Child of the Ghosts (16 page)

“And this theater?” said Caina in Anshani. “It’s called the Grand Imperial Opera. Why isn’t it named for an Emperor?”

“Actually,” said Theodosia, switching to Cyrican, “it is technically named the Theater of Iconias, for the Emperor who ordered it built during the early years of the Third Empire. But it is the most prestigious theater in the Empire, and ‘The Theater of Iconias’ is quite a mouthful, so it is mostly called the Grand Imperial Opera.” 

“A nickname, then,” said Caina in Cyrican. “So I see.”

Theodosia clapped her hands. “Delightful!” she said in High Nighmarian once more, speaking to Halfdan. “How many other languages can she speak?”

“I don’t know,” said Halfdan. “Caina, how many languages do you know?” 

“High Nighmarian,” said Caina, “Caerish, Saddaic, Disali, Kagarish, Cyrican, and Anshani. Oh, I learned Kyracian at the Vineyard, and I think I picked up a few of the curse words in Vytaagi.” 

“How did you learn all those tongues?” said Theodosia. 

“My father,” said Caina, blinking as she remembered. “He taught me. When…he still could.”

“Ah,” said Theodosia. “Now, then. Can you do accents?”

Caina frowned. “Accents?” 

“You speak fluently,” said Theodosia, “in whatever language. The trouble is, you sound like a proper young noblewoman, no matter what tongue you use. It will do no good if I teach you to disguise yourself as a lowborn girl, or as a mercenary soldier, and you sound like a Nighmarian noblewoman.”

A mercenary? Caina wondered how she could possibly disguise herself as a man. “So…you mean I should speak with an accent? Like Saddaic or Anshani was my first language, and I learned High Nighmarian later?”

“Exactly,” said Theodosia. “Try High Nighmarian with a Caerish accent, first. Everyone speaks Caerish, so that should be easiest.” 

Caina thought for a moment. Halfdan spoke with a Caerish accent. Most of the time.

“Aye?” she said at last, trying to speak as Halfdan did. “How’s this, then? Talking this way makes my teeth hurt.”

Theodosia and Halfdan shared a look. 

“Passable,” said Halfdan.

“But not good enough,” said Theodosia. “We shall practice. Yes, you may not be able to sing, but you definitely have potential. When I am finished with you, you shall be able to disguise yourself as anything from a starving beggar to a highborn lady, and no one shall look twice.” 

“You’re going to stay with Theodosia for a time,” said Halfdan. “You’ll masquerade as her assistant, just as Theodosia masquerades as an opera singer.”

“Masquerade?” said Theodosia. “Masquerade? I am the finest soprano to sing the Imperial capital for a hundred years! I masquerade as nothing.”

Halfdan smirked, and made a little bow. “My apologies, madam. You are indeed the finest soprano in the city, and nobles and merchants come from across the Empire to bask in the wonder of your voice. The fact that you deign to act as circlemaster of Malarae in your spare time is a wondrous blessing for the Ghosts, and we regularly fall to our knees and thank the gods for sending you to us.”

“That’s better,” said Theodosia. 

“I want you to keep an eye on Haeron Icaraeus,” said Halfdan. “Find out what he intends. If you can find a way to bring him down, good, but do not put yourself or your people at unnecessary risk. He is too careful and too dangerous to confront directly, for now.”

“What about Maglarion?” said Theodosia. 

“If you can find out what he wants, or what he hopes to gain by working with Lord Haeron, then do so,” said Halfdan. “But do not confront him directly.” He looked at Caina, and then back at Theodosia. “Haeron Icaraeus is dangerous, but next to Maglarion, he’s little more than a petulant child. Maglarion has exterminated entire Ghost circles before, and if he thinks you are a threat to him, he will take action.” 

“We shall be as shadows,” said Theodosia. “He will never even know that we are here.” Her smile returned. “I do hope you shall stay for dinner. I have found the most delightful Anshani chef.”

“Alas,” said Halfdan, “I need to be on ship for Cyrica by the evening tide.” He took Theodosia’s hands. “Take care of yourself, and look after Caina. She’s very clever, and will be a great help to you.” He looked at Caina, put his hard hand on her shoulder. “And do as Theodosia bids you. She knows what she’s about.” 

Caina nodded, biting her lip. Halfdan had looked after her for almost four years now. 

On impulse, she slipped out of his grasp and hugged him, hard. 

“You be careful, too,” she said. 

Halfdan smiled. 

“My dear child,” he said. “I’m always careful.”

He bowed once more and left.

Caina stood in silence for a moment.

“Well,” said Theodosia. “Halfdan is a marvelous fellow, but he always gives me a great deal of work to do. Shall we get to it?”

Chapter 16 - The Price of Immortality

Maglarion stood in the darkness below Malarae, gazing upon his bloodcrystal.

It had grown.

A few years ago, it had been the size of his fist. But Lord Haeron had kept him well-supplied with slaves, and Maglarion killed them all, feeding their life forces into the bloodcrystal. Bloated with the stored energy from hundreds of deaths, it had swelled to the size of a small child. Its power had increased, as well. When he had created it, it could absorb the energy from any death within thirty or forty yards. 

Now it could absorb the power from any death within a half mile. 

Which meant that it grew constantly, even without Maglarion’s attention. A million men, women, and children lived in Malarae, and some of them died every day. A few days ago, a woman had been raped and knifed within a few blocks of the Grey Fish Inn. The bloodcrystal captured the energy of her death, storing the power within itself. An inattentive child had been crushed beneath the wheels of a wagon. His life force, too, drained into the bloodcrystal. 

Every death made the bloodcrystal a little larger, a little stronger. Soon it would have the power to capture the energy from any death within the entire city.

And then Maglarion’s real work could begin.

He smiled, running a hand over the bloodcrystal’s rough side. It shone constantly now, pale green flames flickering in its depths. Sometimes faces formed in the flames, images of those deaths captured by the bloodcrystal. That pleased Maglarion. The lives of his victims, after all, had no purpose – save to be harvested by him.

Now, to begin. 

A wooden podium stood before the bloodcrystal, holding the dagger and the Maatish scroll he had taken from Sebastian Amalas’s library. Maglarion raised the dagger and slashed his palm. Blood welled from the cut, and he extended his hand over the bloodcrystal.

The blood sizzled and hissed when it struck the dark surface.

Maglarion began to chant, reading the ancient spell from the scroll, gesturing with the bloodied dagger. Power built in the air, his fingertips crackling with emerald flame. The bloodcrystal pulsed and throbbed in answer.

Maglarion waved his bleeding hand, spraying more droplets over the bloodcrystal, and released the power.

The crystal blazed with green light, and Maglarion felt the stored power in the crystal pressing against his mind and soul, joined by the Maatish spell’s link. 

And then the power erupted through him.

Maglarion shuddered and fell to his knees, breathing hard, eyes wide. The power raged through him like a molten river. The Maatish spell had joined him to the bloodcrystal, linking its stolen life force to his own, and now that vast reservoir of power enhanced his strength. 

He lifted his hands, watching the cut upon his palm vanish, the skin repairing itself. And still stolen strength and vitality surged through him. The liver spots vanished from his hands, the skin tightening.

Amazed, he climbed to his feet without the use of his cane. Years ago, one of the Ghosts’ interminable attempts on his life had almost succeeded, leaving him with a bad limp that even his necromantic prowess could not quite heal. Yet now the limp was gone, and his left leg worked without the slightest hitch. 

His left eye, of course, did not heal.

But he had plucked it out himself, after all. 

He strode across the cellar to the mirror upon his worktable and gazed at his reflection. For centuries, now, he had looked like a white-haired man in his late sixties, face lined and worn. Now he looked like a man in the vigor of his early forties, his hair more black than gray. 

His laughter rang over the cellar.

He would transcend the flesh, in the end. He would leave his body behind, and live as pure power, immortal and invincible for all time. This renewed vitality, this rejuvenation, was just the first step.

He had indeed put the harvested lives of his victims to good use.

And even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt someone die within reach the bloodcrystal. 

For the briefest moment he had contact with the flickering life force. An old man, dying of sickness, alone in his room. And then the energy released by the death drained into the bloodcrystal. The crystal shivered as it grew slightly larger, and Maglarion closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. The old man had been weak, his life force little more than a flickering ember, and yet its consumption had filled Maglarion with ecstasy. 

What would it be like, he wondered, when he devoured all of Malarae? 

An image of the old man’s face flickered in the bloodcrystal, and then vanished in green flame. 

He turned, saw Ikhana descending the cellar stairs.

“Master,” she said, stopping before him. “Lord Icaraeus has gathered the Restorationist nobles. They would…”

She stopped, staring at him, and he had the distinct pleasure of seeing shock cross her cold face, for the first time in over a century.

“My dear Ikhana,” said Maglarion, spreading his hands. “You seem surprised.”

“You are…younger,” said Ikhana, her face returning to its usual empty expression. 

“Do you remember what I told you?” said Maglarion, stepping closer to her. “That first day, when you tried to kill me?”

There were, he realized, other advantages to a rejuvenated body. Ikhana’s face was cold, and her eyes empty, but she was really very beautiful. 

A hint of fear showed in those cold eyes. 

“You said you were the master of death,” said Ikhana, “that life and death themselves were yours to command.”

“Yes,” said Maglarion, shoving her to the floor, “and I still am.” 

He took her, then and there, upon the cellar floor, the first time he had lain with a woman in centuries. She did not resist. She did not even try. And why should she? The black dagger had enslaved her to him, body and soul, and he owned her more thoroughly than a fool like Haeron Icaraeus could ever own his slaves. 

But her eyes glittered by the time he was done, shining with the same icy lust he saw when he gave prisoners to her and the dagger. 

Ikhana only respected power…and Maglarion had power.

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let us see what our good friend Lord Haeron has found for us.” 

###

Like most nobles, Lord Haeron maintained a townhouse in Malarae, to use when the business of the court called him to the Imperial capital. Of course, Lord Haeron of House Icaraeus was one of the most powerful men in the Empire, and his townhouse was a sprawling ten-story pile of marble, ringed with gardens and fountains, with a massive tower rising four hundred feet above the mansion. Lord Haeron’s guards, hard-faced, cold-eyed men, prowled the grounds, laden with arms and armor. Lord Haeron had many enemies, the Ghosts among them, and did not neglect his personal security. 

Some of the guards escorted Maglarion and Ikhana into the mansion. He enjoyed their caution in his presence, the way they checked their weapons and never let their eyes leave him for long.

Little good it would do them.

The nobles awaited him in one of the mansion’s smaller ballrooms, sipping from flutes of wine. Haeron had had the wit, at least, to banish the servants from the ballroom, posting guards at the doors. Servants were often friendly with the Ghosts. 

Slaves were better than free servants. Easier to kill, when necessary. 

Maglarion looked over the nobles, Ikhana trailing behind him. Most of the prominent Restorationist nobility in the Empire had come. There was Lord Haeron, the center of attention, a dozen lesser nobles nodding at his every word. There was Lord Macrinius, handsome and dashing. There was Lady Aureon, vain and primped, flirting with sour-faced old Lord Corthios. Even some Militarist nobility had come, to his surprise, but he knew them all. 

He had known their ancestors.

In some cases, he had killed their ancestors. 

Haeron Icaraeus crossed the room, the lesser nobles trailing after him. “Ah, Master Maglarion. So good of you to…”

He stopped, frowning, and looked hard at Maglarion’s face. 

“So good of you to come,” he said, as if he had not noticed anything amiss. He lifted his voice, addressing the nobles. “My friends! You might have wondered why I invited you here tonight with such secrecy. Well, you are men and women of vision, every one. You wish to see our Empire returned to economic and social order, to see slavery reestablished in every province and in Malarae itself. You wish to see the arcane sciences used for the benefit of the Empire and the nobility. And you wish to see that upstart fool of an Emperor brought to heel. Tonight, I wish to introduce you to a worthy ally of our noble mission - Maglarion, once a Master of the Magisterium of the Fourth Empire.” 

A surprised murmur went through the assembled nobles.

Maglarion’s reputation proceeded him. 

“My lords and ladies,” said Maglarion. “How would you like to live forever?”

Silence answered this pronouncement. Haeron frowned, and Lord Macrinius looked skeptical, as did a few of the other lords. 

“You know that during the Fourth Empire,” said Maglarion, “the necromantic sciences had not yet been banned. That the magi used these sciences to extend their lifespan for centuries. I am the heir to their secrets, and I can pass them on to you, if you support my work. Think of the possibilities - a society of immortal nobles, ruling forever over a powerful and vigorous Empire, an Empire where the lower classes know their place.”

One of the nobles laughed. “Do you seriously expect us to believe that?” A young man, with close-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes, his arms heavy with muscle. Lord Alastair Corus, Maglarion recognized, Militarist lord and tribune in the Eighteenth Legion. “Immortal nobles, indeed. Lord Haeron, thank you for the hospitality, but I’m afraid I’ve wasted quite enough time with a one-eyed charlatan today.”

He bowed in Haeron’s direction and left. 

“I assure you,” said Maglarion, “that every word I am speaking is the truth.” 

That was a lie, of course, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Doubtful,” said Lord Macrinius, brushing some dust from the sleeve of his coat. “Lord Haeron has a fondness for collecting rogue sorcerers, and I’m sure you can perform an impressive trick or two. But we are hardly ignorant peasants to be impressed by a conjurer’s showmanship. We know our history, ‘Master’ Maglarion. Even the most powerful necromancers of the Fourth Empire could not extend their lives beyond two and a half centuries, and they could only bestow a few additional decades upon their followers.” 

“And I have surpassed them,” said Maglarion. “I have lived for almost four centuries.” 

Some of the nobles laughed at that. 

“Indeed?” said Macrinius. “Do you truly expect us to believe that without proof? Undoubtedly you will say that you can brew an elixir of immortality, provided you have just enough of our gold. And then you’ll disappear to make the same pitch to the satraps of Anshan, or perhaps the emirs of Istarinmul. Haeron, you ought to hang this scoundrel from his heels as a warning to others who would cheat the Lords of the Nighmarian Empire.” 

“Proof, you want?” said Maglarion, his voice soft. “Then proof you shall have.” 

He walked to a table, shoved aside silver plates of delicacies, and climbed upon it.

“What are you doing?” said Haeron, scowling. Even Ikhana appeared surprised. 

“Do you want proof, my lords and ladies?” said Maglarion. “Then behold! I have mastered death, and the power of life itself is my plaything.” He undid his black coat and ripped open his white shirt, exposing his chest. 

“What is the meaning of this?” said Haeron, his face darkening. Undoubtedly he did not like to look the fool in front of his sycophants. 

“Watch,” said Maglarion. 

He drew the dagger from his belt and slammed it home in his chest, between his ribs. 

That…rather hurt. 

The nobles stared at him, shocked. One woman screamed. Blood gushed over Maglarion’s hands, and he twisted the dagger, driving it deeper into his heart. Then he ripped it free, the blade glistening. 

His heart stopped beating. His vision darkened, and Maglarion toppled off the table.

He felt himself hit the marble floor, and everything went black. 

Then power surged through him, burning and potent, drawing him back from the darkness. His eye of flesh swam back into focus, staring up at the ballroom’s ceiling. A furious argument filled his ears. Some of the nobles stood over him, gesturing and shouting. Ikhana waited nearby, a hungry expression on her face. No doubt she thought herself rid of him, and wanted to kill everyone in the room. 

“What sort of foolishness was this, Haeron?” said Lord Macrinius. He sounded affronted. “Did you invite us here to watch some madman kill himself?” 

“How was I to have known?” said Haeron. “The man had skill with the necromantic sciences, I saw that with my own eyes.” He snorted. “Undoubtedly it deranged his mind, gave him delusions of grandeur. Well, better to learn that a tool is flawed sooner rather than later, no?” 

“And how much trust did you place in this man?” said Lord Macrinius. “We cannot afford any missteps, not with the Ghosts snapping at our heels.”

“Ghosts!” said Lady Aureon. “There are no such thing as the Ghosts.” 

Haeron’s voice hardened. “Do not think to…”

Maglarion drew in a deep breath and started to laugh. 

The effect on the nobles was…gratifying.

Haeron flinched, all the color draining out of his thick face. Macrinius fell silent, shocked. Aureon shrieked, perfumed hands flying to her painted face. Some of the others swore, while others just stared in shock. Every man and woman among them knew what death looked like, and Maglarion had just killed himself in front of them.

And then returned. 

He climbed to his feet, the bloodcrystal’s power surging through him. He spread his arms, letting them see his blood-soaked shirt, the wound on his chest closing itself. Ikhana stared at him, her mouth working. Twice in one day, now, he had managed to shock her.

“I believe, my lord Macrinius,” said Maglarion, smiling, “that you wished to see proof?”