Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (25 page)

“Killing Ranarius might cause more problems,” said Caina, “especially if he’s already tried to free this greater elemental.”

“And killing him would solve that problem,” said Corvalis. “You hate sorcerers. When I told you that Claudia was a magus, I’m surprised you didn’t take a sledgehammer to her.”

She shook her head, irritated with the questions. “We should discuss it later.”

“I would prefer to know now,” said Corvalis, and she saw him frown beneath his red cowl. “Ranarius is my only chance of saving Claudia. Or are you planning to kill Claudia once I force Ranarius to free her?”

“Of course not!” said Caina. 

“Then why,” said Corvalis, “did you not agree with Marzhod when he wanted to kill Ranarius?”

She hesitated and looked around.

“Fine,” said Caina. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into alley. “If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.” She took a deep breath. “You love Claudia.”

“Of course I do,” said Corvalis. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“You’re a Kindred assassin,” said Caina. “You left them, but you’ll still be a killer until the end of your days. I did not think a man like you could love someone enough to cross the Empire and put yourself at risk over and over again.”

“Well, I do,” said Corvalis, voice quiet. “That’s not something a woman like you would understand.”

“A woman like me?” said Caina. 

“You’re a killer, like me,” said Corvalis. “And you’re better at it than I am. Disguising yourself as a servant, and smiling and nodding while you plot to kill? I don’t think even I could manage that. You have ice instead of blood.”

Caina said nothing.

He wasn’t wrong.

“And you hate the magi,” said Corvalis. “I wouldn’t put it past you to kill both Claudia and Ranarius if you thought it necessary.” 

“No,” said Caina.

“Why not?”

“Because you want to save her,” said Caina. “You went on this…this mad quest to save her. It’s..admirable. I thought you would undertake this kind of effort to kill your father, not save your sister.”

“I love her,” said Corvalis, “and I owe her a great deal. If not for her, Ghost, I would be exactly the sort of man you think I am. So will do whatever is necessary to save her. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I do understand,” said Caina, voice quiet.

Corvalis looked dubious.

“My father,” said Caina. Part of her wondered why she was telling this to Corvalis. But he understood her kind of pain, shared it with her. “The magi murdered him.”

“Ah,” said Corvalis. “That explains a great deal.”

“I saw him die in front of me,” said Caina. “But if…something else had happened to him, if he had been imprisoned or transformed like your sister…I would have done anything to save him, too.” 

Corvalis was silent for a long moment.

“I see,” he said at last. “Then I misjudged you, Ghost.” He closed his eyes.  “You cannot save your father…so instead you help me to save my sister. I apologize.” 

Caina blinked, surprised. “I’ve practiced fooling people for years. Little wonder I fooled you.” 

Corvalis grimaced. “Or my instincts have grown feeble.”

“I doubt that,” said Caina. “You seem vigorous enough.” 

He smirked. “Flattery. Though I wonder about one other thing. How were you able to command the shadow?”

Caina shrugged. “I killed the Moroaica.”

Corvalis blinked. “Sicarion’s mistress? The ancient sorceress of legend and terror? You killed her? Little wonder the shadow feared you.”

“Apparently,” said Caina, “the Moroaica has a habit of moving from body to body over the centuries. When I slew her, she possessed me. Or tried to. Apparently what the magi did to me as a child left…scars of a sort. Because of them, the Moroaica can possess my body, but she cannot control me.”

“Then you have a dead sorceress inside in your head?” said Corvalis. 

“Essentially,” said Caina, uneasy. She wondered how he would react, and again she wondered why she had told him. Would he try to kill her, hoping to kill the Moroaica within her? Why had she taken the risk of telling him so much?

Perhaps she was tired of carrying so many painful secrets alone

“So that,” said Corvalis, “was why Sicarion didn’t try to kill you, at least not at first.”

“Yes,” said Caina. “I can hear the Moroaica in my dreams. She ordered Sicarion not to kill me. Apparently she thinks she can twist me around to her way of thinking.”

Corvalis barked his short, harsh laugh. “Not likely! You hate sorcery too much. You’d sooner cut off your hand than use it to cast a spell.” 

His confidence cheered her. “Sicarion doesn’t agree. He wants to kill me and free the Moroaica so she can possess a new host. The Moroaica will be wroth with him, if he succeeds.”

“Not for long, though,” said Corvalis. “Sicarion’s just a mad dog that likes killing. The Moroaica probably knows too many people that she wants killed.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “She sent Sicarion here to kill that rebellious disciple.”

“I remember Sicarion saying that,” said Corvalis. “I wonder who it is. Nadirah, perhaps?” He laughed. “Maybe Ranarius himself?”

“I doubt it,” said Caina. “Nadirah was terrified of the Moroaica. And all the Moroaica’s disciples have been necromancers. Ranarius isn’t a necromancer.”

But she remembered what the shadow had said about Ranarius’s slavery. Was Ranarius a disciple of the Moroaica? Jadriga taught her students the necromantic sciences, and Caina had seen no evidence that Ranarius used necromancy. 

But if he really was a disciple of the Moroaica, that would make him all the more dangerous. 

“Hopefully the disciple is one of the lesser magi,” said Caina. “Sicarion will kill him, and we won’t have to worry about it any longer.” She glanced at the street. “We should get moving.” 

“One more question,” said Corvalis. “What is your name? You know mine. It’s only fair that I should know yours.”

“Marina,” she said. “And, no, I won’t tell you my real name. That will keep Ranarius from plucking it out of your head.”

She meant it as a joke, but the words sobered Corvalis.

“Aye,” he said. “You’re right. We had best keep moving.”

They returned to the street and resumed their walk towards the Plaza of Majesty. 

“Couldn’t your question have waited?” said Caina. “Surely there would be a more convenient time than sneaking up on a Kindred Haven.” 

“Aye,” said Corvalis, “but I’m about to go against some very dangerous foes with you at my side. Better to know your quality before the swords come out. And I misjudged you. I thought you like the Kindred, cold and lovely and hard.”

Caina laughed. “You no longer think me lovely?”

Corvalis grinned. “Perhaps not so cold and hard.”

She blinked several times, trying to decide what she thought about that.

Then they entered the Plaza of Majesty, and all other thoughts vanished from Caina’s mind.

The Temple of the Living Flame rose on the far end of the Plaza, a massive pyramid of gleaming black marble. A cherry-red glow came from the opening at the pyramid’s top, the light of the fire blazing from the Altar of Eternal Flame in the Temple’s heart. It reminded Caina of the great black pyramids of Rasadda, the ancient tombs of the pyromancer-kings of old. The dead Ashbringers burned atop those pyramids, forever wrapped in pyres of sorcerous flame…

“You’re shivering,” said Corvalis.

She forced herself to stop. “Bad memories.” She remembered men screaming the grip of Kalastus’s pyromantic fires…

“Let me do the talking,” said Corvalis. “If anyone asks, we are pilgrims from Rasadda, coming to visit the Great Temple in Anshan in hopes of healing the schism between the two branches of the faith.” He scowled. “Be wary. The Kindred will be on the guard after the failed assassination attempts.” 

The entrance to the Temple loomed before them, a tall, narrow doorway in the pyramid’s side. Beyond Caina saw the massive black altar, the fire raging atop its surface. The adherents of the faith worshipped before the altar, praying that the Living Flame would scour the impurities from their souls and allow them to escape the endless cycle of death and rebirth. Caina did not know if there was such a thing as reincarnation or not.

Of course, the Moroaica was inside of her head, but that was probably not what the brotherhood of the Living Flame had in mind. 

The pyramidal temple’s interior was massive, the sloping walls rising to a point far overhead. The altar’s fire illuminated the temple, and Caina saw a slave in a ragged gray tunic kneeling on the floor, polishing the black marble. The slave, rangy and gaunt, rose as they approached.

“Pardons,” he said in Cyrican, “but the Temple is closed for the evening. Return on the morrow.”

“Forgive me, brother,” said Corvalis in Caerish, coloring his words with a Saddaic accent. “But I do not speak the native tongue of this land.”

A hint of irritation flickered over the slave’s face.

The man was Kindred. Caina was sure of it. No Cyrican slave would dare to be so open with his emotions in front of the freeborn.

“The Temple is closed for the evening,” said the slave in Caerish, his Cyrican accent so thick Caina could scarce make out the words. “Return tomorrow.”

“But we have journeyed all the way from Rasadda on the far end of the Empire,” said Corvalis, his tone wheedling. “We arrived this night, but I have heard so much of the splendors of the great Temple of Cyrica Urbana that I wished to see it with my own eyes at once. What an honor it must be to serve in this place!”

A hint of contempt flashed through the slave’s eyes. Doubtless the Kindred did not hold the faithful in high regard. “If it is such an honor, you can get down on your knees and scrub the floor yourself.” 

“I must pray before we go,” said Corvalis, drawing himself up. “I am going to the Great Temple in Anshan. I am sure the heretic brethren there will see the error of their ways and rejoin with those of us in the Saddaic provinces. Yes, I must pray for the Living Flame to bless my mission. Surely I am his instrument to bring unity to the scattered branches of the brethren once more!”

“I am sure,” said the slave. “Perhaps you should start praying at once so the Living Flame will hear you.”

“Indeed!” said Corvalis, and he marched towards the altar, Caina following. To her surprise, Corvalis began to sing a hymn to the wisdom of the Living Flame.

She stifled a laugh. That hymn usually proceeded an hour of ritual prayer. She glanced back and saw the slave’s expression return to boredom.

Corvalis circled the altar, still singing, and bit by bit he let his song fade away.

“That was clever,” said Caina, when the altar stood between them and the entrance. The heat of its fire washed over her in waves, sweat trickling down her face and back. During the day, the Temple of the Living Flame had to smell like an unwashed bathhouse. “Theodosia would be proud.”

“You should have joined me,” said Corvalis. “We could have sung a duet.” 

They crossed the great chamber and ducked through a side door. Beyond stood a long, narrow corridor leading to the quarters of the priests. They crept past the bedrooms, making no sound, and came to the Temple’s library. It was larger than Caina expected, at least as large of Theodosia’s suite at the Inn of the Defender. Gleaming wooden shelves lined the walls, laden with books and scrolls.

“Let’s see if Mhadun was telling the truth,” muttered Corvalis.

He crossed to the third shelf, found the book on the history of the northern Empire, and gave it a sharp tug.

Without a sound, a section of the floor slid aside, revealing a spiral staircase that descended into the earth. A faint blue glow came from the depths. Corvalis drew his sword from beneath his robe, and Caina slid her ghostsilver dagger from its sheath. 

The Kindred might have sorcerers other than Mhadun among their ranks.

Corvalis descended the steps, moving with masterful stealth, and Caina followed suit. Spheres of glass hung from the walls, glowing with an inner blue light. The initiates of the Magisterium manufactured and sold the enspelled spheres by the thousand. Given how far underground the Kindred Haven lay, Caina could see why the assassins wanted smokeless lights. 

Down and down the stairs went, and Caina counted them. She had passed two hundred and fifty when they reached an archway. It opened into a wide corridor of polished black stone, illuminated by more glass spheres. At the end of the corridor, perhaps thirty yards away, Caina saw a massive iron portcullis sealing off the passageway.

“Do not,” whispered Corvalis, “move a muscle.”

Caina froze. “What is it?”

“See those dark slots upon the wall?” said Corvalis. Keeping her head still, Caina turned her eyes and saw dozens of dark rectangles, almost like arrow slits, in the wall. “They’re traps. A little present the Strigosti artificers built for the Kindred. There are guards at the other end of the portcullis. If they see us, they’ll use the trap. Probably poison gas of some kind, or perhaps acid.”

“A formidable defense,” said Caina. There was absolutely no hint of cover in the corridor, and even with her shadow-cloak, she would have no chance of making it to the portcullis undetected. And even if she survived the acid or whatever else waited in the trap, the guards at the portcullis would have plenty of time to shoot her before she even reached them. 

“We can’t take the Sarbians down here,” said Caina. “It would be a massacre.” 

“Aye,” said Corvalis. “We’ll have to think of something else. But Mhadun and that shadow were telling the truth. The Kindred Haven is down here. We’d had best go before someone discovers us.”

Caina nodded, and they climbed back up the stairs. Corvalis closed the secret door, and they walked back to the chamber of the altar. He began to sing as they approached, the hymn to the Living Flame ringing off the walls and the floor. They circled the altar and its raging flame and headed towards the door.

The slave watched them, eyes narrowed. 

“The Temple is magnificent!” said Corvalis. “Oh, how I envy you. How delightful it must be to toil every day in the presence of the Living Flame.”