Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  Ramirus chuckled. “The Magisters will keep to the sidelines anyway. You know that. Men cannot fight against a common enemy when they are more interested in fighting each other.”

  “But now we have an alliance,” Colivar reminded him. A faint smirk attended the word.

  “Ah. Yes.” Ramirus smiled dryly. “We shall see how much that accomplishes.”

  “You think Lazaroth really believes in it?”

  “I think Lazaroth wants to know where Siderea Aminestas is, and everything else he said was merely to distract us. Why he would care so much about her is a question for another day. However, even an imperfect alliance can prove useful. War is indisputably on the horizon, and having us each do reconnaissance separately is a waste of time and resources. Now, how much information will be shared between us . . . that is another matter.” His cold gaze fixed on Colivar. “But you know that, of course.”

  “I have provided a good deal of information already,” he pointed out.

  “Yes,” Ramirus’ blue eyes glittered in the moonlight. “And when I get home I shall work on figuring out which parts of it were true, and which were no more than artful diversions.”

  Colivar hesitated. For a moment he seemed to be considering how much to say. At last he offered, “Here is a bit of truth for you. I will be severing my ties to Anshasa.”

  Ramirus’ smile faded. Colivar knew him well enough to catch the sudden spark of interest in his eyes and to feel the cold touch of his power as it probed his defenses, seeking even the faintest hint of his true motivation. But Colivar had woven multiple layers of sorcery about himself to ward off just such an inquiry. Some subjects were significant enough that they merited powerful protection. “You think this matters to me. Why?”

  “You and I have served warring monarchs for a generation. It’s been good sport, Ramirus. But I don’t think Salvator hungers for power the way his father did. Which means that King Farah no longer needs to worry about Aurelius aggression . . . or yours. A lesser Magister can take care of his needs now, so I am free to focus on more important things.” His black eyes narrowed as he studied Ramirus intently, aggressively casting out nets of sorcery to pick up any stray trace of emotion that might slip past that flawless mask. No doubt his old rival sensed the effort, though his expression revealed nothing. “So you see, one long-standing barrier between us will soon be removed.”

  For a moment Ramirus just stared at him. No doubt he could sense the sorcerous tendrils Colivar was using to prod at his soul, seeking more information on the subject. “I think you mistake me,” he said at last. All emotion had been deliberately stripped from his voice; and his expression was unreadable as stone. “I have no contract with the High King. So your political machinations are . . . irrelevant.”

  And then, without further word, he turned and walked back the way he had come, commanding the iron-bound door to open for him as he approached, then closing it behind him as he passed into the castle. He spared no parting word for Colivar, or even a parting glance.

  Colivar chuckled softly. He was not surprised by his abrupt exit. Clearly Ramirus had been less than certain he could mask his emotions on the level required to fend off Colivar’s sorcery. He’d wanted to get out of range before some stray wisp of emotion could be captured and analyzed. That was fine with Colivar. That Ramirus had sensed his inquiry in the first place, and knew how much Colivar wanted information pertaining to his contract with House Aurelius, was really all that mattered. Now Ramirus would deduce that the first part of their conversation had been meaningless small talk, designed to put him off his guard. What Colivar had really wanted to know, he would tell himself, was which Magister was allied to the High King; all the rest had been a distraction. Colivar had already given himself away with his protective spells, wrapping them so tightly around his own thoughts when discussing the Aurelius situation that it was clear that was his true interest.

  Lies within lies within lies. Ramirus would spend the next few hours teasing the threads of the exchange apart, trying to determine which words had really mattered, versus which ones had been intended just to throw him off the scent. Did Colivar care more about learning who Salvator’s Magister Royal really was, or about Anshasa’s political standing in general? Colivar had layered his every word with sorcery, suppressing all hints of genuine emotion, so that Ramirus would have to fall back upon the mundane sorts of clues that came from a man’s tone of voice, his expression, his posture . . . and of course, the knowledge that a Magister only guarded his privacy that fiercely when there were secrets he needed to protect.

  Meanwhile, the one piece of information that Colivar had really cared about—the reason he’d invited Ramirus here to talk to him in the first place—would be categorized as trivial misdirection and disregarded.

  Which had been the plan all along, of course.

  He does not know what Kamala is.

  Ramirus had clearly not made the connection yet between the woman who’d helped them in Alkali and the one who had killed Magister Raven in Gansang. Which meant that Colivar’s earlier speculation that Raven’s murderer might have been a Magister was not something Ramirus yet connected to Kamala. He had all the puzzle pieces regarding her, as Colivar did, but he did not yet know how to assemble them.

  Which left Colivar free to do as he pleased with Kamala . . . at least for now.

  Satisfied, the Magister shapeshifted at last into his preferred form—an oversized red-tailed hawk—and headed off toward the west, to where a particular tree awaited his attention.

  Chapter 5

  H

  IGH, HIGH over the tower Kamala flies, and she circles overhead anxiously as Rhys and his warriors make a rapid exit from the narrow structure. They are squeezing out through the jagged windows, battered by wind as they cling to the rock surface of the monument, digging their fingers into every crack and crevice available. Each one tries to make way for the next as quickly as possible, so they can all reach a place of safety. But they are not fast enough. Not fast enough! Kamala’s bird-heart pounds wildly in her chest as she watches them, knowing that Anukyat’s guards are even now coming down the very staircase these men were just ascending, inside the tower. It was her warning that had rippled through their ranks and sent them racing for the exits, with only moments to spare. But would that give them enough time to save themselves?

  Rhys is outside the tower now, his blond hair whipping in the wind as he embraces one of the long vertical columns. Gripping the rock with white-knuckled hands, he struggles to move to the side without losing his balance. Behind him, the remaining guards wait for him to make enough room for them to join him outside. There is so little time left . . . .

  But they would have had no time at all if not for Kamala’s warning. Anukyat’s men would have surprised them from above, trapping Rhys and his allies between them and the forces waiting below. This way, thanks to her, at least the men have a chance. If they can all get outside in time and move out of the guards’ line of sight, they can wait until Anukyat’s men descend the staircase, then reenter. After which they can proceed to their objective in the uppermost chamber as if this interruption never happened.

  She looks out over the acres of wilderness surrounding the Citadel, and she sees something coming.

  It is far in the distance at first, but moving rapidly closer. A group of black specks silhouetted against the horizon, arrayed like a flock of birds. The sight of them sends raw fear surging through her heart as she realizes what they must be. No! she thinks. Not Souleaters! Not now!

  How many of them there are! Numbers beyond counting, their dark jeweled wings sucking in the sunlight as they approach. Already she can feel the first touch of their power upon her mind, and she lets out a shriek of warning to alert Rhys and his men to the danger. Yes, the guards inside the tower might come to the windows to investigate the cause of such commotion, but that can’t be helped. Rhys’ men are wholly focused upon the rock face they are clinging to, and if she doesn’t warn th
em, they will not look up to see the danger coming until it is too late.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, the Souleaters are sweeping overhead, their wings stirring up fierce whirlwinds that batter the men, threatening to shake them loose from their precarious perches. The maleficent power of the creatures begins to dull their minds, making it hard to think clearly. One of Rhys’ men loses his grip on the monument. His fingers slide out of their anchoring crevices as his legs begin to fold under him, and then he falls. Another follows. Not because they lack the strength to hold on but because they lose the will to do so. The horrific power of the Souleaters devours their very sense of self-preservation, and they do not even have the will to panic as they fall to the rocky ground so far below, but plummet silently, their spirits already defeated.

  Kamala watches helplessly as they die, cursing herself for her own insufficiency. She should have known the Souleaters were coming! She would have if she had intercepted Anukyat’s message rather than remaining by the tower to watch over these men. It was her fault they were dying now. Her judgment had brought them down.

  Her scream of anguish resonates across the landscape, even as Rhys loses his grip upon the tower and begins to fall—

  Kamala sat up in bed suddenly, blinking against the darkness as her eyes adapted to the real world once more. The ancient ruin that she had outfitted as a temporary shelter loomed up black against a dilute sky, while insects chirruped restlessly in the distance, heralding the dawn. Morning was coming and with it another restless day . . . and memories.

  Gods, how she hated the Souleaters! The feeling was deeply personal, an intimate rage that mere time and distance could not ameliorate. But it was the Guardians’ duty to deal with that vile species, not hers. All she had to do was stay out of their way until their task was completed, she told herself. It was the logical thing to do. It satisfied all the survival instincts she had honed during her childhood, that had enabled her to make it to adulthood.

  But as much as she knew that cowardice was the only sensible course, it burned her to contemplate it. She hated the jewel-winged creatures with an all-consuming passion, unlike anything she had ever felt before. Hated them not just for killing Rhys but for making her feel guilty over his death. She’d thought herself immune to such emotions and it was deeply disturbing to feel it take root within her now, spreading like a gangrenous infection throughout her psyche. It made her want to take the foul creatures in her naked hands and tear them limb from limb, then bathe herself in their blood until the guilt was finally washed away. Scarlet cleansing, hot and comforting.

  This isn’t your war, she told herself sternly. Stay out of it.

  But it had been Rhys’ war, and try as she might, she could not forget him. Nor could she banish from her mind the bittersweet taste of his purpose, a commitment to something so much more important than a single man’s life that he had been willing to die for it. What an alien and terrible concept that was. She hungered to understand it better. She feared what might happen to her if she did.

  With a muttered curse she rose from her sleeping place, the final cool breeze of the night flowing across her skin, drying her dream-sweat. A casual gesture summoned pale blue flame over her left shoulder, offering just enough light to read by. A few tiny insects rushed over to inspect it, flitting about her head in delight as she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket.

  Holding it up to the light, she read once more the handful of words scribed neatly upon it.

  I have information you may find useful. Meet me the first day of the coming great month at noon if you are interested.

  There was no signature, of course, but none was needed. The words she had shared with Colivar after Rhys’ funeral had been wrapped in sorcery, so that no one else would hear their arrangements. Not one else would write a note like this, or know where to leave it so that she would find it.

  Give me a way to contact you, he had pressed her, when the lengthy funeral ritual had ended, and the embers of Rhys’ pyre were surrendering their final heat.

  Maybe she should not have answered him at all. Maybe it would have been safer for her if she had just walked away and faded into the shadows of the evening, hoping to be forgotten. But that had been a strange night, filled with alien and unnerving emotions. So she had suggested a place where he might leave a message for her, a secret drop point that only the two of them would know about. It had seemed a reasonable idea at the time. Later, of course, she realized just how foolish it was. There was no way she could check the drop point for messages without leaving a sorcerous trail that others could trace back to her. But curiosity had proven too much for her in the end, and so she had sent out wary whispers of power to the place now and again, peeking into the hollow of a particular oak tree, searching for any note he might have left her.

  And now she had this one in her hand, hinting at secrets, offering to share them. Was it a genuine offer, or just bait for a trap? Not until she met with Colivar would she know for certain.

  He knows that I killed a Magister, she thought soberly. A chill ran up her spine as she remembered the scarf he had offered her outside Danton’s palace, a relic of her Gansang adventure. The fact that she’d denied ownership of it clearly had not fooled him. If he revealed her identity to the other Magisters, there would be nowhere safe on earth for her to hide. The Law of the Magisters demanded that any sorcerer who killed another be put to death for it,

  But that had happened more than a great month ago. And apparently he hadn’t told anyone about her yet.

  Why?

  He is a Magister, she told herself. He wants the same thing every Magister wants . . . mysteries to explore, games to play, powerful lives to manipulate . . . anything to stave off the ennui of the centuries.

  Was that what this was really all about? Was she merely his current amusement, and when her secrets had been cataloged and her mysteries resolved, he would turn her over to the others of his kind for justice? Or was there something more that he wanted from her?

  For a long time she stood still in the darkness, considering. A pale light began to spread upward from the eastern horizon while she did so, backlighting the ruined towers surrounding her. A lone owl made one last circling pass overhead, then headed off toward its diurnal shelter. Songbirds began to stir in its wake.

  Finally, silently, she refolded the note and tucked it into her sleeve. Then she took on wings of her own and headed off to their rendezvous point.

  The drop point she had suggested was located in the mountain range just east of Ulran, inside a bowl-shaped depression that some natural (or unnatural) force had scooped out of a steep ridge. She had discovered the place while practicing her transformational skills for Ethanus, and she had spent many an afternoon swooping and soaring over the sheltered green fields within it. No one could reach the spot who did not have wings to carry him there—or sorcery to transport him—and so it had seemed an ideal place for clandestine messages to be left, tucked into the cleft of a tree that had been split by lightning long ago.

  She approached the place in bird form, weaving back and forth across the crest of the ridge in seemingly random patterns to disguise the purpose of her flight, straining her sorcerous senses to their utmost limits to detect any possible threat. She used her Sight as well. It was something she rarely did these days, as sorcery was far more powerful, but sometimes her rare inborn ability to see supernatural forces at work could slip through the cracks of a Magister’s defenses. It was a morati gift, after all, and as such it was beneath their arrogant notice.

  But neither sorcery nor Sight uncovered any sign of power being directed at her, and so, encouraged but still wary, she headed toward the drop point itself. Her sharp bird-vision could pick out details as she approached, including a tiny white patch on the meadow grass that was too perfectly square to be natural. She approached cautiously, using her sorcery to bring its details into focus as she flew, and she could make out the form of a person on some kind of white blanket, surr
ounded by small objects.

  She circled the area a few times, then finally came to ground behind a small stand of trees, just out of sight. There she reclaimed her human form and for a moment just stood there, gathering her breath and her courage. Finally, having adopted what she hoped would resemble a confident demeanor, she stepped out from behind her cover as if she were headed to nothing more significant than a noontime rendezvous with a friend.

  Colivar reclined upon a white linen cloth, propped up on one elbow as he casually leafed through the pages of a small illuminated book. He was dressed in finely made garments of black silk and leather, elegant but without any hint of power about them. With the sun shining down upon the pages of the book and the breeze softly stirring his long, black hair, he looked for all the world like some prosperous young lord relaxing within the familiar confines of his own estate.

  And then he looked up and his eyes met hers, and for a moment—just a moment—she thought she could sense the vast, dark power behind them. Everything she saw before her was merely an illusion, she realized, crafted for her benefit; his true soul was a shadowy and twisted thing that none would ever ever be allowed to see.

  He is more dangerous than all the others, Ethanus had warned her. Not because his power is so great—though it is—but because his soul is obscured by so many shadows that I am not sure even he knows what the truth is any more.

  Upon seeing her approach, he closed his book and sat upright. “Kamala. So glad you could join me. Please.” He indicated the open space opposite him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  On the cloth were ornate silver trays laid out with fresh fruit, exotic cheeses, and an assortment of candied delicacies. The smell of honey and syrup was strong, and at the edge of the cloth she could see ants milling back and forth, seeking some way to get past the sorcery that was holding them at bay. There was also a covered basket with the neck of a wine bottle peeking out, its amber glass beaded with cold sweat. Colivar removed the bottle from its wrappings with a flourish as she sat down warily, and made a show of presenting it to her. There was some kind of vintner’s mark burned into the cork, but she didn’t have a clue what it meant. She hesitated, wondering if this was really the sort of game she wanted to be playing right now, but she was far too curious to back out at this point, so she simply nodded.