Ghost Wounds, preview 1 of 2
“It is clear that we must kill the Emperor,” said the First Magus, “and take command of the Empire.”
The high magi did not look convinced.
“Foolishness,” said the Preceptor of Marsis. “We would risk civil war.”
“I agree,” said the Preceptor of Varia Province. “Half the nobility would not accept a magus upon the Imperial Throne, and certainly none of the commoners. Better to wait until the current Emperor dies. His successor may prove more…tractable to our ministrations.”
The First Magus ground his teeth, resisted the urge to pace across the polished marble floor below the great dome of the Motherhouse. He knew why the high magi had grown so timid. Why that had become too craven to take direct, forceful action against the Emperor.
Caina Amalas.
That damnable woman, the one the commoners called the Ghost Countess. First she had saved the Emperor from the First Magus’s picked assassin in front of a thousand witnesses. And she had foiled every plot since then, even evading a dozen attempts on her life. The Emperor sat secure upon the Imperial Throne, and the Magisterium’s political influence had waned.
That damnable woman!
“Your craven timidity does not become high magi of the Magisterium,” said the First Magus. “We must…”
A commotion at the doors caught his attention.
He turned just in time to see the guards, trained battle-magi both, fall prone to the floor. A woman strode past them, dressed in trousers, armored boots, and an outlandish leather vest that left her arms bare. A slight figure, huddled in gray rags, followed the strange woman, but the First Magus’s attention remained on the woman…
Recognition struck.
“Croanna,” he said. “You’ve changed.”
She had, indeed. When he had last seen her, Croanna had been a pretty young woman of twenty-five. The past ten years had made her leaner, sharper, her black hair streaked with white. Rings glittered on her fingers and in her ears, her nose, her eyebrows, and even her lips, rings of gold and silver and bronze and steel. Odd scars threaded their way up her arms, their patterns ritualistic.
Ten years ago she had been the apprentice of Morneus, a magus with a taste for necromancy. But Morneus had been killed, and Croanna had vanished…
A stray fact clicked in the First Magus’s mind.
Morneus. Lucan Maraeus had killed Morneus, in vengeance for his murdered wife. The same Lucan Maraeus, if the First Magus’s spies could be believed, who had become the Ghost Countess’s right hand and probable lover.
Interesting.
“And you’ve changed, Aberon,” said Croanna, her voice amused. “Older, fatter, and balder. And weaker, as well. When you become First, you vowed to give the Magisterium command over the Empire. Instead, you’ve been spent your time skulking in shadows…”
“Silence!” roared the First Magus.
“Sulking in shadows,” continued Croanna, “your plans undone by one ragged Ghost…”
“I told you, silence!” repeated the First Magus, lifting his hand in the beginning of a spell.
“Go ahead,” said Croanna, her eyes glittering like jade knives. “Do it. Do it. I want you to do it. Strike me down. Kill me where I stand. See what happens.”
The First Magus stopped. He was not afraid, not precisely, but he had not survived this long by taking foolish risks.
And something in Croanna’s expression chilled him.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Assistance,” said Croanna. “And I am prepared to pay handsomely for it.”
The First Magus snorted. “With what, precisely? Will you give me the Ghost Countess’s head on a platter, alongside Lucan Maraeus’s? I’ve heard that before.”
Croanna smiled, the rings in her lips clicking against her teeth. “Why, Aberon. You shock me. In exchange for your assistance, I will give you the Empire itself.”
“And just how, pray?”
“Kneel,” said Croanna.
The ragged figure behind Croanna knelt, face concealed behind a fall of platinum-colored hair.
The First Magus stared at the ragged figure for a long time.
And then he began to laugh.