“Pain is just the door,” the Mahlessa said. “Fear is the lever, the tool that scrapes away the filth infecting this girl’s mind, latched onto her gift like a leech.” Kiral shuddered, gibberish issuing from her lips amidst a cloud of spittle. “For even this thing fears true oblivion, and if it stays to face me, I will rend it to nothing.”
Kiral sagged, eyes closing, falling free of the Mahlessa’s grip, cradled by Davoka, a steaming red-black sore covering the back of her right hand.
Lyrna swallowed bile and went to press her fingers against the girl’s neck, finding the pulse strong.
“How . . . how long?” the voice behind her was thin, choked with confusion and sorrow.
Lyrna looked up and saw that the Mahlessa had vanished, the confident young woman replaced by a fearful girl, staring at her in confusion, slender arms hugging herself tight. The same face, the same slender form, but a different soul.
“Mahlessa?” Lyrna asked, rising and moving to her.
The girl uttered a sound that was part sigh and part laugh, just a pitch below hysteria, her eyes finding the bottle in her hand. “Yes, oh yes. I am the Mahlessa. Great and terrible is my power . . .” She faltered to silence with a mirthless giggle.
“Five summers,” Davoka said. “Since the renewal.”
“Five summers.” The girl’s gaze roamed over Lyrna, taking in her hair before looking directly into her eyes. “The Merim Her queen. She’s been waiting for you, such a long time. So many visions . . .” Her hand came up to caress Lyrna’s cheek. “Such beauty . . . Such a shame . . . What does it feel like?”
“Mahlessa?”
“To have killed so many. You see, I only killed my mother . . .”
Then she was gone, the face of a scared girl abruptly replaced by ageless surety, her hand falling from Lyrna’s face as she retreated.
“What did she tell you?” the Mahlessa asked.
Lyrna forced herself not to retreat further, though the spiral stairs now appeared very inviting. You wanted evidence, she reminded herself. Here it is.
“She said she killed her mother,” she replied, striving to keep the tremor from her voice.
“Ah yes, a sad story. A beautiful young girl, kindly and possessed of the healing touch, but also quite mad, murderously so. It’s always the way with the healing touch, some facet of its power works to unhinge the mind. Every gift has its price. In this case the persistent delusion that her mother was possessed by Jeshak, the hating god. Having killed her mother, of course there was no place for her in her clan. They wouldn’t kill her because of her gift, for all Lonakhim know that the gifted can only be judged by the Mahlessa. She wandered the mountains until Davoka found her and brought her to me. The perfect vessel, one of my finest in fact. Though she does have a tendency to get loose more often than her predecessors.”
She returned to Kiral’s side, reaching down to clasp her ravaged hand. The girl spasmed, coming awake with a jerk, trying to pull away as Davoka held her. “I . . . sister?” Her eyes found Davoka’s face. “I . . . was cold.”
The Mahlessa released her hand and Lyrna was unable to contain the gasp that rose from her chest. It was healed, the red-black sore gone, the skin still showing some faint scars, but whole once again. Evidence.
“It does drain one so,” the Mahlessa said, flexing her own hand, a crease appearing in her smooth brow. “More than any other gift. Perhaps that’s where the madness comes from, the loss of self with every healing.” She rose once more and stepped back, addressing Davoka, “Alturk is here?”
“He is, Mahlessa.”
“A lost and broken man, no doubt. A Tahlessa without a clan. It may be kinder to allow him to throw himself into the Mouth of Nishak.”
“I owe Alturk a great debt . . .” Lyrna began but the Mahlessa just waved a dismissive hand.
“Have no fear, my Queen. He’s far too valuable to waste indulging his self-pity.” Her gaze lingered on Kiral’s still-confused face as she addressed Davoka once again. “Ten centuries of life teaches me the folly of discarding insight gained from a hard lesson. The thing that took your sister was wise enough to play on the history of the Lonakhim; the legend of the Sentar is enduring, and appealing. You will tell Alturk he is now the Tahlessa Sentar, the true Sentar, blessed by the true Mahlessa. He will go forth from here, scouring every clan for their finest warriors. They will number one thousand, no more, no less. They will not hunt, they will not feud, they will only train for war and fight at my command.”
Davoka gave a solemn nod. “Mahlessa, I beg a place in the Sentar. I will be your eyes, your voice to the thousand . . .”
The Mahlessa shook her head with a smile. “No, my bright spear, I have a greater mission for you.” She turned to Lyrna once again. “Though you may consider it more a curse. Take your sister above, she will need to rest. The queen and I must talk further.”
Davoka gently pulled Kiral to her feet, the girl staring about her in a blend of wonder and fear, which only deepened when her gaze found Lyrna. “She saw it,” she whispered, drawing back. “She heard it . . . She knew . . .”
“Calm now, little cat,” Davoka soothed her. “This is Lerhnah, Queen of the Merim Her. She is a friend to us.”
Kiral swallowed, looking down at the tiled floor, guilt replacing fear. “It wanted her . . . Wanted to hurt her, worse than all the others . . . I felt the want . . .”
Lyrna went to her, placing a hand under her chin and lifting it. “I know it was not your want,” she said. “Your sister is my sister too, and so I will be yours.”
Kiral stared at her with an expression close to awe. “It feared you . . . That’s why it wanted to hurt you so much . . . You were new . . . Unexpected . . . No ilvarek had revealed your nature . . .”
Ilvarek . . . The word had an archaic inflection, and was similar to the Lonak word for sight, or vision, but spoken with a gravitas that gave Lyrna pause. “Ilvarek, I do not know this word.”
“Take your sister above, Davoka,” the Mahlessa said again, her voice soft but carrying an unmistakable note of command.
Davoka nodded and led Kiral to the spiral steps, the girl whispering as she ascended. “When it slept I saw its nightmares . . . It strangled its own baby . . .”
“Allow me to show you something,” the Mahlessa said as Kiral’s voice faded. “Something only Lonakhim eyes have ever seen.”
The darkness in the tunnel proved less absolute than Lyrna had expected, the walls possessed of a faint green luminescence providing enough light for them to make their way without the aid of a torch. “It’s a kind of powder found in the western hills,” the Mahlessa explained. “Possessed of an inner light that never fades. Carried here in great quantities and painted onto the walls by whoever carved the Mountain. Ingenious, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” Lyrna agreed. “Almost as ingenious as you, Mahlessa?”
There was a pause and she knew the woman was smiling. “How so?”
“A trap is not a trap without bait. My mission here, at your invitation, was an irresistible target for that thing you just banished, as I’m sure you knew it would be.”
“Indeed I did.”
“Good men and women died to get me here. Your people and mine.”
“Good men and women die all the time. So do the bad ones. Surely it’s better to die with a purpose.”
“But far better to live with one.”
“A choice we do not always get to make. Take my people for example, they did not choose for the Merim Her to descend upon our shores like a plague. They did not choose to be hunted like animals for three decades. They did not choose to carve out a home amidst the frozen mountains with the pitiful remnants of what strength was left them.” Lyrna was struck by the absence of anger in the Mahlessa’s words, her tone light and conversational, as if they were two ladies at court discussing the finer points of one of Alucius’s poems.
“I cannot account for the crimes of my ancestors,” she said, her own tone less than conversational. “But I will have to account for the lives lost in pursuit of the peace you offered. My lady Nersa’s parents will find scant comfort in the knowledge that their daughter died in service to your purpose.”
A laugh, very soft, very slight. “I suspect they have little time left for grief or comfort. None of us do.”
She stopped as the tunnel ended, opening out in a huge circular chamber, as least three times the size of the one they had left. There was no well here, the only illumination coming from the green-glowing powder painted onto the floor and ceiling, much brighter than in the tunnel, bright enough to read by in fact. Curiously, whilst the floor and ceiling were bright the walls were dark. Also the air was dry, carrying a faint musty tinge.
“Princess Lyrna Al Nieren,” the Mahlessa said, stepping into the chamber and raising her arms. “I bid you welcome to the memory of the Lonakhim.”
Books, Lyrna realised following her into the chamber, her eyes roaming over the walls, stacked floor to ceiling with countless books and scrolls. She found herself drawn to them immediately. Some were massive, giant tomes requiring many arms to lift, others tiny enough to fit into the palm of her hand. She lifted the nearest volume, only dimly aware that it may have been diplomatic to ask permission first. It was leather-bound, with an intricate design etched into the cover, and, despite its age, the pages were intact and pliant enough to turn easily instead of cracking to dust. The script they held was beautifully rendered, illuminated with gold leaf and coloured inks, but completely indecipherable.
