Grave Ghost (The Darkness of Djinn Book 2) Read online

  Grave

  Ghost

  Also by Tia Reed

  The Grotesques

  THE DARKNESS OF DJINN

  Dark Djinn

  Grave Ghost

  The Darkness of Djinn

  Book 2

  Tia Reed

  © Copyright 2016 Tia Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author. Except for brief quotations by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Damonza

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  Tia Reed

  Visit my website at www.tiareed.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1978389083

  ISBN-10: 1978389086

  Author’s Note

  Minor Moon: The length of Daesoa’s cycle, sixteen days.

  Major Moon: The length of Dindarin’s cycle, thirty-two days.

  Chapter 1

  ON THE RAMPARTS around Tarana Palace, Shah Wilshem of Terlaan turned from the rippling waters of Lake Sheraz and drew his sword. After two sleepless nights contemplating the wisdom of war, violence was welling in him with the force of the approaching gale.

  “You. Spar with me,” he ordered the nearest mahktashaan between deep rumbles of thunder. “First blood declares the winner.”

  “My lord,” the hooded soldier-magician said with a bow. “My oath forbids it.”

  “Your oath demands your obedience,” Wilshem corrected, striding towards him with pointed blade.

  The mahktashaan, custodian of a salmon crystal, made no attempt to draw his weapon. “It mandates your protection.”

  Far out on the grey lake, lightning flashed. In the darkness between strikes, Wilshem lunged. The mahktashaan sidestepped, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword. Wilshem’s arm drove straight past his opponent.

  “You will obey or suffer the justice of my sword,” Wilshem said, arcing his right foot behind him and swinging his sword back.

  He broke off as the mahktashaan whipped out his blade and executed a perfect parry. Wilshem brought his sword around and down, aiming to strike on the inside. His opponent adjusted his grip and deflected the strike, displaying effortless grace. With grim resolve, he finished his order. “Lose, and you forfeit your life.”

  A disarming move followed, a trick Swordmaster Mazronan had long ago taught Wilshem to counter, but the soldier-magician had taken the initiative and would not retreat.

  “Hold,” Wilshem grunted as palace guards and cloaked mahktashaan ran up. “Hold,” he barked when the order was lost beneath a thunderous crack. Two details he had yet to ascertain before he embraced the irrevocable decision to plunge his realm into war. This duel was but an expedient way to determine the first.

  He was forced to lean back, to shift his weight onto his left leg to avoid the tip of the sword as his opponent reached inside his guard. His recovery involved a spin and a step onto his right foot. It almost unbalanced him. The mahktashaan slashed. His awkward parry, backhanded across his body, only just caught the strike. Still, it was enough time for him to regain his footing, to square up with the mahktashaan so he could disengage without fear of a poke in the side. So he could strike, and their swords could clash. His regular training served him well, but this callow youngster fought like a djinn possessed. Wilshem retreated a single step as the mahktashaan drove forward with a series of lightning-quick strikes. He feinted for Salmon’s left side but dropped his sword towards his opponent’s right leg.

  The maddening magician must have read his mind because he jumped onto the low blade. Wilshem stared in astonishment at the man who balanced like a monkey on a twig. He lowered his eyes to the top of the blade, where the burnished metal distorted the reflection of his sunken eye and the ridge hacked at the neat trim of his black beard. He let go as the force drove the weapon out of his hand. Landing on perfect footing, the mahktashaan raised the tip of his sword to his forehead in respectful salute.

  Wilshem blinked. He forced himself to stand tall as lightning zigzagged down to the lake. “Did you read my mind?” he demanded, just able to speak. Chagrin had been a long time absent, but the effort it took to control his breath revealed the limitations of middle age. Even so, he was Shah; these men would not witness weakness in him.

  Stepping off Wilshem’s blade, the mahktashaan sheathed his sword and dipped his head. “No, Your Majesty. Such a feat is not possible without physical contact.”

  “I concede,” Wilshem said without inflection. It would not do to let the mahktashaan – any of the mahktashaan – perceive the depth of his pleasure. “Fetch Mahktashaan Strauss. And tell Swordmaster Mazronan I request his presence.”

  Salmon Crystal picked up Wilshem’s sword and presented the hilt with a bow. Sheathing it, Wilshem leaned over the wall and watched the skiffs bob across the streaks of gold on the darkening expanse of lake.

  A major moon and a quarter minor besides he had walked these solid walls, forcing mahktashaan and captains to conversations centred on politics. For those thirty-six days, he had conducted business from within the palace, separated from all three of his children. A rage that not even his concubines could temper had fended off bitter loneliness, and left the shallowest of them with bruises in tender places. He slapped his fist upon the wall. That white cold anger was still there, Vae help him. That his child, his daughter, could dishonour him, her brothers, and her realm, so openly.

  “Your Majesty,” white-haired Mazronan announced his arrival.

  Wilshem took a deep breath. There were not many men on whom he would bestow the courtesy of turning before he was ready, but Mazronan was one. The man had a light sweat upon his brow and a sword at his side. Even at this late hour the swordmaster had been drilling himself, driving himself harder than he drove his men. Swordplay consumed him, Wilshem thought with fascination. To see him here, stooped of shoulder and narrow in the hip, no one would ever predict the extent of his prowess with a sword, or credit the rumours he could best a mahktashaan.

  “We await a mahktashaan of the Inner Circle,” Wilhelm said. “Look over the lake, Mazronan. What do you see?”

  “Storm clouds gilded with dusk, Majesty. Might I say rain will be welcome.”

  Out over the lake, water drizzled from a sky scarred by lightning.

  “Perhaps Vae’oeldin hints at what approaches.”

  Footsteps broke into their conversation. A stout mahktashaan, black cloak fluttering in the evening breeze, joined them and bowed.

  “Mahktashaan Strauss,” Wilshem greeted after a confirmatory glance at the plum crystal sitting against his chest. Putting a name to the myriad colours of the stones taxed his overworked memory, but these magicians, ever hooded and cloaked in deference to their god, thrived on mystique.

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me, the mahktashaan who sparred with me, is he a notable swordsman?”

  “I take it you mean young Feshvar who fetched me? He is average among those his age, though with experience he might become a formidable opponent to the best of us.”

  The young man’s name gave Wilshem pause. The Vae were not given to coincidences. There was a divine warning here but, in the need to finalise his decision, he pushed the intrusive thought aside.

  “And your men, Swordmaster, the soldiers of our realm. Are they battle ready?”

  “The men perform their drills with commendable skill.”

  “Ah,” said Wilshem with perfect understanding. He tapped a finger upon the stone wall as he allowed himself a moment’s contemplation. The most proficient soldier’s mettle was suspect until battle tried him. A generation of peace had given the men assigned to protecting the realm no opportunity to forge their courage in the fire of war. And now the Swordmaster was eyeing Mahktashaan Strauss because there was no question whose men were the more adept with a blade.

  His decision was almost articulate now. The second detail, only, remained. And it was just that, a detail. The bulk of his reckoning had crystallised two nights ago, when they had stood at this exact crenel, him and Strauss, the mahktashaan seeking him out when Minoria Arun had initiated thoughtspeak. Discovering anew the depth of his anger, Wilshem had dismissed the guards to the corners of the ramparts with a perfunctory wave of his hand.

  “Well?” he had demanded.

  “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Mariano wishes to report he found Princess Kordahla under Shah Ordosteen’s roof in Kaijoor. She is now in his custody.”

  “And the crystals?” Wilshem had responded through gritted teeth.”

  Silence had preceded the mahktashaan’s reply. “They were unable to recover the crystals,” Strauss had said. His mild manner would have left anyone other than an initiate clueless to their worth. Wilshem had selected him as liaison for his levity. A shah’s anger needed a foil if he were not to slash first and question later.

  “I want a full account.”

  “The Minoria begs your forgiveness. He performed magic to protect the prince and for fear of retaliation dare not diminish his faculties further at this time.”

  Wilshem’s hands had curled to fists. So, the Myklaani had not been willing to relinquish her. Never mind Ahkdul, she – her name was too distasteful to speak – would answer to him if
Mariano had suffered a scratch in retrieving her. Of his three offspring, his eldest, his heir was the only one with a sense of honour, with an understanding of the duty privilege brought.

  It was a calamity on which he could not dwell. His time was limited, and so he must trust Minoria Arun would have spoken if injuries were sustained. “Will Ahkdul honour the marriage contract?” he had persisted.

  “He will.”

  Wilshem had turned away. It was fitting that the storm clouds had tumbled over the lake. His hands gripped and flexed at the parapet. “Then inform Prince Mariano my decision stands. They may proceed straight to Verdaan. Ahkdul and the princess may marry straight away.”

  Anger had dictated that decision days ago, when the party first entered Myklaan. Yes, he had replied to Ahkdul’s request. If Verdaan deigned to keep its contract, Ahkdul could take Princess Kordahla to wife without delay. If Verdaan chose not to proceed. . . Wilshem forbore to think about that grim outcome. Prince Mariano held blood honour for his sister, and his blooded sword would see it upheld. For the sake of his family. For the sake of his realm.

  Their last exchange had taken place two days ago. Two days, and not a word since. “I wish to communicate with the Crown Prince,” Wilshem demanded.

  Mazronan bowed.

  “You will wait,” Wilshem said. He frowned as Strauss mumbled his praise to Mahktos. The mahktashaan’s persistent reverence in the act of magic threatened to overshadow their obedience to Terlaan. Whatever these magicians might believe, their first duty was to him and not their wild, ancient god. The young mahktashaan’s name had sparked a recollection of an age of conflict. Every rational man cringed when speaking of Shah Feshvar’s orders during the Hunger Wars, long, long ago, to cull the elderly and the young. Still, the then majoria should not have refused. Shah Feshvar had executed Majoria Bishram in a most public and humiliating manner, of course, but in an unfortunate turn of events for every shah to follow, a premature and unnatural death had elevated that majoria to a martyr among his kind. That was all very well for a man history recorded as unassuming despite his status. It was quite another for a power-seeker like Levi. For all his talent and loyalty, Wilshem’s majoria had a streak of cruel fanaticism. It could be no coincidence his crystal was black.

  It would, the shah thought and not for the first time, be prudent for his rash younger son to rise within the mahktashaan ranks. A son’s loyalty to family was unquestionable. Wilshem would need to ensure it remained so. He must endeavour to include Vinsant in future political discussions. When he forgave him for jeopardising his sister’s honour, and the realm’s contract with Verdaan. He paced the wall, ignoring the first drop of rain on his head. The streets of Tarana were being hijacked by porrin addicts. Youths were smashing into shops to plunder any goods they might sell at the souk to raise the coin for a trip on the bliss. Fathers were squandering their wages on the drug, leaving their children without wheat. And his selfish child had refused to enter into an alliance which would stem the flow of the red, powdered curse to their shores!

  “Minoria Arun and Crown Prince Mariano convey their deepest respects,” Strauss said, drawing him from his thoughts.

  Disinclined to courtesy, Wilshem stood where he was. “I wish to know why they did not report yesterday.”

  Strauss’s expression became vague as he thoughtspoke the question. He moved closer to deliver his answer, as protocol demanded. “The Myklaani escort make private communication difficult. And Princess Kordahla required their attention.” His grave voice confirmed how well regarded she was among the men. It was past time she was married and out of temptation’s way.

  “Tell me what has transpired.”

  Wilshem listened as Strauss relayed Arun’s report, moving them on every time they lingered over his daughter’s delicate state of mind. “She has forfeited her right to my concern. Be done with it, or you shall also suffer my displeasure.”

  At last he was satisfied but for that second detail. “Is the Minoria certain the crystal and quartz are in Myklaan?”

  “Minoria Arun says the fact is clear within the princess’s mind.”

  And so the second detail was clinched. Unfortunate that a third had emerged from the telling. Not one to influence his decision, truly, but important enough to justify it to Mazronan, since he, in turn, would need to sell it to his men.

  “At the peak of their powers, what damage can a mage inflict?” Wilshem leaned forward as Mahktashaan Strauss awaited the Minoria’s reply.

  “Their magic is limited, Majesty, and takes a huge toll on body and mind. We have always known this. The little magic the Minoria witnessed in Kaijoor confirms their prowess has not progressed.”

  For the first time in the current cycle of the moons, Wilshem smiled. It was a grim, calculating turn of his lips that held nothing at all of mirth. “Inform Crown Prince Mariano he is to see Kordahla wed and return with all haste. While he is in Pengari, he must negotiate with Hudassan for a continuous supply of food, weapons and soldiers. Terlaan is at war with Myklaan, and it expects Verdaan to honour the terms of their alliance.”

  The mahktashaan’s hooded head turned his way before dipping to relay the message.

  “Organise your men as you see fit. This is not a war I intend to lose,” Wilshem murmured to his Swordmaster in the interim. Mazronan gripped the hilt of his sword and bowed low. When he had left, Wilshem signalled to Strauss to remove his hood. Finished with his magic, the mahktashaan had no choice but to comply. Ordinarily, his jowls suited his jovial nature. After Wilshem’s news, the shah thought they made him look unwell.

  “Recall the majoria. I expect him to prepare the mahktashaan for war.”

  “The Inner Circle of Mahktashaan will relay your request to the majoria.”

  The audacity of that answer almost drove Wilshem to unsheathe his sword for the second time that night. “Before you do, congratulate Mahktashaan Feshvar. Then inform him that any future delay in carrying out his shah’s orders will see him executed.” Let that warning be conveyed to the majoria.

  Wilshem strode off as thunder cracked overhead. The heavens opened, but before the deluge could drench him, plum light flared, encasing him in a magical shield. Unaware of the grave decision that had just been made, the occupants of the dusty city sent up a cheer.

  Chapter 2

  THE FIRST INDICATION Prince Vinsant was secure in his mildewy cell in the Crystalite Mines was a set of disembodied moans. The second was the rattle of chains as he attempted to move a part, any part, of his splintered body. The whistle of his torturous breaths reminded him of how much pain he was in. That made it rather obvious he was the one moaning. After an extended groan, he managed to shut up. On the plus side, he was clean, and warmth had been spelled into his clothes. Someone had been looking after him. He twisted enough to drag a jug resting near his head over, dipped a simple cup in, and took deep swallows of the cool, lemon-flavoured water. On the minus side. . . he put the cup down. He was still in these magic-dampening shackles, lying flat on his bruised back on the uneven floor of a cave in the care of mahktashaan who were treating him like Terlaan’s most wanted outlaw, just because he had tried to protect his sister, Kordahla, which was supposed to be a mahktashaan’s foremost duty. To top it all off, he couldn’t remember what had happened. That had to be where the real danger lay. For comfort, he reached for the quartz on his chest. His hand froze when it landed on his crumpled robe.

  “Oh, scums!” The whole shocking incident came rushing back as he patted down every part of his achy body. The indigo djinn had tried to trap him into making a deal to save Kordahla from a battering at the hand of that swine of her Verdaani fiancé, Lord Ahkdul. Naturally, he had tried to trick the djinn right back, and got as far in his brilliant plan as removing his apprentice’s quartz from around his neck before mistrustful Minekeeper Fenz of the violet crystal had spotted him and blasted him into oblivion with the mother of all magical bolts. Now he was wide awake, but the quartz was neither in his hand nor around his neck. Levi was going to skin him alive before boiling him in hot oil. And that was prior to being hung, drawn and quartered in front of Naikil and Gram to serve as a grim warning to all future mahktashaan apprentices. “Scums, scums, scums, scums, scums!”