Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (3 page)

After five hundred years, we’re no closer to understanding why, in the midst of the Ascendancy of the Blessed Three Hundred, Lillea Selene Sorades, known to the world as Corinea, murdered Johan Corin. She vanished before most were even aware of the crime, and she was never seen again. What happened that chaotic night to prompt her attack? We may never know.

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS,
O
RDO
C
OSTRUO, 880 (500TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE
A
SCENDANCY)

Teshwallabad, Northern Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

Rami (Septinon) 929

15
^th
month of the Moontide

Alaron Mercer sat on a muddy temple step, contemplating the waters of the Imuna River lapping his feet. A few feet away, the Zain monk Yash was playing with seven-month-old Dasra Meiros. Both little boy and young man were soaked, and gleefully happy.

‘I’ll look after him if you need a break?’ he called to Yash. The young monk had spoken for them when he, Ramita and Dasra had arrived at the monastery seeking shelter.

Yash looked vaguely offended. ‘Al’Rhon, this is the best time I’ve had since I got here.’

He’d never been the most spiritual of monks.

Alaron was glad to have someone else to keep an eye on the child. He couldn’t look at Dasra without seeing his twin brother, Nasatya, stolen away by Huriya Makani and Malevorn Andevarion two days ago. Scrying had given no clues as to where they had gone, and his thoughts were full of self-recriminations.

I had Nasatya in my hands and I lost him.

I held the Scytale of Corineus in my hands, and I lost it.

I faced Malevorn, and I lost. Again.

He lowered his face into his hands, borne down by the weight of his failings.

After fleeing the mughal’s palace in the wake of the carnage wrought by Ramita’s former blood-sister and her Souldrinker followers, they had taken refuge in this Zain monastery, where his friend Yash dwelt. Outside in the city, Mughal Tariq hunted them. It felt as if they were outstaying their welcome.

Why Malevorn was helping Huriya was unfathomable: he was an Imperial Inquisitor and sworn to the destruction of all Souldrinkers. It made no sense. Despite that, they’d trapped Alaron and Ramita and with the babies held hostage, forced an exchange: one of Ramita’s twins for the Scytale.

I let Ramita down . . . she must despise me!

What made his failure worse was how hopelessly in love with her he was. The realisation had struck at the worst possible time – in the midst of their battle with the Dokken – but it was now fact, as key to his being as water and air. It had been growing inside him during the months they’d spent together, training in the arts of the gnosis and sharing dangers and discoveries alike, and had crystallised as they faced death together. She was the drumming of his heartbeat. But he was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same way; after all, she’d made him her adopted brother in a Lakh ceremony called rakhi, probably to ensure he didn’t get any silly ideas. After all, she might have been born a lowly Aruna Nagar market-girl – but she was the widow of Antonin Meiros, one of the Blessed Three Hundred and greatest magician of the Age.

Who am I to dream so high?

Yash, his friend since they’d met at Mandira Khojana monastery and travelled together to Teshwallabad, had persuaded the Masters to take them in, but to stay much longer was to endanger their hosts. Having brought so much death and destruction, they owed it to the monks to leave soon.

He’d barely seen Ramita since they’d arrived; she had spent most of the last two days praying to her Omali gods in the temple. The Zains held all gods to be equal, but they had Lakh roots, so Omali shrines were maintained within their walls. So when her voice floated out of the temple door, quavering and uncertain, he was on his feet in an instant.

‘Al’Rhon?’ she called. ‘Have you a minute?’

Something in her voice shouted danger. He swept up his kon-staff and kindled gnostic shields. ‘Keep Das with you,’ he told Yash. ‘It may be nothing, but . . .’

But it might be Huriya and Malevorn, come back to finish the job.

*

‘Vishnarayan-ji, Protector of Man, hear me! Aid me! Darikha-ji, hear me! Help me, Queen of Heaven! Hear me, Kaleesa-ji, Demon-Slayer! Come to my aid! Makheera-ji, Goddess of Destiny, alter your weaving to save my son!’

For the best part of two days, ever since the awful battle in the Mughal Dome, Ramita had been on her knees, beseeching the gods to undo the wrongs that had been done, begging for justice and mercy with her mind, calling with the gnosis, because surely the gods could hear a mage? Surely they would hear
her
. Surely they would lead her to her lost son!

But for two days the gods had remained silent.

They only help those who help themselves
, her father had always said. Humbled, she gave up. Her knees unlocked painfully as she rose and turned towards the doors. Then she halted, petrified.

The statue of Makheera-ji, Queen of Fate, was stepping down from her pedestal, and Ramita’s heart almost stopped. The life-sized icon was blue-skinned, with thick coils of hair like a nest of snakes. She held symbols of power and knowledge in her six arms, and her golden eyes transfixed Ramita where she stood.

‘Makheera-ji?’ Ramita gasped.

The goddess laughed, and changed form again . . .

*

Alaron paused at the small door and peered in. The temple was full of shadows and soft orange light flickering from the oil lamps and dancing over the faces of the Omali gods, some fierce, some wise, with their multiple arms and blue-painted stone skin. For a nightmare moment it was as if they were all alive, surrounding Ramita, who stood in widow’s white in the middle.

‘What is it?’ he asked softly, his eyes piercing the gloomy interior.

‘We have a visitor,’ Ramita said in an odd voice. She usually sounded so certain about the world; what she didn’t understand she placed in the hands of her gods. But right now her dark, serious face looked entirely mystified.

Alaron looked beyond her at a dark-robed figure standing at the edge of the light. She was slender and a little stooped, a Rondian woman with silvery hair, her skin fair, though darkened by the sun, her face a network of fine creases and faint wrinkles.

He raised his staff into a defensive position; though there was nothing in the least threatening about her posture or demeanour. But white-skinned women didn’t come here, and she had a gnostic aura: she was a mage.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘She is one of your Rondian gods,’ Ramita said in a voice pitched between awe and disbelief. ‘First she was a statue of Makheera-ji, then she changed.’

Alaron blinked. ‘Rondians have only one god: Kore. He’s a man.’

Disdain flickered across the woman’s face. ‘I didn’t claim to be a god.’

‘She wants to talk to us,’ Ramita told him. ‘She says her name is Corinea.’

Corinea! Dear Kore!
Alaron’s heart thudded painfully and he took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Get behind me,’ he told Ramita, his voice coming out thin and shaky. ‘Ramita, she’s—’

She’s what – Hel’s Whore? The Murderess of our Saviour?

He had been raised as a sceptic and didn’t believe in any gods. His father maintained that Corineus had been just a man, and so too his sister Corinea . . .

How can this be her?

But Ascendant Magi can live a
very
long time
, he reminded himself.
If it’s really her, she’s not a goddess, she’s a mage: an old, very powerful mage.
He put himself between the woman and Ramita, trembling like a newborn colt and almost blinded by cold sweat. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk. I don’t mean you any harm.’

‘Why would you want to talk with us?’

‘Because I heard this young woman speaking of things that concern me. She prayed for you too, Alaron Mercer, and I have never before heard a Rondian name in the prayers of a Lakh woman.’

His eyes flickered to Ramita, who nodded, her face flushing a little, and for a moment his thoughts detoured as he wondered what she’d been praying about.
Concentrate, idiot!

‘Can you prove that you are who you say?’

Corineus’ murderer. His lover and his sister.

‘I don’t suppose I can, very easily. Unless you’d like to link minds with me?’

He shivered at the casual offer. Unshielded mental links were dangerous, and the more powerful of the two magi involved controlled them.

‘I will do it,’ Ramita said firmly.

Alaron swallowed. ‘No!’

‘My husband told me I would be stronger than your Ascendant-magi,’ the little Lakh girl reminded him.

‘No one is stronger than an Ascendant,’ Corinea said loftily.

‘If she really is Corinea, then she’s had almost six hundred years of using the gnosis!’ Alaron protested. ‘I’ll do it. I’m expendable.’

‘You aren’t expendable!’ Ramita said, suddenly alarmed. ‘You are my brother. I refuse to let you.’

She really does have this whole brother–sister thing around the wrong way
, Alaron thought. Even so, something inside him glowed.

‘You are the widow of Antonin Meiros,’ Corinea mused. ‘He was the best of them; time has certainly proved that. But even he wouldn’t see me.’ She looked at Alaron. ‘Even the Ordo Costruo, sworn to peace, tried to hunt me down.’

I’m sure they had good reason
. Alaron glanced sideways at Ramita, then lowered his staff slowly; he was a quarter-blood, and it would do him no good against an Ascendant if Corinea chose to attack.

But we need to know . . .
He made up his mind and stepped forward. ‘Do it.’

Before Ramita could protest again, the Rondian woman had grasped his hand and images started crashing over him like a tidal wave: young people singing, holding torches aloft at twilight. A golden-haired man with a merry smile. That same man, standing on a platform, addressing an enraptured crowd chanting, ‘Corin! Corin! Corin!’ while hands were reaching out to him, and other young people were also clamouring for his attention. Then he saw frightened soldiers being pushed aside, flower garlands tangling in hair, a blur of tumultuous visions of love and dreams and death . . . A bloodied knife . . .

And behind the rush of images was the strong thread of identity present in any deep gnostic contact, which revealed that she was indeed exactly who she claimed to be. The shock of discovering that he was holding the hand of the most reviled woman in all of history was too much. He released her fingers and staggered away.

Ramita grabbed him, her eyes blazing. ‘Bhaiya? Al’Rhon?’

‘It’s okay,’ he panted, ‘she didn’t hurt me.’ He marshalled his strength and straightened. ‘It’s her! Sweet Kore . . .’
She really is Corinea!

Part of him expected her to burst into flame, grow horns or rip his heart from his chest, but instead she spoke perfectly normally, looking composed and patient. ‘You asked your gods for guidance, Ramita Ankesharan. You asked aid in finding your son. You asked help in recovering the Scytale of Corineus. You begged for your remaining son to be kept safe, and this young man also. If you wish, think of me as the answer to your prayers.’

Ramita frowned disapprovingly at this blasphemy.

‘What do you want of us?’ Alaron asked fearfully.

‘I want the Scytale.’

Of course: she wants to found a new Ascendancy, to take her vengeance on the magi.

Corinea shook her head as if in reply to his thoughts. He’d never been great at keeping his mind cloaked. ‘No, Alaron Mercer, I don’t wish to create a new Ascendancy. The first has caused quite enough misery; two factions of magi ripping at each other would destroy the world. No, I would use it to bargain for the opportunity to give my side of the story.’

‘Your side?’

Bitterness filled her voice. ‘Yes, my side of the story. I do have one, boy – and I promise you, it is not the one told in the
Book of Kore
!’ She looked from him to Ramita and back. ‘Will you hear it?’

Alaron swallowed and looked at Ramita. They both nodded hesitantly.

*

An hour later, they sat eating daal at a small table in the suite where the monks had housed them, two adjoining rooms with wooden beads hanging across the door frames. The air hung with incense and the spices in the curried daal, which they ate with rice and flatbreads, washed down with well-water. Corinea ate the Lakh way, rolling the curry and rice into balls then popping them in her mouth between sentences. She clearly spoke Lakh fluently, but used Rondian for Alaron’s benefit – Ramita was more proficient in Alaron’s tongue than he was in hers. After examining Corinea doubtfully – he’d not seen a white woman before – Yash had taken Dasra to the refectory for dinner. Her name meant nothing to him, and he’d taken Alaron’s assurance that all was well at face-value.

‘Who is your ancestor among the Blessed?’ Corinea asked Alaron. All Rondian magi could trace their ancestry to someone in the Blessed Three Hundred.

‘Berial.’

‘I recall Berial: Brician woman, brown hair.’ She studied Alaron. ‘You have her nose.’

‘My father told me Berial died three hundred years ago. But her grandson got a woman of the human Anborn family pregnant. It’s the family scandal, although I never did understand why – surely that’s how all the half-blood lines started.’

The name Anborn clearly meant nothing to Corinea. ‘I fled Rondelmar immediately after the death of Johan Corin, and came to Ahmedhassa the year the Ordo Costruo discovered the continent. I’ve lived hidden here ever since. I have very little up-to-date knowledge of Yuros.’

‘Where did you live?’ Ramita asked curiously.

‘Many places; I’ve travelled from the north of Mirobez to the south of Lakh.’