Mage's Blood (65 page)

Elena re-ignited her wards on the blood-rooms while Cera watched, then filled a copper basin with water and readied herself for the work she had to do. She still felt tired; the fear and stress remained, and the possible healing power of love was untested.

Because I’m too gutless to try
…

Cera pursed her lips. ‘Remind me how Divination works.’

Elena turned her attention to the matter at hand. ‘Divination is a way of asking a question of the so-called “spirit-realm”. When a person dies, their spirit leaves their body and floats free. This spirit is essentially energy and identity. Some claim they pass on to a another place, a Heaven or Hel, if you like, but we don’t know. What we do know is that many spirits remain present but unseen here on Urte for a long, long time, observing the world. They’re like a giant cobweb covering the world, travelling as fast as thought on dry land – though the seas block their movement – and communing with each other constantly, sharing visions and information. They watch all we do. Does this make sense?’

Cera nodded. ‘The drui says the same: there are spirits, the ghosts of the dead and they can observe us. My mother believed they speak to us, and if we know how to listen, we can hear them.’

Elena prodded a finger into the water in the basin and stilled it. ‘Sorcery is a Study based upon communing with the spirit-realm. Sorcery comprises Necromancy, Wizardry, Clairvoyance and Divination. Necromancy concerns the recently dead. Wizardry is the command of spirits to perform gnosis for you. Clairvoyance is seeing and communicating through the spirits, and Divination is the art of trying to see the future; that relies on asking the spirit-world a question, based upon what the spirits have observed, and then extrapolating that information into a prediction. Remember: we are not actually
seeing
the future – that’s impossible. What we’re seeing is a wider view of
now
.’ She looked at Cera. ‘Do you understand? The best I can give you is a likely prediction, not a certain outcome.’

When Cera nodded, she said, ‘Then what question do you have?’

‘Ask this: who are the agents of Gurvon Gyle in Brochena and where are they?’

Elena grunted impatiently. ‘Cera, magi can hide themselves from the spirits. Questions about other magi are seldom usefully answered.’

‘Not all agents are magi – ask, please.’

‘Very well.’ Elena called energy to her hands and flung it into the water with an abrupt gesture, making the water steam. She didn’t need to speak aloud, but she did so anyway. ‘Spirits, does Gurvon Gyle have agents in Brochena? Reveal them!’ She spoke in Rym and repeated in the Jhafi tongue.

The steam cloud went murky, a pool of night hanging in the air, and Cera, her face pale, leaned as far from the dark cloud as possible. Shapes flickered in the darkness, almost too faint to be seen, then faded, half-formed.

Elena peered intently, focusing on the shapes that formed and following the tingling strands of the gnostic web out into the city. The responses came slowly: the Past, a web of small lights and a spider, crawling … The Present: a thinner web with gaping holes, a dark shape flowing through the gaps, the spider hidden … The Future: a busy spider, feeding, repairing and the murky outline of a red glove and a spinning coin.

All fairly clear and predictable, apart from the red glove, whatever that means. I’ll need to research it
. ‘You see what I mean?’ she asked Cera. ‘It is pretty obvious: his network was damaged by the death of his magi. Undoubtedly some of those slain by Mustaq in the purges were his men. But it tells us nothing; magi can hide from the spirit-watchers, so what he is really doing cannot be divined.’

‘What were the two last shapes?’

‘A red glove and a coin. Usually a coin means bribery and a glove manipulation, but I don’t know why the glove should be red. It is the colour of passion or anger, usually. Or it may refer to the colours of one of the noble houses, perhaps. I need to think on that.’

‘The Kestrian colour is red,’ Cera noted.

‘In Yuros we associate red with the Church,’ Elena replied, irritated at her recurring paranoia.

Cera scowled and produced a sheet of paper. ‘Here are some more questions to ask.’ She leaned back. ‘We have to do this.’

Elena sighed and acquiesced, fighting the oncoming migraine that Divination always brought. Some of the questions were easy, others harder. The red glove, the coin, the spider, all recurred, along
with a lizard slithering among the shadows. The gloved hand sometimes held a dagger … She felt her mouth go dry.
He’s going to strike, and it’s going to be soon
.

Elena took a sip of cold tea and tried to clear her pounding head. She suddenly realised it was dark outside; she’d been divining all day. Her hands shook, spilling the tea, and she placed the cup down clumsily. ‘Enough, please – I’m exhausted, Cera.’

The queen-regent scowled. Her face was also weary. ‘What have we learned, Ella?’

‘Gyle’s agent, this Red Glove, seeks to bring another factor into play. A glove often symbolises disguise or hidden control. The rolling coin will be about corruption. And lizards often symbolise shapechangers or turncoats.’

Cera took this in with visible dread. ‘What can we do, Elena?’ she asked at last. ‘It could be
anyone
, striking from anywhere.’ She huddled into her chair. ‘It’s all so hopeless – I have to find a way to preserve the family, but our enemies hold all the cards. It is
so
unfair.’

‘Life is seldom fair,’ Elena pointed out, and Cera glared at her.

‘I
know
that. You’ve told me a million times. We’re all sacrificing so much and trying so hard. Why is destroying things so much easier than building them? Why does God let this happen?’

Elena wrinkled her nose. ‘Which god? Ahm? Kore? Sol?’

‘Any of them! Why should men like Gyle have so much power?’

Elena flopped back against the back of her chair. The divinations had left her dispirited and fighting a losing battle against a migraine. ‘The prizes go to the winners, Cera, and there are no rules. Those who play fair and honourably invariably lose: that is the true lesson of life. There are no gods, no justice, only winning.’

Cera hung her head. ‘That’s so
empty
,’ she whispered. ‘That’s an awful philosophy – you can’t actually believe that? You must believe in more, Ella.’

Must I?
She rubbed her temples, groaning.
Oh Kore, just let me rest, girl!
‘Of course I do, Cera – we all do. We try to find meaning in whatever we do. I want what we all want: love, happiness, dignity, respect. Security, a good wine and some Brician cheese. And sleep.’
She half-smiled, looking wan. ‘I am sorry. I was very poor at Ethics and Philosophy at college.’

Cera rubbed at her temples. ‘It’s all too much, Ella.’ She looked up. ‘So all I can do is preserve my family as best I can, however I can.’

Elena nodded sadly. ‘That sounds as good a reason as any other.’ She clutched her temple. ‘Rukking Sordell never got headaches from doing this,’ she muttered bitterly.

Cera hugged her and helped her to bed. ‘Grazie, Ella. Thank you for everything. ‘ She kissed Elena’s cheek. ‘Sleep well,’ she added sadly.

‘See you in the morning,’ Elena moaned, though it was only early evening and she hadn’t even eaten. She was unconscious before Cera left the room.

The queen-regent locked the door to her blood-room and went to the window to watch for crows.

‘Do you remember the last time I visited Brochena openly, Cera? About two years ago, now – doesn’t time fly? Do you remember that little talk we had?’ The queen-regent’s face coloured as Gyle gave her a conspiratal grin. ‘I kept my side of the bargain, didn’t I? I’ve told no one our little secret.’

Cera Nesti’s lower lip quivered. She looked like she wanted to flee.

‘Your secret is safe with me, Cera,’ he put in hastily. ‘There is an old Rimoni saying: “Those who share a virtue are bound; but those who share a vice are bound tighter”. We share the same vice, Cera. We like to spy on people.’

‘I’m not like you at all,’ Cera retorted, but her voice was uncertain.

‘I rather think you are. Remember when I caught you in the spy-passages in Brochena Palace? You knew them all, didn’t you? You used to slither into them late at night to watch your courtiers in their bedchambers.’

Cera hung her head guiltily. ‘You said you had something to say that was to my benefit,’ she muttered, shifting uncomfortably. ‘So speak, or I’ll go and tell Elena.’

It was an idle threat, and he ignored it. ‘But you shouldn’t have spied on me, should you?’ He waved an admonishing finger. You just had to know what Elena and I got up to, didn’t you? What did Rondian magi do in bed – did they shapechange and rut like demons?’

Cera hid her face in her hands. ‘Go away,’ she whispered.

‘I knew you were there, of course. No one ever sneaks up on me. It must have been disappointing, to see nothing but the curtains.’ He leaned towards her, right to the edge of the wards. ‘We made a bargain, didn’t we: that I’d not tell anyone what you did, if you told me all the secrets you learned.’

Cera nodded mutely as he grinned at her. ‘Don’t be ashamed: it’s natural to want to know secrets. We both share that need. We are bound by our vice, closer than virtue.’ He gave an intimate smile. ‘Did I not improve the concealment of your secret hideaways, and create wards to muffle sound better? Did I not keep them secret from Elena?’ He smiled. ‘We are very alike indeed, Queen-Regent.’

The girl was curled into the window-box like a foetus in the womb, but she was listening to every word as he went on reeling her in. ‘Cera, you still creep through those passages, don’t you? You know all their vices, don’t you: Pita Rosco’s affairs; Comte Inveglio’s money problems; young Prato’s penchant for self-flagellation, even Lorenzo di Kestria’s ambition. How it must burn you, to know that the people you rely on are so unworthy of trust!’

‘Elena says that I can trust them,’ Cera whimpered.

‘Ah, but can you trust Elena?’

‘I have to,’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘No, Cera – no, you don’t have to trust her at all.’

‘I won’t hear this,’ she hissed, but still she made no move to leave.

‘Watch her with Lorenzo di Kestria. If Timori died, there would be no Nesti with the right lineage to stand for the kingship. Which way would your faction vote? Why, to your trusted allies, the Kestrians – yet you allow this same man to guard your very life …’

‘Elena has read his thoughts – she says he is true—’

‘Which is why I say: watch him and Elena. Be warned, Cera: he
conspires against you. With Elena as his consort, he could seize the kingdom.’

‘She’s loyal to me – she has sworn—’

‘But he can give her things you can’t, Cera, a strong lusty young man like that.’

Her face twisted as if she’d swallowed a beetle. He watched his words take root, watched them burn through her mind and distort her feelings.
I have you, my little queen-regent. Now to reel you in
.

‘Cera, I know you struggle to trust me. I am a mercenary, we both know that, and my loyalty can be bought. But I tell you this for free: only I can preserve your rule. Elena believes you will fail, so she seeks to tie herself to the Kestrians. But I believe in
you
, Cera. We are so alike, and our interests are so aligned that it must be destiny: I want this realm stable and disconnected from the shihad, and this will preserve your rule. Elena and the Kestrians want to drag Javon into disaster while selling you into marriage slavery to the Jhafi. Only I can save you, Cera.’

A door rattled and the queen-regent started guiltily. He felt a thrill of fear as he heard Elena calling. Cera glared at him, rubbing her eyes furiously. ‘How can I believe a word you say?’

‘Watch Lorenzo and Elena,’ he told her, ‘then you will know.’

Elena called again, ‘Cera?’

He gave the girl his most reassuring smile, while wishing he could just slide his gnosis through the wards and seize her soul. ‘Farewell, for now,’ he whispered and broke the connection.

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 928
2 months until the Moontide

Ramita sat upon a stool watching the bustle in the main courtyard of Casa Meiros. Huriya sat at her feet, watching just as avidly as men scurried like monkeys on bamboo scaffolding, lashing the thick poles together to create a temporary pavilion. Tradesmen were filling the kitchens with meat, spices, lentils, olives and flour. The air was rich with baking breads and slowly simmering spiced meats. It had been like this for the past week, but this finally was the day. Her husband was coming home, and he was bringing his important guests, ferang envoys. She was clad in a new sky-blue salwar, the colour Meiros favoured most. Though she was enduring morning sickness, her condition was not obvious yet.

But soon my belly will grow and grow, like Mother’s does, and I will turn into an elephant
…

Someone below shouted and silk curtains of soft yellow and white to block the sun unfurled down the sides of the pavilion. Musicians were setting up and tuning in a corner. Olaf was shrilling orders, wringing his hands, the stress almost too much for him.

It was weeks since Ramita had seen Kazim, and she could scarcely remember that madness of desire. Her husband was kindness and gentleness embodied; why had she ever wanted another man? What had she risked everything for: a few frantic couplings? Ridiculous –
suicidal
…