Cold Magic

“It is the Diarisso who with their chains of magic guided the people, guided them safely across the hidden paths of the waterless desert, and so to the sea, to escape the flesh-eating ghouls, the salt plague that overtook the kingdom.

“Twenty thousand marched out of the city; mothers carried their children; sons carried their elders.

“Ten thousand only reached the shores of the middle sea.

“They found the Kena’ani ships, they handed over the gold, and the ships carried our people north to this shore, so far it was, as far as we could journey away from the plague.

“Three hundred and twenty-nine years ago, this happened.

“Then at that time, when they reached the north, the Diarisso lineage founded the first mage House. Later, some among the children of their children founded Four Moons House.”

The mansa spoke. “Do you remember, boy, what your people owe to Four Moons House?”

“I do,” Andevai mumbled.

“Your ancestors had no sorcery, no weapons, no provisions, no water, no strength. You would have perished in the desert had we not fed you and carried you. In exchange, we accepted your labor and the labor of your descendants as guarantors for the debt incurred.”

“I have failed you, Mansa.”

“Of course! How I expected you, such as you are, to succeed I cannot imagine. And yet the task was so simple.”

“Mansa,” interposed the djeli, “if the young man was not aware the Barahals hoped to cheat him, he would not have been alert to answers devised to fool him. Outright lies on their part would have burned. It is obvious they schemed for many years in order to cheat us. They even had a girl ready to substitute in their daughter’s place. I must say, it was exceedingly clever of them.”

“Yes, Phoenicians are known for their cleverness, are they not? They are stoats in our poultry yard.” His tone, which remained angry but respectful when replying to the djeli, darkened to scorn. “What is it? You may talk.”

Andevai spoke in a tone so humble it was like scraping the floor. “I make no excuses for my failure, Mansa. It is my responsibility alone.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it was inevitable.” Evidently groveling appeased the mansa, because he went back to hammering on my people. “Especially when faced with cunning and self-serving mercenaries like the Barahals. They fostered the rise of Camjiata through their secret networks. They pretended they had no part in the monster’s early successes and his later wars. They proved themselves adroit, indeed, in holding out empty hands to plead their innocence after his capture. It is pure accident we found evidence of their complicity, which we could use to control them. Yet the Hassi Barahals still scuttle across the continent like so many cockroaches.”

Indignation, once stirred in a cat’s heart, is like nourishment. My fainting heart began to swell and strengthen. Still listening, I carefully turned my head to survey the hall.

Two attendants stood on either side of the double doors leading to the corridor. They were, I thought, making an effort not to stare at me lying stretched like a slaughtered heifer before the mansa’s closed door. Otherwise, this large, elegant chamber was furnished with four low, wide benches padded with pillows and a mirror set against the wall at the end of the chamber opposite from where I lay. A mural painted along the walls depicted a desert crossing: powerful, handsome men and strong-as-iron women clothed in gold and orange striding over the tumultuous sands with their chains of power wreathing them like vines, using divination to forge a path and using a chain of sorcery to keep the salt plague and its ghouls at bay. They were followed by a train of much smaller sized people, their children and dependents and retainers, and the even smaller figures of their slaves.

“There is much you do not understand,” the mansa was saying beyond the door, evidently to Andevai. “You are young, and inexperienced, and ignorant.” He clearly expected no answer to this self-evident description, because he kept talking. “Now listen carefully. The diviners warned us in their maze of sand and shells that a general would rise to trouble Europa with his schemes. But we did not realize until too late the threat the Iberian Monster truly posed. We did not realize that he had gained a mage House as his willing ally. We did not know until too late that he was using the vision of a woman who could walk the dreams of dragons to plot his campaign of conquest. Too late, we understood that the dreamer had attracted the notice of the masters of the Wild Hunt. Too late. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mansa,” Andevai murmured.

“The Wild Hunt obliterated Crescent House, but not to aid us. They care nothing for us. We are less than vermin in their eyes. Yet, ironically, the Hunt’s intervention saved us. For it was only after the death of Crescent House and the woman who walked the dreams of dragons—the woman Camjiata had married—that the Second Alliance could capture Camjiata and defeat his army. But I tell you now: Peace will not last, for princes will quarrel and laborers will remain ungrateful for that which benefits them. War and suffering wait at the door, eager to enter. So we listened closely when the diviners told us their shells and sands revealed that the eldest daughter of the Adurnam Hassi Barahal lineage will walk the dreams of dragons.”