Read Mage's Blood Online

Authors: David Hair

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General

Mage's Blood

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of Quercus
55 Baker Street
7
th
Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2012 David Hair

The moral right of David Hair to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 78087 196 7
ISBN 978 1 78087 194 3 (TPB)
ISBN 978 1 78087 195 0 (HB)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
and
www.Jofletcherbooks.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue: The Web of Souls

1: The Vexations of Emperor Constant (Part 1)

2: Wear Your Gems

3: The Standards of Noros

4: The Price of Your Daughter’s Hand

5: The Dutiful Daughter

6: Words of Fire and Blood

7: Hidden Causes

8: An Act of Betrayal

9: Enriched

10: Soldier of the Shihad

11: Graduation

12: Council of War

13: Contact with the Enemy

14: The Road North

15: Mage’s Gambit

16: A Piece of Amber

17: Desert Storms

18. Lady Meiros

19: Offered Hands

20: This Betrayal

21: Missing and Hunted

22: Circling Vultures

23: Relearning the Heart

24: Manifestation

25: The Jackals of Ahm

26: Patterns Burnt into Air

27: A Trail Gone Cold

28: Divinations

29: Envoy

30: Dressed to Steal

31: Lovers

32: The Ghost of a Dog

33: Southpoint

34: Revealed

35: Souldrinker and Assassin

36: Shapeshifter

37: Beneath the Surface

38: Not Dead

39: Mountains at Dawn

Epilogue: Endings are Beginnings

This book is dedicated to my wife Kerry; Lucky me!
It also goes out with my love to Brendan and Melissa, my children;
to my patient test readers (you know who you are),
and to friends and family everywhere. And hello to Jason Isaacs.

PROLOGUE
The Web of Souls
The Fate of the Dead

What happens when the soul leaves the body? Paradise or Damnation? Rebirth? Oneness with God? Or Oblivion? The faiths of mankind have made a case for each and many other variants. But we of the Ordo Costruo teach this: that when the soul detaches from the body it remains here on Urte for a time, a disembodied ghost. Whether it eventually dissipates or passes to some other place, we can only speculate. But what we do know is that a mage may commune with such ghosts and gain access to all that those spirits perceive. There are millions of such spirits wandering the lands. By communing with them, it is theoretically possible to be aware of almost everything that is happening on Urte
.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE
, P
ONTUS

Nimtaya Mountains, Antiopia
Julsept 927
1 Year until the Moontide

As the sun stabbed through a cleft in the eastern mountains, a thin wail lifted from a midden. The refuse heap lay downwind of a ramshackle cluster of mud-brick hovels. The quavering cry hung in the air, an invitation to predators. A lurking jackal soon appeared, sniffing warily. In the distance others of his kind yowled and yapped, but this close to prey, he moved in silence.

There: a bundle of swaddled clothing amidst the waste and filth, jerking spasmodically, tiny brown limbs kicking free. The jackal looked around then trotted forward cautiously. The helpless newborn went still as the beast loomed over it. It did not yet understand that the
warm embracing being that had held it would not return. It was thirsty and the cold was beginning to bite.

The beast did not see a child; it saw food. Its jaws opened.

An instant later the jackal was hurled through the air, its hindquarters smashing against a boulder. It writhed agonisingly and tried to run, sliding down the slope it had so gracefully ascended, its eyes flashing about, seeking the danger it had never even sensed. One hind leg was shattered; it didn’t get far.

A ragged bulk wrapped in cloth rose and glided towards the beast, which snapped and snarled as an arm holding a rock emerged and rose and fell. There was a muffled crunch and blood splattered. From amidst the filthy cloth a face emerged, a leathery-faced old woman with wiry iron hair. She bent until her lips were almost touching the jackal’s muzzle.

She inhaled.

Later that day, the old woman sat cross-legged in a cave high above an arid valley. The land below was stark and jagged, layers of shadow and light playing amongst rocky outcroppings. She lived alone, with none to wrinkle their nose in distaste at her unwashed stench, nor to avert their eyes from her wizened face. Her skin was dark and dry, her tangled hair grey, but she moved with grace as she built up the fire. Smoke was cleverly funnelled up a cleft in the rock and out – one of her many great-nephews had carved the chimney, and though she didn’t remember his name, a face floated to mind.

Methodically she spooned water into the tiny puckered mouth of the newborn baby, one of dozens abandoned each year by the villagers, unwanted and doomed from their first breath. All they asked of her was that she saw them on their way to paradise. The villagers revered her as a holy woman and often sought her aid; the Scriptualists tolerated her, turning a blind eye – for they too had needs, their own dead to placate. From time to time a zealot tried to drive away the ‘jadugara’ – the witch – but they seldom lasted long – condemning her tended to prove unlucky. And if they came in force she was very hard to find.

The villagers wanted her intercessions with the ancestors. She told them what they needed to hear and in return she was given food and drink, clothes and fuel – and their unwanted children. They never asked what became of them – life was harsh here and death came easy. There was never enough for all.

The child in her lap squalled, its mouth questing for sustenance as she looked down at it without emotion. She too was a jackal, of another sort, and great-grandmother of her own pack. When she was younger, she’d had lovers, and conceived once; a girl who became a woman and bred many more. The jadugara still watched over her ancestors, pieces in her unseen game. She had dwelt here longer than any realised, pretending to age, die and be replaced, for centuries. The crypt-cavern in which her predecessors were supposedly buried was empty – at least of her own predecessors; instead she interred the bones of dead strangers. From time to time she would leave to wander the world, wearing scores of faces and names, moving through young woman to old crone like some season-goddess of the Sollan faith.

She did not feed the child, for that would be wasteful and nothing here could be wasted, not in this place and especially not by her, who purchased power so dearly. She tossed a pinch of powder into the flames and watched them change colour from pale orange to a deep emerald. The air temperature fell in seconds, though the flames flared higher. The smoke thickened and the night inhaled watchfully.

The time had come. She picked up a knife from the pile of knickknacks at her knee and pressed it against the baby’s tiny chest. Her eyes met the child’s briefly, but she did not reflect or regret. She’d lost those emotions somewhere in her youth. She had done this more than a thousand times in her long life, in dozens of lands, on two continents; for her it was as necessary as food or water.

She pushed the blade through the baby’s ribs, silencing the child’s brief cry. The little mouth opened and the hag placed her lips to the infant’s mouth. She inhaled … and she was replenished, more than by the jackal. If the child had been older she would have got more, but she would take whatever came her way.

She placed the dead baby to one side, meat for the jackals – she had taken what she needed. She let the smoky energy she had ingested settle inside her. It recharged her as only the swallowed soul of another could. Her vision cleared, her vitality renewed. Replenished, she rekindled her awareness of the spirit world, which took some time – the spirits knew her, and would not approach unless compelled. Some she had bound to her will though, and from these she selected a favourite. She crooned his name; ‘Jahanasthami,’ as she sent out sticky tendrils of power. She poked at the fire, stirring the embers into flame, and added more powders, making the smoke run thicker. ‘Jahanasthami, come!’

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