“Another,” the Ecsoli said. Then he produced a thin piece of reed and inserted it into his mask to drink. The serving boy moved to the kitchen and returned with a plate of roast chicken. As he passed the bar, the Ecsoli gave a flick of his finger, and the young man tripped, scattering food across the floor.

  No-one spoke.

  The blue cloak barked a laugh from behind his mask. He flipped his hand again, a faint glow visible across the fingers of his gauntlet. At his gesture, the young man rolled onto his back. The Ecsoli twisted his wrist and the lad was thrown back onto his face.

  Again, and this time the boy struck his head on the hard floor, crying out.

  But the invader was not finished.

  Another gesture and again the server was slammed down, limbs flailing as he struck and bounced. Notch clenched a fist beneath the table. The scum wasn’t going to stop. The kid was going to die.

  Bastard!

  Notch stood and hurled his chair in a single motion.

  It flew across the room but smacked only air before the Ecsoli, as his head snapped up. Notch charged. At any moment he could be thrown across the room or worse – yet the man let him close the distance and swing –

  Fire exploded in his elbow.

  He screamed. Pain shot into his shoulder and down to his wrist, arm dangling at the elbow as he staggered back. The Ecsoli kicked him to the floor. Before Notch could rise, the man jammed his boot down, grinding Notch’s head into the floorboards.

  “Bad idea – now you can wait while I finish,” the Ecsoli said.

  From the distorted view afforded him of the kitchen, he saw Flir inch the door open. He managed to meet her gaze, motioning for her to stay away with the fingers of his good arm. The Ecsoli sipped at his drink, his back to the door.

  Flir retreated, but did not let the door close fully.

  His elbow throbbed and grit bit at his cheek but he made no sound and did not move. The serving lad stood and scrambled away, stumbling into a table. He held a hand to his head and when it came away from his dark hair, blood streaked his palm. The Ecsoli did not seem to mind, only rolling his boot over Notch’s head idly.

  Time wore on. Notch’s arm, flung out before him on the floor, twitched. Was it already beginning to swell, or was his vision simply distorted?

  Finally the man lifted his foot.

  Notch squinted at the new light but didn’t try and rise. A mask of bone stared down at him. “Get used to us if you want to live, fellow.”

  The Ecsoli walked from the common room, swaying just enough to grab for the doorjamb as he opened the door and returned to the dark, rainy street. Notch rolled onto his side, clutching his arm to his chest and spitting a curse.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you,” someone was repeating the words above him as figures crowded around. Unfamiliar faces and the barman and Sofia and Flir. One face belonged to the young man.

  Flir placed a hand on his shoulder. “Alfeo, go and get Mayla.”

  “Notch, can you stand?” Sofia asked.

  “I can manage,” he said, climbing to his feet. He looked to the boy, who’d already reached the steps to the upper floor. “Wait, lad. I’ll go to her.”

  “No, take him downstairs, out of sight,” Danillo said.

  Flir grinned at him. “That was stupid, Notch, you know that?”

  “I know.”

  “He could have done a lot worse.”

  He grunted. “This isn’t exactly a scratch.”

  “Quickly.” Danillo spoke from behind as Sofia led Notch back down to the basement. He glanced over his shoulder as he started the descent, caught the eye of the young man and winked at the lad.

  Chapter 28.

  Vinezi placed the woman’s body at the foot of the Regeneration Pool and heaved a sigh in the flickering torchlight. His shoulders ached from carrying her dead weight and the coppery-scent of blood lay heavy about his robe. Each time he turned his head, even slightly, there it was.

  Tarvilus knelt beside the woman, examining leg and arm. “She will be perfect.”

  “Be quick about it,” Vinezi said. “The Os-Venor have risen.”

  His brother paused. “Here?”

  “Yes. They emptied the village. Who knows where they will turn now.”

  “You saw more than one?”

  Vinezi waved a hand. “I saw none. However, the other bodies were torn apart, exactly like the dead from Ecsoli.”

  “Then we did wake something ancient.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps someone else. Yet, it is no coincidence I suspect, that their numbers spike after each Sea-God dies; and shortly before our arrival here, a God had died.”

  Tarvilus nodded slowly. “And now we continue to reap such rewards as the Os-Venor, a whole continent away.”

  “So be it,” Vinezi said. “With the novatura we will deal with Marinus and then uncover the mystery. But not before.”

  “It’s never that simple with the Os-Venor.”

  “That I know. Yet we must finish here first; the temple is well-guarded against such surprises.”

  “Very well.” Tarvilus lifted the body and slid her into the pool. It enveloped the dead woman with a sloshing, thick and slow.

  “How long?”

  “By dawn.”

  “And the prisoners?”

  “Doing as instructed. Did you find anything good to eat?”

  “Rabbits – below, in the kitchen,” Vinezi said.

  “Wonderful. I’ve had enough of dried food.”

  Vinezi checked on the Singers, passing Alosus, who slept, slumped against the wall, chains still in place. Lavinia sat on the rusted chair, her murmuring chant a sweet music. He paused to listen. If only there were some way to capture the sound of her voice. Not only could he enjoy it at a time of his choosing then, but it would free her to assist with other defensive and offensive chants.

  Abrensi slept on the cot in the adjoining room.

  Vinezi nudged the man with his boot until the fellow opened his eyes.

  “You again,” Abrensi groaned as he woke. He propped himself up as best he could, with hands bound.

  “I indeed. Show me the Chant of Sleep.”

  “How sweetly you ask, O Masterful Master,” his said, his voice cracking.

  Vinezi frowned as he handed over a cup of water. “Drink if you must.”

  The Storm Singer took the cup in both hands, raising it to drink with some difficulty but managing not to spill too much, Vinezi noted when the man lowered the cup. “Pure, pure nectar.”

  “The chant.”

  Abrensi grinned. “Testy, aren’t we?”

  Vinezi drew back a hand...and lowered it. To strike a Storm Singer...even here he could not. In the Land of the Sun it he would have lost a suit or mask for doing so. Or, for a commoner or even a Carver, the hand that struck the Singer.

  But Abrensi knew none of that.

  And the new land need not suffer such rules. The Singer was a tool, no more. “Certainly I can work some of my frustration free on Lavinia, if you’d prefer?”

  Abrensi shrugged and began to Chant. His voice filled the chamber, a slower, gentle sound that tugged at Vinezi’s eyelids, slowing his thoughts. His limbs began to grow heavy. The words were learned as required but some of the inflection was off. Vinezi clasped the knuckle bone in his robe pocket and with the Compelling, twisted the bones in his own forearm a little, just enough for the pain to banish the growing effects of the chant.

  Had Abrensi perfected the inflection right away, the effect of the chant would have been much stronger. Just how powerful was this Storm Singer? Vinezi concealed his surprise with a shake of his head. Abrensi had shown hints of endurance and was a quick study, but even during his capture, he’d not appeared so strong.

  “You need to shorten your vowels in the second phrase,” Vinezi said. “For now, rest. Your shift will begin soon.”

  Abrensi sighed. “You know we are wasting our time.”

  Vinezi stopped in the doorway. “Are we?”

  “No-one has searched for I don’t know how long now. They’ve given up.”

  “Then you do not know my brother.”

  He walked on, passing Lavinia but stopping in the next chamber when Alosus, who had risen, glared at him and finally spoke, deep voice rumbling. “I have foreseen your death.”

  Vinezi laughed. “Which one? I have died and returned twice now.”

  “A final death.”

  “More Gigansi fantasies, I take it? What is it you fools call it? ‘Reading the Sun’? Tell me, how many sunrises do I have left, then?”

  “Few now. Forces are lining up to take your life.”

  “And do you know what will happen to your son, should I die here, before my goal is achieved?”

  Alosus said nothing, but his eyes continued to smoulder.

  “My Seneschal has orders to sell your child to the Porvetti, if I do not contact him each month.” He folded his arms. Of course, Alosus did not know Vinezi could not reach Ecsoli unaided, not without a complete novatura, and that by now, the child was doubtless already sold to the slavers. “Are you sure you want my death to come to pass?”

  “Blast you,” he spat.

  Vinezi walked on, passing the Regeneration Pool and moving into a room that would have once been used to store blood of the Sea Gods. In any event, its purpose was now that of carving; shelves had been moved and space created for his tools.

  A variety of chisels rested in a leather tool-belt, their bone handles bright in the torchlight, one still bearing smudges of blood from his last work. Spread across the shelves were various pieces of bone armour. He placed his gauntlet down beside the other four – he had not enough bone to make a sixth.

  Julas or Tarvilus would have to do with one.

  Three breastplates – carved in interlocking pieces, since Tarvilus had not been able to steal enough raw material or existing bone to make single items. Yet, there was more bone here than he’d handled in years, even with the shortage. Three masks also, two young masks taken from dead Ecsoli in the streets of Anaskar, one older, salvaged from the harbour.

  Still, not a single one of them was a shadow on Rael. Of course, Marinus would only release his Greatmask on the moment of his death.

  Which suited Vinezi fine.

  With the makeshift – but solid – novatura he and his brothers would wear, along with two Storm Singers, Vinezi held all the advantages he needed. “Finish before you dream,” he muttered, selecting a chisel.

  There was a pattern that needed to be refined before the first suit could be completed. He lifted a small hammer and set the chisel blade to the bone and tapped three lines. Two started together at one end before curving away from each other, the third crossed the two. This pattern he repeated on a piece of the breastplate that was to be joined, the old symbol for ‘movement’ would match up and allow the piece of armour to shift as required, without cracking under strain of regular activity.

  He worked on, dimly aware of the switch between Storm Singers, and at one point, Tarvilus coming to say that Julas had been regenerated and was now resting. Vinezi had waved a hand covered in bone dust. “See to him.”

  When his torch began to struggle he replaced it with a curse, returning to the bench and lifting his chisel once more, only this time, it was a smaller head. The blade was but half the length of his fingernail. He set it to the space within patterns and started anew.

  His first two passes had been enough – but only under normal circumstances. There would be nothing normal about the battle to come. Marinus would surely throw everything at him in retrieving the Crucible and winning his own revenge. And Rael would be an advantage, which meant the suits Vinezi made now, had to be the most sophisticated he’d ever created.

  Certainly, the calibre of bone was beyond that which he was accustomed to.

  It made carving a pleasure, accepting the runes and symbols with an eagerness almost. Even the masks, which he lined with the symbols for Power and Vision, were responding better.

  When last he tested one by attempting his now regular search for signs of Marinus, its vision stretched to the city. Yet Marinus was always invisible to his scrying, just as he remained to his brother.

  Vinezi paused, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Finish them all.

  Before Marinus comes.

  It would take time, but it had to be done properly. Vinezi lifted his tools again. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could resume setting his trap and more, hopefully, find Marinus. Enough blindness, it was time to find a way to discover exactly where his older brother lurked.

  Chapter 29.

  Seto sheathed his knife.

  In a sparsely furnished room of stone, a young lady stood by open curtains. The edges of her dark hair were almost afire in the pale light, swirling in a cold breeze that reached him well across the room. Cera’s daughter Mila, he assumed. A small table bore a jug of water, the piece of furniture had been squeezed between a large bed and an armchair, which had a rumpled blanket strew across it.

  Lady Cera herself lay within the bed, blankets pulled up to her chin. Her hair fanned the pillow and her cheeks were sunken, deep black rings darkened closed eyes. The scent of death reached him but the breeze took it quickly.

  “Who are you?” Mila asked without turning, her voice empty.

  “King Oseto.”

  She flinched then spun. Her face was haggard for one so young, and there were traces of Cera’s haughtiness, but Mila’s drawn look appeared to come from a careworn place.

  “Your mother?”

  Mila knelt beside the bed, reaching out to touch Lady Cera’s hair. “She was so bitter at the end. The illness just...I tried to make it easier for her but...it was as though she burnt herself away.”

  “I am sorry.”

  The girl said nothing. She did not, after her first flinch, appear to care why a king was visiting, or why that man wore a Greatmask. Or even wonder what he might want.

  “Mila, I...” he trailed off. Ana, could he really go through with it?

  You no longer have a choice, Little Oseto. Her voice was hard. I will not accept your body but I will absorb you if I must, then simply rest upon your corpse until I am found. And it will be a shorter wait than that which you offered at the bottom of the ocean – the moment Mila lifts me from your face I will commence the Sacrifice.

  “Then she truly is my brother’s –”

  Yes. She bears the blood of Casa Pesce. And I will have her as Sacrifice with you alive or dead. Choose.

  Seto removed Chelona and hesitated. Mila was still lost in her grief, she’d bowed her head. “Will she feel the pain I did?” he whispered.

  Yes. Though it will not last.

  “And she will simply...be gone?”

  No. She will become part of me. Enough, Oseto.

  He knelt beside her and took a deep breath. The girl was miserable, was his act one of mercy? Seto sneered at himself. Hardly.

  And yet... “Mila, I have something that may ease the suffering you feel. For your mother.”

  Mila lifted her head. Her eyes were moist with tears. “What?”

  “The Greatmask. If you wear it, you will forget your misery.”

  A slight frown marred her brow. “How?”

  “It is very powerful.” As you will soon discover, sadly.

  “Then can it restore Mother?”

  “No, that is a feat it cannot achieve.”

  She reached out a hand. “But wearing the mask will take the pain away.”

  He could only nod.

  Mila accepted the mask and examined it a moment before raising it to her face, her eyes revealing little expectation. Yet when Chelona was affixed, Mila’s eyes widened in terror and then the hollows of the mask flicked to midnight black.

  She screamed, clutching at his robe. Seto caught her arms, letting her nails dig into his forearms. The pain was sharp, but nothing like what Mila experienced as Chelona started the Sacrifice. It was a pain he recalled all too well.

  The girl writhed, kicking at the bed.

  And then she fell limp. Seto let her down to the floor, arranging her arms by her side and kneeling. Had it worked?

  “My Lady?”

  Her chest still rose and fell but she did not respond to his voice.

  The cold of the wind chilled his hands. A damp seeped up from the stone beneath him. Mila twitched and her breathing slowed yet further. Joints in his legs began to ache and he shifted.

  Eventually Mila’s breathing grew stronger, faster. Fingers flexed and a sigh escaped from beneath the Greatmask. She lifted her head and Seto fell back. Even that movement, even the way her head lifted from the stone, was somehow unlike Mila.

  Then she rose to a half-sitting position. “Finally.”

  Her voice was not that of Mila the grief-stricken daughter. Instead, there was an inflection to the words that spoke of vast age. And triumph.

  Seto stood, offering a hand to help her up. “My Lady?”

  She considered it a moment. “Kind of you, but no. I would not deny myself the pleasure.” Chelona stood, then stretched. She ran one hand over the black of her tunic, running down from breast to hip. She spread her arms wide, then rolled her neck and spun a girlish pirouette.

  And then she clapped her hands together – and a shockwave threw Seto back.

  Chelona laughed in delight, even as she strode to him where he lay on the floor. She extended a hand and he accepted her help, bones protesting. “You have exceeded in your duty, little Oseto. This body is young and strong, if a little soft from disuse.”

  Seto fought a wave of queasiness merged with relief. He would live. At Mila’s expense, but he would live nonetheless. He steeled his limbs; traitorous quivering relief! “Forgive me for the trouble my family caused in holding its end of the agreement, My Lady.”

  “Forgiven.” She strode suddenly to the window and removed the mask, dropping it to the stones. Next, she leant out the window and gave a cry of joy, dark hair fluttering in the breeze. There she gripped the windowsill and simply stood for a time.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117