Ghost in the Seal (Ghost Exile #6) (23 page)

“The Voice,” murmured Kylon. “She talked to Caina, before they fought at Silent Ash Temple. Apparently she calls her nagataaru the Voice.” 

Morgant snorted. “Uninspired. She hears a demon’s voice in her head and names it the Voice? If she has a favorite drinking cup, does she call it the Cup?”

He reached into his coat and lifted something green and gold, his expression distant. It was the wedjet-dahn, the jade scarab with its golden torque. If Kylon extended his arcane senses, he could have felt the peculiar, damaged warding spells bound within the thing. 

He wondered why Samnirdamnus had told Morgant to take the torque from the Inferno.

He wondered why Samnirdamnus had told Kylon that he would have to let Caina die to save the world. 

“You shouldn’t play with that,” said Annarah as Morgant tossed the wedjet-dahn to himself.

“Why not?” said Morgant. “It’s not good for anything else. You said so yourself. It doesn’t work properly. I might as well gamble it away to Murat’s men to pass the time. At least get some money for the damned thing.”

“You should keep it,” said Annarah. “The Knight of Wind and Air insisted that you take it. The djinn of the Azure Court are difficult to understand, and often incomprehensible to mortal minds. Yet they do not bear us ill will, and the purpose of the Azure Court was to defend the mortal world from the nagataaru. The Knight said the wedjet-dahn could save the world if you took it. I do not understand what that could mean, but it seems best to heed his word.”

Morgant tossed the wedjet-dahn to himself a few more times, as if to prove that he did as he wished, but he tucked it back into one of the many pockets in his black coat. 

“The Knight,” said Kylon. “Samnirdamnus.” He hesitated. “He…appeared to me in a dream.”

Annarah watched him, a few strands of silver hair blowing before her green eyes. “What did he say?”

“He warned me,” said Kylon, looking towards the hatch where Caina had disappeared into the ship. “He said that I was going to have to choose whether Caina lived or died. If I choose for her to live, the world would be destroyed and the Apotheosis would be successful. If I let her die, the future was uncertain.” 

“Damned djinn,” said Morgant. “Always meddling.” 

“You are still alive because of the meddling djinn,” said Annarah.

“But I shouldn’t be,” said Morgant. His expression didn’t change, but Kylon felt his emotional sense, cold and hard and unyielding as old ice in the dark heart of winter. “I should have died long before the Kyracian’s grandfather was even born, yet I’m still here.”

“I’m not,” said Kylon. He stopped and started over. “I’m not going to let Caina die.”

“Considering where we’re going,” said Morgant, “you might not have a choice.” 

“If it is in my power, I’m not going to let her die,” said Kylon. “Not if I can save her.”

Andromache and Thalastre flashed through his thoughts, and a dark voice pointed out that his record for saving people was not very good. 

“Perhaps,” said Annarah, “we are considering the djinni’s words in the wrong light.”

Kylon frowned. “Do you think the Knight lied to us?”

“No,” said Annarah. “But the spirits of the netherworld do not think the way we do. They do not see time the way we do.”

“Explain,” said Kylon.

“For a mortal,” said Annarah, “time is a straight line, a road that begins with birth and ends with death. For a spirit of the netherworld, time is a…tapestry. A vast maze of threads, woven together to create the totality of existence.” 

“She said something similar,” said Morgant. “The Balarigar did. When the Sifter possessed her in the Craven’s Tower.” He waved a hand at Kylon. “When you were…”

“Dying?” said Kylon. He could not remember that clearly, likely thanks to the Elixir Restorata Caina had given him. 

“I was going to say lying in a puddle of your own blood, but yes,” said Morgant. 

“The spirits see the totality of time in flux,” said Annarah. “Not from our perspective, but from theirs.” She frowned. “It is a…difficult concept, and one we can never fully understand. But many spirits perceive the entire destiny thread of a mortal all at once, from beginning to end.”

“Then our fates are preordained and we cannot change them?” said Kylon. That idea left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Not at all,” said Annarah. “The spirits can sometimes see the possible consequences of every choice we make, even the ones we don’t foresee ourselves. Consider this. If you choose whether an enemy lives or dies, it can have tremendous consequences upon the future.” 

“Yes.” Kylon remembered the images of the past Samnirdamnus had shown him, of the day he had chosen not to kill Caina in Marsis.

“But even minor choices have consequences we cannot foresee,” said Annarah. “Consider a king who happens to choose to ride upon the northern street of his city instead of the southern street. If he takes the northern street, he arrives safely at his palace. If he takes the southern street, he is slain by a waiting assassin. His death causes a war that takes the lives of tens of thousands. All because he chose a different street on a whim. His destiny thread altered the lives of hundreds of thousands of others. Not even the spirits can see the future with certainty, only the differing outcomes. And sometimes the choices of one man or woman can alter the lives of everyone else in the world. From what Morgant and the Prince have told me, Caina has often made such choices.” 

“She has,” said Kylon. “I suppose I have, too, though I knew it not at the time. You have as well, when you choose to hide the regalia on Pyramid Isle.” Annarah nodded, and Kylon looked at Morgant. “And you too, when you didn’t kill Annarah.”

Morgant scoffed. “Destiny and spirits and nonsense. I just kill things and paint pictures.” 

“Then why tell me this?” said Kylon. “Why did the spirit appear in my dreams with such a dramatic choice?”

Annarah shrugged. “I do not know. Spirits do not understand time as we do. I suspect the Knight wanted you to do something, just as he wanted Morgant to take the wedjet-dahn from the Inferno.” 

“Very well,” said Kylon. “Though I note that you still have not asked me that direct question you promised.”

Annarah smiled. “I haven’t, have I?” Her smile faded. “Caina.” 

“What about her?” said Kylon.

“Why don’t you go to her?” said Annarah.

Kylon said nothing. 

“She is an expert of disguise, but I am neither blind nor deaf,” said Annarah. “You love her, and she obviously loves you. When we were in the Inferno, she dared the Halls of the Dead and took up the Subjugant Bloodcrystal to save us all…but you, I think, were the real reason that she took such risks.” 

Kylon was silent for a long time. He expected Morgant to respond with some withering remark, but for once the assassin was silent. Perhaps he realized that provoking Kylon on this point would be unwise. 

“I can’t,” said Kylon at last in a hoarse voice. “Our lives are too dangerous for that kind of attachment. We might get killed on Pyramid Isle. We might get killed if we are successful and return. Even Murat’s crew might decide to cut our throats as we slept.” 

“Everyone dies, Lord Kylon,” said Annarah. The words were hard, but her tone was gentle. “Whether in five minutes or in a hundred years. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we struggle, one day we shall die and stand before the Divine for judgment. And if Caina were to die tomorrow, I think you would regret it greatly if you had no better memories of your time together.”

“Perhaps,” said Kylon. 

“No,” said Morgant. “She’s wrong.”

“Why is that?” said Annarah.

“Because,” said Morgant, “the Balarigar believes she is going to die, and she is probably right. What is that going to do to you, Kyracian, if your heart is in her keeping in that happens?” For once, he was not grinning. It failed to make his gaunt face look any less like a skull. “You used to be an archon and High Seat of New Kyre. Then one of Callatas’s pet monsters killed your wife, and two years later you’re fighting as a gladiator in the Ring of Cyrica and preparing to get yourself killed a futile attack on Malik Rolukhan. So. You take the Balarigar into your bed, and she finally gets killed…what will that do to you? Where will you be in another two years?” 

“Why do you care?” said Kylon, trying to keep the anger out of his words. He did not want to let Morgant provoke him, because if he lost his temper he was pretty sure he was going to kill Morgant. 

“I don’t,” said Morgant. “But we’re trying to save the world, aren’t we? You’re skilled with that valikon, and that will prove useful later on. Getting yourself killed trying to avenge the Balarigar would be a useless death.” 

“Your concern for my welfare is touching,” said Kylon. 

Morgant shrugged. “Annarah likes you.”

“I do,” said Annarah. “You are a valiant man, and have been a loyal friend. As has Caina.” She offered a wan smile. “You both carry heavy burdens. I wish you could find some happiness with each other.”

“And what of you, my lady?” said Kylon. “What would bring you happiness?”

She looked away, staring into the Alqaarin Sea, and a strange mixture of pain and regret and hope went through her sense. 

“When my task is complete,” said Annarah. “When I have finally discharged the responsibilities I took upon myself when the Prince entrusted me with the Staff and the Seal.” 

“Perhaps that will be soon,” said Kylon.

“Perhaps,” said Annarah. “We must live in hope, Lord Kylon.” 

“I would prefer to live,” said Morgant, “with ample weapons close at hand. That way I can continue living.” 

Kylon did not answer as he stared down at the hatch. He would find a way to keep Caina alive, no matter what he had to do. Keeping her alive had become more important than taking revenge upon Cassander for Thalastre’s murder. 

Though he suspected that killing Cassander Nilas would go a long way towards keeping Caina alive.

Chapter 13: Let Someone Else Do The Dirty Work

As soon as their ship docked in Rumarah’s harbor, Kalgri went ashore alone, wearing a tight blue dress with a plunging front, her blond hair glinting in the sun with no headscarf. For many Istarish women, going in public without a headscarf was tantamount to declaring oneself a prostitute, and it seemed that the men of Rumarah shared that opinion. 

Kalgri drew stares, lots and lots of stares. 

To her amusement, no one approached her at first. 

She understood why. Predators filled Rumarah, and predators did not survive for long by ignoring their instincts. A lone woman walking about the docks of Rumarah, her hair uncovered, was so obviously out of place that something was wrong. Kalgri saw many men with the hard faces of veteran slavers look over her, conclude that she was the bait for an obvious trap, and let her pass.

They didn’t know it, but they just saved their own lives. Clever predators listened to their instincts.

Fortunately, Rumarah was full of stupid predators who hadn’t gotten themselves killed yet. 

“You look lost,” said the Istarish man who planted himself in her path. He wore chain mail and leather, and he had eight friends, all of them armed. Some of them openly carried the chains and shackles of independent slavers. 

“Oh, sir,” said Kalgri, touching his arm, puttering a quaver into her voice. She donned a vapid, terrified expression. “I’m lost. My father sent me with a purse of gold for my brother, but I don’t know where he is.” The slavers exchanged looks, unable to hide their delight. “Can you take me to the street of the blacksmiths? He lives there.”

“Of course we can, madam,” said the slaver. He looked about thirty, with a scarred, bearded face. “Come right this way. We can’t let a pretty thing like you wander the streets alone, can we? Come with us and we’ll take good care of you.”

The other slavers laughed. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Kalgri with a tremulous smile. “My father always said I could rely upon the kindness of strangers.”

“Let’s stop by our warehouse,” said the slaver, gesturing to an ugly, squat building of cheap brick, “and we’ll ask our captain the way to the street of the blacksmiths.”

“Of course, sir,” said Kalgri. “I look forward to meeting him.”

The slaver’s eyes flicked up and down over her. “I think we’ll all look forward to meeting you.”

They escorted Kalgri into the warehouse.

A few moments later she stood over the bearded slaver, her blade of fire and shadow resting at his throat, the stench of blood filling her nostrils as the Voice moaned in ecstasy at the life force it had just consumed. There had been a total of fifteen slavers in the warehouse. There had also been twenty slaves in metal cages. That had been annoying, since Kalgri didn’t want any witnesses to her true nature. 

Now only Kalgri and the bearded slaver were still alive. 

“Please,” whispered the slaver, his face wet with sweat, his eyes gleaming with terror. “Please…please don’t…”

“Mmm,” said Kalgri, shivering a little as the stolen power surged through her. “What’s your name?” 

“Rhamil,” whispered the slaver, staring at her with horror. 

Kalgri dismissed the sword of force, the Voice’s power surging through her. Rhamil weighed at least twice what she did, but Kalgri reached down and heaved him to his feet. The slaver cringed and cried out. 

“There’s no need for that, my dear,” said Kalgri, reaching up to stroke his face. “You’re going to escort me as I walk about town. A pleasant little stroll.” She patted his cheek. “But if you try to run away from me, and if you say anything without my permission…why, do you remember what I did to your captain?”

Rhamil’s eyes darted to the various pieces of his captain and then back to her face. 

Kalgri let shadow and purple flame pulse through her eyes, the Voice shrieking its glee. “Do you understand?”

Rhamil bobbed his head in a jerky nod. 

“Say that you understand,” said Kalgri.

“I understand,” Rhamil managed to whisper.

“Splendid, just splendid,” said Kalgri. She threaded her arm through his and grinned. “Now come along and escort me.”