Ghost in the Pact (45 page)

A rest. Just a moment’s rest, and then he would find something useful to do.

Kylon fell asleep, and in his dreams he thought he heard a familiar, sardonic voice.

“The silver fire,” murmured the Knight of Wind and Air, “is your only salvation…”

“Lord Kylon?”

Kylon looked up, his hand moving to the valikon’s hilt. 

He hadn’t been asleep for long. Night had not yet fallen, but around him a score more wagons had parked, and dozens of large tents had been raised. Lady Claudia stood over him, frowning in concern, a waterskin in her hands.”

“Are you well?” said Claudia. “Were you wounded after Rhataban’s death?”

Kylon shook his head. “No. I just wanted to rest for a moment. I fear I may have fallen asleep.”

She snorted. “Yes, a grievous crime. You defeated a Master Alchemist in single combat, slew a score of kadrataagu, and saved the heir to the throne of Istarinmul, but you fell asleep after your exertions? Unforgiveable!” 

Kylon smiled a little. “I had heard Imperial noblewomen were demanding.”

“You’ll forgive me after this,” said Claudia, passing him the waterskin. 

“What is it?” said Kylon.

“Watered wine,” said Claudia. “I thought if you weren’t wounded, then you were likely thirsty.”

“Gods, yes,” said Kylon. He pulled away the stopper and lifted the skin to his throat. The wine was bitter and weak, but after the battle it tasted like the finest nectar ever served in the Tower of Kardamnos. “Thank you. That must have been a lot of trouble.”

Claudia laughed. “Actually, it wasn’t. Lord Tanzir asked me to help look after the wounded.” Her smile faded. “And there are a lot of them, alas. I came here to help set up the field hospital, and I happened to find you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Just a moment of rest,” said Kylon. He grunted and got back to his feet. “And I should rejoin Nasser and Laertes and the others. I doubt the Huntress is here at all. Nevertheless, I should guard Lord Tanzir and Prince Sulaman in case I am wrong.”

Claudia frowned. “Why do you think she is not here?” 

“Because we won the battle,” said Kylon. “If she was here, she would have struck before the battle was lost. Then she could have gorged herself on the deaths as Erghulan slaughtered our army.” He shook his head. “She must have gone with Callatas to Pyramid Isle.”

Claudia nodded. “I feared that as well.” 

“And I was a fool not to go with her,” said Kylon. “I should have insisted. I…”

“If you hadn’t,” said Claudia, “every last one of us would be dead. I know that is small comfort, but it is true.”

Kylon said nothing, but he managed a nod. 

“I do understand,” said Claudia in a soft voice. “What is it to watch someone you love put themselves into danger again and again.” 

“Aye,” said Kylon. Did she understand what it was to watch someone you loved die front of you, powerless to help them? Given how her brother had died, perhaps she did. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. “It is…difficult.”

They stood in silence for a moment. 

“And I also understand why Caina fell in love with you,” said Claudia. 

Kylon blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Now that I’ve seen you with your shirt off, anyway.”

Kylon blinked at her, and then she burst out laughing at his expression. He realized that she was teasing him, trying to snap him out of his gloomy mood. He suddenly felt embarrassed, but he supposed that was the point. It was hard to wallow in gloom during a moment of acute embarrassment. 

“How is your son?” he said, hoping to change the subject. He stooped, recovered his shirt and his armor, and started pulling them on. 

“Well,” said Claudia. “Kirzi and her husband kept watch over him, thank the gods.” She sighed. “A battlefield is no place for a child. Or for anyone, really. I wish I could have kept him safe in Malarae.” Her green eyes grew troubled. “But I suppose none of us have gotten what we wanted.”

“Battleborn,” said Kylon, slinging on his baldric and adjusting the straps holding the sheathed valikon.

“I’m sorry?” said Claudia. 

“You could call him Corvalis Battleborn,” said Kylon. “Like the barbarians of the northlands do, given that he was born on a battlefield.”

Claudia raised a blond eyebrow. “He was born in a looted shoe shop, I will have you know.”

“I know,” said Kylon. “I was there. And the city was a battleground at the time.” 

“I suppose so,” said Claudia. “We’ll have to start calling him Corvalis Battleborn. I suppose my brother would have been pleased…”

She fell silent as a gaunt man in the bright robes of a monk of the Living Flame approached. 

“Lord abbot,” said Claudia with a quick bow. 

“Karzid,” said Kylon, his hand coiling into a fist. 

“Lord Kylon,” said Karzid with a bow of his head. “A great victory. After watching Rhataban fight, I did not think anyone could overcome him. But you did.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “What do you want?” 

“The Emissary,” said Karzid, “requests the honor of your presence.” His face twitched a little. “Politely. Not to command, not to threaten, but to counsel. If you will hear her.”

Kylon let out a long, irritated breath. He did not want to talk to the Emissary of the Living Flame. Yet she had given him good advice before the battle. If he had not realized how badly Rhataban had been enslaved to the lusts of his nagataaru, Kylon might not have found the stratagem that had let him defeat the Master Alchemist. 

“Fine,” he said. “Lady Claudia, thank you for the wine.” She nodded. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.” 

He followed Karzid through the assembling camp, the monk walking in silence. Around Kylon the soldiers raised their tents, their mood celebratory. They had taken on a superior army and beaten them, sending the enemy running to the safety of Istarinmul’s walls. Kylon supposed Strabane and his warriors would be raising a many a cup to their victory tonight.

Come to think of it, he might join them.

A boot crunched against the turf, and Kylon felt the familiar presence of an elemental spirit. He turned as Mazyan stepped out of the gathering gloom, his usual scowl in place. There was no trace of the injuries that Rhataban had inflicted. Evidently the powers of the djinni included quick healing. Kylon envied that. The sorcery of water allowed him to heal quickly, but not that fast.

On the other hand, he would heal faster than the men lying wounded in the hospital tents, so he would not complain. 

“Exile,” said Mazyan. 

“Mazyan,” said Kylon. “Is Sulaman in danger?”

“The Prince is safe,” said Mazyan. “I sense no other nagataaru nearby. I do not think the Huntress is pursuing the Prince.”

“No,” said Kylon, his grim mood returning. If the Huntress was not pursuing the Prince, then the Huntress was likely on Pyramid Isle. 

“Thank you,” said Mazyan. He looked as if the words had caused him pain. “I could not have defended the Prince alone, and therefore would have failed in my duty without your aid.”

He offered a stiff bow and then departed.

“That was astonishing,” said Karzid, blinking.

Kylon looked at the monk. 

“Oath Shadows are heavily influenced by their djinn,” said Karzid. “The djinn of the Azure Sovereign’s Court are devoted to duty. For an Oath Shadow to admit that you helped him in his duty…it was the highest possible compliment he could give.” 

“If your Emissary doesn’t send me on some wretched errand of doom,” said Kylon, “then I’ll buy him a drink or three when we return to Istarinmul.”

Karzid opened his mouth, and closed it again, and then decided on silence. 

Wise of him. 

They entered the Emissary’s tent. She had obtained a new table from somewhere since Kylon’s last visit. The monks had lit a pair of braziers, filling the tent with flickering light. The Emissary sat in a camp chair, her expression distant and pensive. She rose as Kylon entered, and Karzid moved to her side.

“Lord Kylon,” said the Emissary. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you,” said Kylon. “I had help from thousands of others. You should thank them, too. What do you want of me?”

“No tasks,” said Emissary. “No burdens I lay upon you, Kylon of House Kardamnos. Instead I have news, and a warning.” 

“News,” said Kylon, staring at her.

A wave of cold dread rolled through him. Suddenly he was certain, utterly certain, that she would tell him that Caina was dead, that she had fallen to the Huntress’s blade while he had fought Rhataban.

He was so certain of it that her next words caught him by surprise. 

“I believe the Balarigar yet lives,” said the Emissary.

“You do?” said Kylon. “How?”

“As a valikarion, she is immune to my sight,” said the Emissary. “Yet she still pulls and warps the threads around her. This very evening I saw a great distortion in the tapestry of the world. For a moment all hung in peril of destruction…and then it did not. I believe the actions of the Balarigar averted this disaster.” 

Kylon said nothing, thinking about what she had said. It did not mean that Caina was still alive. It seemed that she had indeed found a way to stop Callatas from delivering the Staff and Seal to Kharnaces. Yet what had happened? Had she killed Callatas? Had Callatas slain her? 

Then he knew what to ask.

“You still see her altering the threads of the future,” said Kylon. “That’s why you think she is still alive.” 

“You judge correctly,” said the Emissary. “Which means I must now warn you.”

Kylon said nothing, waiting.

“I foresee a point in the future when the warping effect of the threads ceases, when the Balarigar is slain,” said the Emissary. “At that point in the future another thread crosses hers, a thread heavy with the blood of the innocent…”

“The Huntress,” said Kylon, his sword hand curling into a fist once again.

The Emissary nodded. “You have already slain one nagataaru lord. One greater and more cunning than Rhataban comes for the Balarigar. Your path has crossed the Huntress’s path before, and it shall cross hers one more time. You must face the Huntress again, or she will slay the Balarigar, and the world shall die.” 

Kylon remained silent, his fist tight as he fought to keep his anger under control. 

“Let her try,” he said in a quiet voice. “I promised Caina I would meet her again in the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter of Istarinmul, and I will do it. I do not care if I have to kill a thousand monsters like the Huntress, if it takes the rest of my life. I will keep my promise.”

“Yes,” the Emissary in a quiet voice. “You shall.”

Kylon nodded. He would find a way to save Caina from the Red Huntress, no matter what it took.

Even if it cost his life.

Chapter 25: The Final Pact

Callatas drifted through nothingness, his exhausted mind flitting through memories. 

He saw again Iramis, a city of towers wrought of white and gold, its walls gleaming in the sun. The seven Towers of Lore, housing the Words of Lore the Divine had given the first loremasters in the deeps of time. He remembered studying there, remembered passing the trials and becoming first a loremaster of Iramis and then one of the high loremasters. How proud he had been! Iramis was the height of human civilization, mankind’s defender against the abuse of sorcery and the malevolent spirits of the netherworld, and Callatas had become part of that grand and glorious tradition. 

But as the years passed, and his reputation and power grew and he became known as Callatas the Wise, he had grown wearier and more cynical, tired of the constant scheming and plotting of the kings and lords and princes, weary of the endless parade of the suffering who sought aid from the loremasters of Iramis. No matter what Callatas did, no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough. There was always more suffering.

Then the day when the girl had come to him for help, and he had unknowingly sent her to her death…

Callatas had understood after that. 

There was no hope for humanity. There was nothing perfectible about humanity, save their nature as killers, as hunters. In a blazing moment of rage and fury and madness Callatas understood. Civilization corrupted mankind, and he would strip away civilization. He would create a new kind of man, one who needed nothing that civilization offered, one who needed neither food nor drink nor shelter, one that could be perfected…

Long he had sought for the sorcerous secrets to work such a feat, until his search at last led him to Pyramid Isle and Kharnaces…and Kharnaces had told him of the nagataaru and the Court of the Azure Sovereign, two kingdoms of spirits locked in warfare without end. 

There, at last, Callatas had found his answer.

The century and a half after that blurred before his eyes.

Nasser refusing to give him the Staff and the Seal after he had stolen the Star from Iramis.

Iramis burning as he lifted the Star aloft, the firestorm annihilating the oldest civilization upon the face of the world, the Star’s colossal power threatening to consume him as he forced it into the channels of his will. 

The experiments, the endless experiments as he sought to perfect wraithblood, the tens of thousands of slaves dying in his laboratory as he sought the proper formula. The screams never stopped in his laboratories. The searching, the endless searching, as he scoured the Iramisian ruins dotting the Desert of Candles for where Annarah might have hidden the Staff and Seal. 

Callatas also remembered the voice.

It was not a voice, not really. Death did not have a voice. Agony and torment could not speak in words. Alien hatred beyond the capacity of the human mind to comprehend could not form speech. 

Yet if they could, they would sound like the voice that Callatas had heard on the day he had first attempted to summon a nagataaru, the day he had made his pact with Kotuluk Iblis, the sovereign and lord of the nagataaru.

The day the shadow of Kotuluk Iblis had filled him. 

And now the voice of the shadow thundered through his skull once more.

CALLATAS.

He recoiled in fear, some of his memory starting to return. There had been a battle atop the hill, a duel of mighty sorcery. A gilded box thrown into the Conjurant Bloodcrystal, and then green fire everywhere…