Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet) Read online

  Gyle banished these thoughts. No one outside of Noros cared any more, and certainly no one here. He followed the bishop’s pointing finger and dutifully marvelled as the Winged Corps swooped over the Place d’Accord, dozens of flying reptiles in serried ranks coming over the roof of the Sacred Heart Cathedral, battle-magi saddled behind the riders, and dipping before the royal box while the crowds screamed in awe and no little fear. Jaws longer than a man snapped, foot-long teeth gnashed and many of the winged constructs belched fire as they roared: impossible creatures made real by the magi.

  How did we ever think we could defeat them?

  After that came trumpets and a sudden silence as white flags rose about the royal box – the cue for the populace to still their tongues, for the emperor was to speak. Obedient to a man, the people fell silent as the small, slender shape on the throne rose to his feet and stepped to the front of the royal podium.

  ‘My People,’ Emperor Constant began, his high-pitched voice gnostically amplified throughout the square, ‘my People, today I am filled with pride and awe. Pride, at the assembled grandeur of we, the Rondian people! Rightly are we acclaimed the greatest nation upon this Urte! Rightly are we known as Kore’s Children! Rightly do we sit in judgement on the rest of mankind! Rightly are you, the least of my children, of greater worth to God than all other peoples! And awe, that we have achieved so much in the face of all adversity. Awe, that we have been chosen by Kore himself for his mission!’

  Constant went on exalting his people – and by implication himself – cataloguing their glories from the overthrow of the Rimoni Empire and the conquest of Yuros to the Crusades across the Moontide Bridge and the crushing of the infidels of Antiopia.

  Gyle felt his attention drift away from the emperor’s slant on history. He counted himself fortunate, one of the few who had been educated in something closer to the truth. The Arcanum he’d attended had been more secular and less partisan. The tale he knew was that as recently as five hundred years ago Yuros had been fragmented, its greatest power, the Rimoni Empire, controlling barely a quarter of the landmass, though that encompassed Rimoni, Silacia, Verelon and all of Noros, Argundy and Rondelmar. Wars were constant; dynasties plotted and warred in Rym, the capital. Various faiths, now labelled pagan, struggled for supremacy. Plagues came, famines went. The seas roared, impassable. No one even dreamed that there was another continent beyond the eastern seas.

  Then five hundred years ago, everything changed: Corineus came like a blazing comet and set the world alight. Corineus the Saviour, though he was born Johan Corin, son of a noble family of the border province of Rondelmar. He abandoned the savage gentility of the courts for a simpler, rustic life on the road. Johan Corin travelled, preaching of free love and other such idyllic notions, attracting a band of followers that over time burgeoned into nearly a thousand young people. The lost and impressionable swarmed to him and his promises of salvation in the next life and endless debauchery in this one. His people swarmed over the countryside, marked out as troublemakers, until the day when they descended upon one particular township, who panicked and called upon a nearby legion camp for help. The army agreed that the time had come to end the blasphemies of Johan Corin and his followers. That night Corin’s camp was surrounded by a full legion, and at midnight, the soldiers closed in to make the arrests.

  What happened next passed into legend and became scripture: there were lights and voices, and the legion died, to a man, in a thousand different ways. So did many of Corin’s followers, including Corin himself, murdered by his sister-lover Selene. But there were survivors, and they were transfigured: each one had the power of a demi-god, wielding fire and storm, throwing boulders and channelling lightning. They became the Blessed Three Hundred, the first magi.

  Abandoning Corin’s principles of love and peace to take revenge on the town (now conveniently remembered as a ‘wicked place’) in an orgy of destruction. Then, realising what they now were, they allied themselves with a Rimoni Senator and formed a new movement that became an army capable of annihilating whole legions without losing a man. They destroyed the Rimoni, razed Rym and made the world anew. They created the Rondian Empire.

  The Three Hundred attributed their powers to Johan Corin, claiming he was an Intercessor with God, who had bargained away his own life to gain magical powers for his disciples. They set about claiming the mortal world as their own. Being young and almighty, they slept with whomever they desired, in any land they came to. At first they did not care that the powers diminished in their children the less they bred true, but as their offspring spread throughout Yuros, claiming fiefdoms, and their understanding of their powers grew, they started colleges to teach each other, and they founded a church, and preached of their own divinity to the population.

  Now, five centuries later, thousands bore the sacred blood of the Blessed Three Hundred: the magi. Their rule was embodied in the Imperial Dynasty, all descendants of Sertain, who took Corin’s place as leader after the transfiguration, and currently vested in Emperor Constant Sacrecour. Gyle himself could trace his ancestry directly to one of those Three Hundred. I am of this, he thought. I am magi, though I am also of Noros. He glanced at Belonius Vult and then at Adamus Crozier, magi also: rulers of Urte.

  Adamus gestured to the lower end of the Place d’Accord as if this were a show he was compering. A massive statue of Corineus stood there, his arms flung wide, just as they had found him the morning after the Transfiguration: dead, with his sister’s dagger in his heart. Every one of the Three Hundred claimed to have spoken to and received instruction from Corin after his death. Some said they had seen his sister Selene in their visions, screaming foul words, though she had been nowhere to be found when they came to themselves at dawn with the legion lying dead about them. Their accounts became Scripture: Johan had guided them through the transfiguration, then been murdered by his corrupt sister Selene. He was the son of God and she was the whore-witch of Perdition. He become Corineus, the Saviour, revered everywhere; she became Corinea, the Accursed.

  From the breast of the massive statue of Corineus a rose-gold light began to form, shimmering as it grew. The crowd gasped in anticipation and awe as the light became brighter and brighter, casting its brilliance over the square. Gyle could see tears on the faces of many.

  Within the rosy light a shape formed, a woman clad in a white gown that looked deceptively simple, until Adamus whispered that it was made entirely of diamonds and pearls. She walked slowly out onto the platform formed by the giant golden dagger piercing the statue’s heart: a woman about to be proclaimed a living saint. The entire crowd emitted an awestruck sob, as if all their hopes and dreams rested in her alone. They gasped as she stepped from the golden dagger into the air and floated down the square, some sixty feet above the crowd, towards the royal box. The people cried and cheered at this simple feat that any half-trained mage could accomplish.

  Adamus Crozier winked, as if to say ‘behold the theatre’. Gyle kept his face guarded.

  The woman drifted past them, her palms pressed together in supplication, a sea of faces following her progress as she floated above them. I hope she’s wearing her best underwear, Gyle found himself thinking, then stilled his mind. Mocking these people, even in the privacy of your mind, was a dangerous habit to fall into. Minds were not inviolate.

  The woman floated toward the imperial throne, where Grand Prelate Wurther, Father of the Church, rose stiffly to receive her, his attendants about him. She bent her knees as she landed, hands clasped in humble prayer. The crowd cheered, then fell silent again as the Grand Prelate raised his hand.

  Adamus Crozier tugged at Gyle’s sleeve. ‘Do you need to see more?’ he whispered.

  Gyle looked at Vult, then shook his head faintly.

  ‘Good,’ said Adamus. ‘I have a fine scarlo awaiting us below, and we have much to discuss.’

  Before they left, Gyle allowed himself to gaze long and hard at the face of the emperor, the young man they would meet in person
tomorrow. Using his mage-trained sight he pulled his gaze in closer, carefully studying the man who ruled millions. Constant’s face was a study in pride, envy and fear, ill-hidden behind a mask of piety. Gyle almost felt pity for him.

  After all, how was one supposed to react when one’s living mother had just become a saint?

  The following day Gyle found himself whiling away the last few minutes before his audience in the lush palace gardens. As ever, he was the outsider, the interloper in paradise. He turned his collar against the light drizzle and paced a secluded path, his mind elsewhere. He stood out here because he wasn’t dressed in vivid finery. This season the fashions were bright, Eastern-inspired, and throughout the gardens were noblemen affecting martial attire. The Third Crusade was approaching, so it was fashionable once more to look like a man of war, but Gyle’s weathered leathers made him look like a thrush in a parrot’s cage. He wore a sword himself, but his had a razor-sharp blade and a well-worn grip. His lined features, tanned to a deep brown by the desert sun gave him a sinister air amidst these pallid northerners. But still he was careful not to cross the path of any of the young men or women, despite their polished effeminacy and mincing manners: every person in this garden was mage-born, with the power to destroy a squad of soldiers with a thought. He could too, if he needed to, but there was no gain to be had in brawling with a young mage-noble in the emperor’s gardens.

  Belonius Vult appeared at the entrance to the gardens and gave an impatient wave.

  Well then. With small steps, big things begin.

  The governor’s smooth features crinkled in mild annoyance as he took in Gyle’s rough-clad appearance. Vult himself was clad in a silver-blue silken robe, the epitome of the well-dressed magus. Gyle had known him for decades, and had never seen him look less than sumptuously immaculate. Belonius Vult, the Governor of Noros in the name of his Imperial Majesty. Others knew him as the traitor of Lukhazan, the one general of the Noros Revolt who now served the empire in a high post.

  ‘Could you not have at least thrown on a clean tunic, Gurvon?’ Belonius remarked. ‘We are appearing before the emperor – and more importantly, his newly sainted mother.’

  ‘It’s clean,’ Gyle said. ‘Well, washed anyway. The dirt is ingrained. It’s what they expect of me: an uncouth southerner, fresh from the wilds.’

  ‘Then you look the part. Come, we are expected.’ If Vult had any nerves, they were well hidden. Gyle could not remember Magister Belonius Vult looking discomforted very often, not even during the surrender of Lukhazan.

  They traversed a tangle of marble courtyards and rosewood-panelled arches, passing statues of emperors and saints, bowing to lords and ladies as they penetrated the Imperial Palace through doors that few were permitted to pass. Strange creatures walked the halls unattended: hybrid creatures, gnosis-constructs from the Imperial bestiary. Some were made to resemble creatures of legend, griffins and pegasi, but others were nameless figments of their makers’ imagination.

  A final door led to a chamber where Imperial Guardsmen with winged helms stood like statues. A chamberlain bade them set aside their periapts, the channelling gems that enhanced the use of the gnosis. For Belonius, this was the crystal topping his beautiful blackwood and silver staff; for Gyle it was a plain onyx on a leather string tucked inside his shirt. He leant his sword against the wall and hung the gem from its hilt. He shared one final glance with Vult. Ready?

  Vult nodded, and together, the two Noromen entered the inner sanctum of their conquerors.

  Within was a large round chamber with walls of plain white marble, with scenes of the Blessed Three Hundred set in relief. A statue of Corineus ascending to Heaven hung above the table, slowly rotating with no visible support. The Saviour was gazing upward, his face rapt in the moment of death. Lanterns held in either hand illuminated the room. A round table made of heavy oak and polished to mirror-sheen had nine seats set about it, in a nod to the traditions of the north: the Schlessen legend of King Albrett and his Knights. However, Emperor Constant had made something of a mockery of this legendary symbol of equality by seating himself on a carved throne set on a dais above the table, dominating the room. It was decorated with Keshi gold and camel-bone, if Gyle wasn’t mistaken: plunder from the last Crusade.

  The doorman announced, ‘Your Majesties, may I present Magister-General Belonius Vult, Governor of Noros; and Volsai-Magister Gurvon Gyle of Noros.’

  His Imperial Majesty Constant Sacrecour looked up from beneath beetled brows and frowned. ‘They’re Noromen,’ he complained in a whining voice. ‘Mother, you never said they were Noromen.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his heavy ermine-lined crimson robes. He was a thin man in his late twenties, but he acted younger, and his face was permanently pursed into an expression of petulant distrust. His beard had been nervously twisted out of shape and his hair was lank. He gave the impression he would rather be elsewhere, or at least better-amused.

  ‘Of course I did,’ replied his mother brightly. The Sainted Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius remained seated, but she gave them both a welcoming smile, surprising Gyle, who’d expected a colder woman. She had lines about her eyes and mouth that most mage-women’s vanity would not tolerate, and she wore an unpretentious sky-blue dress, her only adornment a golden halo-circlet pushing back her blonde hair. She looked like a favourite aunt.

  ‘You look as radiant today as yesterday, your Holiness,’ Belonius Vult said with a deep bow.

  It was so obviously untrue that the Empress-Mother cocked an eyebrow. ‘I spent enough on that gown yesterday to raise a fresh Crusade,’ she remarked drily. ‘I hope you aren’t going to tell me I should have just worn a peasant’s smock, Governor Vult?’

  ‘I meant only that no finery could improve the radiance of your visage, sainted lady,’ returned Belonius without missing a beat. Vult could smarm exceedingly well.

  Lucia eyed him appraisingly and indicated two seats opposite her. Four men sat at the table, each staring at the newcomers with gazes ranging from neutral to hostile. ‘Allow me to offer my congratulations on your sainthood, your Holiness, Vult went on. Never has one so worthy been so justly acclaimed.’

  Lucia smiled prettily, more like a girl accepting praise for her looks than a regal saint. But Gyle had heard whispers about what she did to those who displeased her that had chilled his battle-weary soul, so what would he know about saints and how they looked and behaved?

  ‘Welcome to the Inner Council of Rondelmar,’ Lucia waved an arm gracefully. ‘Do you know these other gentlemen? Allow me to make the introductions.’ She indicated a tall, balding man who looked about forty but was probably eighty. ‘This is Count Calan Dubrayle, the Imperial Treasurer.’ Dubrayle nodded tersely, his ancient eyes distant.

  The man beside him had silver hair but youthful features and a heroic build. ‘I am Kaltus Korion,’ he said coldly. ‘I remember you, Vult.’ He looked like he wanted to spit. He turned to Lucia. ‘I don’t see why they need join us – this is the Inner Council, not some market café for travellers to peddle their ideas. I’ve read the plan. I don’t need them to sell it to me.’

  ‘The plan we are to implement was devised by these gentlemen, Kaltus, dear. Be nice.’

  ‘I’ve been as nice as I need to be to Noromen – during their Revolt.’ He smirked at Belonius. ‘I still have your sword in my trophy room, Vult.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ replied Vult smoothly. ‘I have more potent weapons that are inalienable from my person.’

  Careful, Belonius, for Kore’s sake, Gyle thought. That’s Kaltus rukking Korion!

  Kaltus Korion sniffed, unimpressed, and looked at Gyle. ‘And so this is the notorious Gurvon Gyle? Is it too late to annul the Imperial Pardon and hang him?’

  ‘The Revolt was a long time ago,’ Gyle said mildly, meeting the Rondian general’s eyes. It was in fact seventeen years since the men of Noros had risen against their Imperial masters, and even appeared victorious, until Lukhazan had been surrendered without a fight by Belon
ius Vult, and the tide had turned. Gyle had been much younger then, careless of danger in his youth and idealism. Now what was he, a burned-out spymaster? A devious rogue with one last plan to earn a comfortable retirement? Something like that.

  ‘Well said. The Revolt was far too long ago to trouble us now,’ agreed a fat man in ornate priestly robes so heavy with gilt and gems it was a divine miracle he could move. Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther looked even more obese up close than he had yesterday when viewed across the Place d’Accord. ‘It was long ago, and we have welcomed our Noros-born brothers back into the Imperial bosom. I look forward to the discussion.’ He grinned greasily, his jowls wobbling. ‘I trust young Adamus entertained you well yesterday?’

  The other men in the room glanced at each other. If the Noromen were guests of a bishop, then what did that say about the Church’s role in their proposal, or the nature of the hidden agendas?

  Gyle had to strain to keep his face expressionless. Let them speculate.

  The man to the emperor’s left half-turned. ‘I’m Betillon,’ he announced, as if that explained everything. It did, of course: Noromen still called Tomas Betillon ‘the Rabid Dog’ for what he’d done at Knebb during the Revolt. He had a grizzled, rough-hewn face, untamed whiskers and hooded eyes.

  ‘Do we really need this meeting?’ Korion repeated impatiently. ‘So Vult has given us a plan – pay him some gold and let him go on his way.’ He smirked. ‘That’s all it took at Lukhazan.’

  Lucia tapped the table and everyone stopped and turned to her. ‘That’s enough introductions, gentlemen.’ She fixed Korion with a cold stare, no longer looking like a kindly aunt. ‘These gentlemen are crucial to our plans, and they are welcome here. They are attending at my – at our – invitation. They have come up with something that has pleased us, and they are vital for the execution.’ She waved a hand at the well-padded leather seats. ‘Now, please, be seated.’