Ghost in the Throne (Ghost Exile #7) (15 page)

“Who is it, then?” said Caina. “If you can’t tell me what you promised? To whom did you give your word?”

“A dead man,” said Morgant. “Or, at least, I think he’s dead. If he’s not dead by now, he probably wishes that he was.” 

“That’s very clear,” said Caina. She hesitated, slipping the knife’s handle into her hand. “Does that mean you’re our enemy? You’ve been working for Callatas the entire time?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Morgant. “I can tell you this. The man I am protecting is not your enemy. He is, in fact, on your side. Upon that, I give you my word.”

Caina considered that. “And Morgant the Razor always keeps his word.” 

“You have seen that with your own eyes,” said Morgant. 

Caina sighed. “I’m surrounded by secrets. What’s one more?” She slipped the throwing knife into its sheath and stood. “You can have the watch. Please don’t stab us in our sleep.”

“Do try to keep your natural urges in check,” said Morgant. “The sounds and resultant odors might draw jackals, and…”

“Good night, Morgant,” said Caina, and she walked into the camp. Kylon lay in his bedroll near the fire. Caina retrieved her blanket, lay down next to him, and squirmed under his arm. He muttered something in his sleep, his arm settling around her shoulders.

Caina rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes. She had forgotten how much she enjoyed not sleeping alone. It had never occurred to her during the first eighteen years of her life, but then she had seduced Alastair Corus in Malarae. That had been a serious mistake, but later with Corvalis she had realized how much she enjoyed sharing her bed with a man. How she much preferred not to sleep alone. 

In the dark months after Corvalis had died, until Claudia had helped Caina realize her death wish, she had forgotten that. 

Again she felt the urge to ask Kylon to leave with her. 

But no. She had her duty.

Her thoughts chased each other around her head, and at last the warmth of Kylon’s body and the silence of the steppes lulled her to sleep.

###

And in her sleep, Caina dreamed.

She found herself in the House of Kularus, the coffeehouse she had built and owned in Malarae. She stood upon the main floor, the tables empty. Several levels of balconies rose overhead where customers could converse in private booths, and all of them were empty as well. Strange gray light came through the windows. Caina looked down at herself and smiled. She wore a blue dress with black trim upon the sleeves and bodice, the neckline just low enough to meet propriety, a silver necklace with sapphires glinting at her throat. Caina had worn that dress on the day she had met Kylon in Catekharon, during the Masked Ones’ ill-advised attempt to sell Mihaela’s glypharmor. Odd that she should think of the dress. Yet in the peculiar dream-logic, she understood. Catekharon had been the first time Kylon had seen her as something other than a faceless shadow or a cold-eyed killer. At the time, that had meant nothing to Caina. 

Now it meant much more.

She turned, and the House of Kularus shifted around her. Suddenly bookshelves lined the walls, holding thousands upon thousands of volumes. It reminded her a great deal of her father’s library when she had been a child. As she looked closer, she realized that it was his library, the same books in the same order upon the same shelves, just transplanted into the House of Kularus. 

Caina knew that she was dreaming, but she had never experienced a dream quite like this before. Did that mean someone or something was trying to communicate with her? So many spirits and sorcerers had spoken to her dreams that sometimes she wished she could simply store pen and paper inside her thoughts so they could leave messages in a less cumbersome fashion. But…

A booming knock rang out from the House’s doors, and Caina spun, skirts swirling around her legs. 

“Beware the fire,” murmured a dry, sardonic voice.

Caina knew that voice. 

She walked towards the door. She was wearing high-heeled boots, and the heels clicked against the polished stone floor with every step. Spirits and sorcerers had always forced their way into her thoughts, taking command of the dream, though she had often been able to seize control back. This, though…it felt as if she was in complete control. It felt as if she could have dismissed the dream if she chose, or altered anything she wanted.

She looked at one of the tables and concentrated, and it changed. Suddenly a steaming pot of coffee appeared there, accompanied by a set of clay cups and a tray of small cakes.

Again the knock boomed through the House of Kularus, echoing off the high ceiling.

“Beware the fire,” said the dry voice again. 

If she was in control of this dream, then perhaps she could get some answers.

Caina strode forward, her heels striking the floor like hammers, and threw open the doors.

Beyond she should have seen the Imperial Market, the most prestigious market in Malarae, paved in marble and lined with shops selling costly luxuries. Instead she saw a lifeless plain, the ground cracked and dry, thousands of jagged crystalline pillars rising from the earth.

The Desert of Candles.

Alexius Naerius, the Emperor of Nighmar, stood just outside the doors. The Emperor was an old man with close-cropped white hair and a trimmed white beard, his face lined from years of care and worry. He wore only a simple black robe, despite his rank, and his eyes…

His eyes looked as if they had been fashioned from smokeless flame, the glow giving his face a harsh cast. 

Which, of course, meant that he wasn’t the Emperor of Nighmar at all.

“Samnirdamnus,” said Caina.

“My darling demonslayer,” said Samnirdamnus in his drawling, sardonic tone. “So good to see you alive. I confess I doubted for a moment or two, but you have rallied with magnificent aplomb.” 

Caina stared at the djinni. Kylon had saved her life, but Samnirdamnus had made sure that Kylon would have the tools he needed to do it. The djinni had convinced Morgant to take the wedjet-dahn from the Inferno, had arranged to let Caina steal several vials of Elixir Restorata from Callatas’s Maze. That Elixir had saved Kylon’s life in the Craven’s Tower, which in turn had allowed him to save Caina’s in Rumarah. Had Samnirdamnus planned all of that? Or had he improvised, setting up situations that would give him at least some benefit regardless of what happened?

A more immediate question occurred to her.

“Why are you knocking?” said Caina.

“Because I am polite,” said Samnirdamnus, “as befits a djinni of the Court of the Azure Sovereign.”

“No, you’re not,” said Caina. “You’ve popped into my dreams whenever you’ve felt like it. You’ve even spoken to me in the waking world several times. So why are you knocking now?”

“What do you think?” said Samnirdamnus. “Come, my clever demonslayer. Surely you can puzzle it out.”

Caina wished people would stop telling her that. 

Yet why hadn’t Samnirdamnus just walked into the House of Kularus? Caina assumed that the House represented her mind. 

Curious, she took several steps back, watching the djinni. 

“Why aren’t you coming inside?” said Caina.

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” said Samnirdamnus, “I require an invitation in order to do so.”

“An invitation?” said Caina. “You never needed an invitation before. Except…” She thought for a moment. “Except I have never been a valikarion before.”

Samnirdamnus smiled, his eyes flashing. 

“And a valikarion cannot be detected by sorcery, the way I could not be detected when wearing my shadow-cloak,” said Caina. “When I was wearing the cloak, the Sifter had a harder time finding me, and Kalgri’s nagataaru couldn’t sense me. And that means…you can’t enter my dreams. Not any more.”

“Not without an invitation,” said Samnirdamnus. “I do hope you will extend one.” 

“Why?” said Caina. 

“Because,” said Samnirdamnus, “I fear we have urgent matters to discuss.” 

Caina laughed. “Oh, that’s clever. ‘Beware the fire?’ You can’t speak in my dreams, but you can make me curious. Fine. You may enter.”

Samnirdamnus stepped over the threshold and into the House, the black robe flowing around him. “That was trusting.”

Caina shrugged. “If you wanted to kill me, you could have neglected to tell Morgant about the wedjet-dahn. You could have made sure I didn’t steal the Elixir from the Maze.” She thought back. “You could have refrained from warning me about the daevagoths in the Widow’s Tower. Or you could have killed me when Nasser and Anaxander summoned you beneath the Shahenshah’s Seat.” She shrugged. “If you’re trying to kill me, you aren’t doing a very god job of it.” 

“Splendid,” said Samnirdamnus. “Well, then. Shall we take coffee in the Istarish custom and discuss the news of the day?”

He seated himself at the table where Caina had imagined the coffee, and she sat across from him. She poured two cups and passed him one. 

“This is surreal,” she said. “You’re not really here. Even if you were really here, you are a spirit, and have no more need of coffee than of water or food or air.” 

“Come, now,” said Samnirdamnus, taking a sip of the coffee. “I am a guest in your mind. It behooves a guest to respect the customs and mores of his host. Though I observe you take your coffee with neither cream nor sugar. Dark and bitter. How very like the Balarigar.” 

“As enjoyable as it is to listen to your riddles,” said Caina, “I assume you have a point in coming here?” She sipped her imaginary coffee. It was dark and strong and bitter, just the way she preferred it. Apparently her subconscious mind had strong opinions about coffee. 

“You are right,” said Samnirdamnus, “in that I have gone to considerable lengths to preserve your life, my darling demonslayer.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Samnirdamnus with a smile, the eyes of smokeless flame flashing, “you might be the one I have been looking for.”

“For the gods’ sake,” said Caina. “What does that mean? I know you are bound not to give direct aid to the enemies of Callatas, but a direct answer would be pleasant. And surprising.” 

“It means that you might be the one I have been looking for,” said Samnirdamnus, “or that you might become the one I have been looking for. If you lived long enough. And you have taken a long step in that direction. For you have become a valikarion, the first valikarion to walk upon the face of this world for a century and a half.” 

“Is that significant?” said Caina.

“More than you can imagine,” said Samnirdamnus. “The name itself is insufficient. ‘Valikarion’ is only the Iramisian word for ‘bearer of a valikon’. Yet the valikarion were more than that, far more. Can you understand the dread that the valikarion inspired in sorcerers? For no spell can locate a valikarion. No illusion can fool a valikarion. No mind-control spell can work upon a valikarion.”

“Though a skilled enough sorcerer,” said Caina, “could simply pick up boulder and crush a valikarion with it.” 

“Your stalwart stormdancer,” said Samnirdamnus.

The change in topic threw Caina. “You mean Kylon?”

“I spoke to him, before you went to the Tomb of Kharnaces,” said Samnirdamnus. “I told him that he would have to make a choice. He could save the world, or he could save your life.”

Caina blinked. “What did he do?”

“He punched me.”

Caina threw back her head and laughed. 

“It was not that amusing,” said Samnirdamnus. 

“Actually, it is,” said Caina.

“He is not as clever as you are, of course,” said Samnirdamnus, “but, ah, that man is determined. He was going to save you, and nothing would stop him. Not the Huntress, not Cassander Nilas, not Morgant, not the Elixir, and not even the depths of your own mind.”

“No,” said Caina, a wave of emotion going through her. “I…” Her voice trailed off, and she stared into her coffee for moment. “Maybe you should look for someone else.”

“Doubt, at this late stage?” said Samnirdamnus. “How unlike you.”

“Kalgri beat me,” said Caina. “I should have died in Rumarah. I would have died in Rumarah, if not for Kylon and all your games. Maybe I’m not the one you are looking for…whatever it is you are seeking.”

“I have the advantage of perspective, my bold Balarigar,” said Samnirdamnus. “So I have come to warn you.”

“Of this fire,” said Caina. 

“Precisely,” said Samnirdamnus. “It is, of course, much more difficult to behold your future now. But there is fire in your future. Fire that will devour all of Istarinmul, if you do not stop it.”

Caina frowned. “That is more direct than usual for you.”

“Alas, I am bound to speak no word that will harm Grand Master Callatas,” said Samnirdamnus. The Emperor’s bearded face smirked. “Fortunately, I am not bound by this restriction when one of Callatas’s other enemies plots his downfall.”

“Other enemies?” said Caina. “Who?”

“You have already met him.” 

“This fire,” said Caina. “Where is it coming from?” 

“The servants bound to the throne,” said Samnirdamnus. 

“Which throne?” said Caina. 

“The throne of a man dead before you were born,” said Samnirdamnus, “but you have already felt his burning hand upon your life.”

“His burning hand?” said Caina. “An odd metaphor.”

“Perhaps it is not a metaphor,” said Samnirdamnus. 

“Why are you telling me this?” said Caina.

“To warn you,” said Samnirdamnus. “For the end is coming for us, very soon. One way or another, I shall learn if you were the one I have been looking for.” 

“What if I’m not?” said Caina. 

“Then I am afraid,” said Samnirdamnus, “that Grand Master Callatas shall obtain everything he desires.” 

Caina let out a long breath. “Why? Why warn me?”

“You cannot be the one I am looking for if you are killed,” said Samnirdamnus, his sardonic tone growing sharper. “Surely that is obvious.”

“No,” said Caina. “Why warn me? Why save me? Why…look for someone in the first place? Why do all of this?” 

The djinni considered for a moment, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I could grow used to this,” he said. “A pity it is wholly a construct of your imagination.”