Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet) by David Hair Read Free Book Online

taxing physical regime, until she’d finally won Blademaster Batto’s approval. She was the only girl from Bricia’s Arcanum d’Etienne College to graduate with full honours in weaponry. Bastido – The Bastard – was Batto’s parting gift to her.
    She saluted, readying herself. ‘
Bastido, duo
.’
    This time the machine was more aggressive, its blows subtler, its movements less patterned. The mace joined the fray and now three weapons were always arrayed against her, keeping her constantly leaping, jumping, using Air-gnosis to swoop in and out, bouncing off the walls, parrying with power and precision until she scored another hit. By now she was bathed in perspiration and her breath was coming in gasps. Bastido twitched as if furious with her, itching to lash out.
Go on
, it seemed to be saying,
try me on cinque
.
    ‘I don’t think so, Bastido.’ She grinned. She’d only tried the fifth once, and the fight had been over in seconds. Three blinding blows had broken her sword-arm and two ribs, and she’d had to be pulled clear by Gurvon. She wouldn’t be trying that again – it would always be a step too far at her age. But she did fight another bout, this time on
tre
, scoring half a second before collecting the mace in her left shoulder, which sent her sprawling. ‘Hey, that was
after
my touch,’ she complained.
    The machine almost smirked. Some days it seemed alive.
    She took a few deep breaths, bade Bastido return to his place in the corner and deactivated the gnosis-creation. She was parched, and drank deeply from the bucket of water she had hauled up the stairs that morning before tipping the rest over her head. The sodden fabric clung to her, cooling her flushed and sweating frame. She could feel her face burning, pictured the pink glow beneath her freckles and lines. She looked down at her tunic, plastered against her flat chest, her hard belly and muscular thighs. She was no one’s idea of beautiful, she knew that, and unlike any other women she knew, even other magi. For a second she felt that wave of loneliness again, and quelled it irritably.
    How will I get Bastido out of here? I only brought him because I thought we would actually get to exit this job with dignity
…
    Wear your gems …
Why? Do we just walk away? What’s going on?
    She shivered.
Don’t think about it. Keep your mind on the money
. She wrapped herself in a Jhafi blanket and left the chamber, seeking the bathing room and some hot water.
    *
    Half an hour later, washed and clad in the Jhafi smock called a salwar, she accompanied the Nesti children to the Sollan chapel. The relief-carved sandstone walls were soot-stained from torches and the two copper masks behind the altar, Sun above Moon, were in need of a good polish. The old Sollan drui-priest poured the libations, intoning the ritual formulas to invoke the strength of the new day. It all felt very tired – the Sollan faith might be the oldest in Yuros, the religion of the Rimoni and once the dominant belief of the entire western continent, but here in the east, it was a sapling in unfertile soil.
    There were just twelve people in the chapel. In the front rank was King Olfuss, his skin dark against his curly white hair and beard, his genial face serious. He was obliged to uphold both faiths of Javon, the Rimoni Sollan and the Amteh worship of the Jhafi, which meant a lot of time on his knees. She couldn’t tell if either held his heart. Beside him was his wife Fadah, wrapped in her bekira-shroud. She cared nothing for the Sollan faith, was here by duty only. Behind them were their children, wrapped against the chill: young Timori, the heir, only seven years old, was fidgeting, bored. Every so often he glanced back at Elena and waved, until Solinde noticed and chided him. Solinde was the tallest of the children, though the middle one, with auburn hair and long, graceful limbs. She was considered the family beauty, though Elena preferred Cera’s darker, more exotic features.