Ghost in the Inferno (Ghost Exile #5) by Jonathan Moeller Page A

“No. It was Kylon’s. The Surge told him those words, but it was a message for me. One of the vials of Elixir Restorata I stole healed him from the Sifter’s wounds.”
    “His salvation?” said Samnirdamnus. “Are you so certain? You may wish to be clear on that before you enter the Inferno.” 
    “You know something about the Inferno,” said Caina. 
    “It is an old place,” said Samnirdamnus, gazing at the dry fountain. “Old and stained with the blood of countless innocents. Callatas thinks himself the fortress’s master, but he is wrong. It is older than him, older than Istarinmul, and the necromancy within it does not serve him.”
    “Necromancy?” said Caina. 
    “Why, of course,” said Samnirdamnus. “Are you surprised? The pharaohs of ancient Maat built the Inferno. It was the northern fortress of their realm, the frontier of their dominion. You know the power of their necromancy. The first wound that set you upon the path of the Balarigar, the first scar upon your aura, was carved across your flesh in the name of Maatish necromancy.”
    “I remember,” said Caina. She did, all too well. 
    “Callatas thinks the Inferno is his,” said Samnirdamnus, “but it belongs to the dead hand of the Maatish necromancer-priests of old. And you, too, Balarigar…the mark of the Moroaica is still upon you, even if you wish it were not. Think upon that.” 
    He turned to go, the cloak swirling around him.
    “Wait,” said Caina. “Annarah’s Sanctuary. It is in the Inferno?”
    Samnirdamnus nodded. 
    “Can we bring her out again?” said Caina.
    “You can,” said Samnirdamnus. “If you are clever enough. Yet the Inferno is filled with the bones of those like you, those who tried to escape from it and failed. You are either the one I have sought…or your bones shall gather dust in the Inferno.”
    The dream dissolved around Caina, and she knew no more.
     
    ###
     
    Caina awoke to sunlight in her eyes and a throbbing headache in her temples, her mouth dry and papery. She winced, took a deep breath, and sat up with a groan.
    “Gods,” she muttered. “I cannot hold my liquor.” 
    Caina drank half the carafe of water she kept near the bed and started to prepare. She had a busy day ahead of her, and it didn’t matter if she had a headache or not. She washed herself and then dressed in a blue dress, sandals, a leather belt, and a blue headscarf. Her hair was still too short to do anything with it, but since most Istarish women covered their hair with a headscarf, that was just as well. The ghostsilver dagger she had stolen from Callatas’s library went on her belt, and she concealed throwing knives up the loose sleeves of her dress. 
    She hesitated, and then drew out two more items from beneath the cot.
    The first was a small leather pouch lined with lead foil. Inside rested three small, thumb-sized crystalline vials containing Elixir Restorata. Callatas had made the Elixir in his laboratory, and it had the power to heal any wound taken within the last year and day. Caina could not use them herself. Thanks to the injuries she had taken from sorcerous attacks, the Elixir reacted violently to her presence, drawing in too much power and destabilizing. If she drank one of the vials of Elixir, the resultant release of power would likely kill her and anyone for fifty yards in any direction. 
    It was something to remember in case Caina’s enemies ever surrounded her without chance of escape. 
    She hooked the pouch to her belt and lifted a sheathed sword. It was shaped like a classic Anshani falchion, though most falchions did not have a double-edged blade. The weapon was lighter than a sword of its size should have been, and Caina felt a faint thrum beneath her fingers, a legacy of the mighty spells wrapped around the blade. The sword was a valikon, a weapon forged by loremasters of ancient Iramis. Wrought of ghostsilver, the sword could penetrate any warding spell, and the wards upon it could destroy