The Spell of Rosette (6 page)

‘It is if you’re underage.’

‘I’m not.’

‘So you say.’ He took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair before replacing it. ‘Give me fifteen pieces of gold and I won’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

Rosette looked for the hooded figure while pretending to consider the offer. She couldn’t spot it. ‘Done.’

She counted the money into the captain’s weathered hand and made her way up the ramp. The foghorn bellowed as they cast off. She tightened her coat and shoved her fingers deep into the pockets, choking with
tears as she felt her gloves. Mama had made them last winter from the softest black lamb’s wool. She pulled them on and wiped her eyes.

Where are you now, Mamá?

The ship glided through the harbour, the surface of the water shimmering with the last glimpse of daylight. Whispering a silent plea to the sea goddess Sednara for smooth sailing, she headed below deck as they rounded the jetty and set sail. Rosette found an empty bunk and climbed up, spreading her quilt over the straw-filled mattress. The journey would take five days and six nights if they caught a good wind and the best currents. Plenty of time to think.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of the hull. She could hear the crew above, charging about as orders were barked. Soon the clipper picked up speed, the sound of the prow cutting through the swell like a waterwheel churning full bore. She thought of the wheelhouse back home, alongside the river, and the day she and Jarrod…

She stopped.
Focusing on the past just makes more of the past.

She called her wandering mind in and tuned in to her body. Her legs ached from the long walk and so did her heart. Her stomach felt empty, though she didn’t know if she could eat. Her appetite had vanished. There would be plenty of fish soup and sourdough bread in the galley, she guessed, though she didn’t get up to find out. Instead she drew her quilt around her tight and closed her eyes, the undulation of the boat rocking her to sleep.

The streets of Corsanon were empty—like an old eggshell that had dried up in the sun. The tattered flag snapping above the roof of the central tavern and bits
of rubbish that tumbled aimlessly down the road were the only things in motion. This city had been defeated almost two decades ago and there’d been no effort to repair the damage. It was a scar on the face of Gaela, one that most ignored, unless they needed something they couldn’t get anywhere else.

Those who lived here were nocturnal and hard-edged—contract killers, thieves and drug dealers, making a living without custom or principle. The authorities were paid well for their silence, blind to the trading of human slaves for gold, children for the poppy’s embrace, and any kind of sex for a warm meal. But the gold and the drugs and the food were transient—what remained constant was the despair.

The land had lost its soul, and no-one remembered exactly why, or how to get it back. No-one cared. What mattered in Corsanon did not require soul. It thrived on guile, treachery and corruption, though it was not always so.

Corsanon had once been a rich, affluent district, hosting the celebration of the Five Rivers—an annual spring festival that honoured the mystery rites and the ancient deities known collectively as the Watchers, written of in the
Draconian Tablets
and other texts from the now destroyed Dumarkian Temple. People from all over Gaela had flocked to the revelry, many remaining to add their own uniqueness and craft to the city.

The area not only hosted the ritual celebrations of the temples, it was home to one of the portals—a corridor to the many-worlds. For eons, only the Watchers knew of this, until the priesthood of Corsanon, quite by accident, made the discovery. Coveted, it was thought a boon, a way to increase the wealth of Gaela and the prominence of Corsanon’s High Temple. Some feared the Watchers and voted not
to use the portal, but the majority agreed the Watchers were impartial observers that intervened—or not—as it suited them. They wouldn’t notice the activation of the Entity, the guardian of a portal, or any little trips down the corridors the temple clan cared to make.

The Watchers did notice, though, and they were not pleased. Before they took action, Corsanon and its temple were destroyed.

The city’s downfall came about the same way most civilisations crumble—the misuse of power. A corrupt high council priest had joined ranks with governing officials, making a deadly deal. He had dabbled in a particularly occult magic and had created a spell that would enable him to travel the portal—undetected by the Watchers—freeing him to search for wealth in the other worlds. Yet the work was beyond his skill, the consequences brutal. What he summoned consumed him before he could protect himself: it came from another world—another time, another place. It came from a twenty-third-century Earth.

His tampering had severed the Entity, unleashing one part—an elemental intelligence greater than anything he anticipated—into the immediate environment. The other portion remained trapped in the portal, ever seeking a way to escape and rejoin its sundered half. All the while a sickness leaked into Gaela, a sickness from that other world. Corsanon’s despair was not entirely her own—a good portion of it belonged to Earth.

The temple of Corsanon had rallied to negate the blunder, but their attempts proved ineffective. Other temples had stepped in, also unable to contain the Entity or undo the damage. Debates turned into heated arguments, fights into widespread skirmishes, combat into battles until a full-scale war erupted. Many perished, and the effect of the weakened portal unleashed myriad energies, one causing climatic changes within the
province. Crops failed, hunger and desperation ensued. Eventually, temple had battled temple, farmers became vigilantes, and the surviving population deteriorated into a collective of violence and anarchy.

Corsanon, as it had been for countless generations, ceased to exist, but the severed Entity that languished there survived. It adapted, becoming smaller and more self-contained as the riches of the environment no longer sustained it. It lived in back alleys and burnt-out buildings—alone, desperate and aching. Ultimately, all it desired was a way to return to the portal and re-combine with its sundered half. There its nature was harmonious—complete—but it couldn’t find its way.

Kreshkali came upon the drifting Entity, recognising it for what it was. It had also recognised her for what she was: a powerful witch of unknown origin who wore the aura of another world—even though the Entity knew she hadn’t passed through before the sundering.

Kreshkali had come after, with designs of her own.

Archer watched as shadows advanced over the ruined city of Corsanon, its jagged walls turned red by the sunset. A single gas street lamp flickered on and off, like an eye scanning for signs of life. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.

He turned to the man behind him. Rogg looked skinnier than usual in the shadows, swallowed up by the fading light.

‘Well?’ Archer asked.

Rogg crouched, scooping a handful of dirt from the side of the road. He crumbled it between his fingers, letting it trickle to the ground. The other men gathered around.

Archer stooped until his head was level with Rogg’s ear. ‘Is she here?’

Rogg licked his lips before tasting the dirt that clung to his fingers. ‘Naw.’ He stood up, dust falling from his hands as he brushed them on his pants. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ Archer said.

‘Ale?’ Rogg jerked his head towards the tavern beneath the winking light.

‘Why not?’

A gust of wind swept past, blowing Rogg’s hat—a rag tied in knots—onto the ground. Rogg looked at it, shoving his hands into his pockets. The other men stalled as well.

‘What now?’ Archer asked.

‘She’ll skin us. She’ll cook us. She’ll boil…’

Archer whooped with laughter, slapping Rogg’s back and knocking him to his knees. ‘More of this?’ His laughter vanished. ‘Get it, all of you.’ Archer’s hands went to his hips, head cocked sideways. ‘She’s nothing…as good as dead.’

‘And the other?’ Rogg asked.

Archer winked and pulled out a long, thin dagger, twisting it in the space between them. ‘You’ll see. Watch for my sign.’

Kreshkali stood at the edge of the road, staring towards the heart of Corsanon. A single street lamp shone like a beacon in the darkness, flickering with an eerie glow. She took a deep breath, pushed back her hood and smiled.

‘Nothing, am I?’ she whispered into the night air, her breath making puffs of mist in the rising moonlight.

She smiled, tracing the edge of a bootprint with a twig. Intricate tattoos of vines and serpents, wrapped in an ancient caduceus, wound across her wrists and towards her fingertips.

‘Shall I accompany you?’ A young woman stepped out of the shadows, leading two horses. As she spoke one
horse pushed forward, nuzzling Kreshkali’s shoulder. The woman laughed softly, holding the mare back.

‘Stay here, Jaynan. You’ll have your hands full minding these two, especially if things get…lively.’ Kreshkali stroked the mare’s neck, flipping stray lengths of black mane over her crest. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘There are at least five of them,’ Jaynan said, pointing at the bootprints.

‘At least.’ Kreshkali smiled. She rolled up her sleeves, removing silver bangles from her wrists and tucking them into her saddlebag.

Jaynan leaned forward to kiss Kali’s cheek. ‘Be safe, my love.’ She handed her a long staff of polished wood inlaid with copper runes.

Kreshkali flipped her hood up and headed towards the tavern. The horses nickered after her as clouds obscured the moon, sending a blanket of darkness over the deserted street.

Archer laughed. The tavern smelled of rancid meat, sweat and sour ale. He called for beer and found a table near the back of the large room. A fire hissed, the blazing logs warming the filthy rushes and soot-covered walls. The tabletop was crusted with food, ash and spilled wine. Deep gouges, from sword and axe, rent the surface. Archer leaned back in his chair, taking it in.

Several other men were seated by the entrance. All were hooded and hunched as if in hiding, except for the barman. His chest swelled under a dirty white singlet, the hair on his back and shoulders sticking up like boar bristles.

Archer filled his pipe and took a deep drag. Before he exhaled, he froze.

In the chair beside him appeared a hooded figure.

Archer felt his heart pound.
A magician’s trick,
he said to himself.
Nothing to worry about.

‘Where’s the amulet?’ the figure asked.

Beneath the table Archer fingered his dagger, sliding it from its sheath.

‘Where’s me gold?’ he countered.

The woman lifted a coin purse from her cloak and placed it on the table.

He nodded, setting an azure-crystal vial on the table. ‘It’s a trade,’ he said.

Idiot! He had her now. He planned to cut her, take the gold, keeping the prize for himself. Rogg had said it’d be too risky, his brow beading with sweat when they’d bickered over it. Archer stood firm. Witch or not, she was only a woman, and he could handle any woman.

I might even have some fun with her before she dies, or after.

She turned to him. ‘Really?’

He spat.
Demon psychic.
He hadn’t counted on that.

She let her hood slide back, revealing electric blue eyes and a shock of spiky blonde hair.

‘And what’s that?’ she whispered, her face close to his. She put the vial in her pocket, tilting her head towards the keg.

‘We ran into some trouble, but we got his blood.’

‘You
what?
’ Kreshkali shrieked, her eyes boring into him.

‘You said you wanted the blood of the witch-child.’

‘I said I wanted to
protect
the blood of the witch-child.’

Archer swallowed the bile in his throat. It seemed he’d guessed wrong.
No matter…
He sprang, blade slicing towards her neck. Rogg leapt for the gold.

With her left hand, the witch caught Archer’s wrist, snapping the bones. His blade clattered to the floor. With her right, she pointed the staff at Rogg, immobilising him where he stood. His fingers stopped
inches from the coin purse, his thick tongue sticking out of his mouth as though he’d been strangled.

The other men jumped, one leaping towards her, the rest running away.

She raised her staff again, dropping them all to their knees, her voice screeching through the tavern.

Horses trumpeted outside.

Archer stared at her, mute. His limbs were paralysed, blood flowing freely from where the bones protruded. He watched it pool across the table, filling the grooves like tributaries dripping to the floor.

His vision blurred as she leaned over him, lifting her cloak slightly to keep it from touching his face. The bag of coins disappeared back into her robe. She retrieved the keg as well.

‘Who’s the idiot now, Sunshine?’ she asked, heading to the tavern door.

He let out his last breath, cursing her through pale lips.

‘Damn you underworld bitches…’

Jaynan handed Kreshkali the reins. The mare was restless, pawing the ground. ‘I take it there’s no need to rush?’ she asked, securing her staff with double ties.

Kreshkali reached across the space between them and squeezed her companion’s arm. ‘No rush at all.’

She got Archer? How?
Jaynan hid her surprise.

A silence built between them as they headed out of town, punctuated by the horses’ hooves clipping over the cobblestones.

‘Much of a fight?’ Jaynan finally asked, eyeing the small keg strapped to Kreshkali’s back.

The moon came out of the clouds, lighting the road with a soft glow as it rose towards the zenith. Kreshkali’s eyes were black, glistening. ‘None at all. The last of them gone.’ She paused. ‘Does that disturb you?’

Jaynan shook her head. ‘It’s a triumph, of course. But one thing’s confusing me.’

Kreshkali raised her brows.

‘Where is Bethsay’s child? Weren’t they going to deliver the girl to us…to you?’