Ghost Sword, Page 2

  He felt a wave of disgusted exasperation. He had expected his enemies to challenge him, but he did not have time for a fool like Ramphias. Someone powerful had killed Anthippa, and Ramphias was too blind to realize it. It would have taken a blow of surpassing power to sever the poor woman’s head from her neck in one strike. There had been blood spattered everywhere, yet Kylon had seen no footprints, and his guards had examined every man, woman, and child within the ziggurat, yet had found no one with bloodstains. And there had been the strange sorcery Kylon had sensed in the moment before he found the body.

  The murderer was still on the loose, and Kylon had to waste words with his imbecilic half-brother.

  “And if you had proven stronger in Marsis,” said Ramphias, “then perhaps the city would a Kyracian colony today, and your sister would yet live!”

  And that was enough.

  “Ramphias, bastard of House Kardamnos and thalarchon of the ninth fleet,” said Kylon, “as High Seat of House Kardamnos, I accuse you of offering grievous insult and offense to myself, to House Kardamnos, and to my wife. You will select a time and a place for a duel and I shall meet you there, or else I shall denounce you as a dishonorable coward before the Assembly of the Kyracian people.”

  A stunned silence fell over the hall. Even the slaves froze in their duties.

  “So be it, you blustering pup!” said Ramphias. “I shall…”

  “Enough.”

  The woman’s voice was quiet, but it cut through Ramphias’s shouting nonetheless.

  Ramphias turned, and his face went tight with sudden alarm.

  A young woman cloaked in robes the color of the sea stood in the doors to the hall. A bronze amulet in the shape of three eyes hung from a chain around her neck, the metal corroded and green as if from seawater. The woman’s eyes changed color as Kylon looked at her, cycling from the blue of a calm sea to the iron-gray of a storm and back again, punctuated from time to time with the black of a furious winter storm.

  The woman was a priestess of the Surge, the oracle of the Kyracian people.

  “Kylon of House Kardamnos, Archon of the Assembly,” said the priestess.

  “I am here,” said Kylon. The Surge rarely intervened in the internal politics of New Kyre, but when she did, her word was law, and those who failed to heed her warnings came to a bad end. The Surge had summoned Kylon once before, after Thalastre had been wounded and near death from the touch of a necromantic weapon. If he had not come at her summons, if he had not heeded her words, the undead sorcerer Rhames would have used the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and plunged the world into a new era of darkness and death

  The priestess’s appearance alarmed him far more than anything else that had happened today.

  “The Surge summons you to her Sanctuary,” said the priestess. “She bids you to leave whatever business is before you and to come at once. If you do not, Kylon of House Kardamnos, grave danger awaits you and your kin.”

  “I will come,” said Kylon. He turned to his wife. “Thalastre, I leave matters in your hands until I return. Ramphias, Xenarro, please see yourselves out.”

  “But…” sputtered Ramphias, looking back and forth between Kylon and the priestess, his frustration clear. He had hoped to force the issue, drawing Kylon out before the Assembly. But for all the ruthlessness of New Kyre’s politics, no one would interfere with a man who had been summoned by the Surge, lest they draw the oracle’s displeasure.

  At least until he had finished the Surge’s task.

  “Go, husband,” said Thalastre. She offered a polite smile to Ramphias and Xenarro. “I am sure your half-brothers will manage to find the door on their own, eventually.”

  “Lead on,” said Kylon, and the priestess led him from the Tower of Kardamnos.

  ###

  A short time later, Kylon climbed to the crest of the Pyramid of Storm, the massive tiered ziggurat rising from the heart of New Kyre.

  The pyramid’s crest towered a thousand feet above the ground below, and Kylon had a splendid view of the city. From here he saw the massive fortified harbor, the western sea stretching away in an endless blue-green sheet. He saw the ziggurats of the noble Houses rising from the city like fists of gray stone, saw the tenements encircling the city where the poor and foreigners lived.

  And he saw the ruins of the Surge’s half-rebuilt Sanctuary. Once the small stone temple had filled the Pyramid’s crest, until the Moroaica’s terrible spells had torn it apart in a blaze of sorcery. The slaves were hard at work rebuilding it, supervised by masons.

  The Surge herself stood near the stairs, watching the work, her white robe rippling in the wind. She looked no more than middle-aged, her iron-gray hair hanging in a curtain around her head. Yet Kylon felt the massive arcane power around her, sorcery beyond his ability to comprehend. Her mantle of power let her view the storm of the world, let her observe far-off events and glimpses of the future.

  “Kylon of House Kardamnos,” murmured the Surge. “You have come to us again.”

  Her voice was eerie, as if three voices spoke from her mouth at once. One of the voices belonged to a young girl. The second to a woman in her prime. The third to an aged crone, heavy and bent with years.

  Kylon bowed. “My lady Surge.”

  To his surprise, she laughed. “A peculiar title. I am simply the Surge, for that is the nature of the power I bear. To see the surges in the currents of time, the ebb and flow of fate as driven by the winds of the storm of the world.” She tilted her head to the side, gray hair brushing the shoulder of her white robe. “You are not glad to see me.”

  “No,” said Kylon. “When last we spoke, your counsel led me to the blue bloodcrystal that saved Thalastre. For that, I am grateful beyond the measure of words, and would reward you if material wealth meant anything to you. When you last summoned me, I thought it had to do with Thalastre…but it was to stop Rhames and the return of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. So I fear the reason you have summoned me now.”

  “An honest answer,” said the Surge in her threefold voice, “and a wise one. You have many enemies, Kylon of House Kardamnos, both ones that you know and ones that you do not, and they circle about you like wolves.”

  “Ramphias and the others?” said Kylon. He sighed. “The Assembly traditionally turns upon successful commanders…and I was successful in battle, and successful in negotiating a peace with Lord Titus and the Emperor. I expect the Assembly to turn upon me any day. I have only a few more months in my term as Archon, and should I complete it unscathed I plan to withdraw from politics and devote myself to the affairs of my House.”

  “A sound plan,” said the Surge, “but you face a far greater foe than your traitorous blood.”

  “Who, then?” said Kylon.

  “Something that is a foe to all of New Kyre,” said the Surge, “and indeed all of mortal men.”

  Kylon felt a chill. “Another sorceress of power like the Moroaica?”

  “No,” said the Surge. “But something she has made possible. Do you recall the rift she opened above the city?”

  “How could I possibly forget?” said Kylon. “It was only two months ago. And I shall remember that day until the moment of my death.” The armies of golden dead had almost destroyed New Kyre, and the Assembly had received reports of cities destroyed and ravaged in other parts of the world, and rumors held that Istarinmul had fallen into chaos, that the eastern provinces of the Empire had risen in revolt against the Emperor, convinced that the Ashbringers had returned to overthrow the Empire. “But the Moroaica was defeated. Caina Amalas slew her, and her rift was closed. And we must now recover and rebuild.”

  “Yes,” said the Surge. “And we must live with the consequences of what the Moroaica has done. For she carved a great wound into the walls between the worlds, and wounds leave scars. Give me your hand.”

  Kylon hesitated. “I will of course obey…though I wish to know why.”

  The Surge offered a humorless smile. “I have no designs upon you. You are a ma
rried man. And I shall not harm you. Save for this. I will give you knowledge that you will wish you did not possess.”

  Kylon nodded and offered his left hand. If she changed her mind and decided to harm him, he would prefer that she leave his sword hand intact. The Surge’s fingers, cold and bony, closed around his palm, and she sensed her powerful sorcerous aura wrapping around him.

  “Now,” murmured the Surge, “look above us.”

  Kylon inclined his head. It was a clear day, with billowy white clouds floating here and there, throwing patches of shadow over the city. Some birds flew overhead, but otherwise he saw nothing remarkable.

  “For what, honored Surge,” said Kylon, “am I looking?”

  “The scar,” said the Surge. “Which you will see when you see through my eyes.”

  Her arcane aura strengthened, and Kylon felt some of it pour into him.

  And then, all of a sudden, he saw the rift of golden fire reappear in the sky.

  He stiffened in alarm, his free hand twitching toward his sword. The rift blazed overhead, just as it did on the day of the golden dead. Then it vanished from his sight, shrinking as it had when Caina had slain the Moroaica. Yet after it shrank, a…distortion remained. A ripple, a mirage. The sky almost looked…thin. Like a garment worn threadbare.

  Kylon had the suspicion his brain was trying to interpret something the human eye had not been meant to see.

  “What is it?” he said at last.

  “A scar,” said the Surge. She released his hand, but Kylon could still see the strange distortion in the sky overhead. He also saw smaller distortions scattered over the city.

  “From the rift, the gate the Moroaica opened,” said Kylon.

  “You speak truly,” said the Surge. “For the rift was a wound in the walls between worlds, and wounds can close. But a severe wound will leave a scar. And a scar is weaker than the surrounding flesh.”

  “You said it was a scar in the walls between the worlds,” said Kylon. “Between which worlds? There is only one world.”

  “No,” said the Surge. “There are many worlds beyond count scattered among the stars. But that is not your concern. For our purposes, there are only two worlds. This world, the world of flesh and blood and material things, and…”

  “And the netherworld,” said Kylon, understanding. “The Moroaica opened the gate to the netherworld so she could enter physically.” The Surge nodded. “And gates swing both ways, do they not? If the Moroaica could have used the gate to enter the netherworld, then something could have used the gate to enter our world from the netherworld.”

  Suddenly he remembered the strange sensation he had felt while pursuing the vision of Andromache, so similar to the summoned elemental he had fought outside of Caer Magia.

  Had something from the netherworld killed Anthippa?

  “But the gate was closed,” said Kylon.

  “And it left a scar,” said the Surge. “A scar is easier to reopen than flesh that has never been injured.”

  “Which means that a sorcerer would find it easier to summon something from the netherworld,” said Kylon.

  “The converse is also true,” said the Surge.

  Kylon blinked. “It…would be easier for something to come from the netherworld.” The Surge nodded, her gray hair dancing in the wind. “But why? Some of the most powerful stormsingers can summon elementals, yes. But I always thought a spirit had to be summoned from the netherworld, that they didn’t come here of their own accord.”

  “They could not,” said the Surge. “Most spirits had no interest in the mortal world. Powerful elemental princes hibernate here when they feel the need, and sometimes bring their vassals with them. But most spirits and elementals have little concern with mortals. Save for those who do have an interest in us.”

  “An interest,” said Kylon. “What kind of interest?”

  “The same interest,” said the Surge, “that a wolf has in sheep.”

  Kylon blinked. “You mean there are spirits that prey upon us?”

  “They have many names. The Nighmarians would call them demons,” said the Surge. “The Kyracian people name them the akarthatai, the corrupting spirits. The Anshani and the Cyricans name them efreeti. What do you know about the nagataaru, Kylon of House Kardamnos?”

  “Nagataaru?” said Kylon. For a moment it was a nonsense word, a string of gibberish syllables. Then it stirred a distant memory in the back of his mind, of the tutors Andromache had hired after their parents had been assassinated and she had become the High Seat of the House. “They’re…a story, an Istarish ghost story, I think.” Old histories flickered in his mind. “Something about the Demon Princes that used to rule what is now Istarinmul, before the ancestors of the Istarish came north after the destruction of ancient Maat. The nagataaru were their servants, or their masters. I cannot remember which.”

  “The Demon Princes of old would have said the nagataaru were their servants,” said the Surge, “but the nagataaru thought differently. They prey upon us, Kylon of House Kardamnos, feast upon misery and despair and horror. They travel from world to world, feeding and growing fat, and moving on once all the prey have been slain. Long have they sought to enter our world. Sometimes they do, in the north of the Empire and the barbarian lands beyond, where the walls between the worlds are thinner.”

  “The Ulkaari witchfinders,” said Kylon, remembering the tattoos he had seen upon Caina’s slain lover Corvalis. “That’s what they hunt. Renegade sorcerers and creatures like this nagataaru.”

  “Creatures of the sort,” said the Surge, “that slew your half-brother’s slave.”

  “You saw that,” said Kylon.

  “Of course,” said the Surge. “It was not your enemies that slew Anthippa. Rather it was the enemies of all mortal men. A nagataaru has come to New Kyre. It slipped through the damage in the walls between the worlds, and it will turn the city into its hunting ground unless it is stopped.”

  “Unless I stop it, you mean,” said Kylon.

  “Yes,” said the Surge. “Of all the stormdancers in New Kyre, Kylon of House Kardamnos, you are the best-suited for this task. Few of your fellows would recognize the danger. And few of them would be capable of hunting the creature, if they even saw the peril.”

  “Why?” said Kylon.

  The Surge’s smile was cold. “Because of the Balarigar.”

  He remembered Ramphias’s mocking words. “Because she has tainted me with her foreign ideas.”

  “By heeding those foreign ideas,” said the Surge, “you are still alive, you saved the life of Thalastre, and you helped save New Kyre and all the world from the Moroaica’s great work. It is well you listened to her, Kylon of House Kardamnos.”

  “Fine,” said Kylon, rolling his shoulders. This talk of worlds and omens was beyond him. He was a soldier, and the Surge had given him a task that suited him best. “How do I destroy the nagataaru?”

  “You cannot,” said the Surge. “It is a spirit and therefore immortal. However, to act in the mortal world, it needs to possess a physical body.”

  “As the Moroaica possessed Caina’s body, as Scorikhon tried to possess Andromache,” said Kylon. “Then I must kill an innocent to stop the nagataaru?”

  “The nagataaru’s host is not an innocent,” said the Surge. “The spirit will seek out a willing partner, one with whom it can form a symbiosis. One that would prove a willing partner, rather than an unwilling vessel.”

  “There are half a million people in New Kyre,” said Kylon. “Any one of them could house the nagataaru.”

  “You will be able to see it,” said the Surge, pointing at the sky.

  The rippling distortion of the scar filled his eyes.

  “I can still see it,” said Kylon.

  “You can,” said the Surge, “and you shall continue to do so. The gift I have given you is irrevocable. You will always be able to see the scars to the netherworld…and you shall always be able to note the presence of spirits, nagataaru or otherwise.” />
  “I see,” said Kylon, disturbed. That would be useful, to be sure, especially if more of these nagataaru creatures came through the scar and into the city. Though he wondered what else the Surge could do to him without his knowledge. “If there is a battle to be fought, I will not shy from it.”

  “Go with my blessing, and may the gods of storm and sea watch over you,” said the Surge. “Though there is one other question you wish to ask me, is there not?”

  Kylon hesitated, considered for a moment.

  Then he sighed.

  “Caina Amalas of the Ghosts,” he said. “What will happen to her? What the Ghosts and the Emperor did to her was unjust.”

  “It is not a just world,” said the Surge.

  “Nevertheless,” said Kylon.

  For a moment the Surge said nothing, gazing into the air.

  “Her fate is in her own hands,” said the Surge. “The Balarigar may destroy herself, for grief poisons her heart. Or she may press on, for many lives are in her hands. Very many lives. And she faces as great a danger as you do. For the nagataaru have willing allies in lands other than New Kyre. That is all I can tell you.”

  Kylon nodded, put it from his mind, and left the Pyramid.

  He had work to do.

  ###

  After night fell, Kylon saw Thalastre to bed, donned his armor and a cloak, and belted his sword of storm-forged steel about his waist.

  And then he went alone into the night.

  Once, the thought of doing so would never have crossed his mind. He was a noble of New Kyre and a son of House Kardamnos, and such a man did not wander the streets without his guards. Yet the Surge had been right. His encounters with Caina Amalas had changed him, and some of her strange, sideways perspective of the world had colored his thoughts. Including her knack for donning disguises and strolling undetected into the strongholds of her enemies.

  And once again, he found that she was right.

  No one recognized him. He was just another swordsman in a cloak, a man on an errand of his own, and no one troubled him. The sensation was disorienting. He was one of the most powerful men in the city, and had been a noble of House Kardamnos all his life. Anonymity was something new to him. It was almost intoxicating – he could stroll into a wine house and order a drink and play dice with mercenaries and caravan guards, and no one would recognize him. Of course, his mannerisms and speech would give him away. He did not have Caina’s gift for changing his accent, for transforming himself into a different person through posture and gesture and phrase.