Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 05 - Ghost in the Stone (17 page)

She led Caina to another door. She opened it and Caina stepped into the next room. The round chamber beyond was dim, lit only by the flickering light of a dozen candles. Gleaming wooden shelves held books and scrolls, and an elaborate mosaic of the constellations and astrological signs covered the floor. 

She felt the faint tingle of sorcery. 

“Come closer, child,” said a woman’s voice, low and musical, “and let me see you.” 

When Marzhod had mentioned a renegade sorceress, Caina had expected to meet someone like Nicorus, the castrated former magus living in the slums of Marsis. Or Sicarion, a man scarred and twisted by centuries of necromancy. Perhaps some haggard crone out of legend.

Not a woman of remarkable beauty, sitting calmly upon a chair and drinking tea. She was in her middle thirties, with smooth brown skin and black hair shot through with white, her eyes like dark amber. She wore an elaborate dress of violet silk, jewels glittering at her sleeves and throat. 

“Who are you?” said Caina. 

The woman took a sip of tea. “I am an occultist, trained in the arcane traditions of Anshan.” 

“I know,” said Caina.

One black eyebrow rose. “Do you? How, pray? The word of Marzhod?”

“I don’t trust Marzhod,” said Caina.

“Wise,” said the woman. “But why do you know me to be an occultist?” 

“Because,” said Caina, easing her fingers toward the throwing knives in her belt. “Your shadow is pointing in the wrong direction.” 

The candles should have thrown the seated woman’s shadow against the wall. Instead it lay across the mosaic floor, stretching towards the candles. 

“Oh, very good,” said the woman. “What do you know about the occultists of Anshan?” 

“They claim to control the shadows,” said Caina, “and speak with spirits and the dead.”

“They claim to?” said the woman, gesturing at her shadow. 

“That’s mummery to deceive the ignorant,” said Caina, remembering what she had read about sorcery in the Vineyard’s library. “The arcane science of the occultists controls the netherworld, the spirit realm. You conjure up spirits and speak to them. And living men and women throw a…shadow, an echo, of themselves into the netherworld. A skilled occultist can read that shadow and learn secrets from it, even control it.”

For an instant, a hint of fear went over the woman’s face. 

“Who are you?” said the woman. 

Caina decided to use that hint of fear to her advantage. “Tell me first. Who are you? There are no women among the occultists of Anshan.” 

“No,” murmured the woman. “There are not. For by ancient tradition, any women who manifest arcane power are put to death.” She lifted her chin, and Caina saw the stern pride of the Anshani nobility in her face. “I am Nadirah, eldest daughter of the great khadjar Arsakan, second only to the Shahenshah himself in nobility. I manifested the power when I was thirteen, and for years practiced it in secret. But my husband discovered that I used my power to arrange his ascent, and he turned against me. I was forced to leave Anshan, the seat of civilization and beauty, and settle here among the savage Cyricans and other barbarians of the Empire.” 

“So I see,” said Caina. 

“But who are you?” said Nadirah. 

“A Ghost,” said Caina.

Nadirah shook her head. “I will speak plainly, then. Are you the Moroaica?” 

“What?” said Caina.

“I sensed it the moment you set foot in Cyrioch,” said Nadirah. “To those with eyes to see into the shadows of the netherworld, you are a vortex of dark power, an inferno of black light. The Moroaica, the great sorceress of the north, the terror of the Szalds, the Queen of Burning Bronze, the ancient one. I wondered if you had come to claim me.”

“Claim you?” said Caina, confused. “I didn’t even know you existed until a few days ago. I am not the Moroaica. I don’t care what you or Sicarion think. I am not the Moroaica.”

“You…are not?” said Nadirah. “But your aura is that of the Moroaica, I am sure of it.” 

“No,” said Caina. “I killed her. She is dead.”

“Many have killed the Moroaica over the centuries,” said Nadirah. “And always she has returned in a new body. Sometimes she has returned in the body of her slayer.” She stood, her skirts rustling against the floor. “When you faced the Moroaica, did she have a coven about her? A circle of apprentices, women she taught arcane arts?”

“She did,” said Caina, remembering Agria Palaegus and the others. Agria, who had murdered her own daughter for renewed youth. 

“Do you think the Moroaica taught disciples out of charity?” said Nadirah. “She keeps a circle of women with arcane power about her at all times. For if she is slain, her spirit will claim one of their bodies for her own.”

Jadriga had indeed taught a circle of disciples in Marsis. But by the time Caina faced her for the last time, the most powerful of the disciples had been slain, and the rest overpowered. And when Caina fought Jadriga, they had been alone, save for Nicolai…

“Oh,” said Caina, voice soft.

Sicarion had been right. It wasn’t merely a part of Jadriga’s power that had lodged inside Caina. It was all of Jadriga’s power, her entire spirit. 

“Then why,” said Caina, throat dry, “then why am I not the Moroaica? Why has she not possessed me?” 

Nadirah closed her eyes, whispering a spell, and Caina felt a sudden spike of sorcery. She reached for her dagger and Nadirah’s eyes opened.

They had gone completely black, like pits into nothingness. Her shadow twitched and writhed at her feet  like a banner in the wind. 

“Because you are scarred,” said Nadirah. Her voice hissed and echoed, as if coming from a long distance away. “I see it in your shadow, beneath the darkness of the Moroaica. You were wounded, your shadow maimed by the sorcery of another. Because of that, you can feel the shadows. You can sense the sorcery of another. But because of that scarring, your aura is…fractured. Like cracks in a pane of glass. So the Moroaica can inhabit your body, can speak to your shadow and speak through your shadow…but she cannot control you.” 

“So the Moroaica is a round peg,” said Caina, “and I am a square hole.” 

Nadirah shook herself and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they had returned to their amber color.

“A crude analogy,” said Nadirah, “but essentially accurate.” 

“So what does that mean?” said Caina. “So long as I am alive, the Moroaica is trapped?”

“Yes,” said Nadirah. “If the Moroaica could release herself from you and claim another body, she would have done so by now.” She shivered. “I feared she would possess me the moment you stepped into my chamber. I wish you long and happy life, Ghost. For as long as you live, the Moroaica is trapped within you.” 

Caina nodded, uneasy. Sicarion had offered to kill Caina and release Jadriga, yet Jadriga had refused. Why? Was the Moroaica waiting until she could find a more suitable host? 

Or did Jadriga think she could slowly persuade her, over the years, to do as she wished? 

It was a disturbing thought.

Caina pushed it aside. She had more immediate problems. 

“Marzhod thinks you can help us,” said Caina. “Can you?”

“Perhaps,” said Nadirah, “though I prefer not to become involved in his business.” 

“Sensible,” said Caina. “But if you don’t help us, I might get killed, and the Moroaica would need a new host.”

“You bargain well,” said Nadirah. “And I must aid you. Something is wrong in Cyrioch.”

There were many things wrong in Cyrioch. Caina remembered the slaves, the gladiatorial games, the crushing poverty of the commoners. But somehow she didn’t think Nadirah had that in mind.

“The shadows are wrong,” murmured Nadirah. “The netherworld whispers of the coming destruction. The shadow of some dire catastrophe lies upon Cyrioch, just as the shadow of the Stone lies upon my house. We stand at the cusp of a terrible disaster.”

“You mean the war between the Empire and Cyrica,” said Caina, “if Cyrica rebels against the Empire.”

“No,” said Nadirah with a shake of her head, the jewels at her throat flashing in the candlelight. “A war between mortal men, terrible as it is, is only a passing thing.  The blood and death pass, and in a few decades it is forgotten entirely. No, this is something worse. A catastrophe of sorcery, of the wrath of the netherworld spilling into the realm of mortal men.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Caina.

“You have come to me,” said Nadirah, “for help about the statues, have you not?”

Again Caina felt a chill. “How do you know this? Did the spirits tell you?”

“Every time a man of flesh and blood is transformed to cold stone,” said Nadirah, “there is an…echo in the netherworld, for lack of a better word. A ripple. Your Magisterium cannot see it. The fools view sorcery as a cold science, not a living art. But one trained in the traditions of Anshan can see it.”

“So what is turning those men to stone?” said Caina. “Do you know?”

“No mortal sorcery can transform a man to stone,” said Nadirah. “Only the powers of a spirit. Specifically, an elemental spirit of earth. Such a creature, if it came to the mortal world, would have the power to transmute living flesh to stone.” 

“Why would an elemental spirit come to Cyrioch?” said Caina. “Did someone summon it?”

“Beyond any doubt,” said Nadirah. “A sorcerer of great power might have summoned the spirit and bound it as a weapon against his enemies. Or it might have been accidentally released from hibernation.”

“Hibernation?” said Caina. “Spirits are like…animals? They hibernate over winter?”

“Not quite,” said Nadirah. “Spirits are immortal. Yet sometimes they enter a torpor for long centuries and rest within physical objects in our world.”

“I’d never heard of such a thing,” said Caina.

“You have, though you know it not” said Nadirah. “You know of the fall of Old Kyrace?”

“It was the end of the Third Empire,” said Caina. “The Emperor invaded Kyrace and seized the island. Just as they stormed the citadel, the volcano at the center of island exploded with such force that it destroyed the entire island.” Old Kyrace had been destroyed, but many of the Kyracians escaped to New Kyre - and the hostility between the Kyracians and the Empire continued to this day.

“That is what the histories say,” said Nadirah, “but they overlook a key detail. A  great elemental spirit of flame was bound beneath the mountain. In the desperation of defeat, the Lord Archon of Kyrace shattered the chains binding the elemental, and the chaos of the spirit’s release destroyed the island, the Emperor, the assembled Legions of Nighmar, and the Lord Archon himself.” She shrugged. “Not all the hibernating spirits in our world are beings of such potency. But such spirits are scattered throughout the nations. The elemental that is turning your Ghosts to statues was either released by accident, or deliberately summoned by a sorcerer.” 

“The Magisterium used to summon elementals,” said Caina, remembering what she had read, “but the knowledge was lost centuries ago, during the fall of the Fourth Empire.” But that didn’t count for much. The Magisterium had also banned necromancy and pyromancy, and Caina had encountered both among the magi. 

Nadirah shrugged. “Regardless of whether or not the elemental was summoned, one is loose in Cyrioch. Until you find the spirit and return it to the netherworld, it will continued to strike.”

“And can you help us find the elemental?” said Caina.

“Yes.”

“How.”

Nadirah smiled. “Bring me a Kindred assassin and the path will become clear.” 

“The Kindred?” said Caina. “Did the Kindred summon this elemental?”

“No,” said Nadirah. “But the shadows have whispered to me. They are connected, the Kindred and the elemental, though I cannot see how. But bring me a Kindred assassin of sufficiently high rank, and I can make him speak. Then all his secrets shall be yours.” 

Caina thought it over. The offer seemed sincere, but no one in their right mind trusted a wielder of sorcery. “You know this catastrophe is coming, whatever it is. Why not leave Cyrioch?”

“Where would I go?” said Nadirah. “If I return to Anshan, I will be killed. Your Magisterium does not tolerate foreign wielders of sorcery within the heart of the Empire, and I would be forced to live in hiding. Both the Istarish and the Kyracians hate and fear the occultists of Anshan. Cyrioch is the only place I shall find refuge, and if it is destroyed, I will have nowhere else to go.” 

“All right,” said Caina. “We have a deal.”

###

Caina stepped back into the street, blinking at the sunlight.

“That took too long,” said Marzhod, scowling. “What did she tell you?”

“Some kind of elemental spirit is loose in the city,” said Caina. “A spirit of earth, turning men to stone.” Several of the Sarbian mercenaries muttered something in their native language and made signs to ward off evil. 

“Lovely,” said Marzhod. “Did she have any helpful suggestions on how to stop it?”

“She wants a Kindred assassin,” said Caina, “one of high rank. She claims that the Kindred and the statues are somehow linked, and that her spells can make a high-ranking assassin reveal his secrets.”

She felt no need to mention the other things Nadirah had told her. Could the Moroaica see out of Caina’s eyes? Did she know Caina’s thoughts? Was she listening to the conversation even now? 

“Oh, yes, that’s simple enough,” said Marzhod. “A high-ranking Kindred assassin. We can find one of them easily! Let me just jaunt down to the market and pick one up.”

“Marzhod,” said Theodosia, “don’t whine. It’s unbecoming. We need to find a Kindred of high rank anyway.”

“Fine,” said Marzhod. “I’ll start tracking down the Kindred couriers. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and catch a knowledgeable one. And perhaps I’ll find a chicken that lays golden eggs, as well.”

“Maybe there’s a sort of elemental,” said Caina, “that can transmute living flesh into solid gold.” 

Both Theodosia and Marzhod gave her an odd look. 

“What?” said Caina. “There’s an elemental spirit of stone. Maybe there’s an elemental spirit of gold, as well.”

“Regardless,” said Theodosia, “we need to prepare for the next celebration. To repay Lord Khosrau’s kindness with the gladiatorial games, Lord Corbould is holding a chariot race. We can assume that the Kindred will try to kill them both there.”