over his chest. The sight of his green eyes, hard face, and close-cropped blond hair filled Caina with something worse than pain. He stared at her, his face twisted with contempt. 

“Corvalis,” croaked Caina, sweat dripping into her eyes. “Please. I…I…”

“What a fool I was,” said Corvalis. “I should have realized the truth. Claudia was right about you. I was nothing more than a tool to you. You cast me aside and let the Moroaica slay me the minute you no longer needed me.”

“No!” said Caina, reaching towards him. “No, I didn’t. She killed you. I tried to save you, I…”

“How long did it take you to forget me?” said Corvalis. “Have you taken the Kyracian into your bed yet? Perhaps you will amuse yourself with him until you tire of him as you tired of me, and then you shall send him to his death.” 

“No,” said Caina. “It’s not like that. I wasn’t like that. Please, Corvalis…”

Laeria laughed, long and mocking. “You are just like me, daughter. Just like me. Only you are better at seduction than ever I was. I seduced your father, but he was a weak and useless man. You seduce strong men and cast them off when you have no further need of…”

Caina screamed swung the Staff of Iramis as a club, just as she had thirteen years ago when she had swung a fireplace poker and accidentally killed her mother. 

The Staff swept through the air without meeting resistance. 

Caina was alone in the library.

She looked around, trembling, and saw no sign of her mother or Corvalis or Halfdan. 

Bit by bit she realized that she had been hallucinating. 

That was bad. That was very bad. The poison was attacking her mind as well as her body. She had to get to the others now, while she could still function. 

Caina hurried from the library, weaving like a drunk, her body seeming to burn and freeze at the same time.

###

Kylon paced back and forth, the valikon flickering in his hand.

“You should really stop that,” said Morgant.

“Morgant,” said Annarah. Morgant sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned his attention back to his notebook, his pencil flickering as he sketched across the pages. Kylon had the distinct impression that Morgant was sketching a caricature of him. He wanted to take that notebook and jam it somewhere Morgant would find difficult to retrieve. 

That would do nothing to help Caina, so Kylon kept pacing. 

“The waiting,” said Nasser. Kylon glanced at him.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“The waiting,” said Nasser. “When you command men in battle and cannot accompany them. The waiting is the hardest part, perhaps even harder than exposing yourself to danger. You have commanded men in battle, have you not, Lord Kylon?” 

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Though…I never led from the back.” He shook his head. “That would be a waste of a stormdancer’s abilities. Whenever the seventh fleet went into battle, I fought with the men.”

“You and Ciaran,” said Nasser. “You must have gone into battle before.”

Kylon blinked. He had forgotten that Caina had convinced Nasser and Laertes that she was a man. He supposed it was one final layer of disguise, one last misdirection in case Nasser and Laertes were captured and made to talk. 

“We have,” said Kylon, wondering how much was safe to say. “Many times. Marsis. Catekharon. Caer Magia. New Kyre on the day of the golden dead. We…have been through a great deal together.” 

“Ciaran is a clever man,” said Nasser. “Probably one of the cleverest I have seen in a century and a half. If anyone can go into the Tomb and come out again, it is Ciaran. The waiting is hard, though.” 

“Aye,” said Laertes. “I was a centurion for a long time. When the new lads take the oath, they’re soft as puppies and dumb as rocks, and you need to train them to be men of the Legion. Then you send them into battle…and sometimes they come back, and sometimes they don’t.” He shook his head. “I would have liked a son, but sometimes I’m glad I had all daughters. I don’t have to send them off to war.”

“Women face their own perils,” said Annarah. “Childbirth. Diseases that men do not. Women can die upon swords just as easily as men.” 

“A cheering thought,” said Laertes. “Still, if I live through this, I shall have ample dowries for my daughters. Perhaps that will finally persuade you and Ciaran to take wives.”

Kylon laughed a little. “You are persistent, sir.”

Laertes snorted. “I was a centurion of the Legion. We make persistence look like…”

In one fluid motion, Morgant got to his feet, his notebook disappearing as his scimitar and dagger appeared in his hands. Kylon whirled, fearing that the undead corpses were about to swarm up the passage. For a moment he saw nothing but the flashing green light and twisting shadows of the chamber with the bloodcrystals.

Then he saw a shadow moving towards them, something metallic in its hands, and the shadow resolved itself into Caina.

She looked terrible, her face drawn and pale and gleaming with sweat, her eyes glittering as with a fever. She staggered a little with every step, leaning upon the staff in her right hand. The staff was made of a peculiar silvery-gray metal, Iramisian characters written down its length, and Kylon sensed tremendous arcane power in the weapon. 

“Master Ciaran,” said Nasser, a note of awe in his voice. “You’ve done it. By the Divine, you’ve done it.”

“That’s the Staff,” said Annarah. 

Caina reached into her satchel and drew out a ring made of the same silvery-white metal, set with a large blue stone. Presumably that was the Seal of Iramis, the second of the relics Callatas needed. She stopped a half-dozen paces away and looked back and forth, and then said something in a language Kylon did not recognize. 

Nasser blinked. “I didn’t know you spoke Iramisian.”

“I,” said Caina, her voice hoarse. “I…I don’t. I didn’t. At least, I think I didn’t.” 

“Ciaran?” said Kylon. “What happened?” 

Caina shuddered, blinked…and her eyes turned pitch black. She dropped the Staff and Seal with a groan, fell to her knees, and threw up. Something like black slime fell from her mouth, and Kylon ran to her side as she toppled over, shivering. Her cowl fell back as she did, and her emotions washed over his senses in a storm of pain and confusion and grief. 

There was something within her, something dark and cold. It was a necromantic spell, one unlike anything Kylon had encountered before. Her eyes, filled with bottomless shadows, met his. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in Istarish. Her fingers, hot and feverish and slick with sweat, grabbed at his wrist. “I…I tried. I should have…I should have…

Annarah knelt on the other side of Caina, lifted her hand with the pyrikon bracelet, and cast a spell. White light flashed from her fingers, and Caina screamed in agony, her back arching, the cords in her neck standing out. As she did, Kylon saw the veins in her neck and temples, saw that they had turned black, as if something rotten flowed through them. 

The white light pulsed again, and Caina slumped back against the floor with a groan, her eyes closed. 

“What is it?” said Nasser. “What happened to him?”

Annarah let out a long breath. “It is a necromantic poison. One of Maatish origin. I think…I think it is attacking Ciaran’s mind and body simultaneously.” 

“Can you cure it?” said Kylon.

Before Annarah could answer Caina’s eyes flickered open. They had turned blue again, though they were bloodshot, and dark circles ringed her eyes. 

“Gods,” she mumbled as Kylon helped her to sit up. “I have a headache. What happened?”

“You passed out,” said Kylon. “You started talking in Iramisian, and then you threw up and fell over.”

“So that’s what that taste is,” said Caina, wiping her mouth. “I think…I know Iramisian now. And ancient Maatish, too.” She blinked at the walls. “I can…I can read what it says there now. Nothing good. I…”

“What happened?” said Kylon.

“I don’t remember,” said Caina. “I found the library. The Staff and Seal were on a stone table.”

“Exactly as I left them,” said Annarah, frowning. 

“Then…something happened,” said Caina. “I must have gotten sloppy, triggered a trap of some kind. I think I was poisoned.”

“You were,” said Annarah. “There is a poison of Maatish necromancy flowing through your veins. I think it is the same formula the Great Necromancers used as an initial base for growing a bloodcrystal.” 

“Base?” said Caina. “Why does…” She shook her head. “It’s going to kill me, isn’t it?”

Annarah hesitated. “The poison will attack both your body and mind. You will get progressively weaker, and you may start to experience unpleasant hallucinations.”

“I already have,” said Caina. She shivered, another glitter going through her eyes. “Unpleasant…yes. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“The poison will kill you,” said Annarah. “Unless I can cure it first.”