A strange look passed over her face. A kind of fleeting sadness. “Nevertheless, I am grateful.”
The servant finished gathering up the maps and writing implements from his Karmandi meeting and eased silently out the door. Salvator waited until he heard the snick of the latch closing before he said, “Clearly you have something on your mind, Mother. Speak freely. You know you have my ear.”
She smiled slightly. “It always was hard to hide things from you.”
He returned the half-smile. “My royal parents trained me well.”
For a moment she looked down at her hands. So slender. So delicate. The fingernails she’d broken off during her Alkali climb had grown back, and the bruises from that adventure had long since faded. Since her return from Kierdwyn she had even put aside her mourning dress, and now there was no visible hint about her of the terrible trials she’d endured recently, or the beloved half-brother—and unborn child—that Alkali had stolen from her.
“I want to return to Kierdwyn,” she said.
He nodded. “I would prefer you not use sorcery to travel there, but other than that, I have no issue with it.”
“I do not mean to visit, Salvator.” The gray eyes fixed on him. What sadness there was in their depths! “I’ve been invited to study with the Guardians.”
For a moment he could find no response. All his royal intelligence had not warned him about this move. “To do . . . what? Join their Order?”
“Perhaps. It’s not yet decided.”
“That is . . . .” He had no words to finish the sentence.
“Unexpected?”
“To say the least.”
“They need me, Salvator.”
“And I don’t?”
Again she smiled slightly. “You may have once, but I don’t think that’s true any longer. I see more of Danton in you each day. Not his temper, not his arrogance, but his insight, his innate authority. The things that made him great. And your vassals can sense it in you, too; I can see that when they leave your audience chamber. Servants no longer whisper questions about how a Penitent monk could possibly have become High King in the first place . . . now they wonder instead how a prince of Danton’s blood could ever have wound up a monk.” She shook her head; her expression was a strange mix of pride and sadness. “You don’t need me any longer, Salvator. Not as you once did.”
“You flatter me,” he said, because such a response was required. The praise should have pleased him, but its taste was bittersweet. It was best for the kingdom that he nurture his royal instincts—he knew that—but he mourned the sacrifice that it required. Would he wake up one day to find himself so like his father that all those years of Penitent devotion would be only a distant memory to him? That would be a loss for all the kingdom, as well as for his own soul.
“And if it happens that some day you do need my counsel,” she added, “the Guardians’ witches can send me back here at a moment’s notice. You know that.”
“And by the same token you could remain here,” he countered, “and my witches could send you to the Guardians whenever you liked. So I don’t really comprehend the request.”
She sighed; the delicate fingers twisted about one another. “Salvator . . . I’ve become a symbol to the Guardians. Not only for my lyr heritage, though that’s certainly part of it. They now think that some of their more cryptic prophecies may make reference to the Throne of Tears . . . and to me.” She drew in a deep breath. “There’s war on the horizon, you know that. A stranger and more terrible war than any living man has seen. If they’re right, I will be on the front lines of that war. I need to prepare for that possibility.”
The full meaning of what she was suggesting took a minute to sink in. “You intend to train as a warrior?”
“Favias has suggested it.”
“That is . . . .” He could not finish the thought.
“Inappropriate, for a queen? A mad enterprise, perhaps?” A corner of her mouth twitched. “There were those who said the same thing about my climbing the Sister, Salvator.”
“Aye. I cursed that enterprise myself, once I learned about it.”
“And probably would have forbidden it, yes?”
He said nothing.
“I have more strength than you know,” she told him. And her eyes warned him: Do not ask after its source. You will not like the answer.
That was yet one more secret that she thought he did not know. How strange it was that she would liken him to Danton in one breath, and forget in the next moment that Salvator’s father had prided himself on knowing everything that was going on around him . . . even the most closely guarded secrets of his kin.
Aye, Mother, I know what Ramirus did to you. I know that your altered muscles can rival the strength of a man’s, and that your reflexes can match that of a seasoned warrior. I also know what the process has cost you. I have seen you stumble on level ground, for not being sure of your own stride. Your flesh is like that of a stranger to you, and you must maneuver it consciously, unlike those of us who still inhabit the same bodies the Creator originally gave us. Thus does He take you to task for what you have done in allowing such a vile power to reshape you.
But training as a warrior would help her with that. The repetitive exercises, the disciplined exertion, all of it was ideal for such a task. Was that why she really wanted to go back to Kierdwyn? To help bring her mind and body back into harmony? If so, she would never admit that to him; it would require confessing too much about her true dealings with Ramirus.
Secrets within secrets within secrets. They made his head spin sometimes.
“I am not averse to your training with the Guardians,” he said at last.
She let out a deep sigh of relief. “So I have your permission to return to Kierdwyn?”
No,” he said quietly. “You do not.”
Her mouth opened for a moment, then closed again, silently.
“There’s no need for you to leave the palace,” he told her, perversely pleased by the look of surprise on her face. “We can bring teachers here. I’ll have Cresel make the arrangements.”
“But, Salvator—”
“Do you feel my people are insufficient to the task?”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Do they know how to call the Souleaters to them? To bring the creatures down from the sky so they can be struck by weapons? Can they teach me where the ikati hide is thinnest, where the blood that runs through their body is closest to the surface, or in what light their eyesight is weakest? Do they know what body parts need to be salvaged when one of them is killed, and in what order they must be cut out of its flesh so that armor and weapons can be made from them? Or why that must be done in the first place?”
“No,” he said quietly. “My people do not know those things.”
“Well.” She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “That is what I need to learn.”
For a long moment he gazed at her in silence. His face betrayed nothing of the maelstrom of thoughts inside his head.
“Send word to Master Favias,” he said at last. “Bid him send me a Guardian who can teach you these things. Or more than one, if necessary. He may send a whole company, if he likes. They are welcome here.”
She exhaled noisily and seemed about to protest. But there was really nothing more she could say. In theory, he had just given her everything she’d asked for. There was no justification for arguing the point any further, even though it was clear from her expression that his answer fell short of what she really wanted.
But there is a reason you can’t go back to Kierdwyn, Mother. I can’t tell you what it is just yet, but trust me, there is one.
“There’s one more issue to consider, if I am to remain here.” she said. A spark of subtle defiance in her voice.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Someone whose counsel I value. Whose counsel I need. Someone who is not welcome in your house.“
He drew in a sharp breath. “Ramirus.”
She nodded.
He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, but said nothing.
“He knows a lot about the ikati,” she told him. “Not because he is a sorcerer but simply because he was alive so long ago, when the legends were fresh. And he is gathering information from the other Magisters as well.” She stiffened defiantly. “I said I would respect your prejudices while I live in this palace, and I normally keep him at a distance, but if I am going to have to do my training here, then that is no longer a viable arrangement.”
He said it quietly, in a voice edged with ice: “You ask to bring a vessel of corruption into my house?”
“Your issue is with his sorcery. That’s not what I need him for.”
“One cannot channel corruption through one’s soul without being tainted by it.”
“And no man is so lost to evil that he cannot seek redemption.” She cocked her head to one side. “Isn’t that what the Penitents teach? I seem to remember reading it in one of your holy books.”
His mouth twitched. “You acknowledge him as evil, then?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I acknowledge that you see him that way.”
“And what is he to you?”
“A scholar, Salvator. A teacher. A man whose steady hand guided this kingdom for decades, and who is responsible for much of its greatness.” She paused. “A man who helped raise you. Making you the man you are today. Or have you forgotten that?”
No, I have not forgotten. But nor am I the same youth who left this palace four years ago in search of enlightenment.
But what she asked was reasonable. He knew that. It was because of his command that she was unable to leave the palace, to go to a place where she might meet freely with Ramirus. He could not deny her this.
The penance would be his to bear.
“Very well,” he said tightly. “But he will not use sorcery when he visits here, or use his power to alter your mind or flesh in any way. If you have need of some magical service, you will ask my witches to provide it. He may transport himself as he pleases—I realize no words of mine can make him do otherwise—but that is all he will use his power for, under my roof. While he is in my palace, he will play the role of a scholar and nothing more.” He paused, watching her closely. “Is that acceptable?”
She bit her lip, then nodded “Yes. Thank you.”
“You think you can get him to agree to that?”
She nodded solemnly. “Aye, Salvator. He will agree.”
“Then it’s settled. Send word to the Guardians of what we’ve agreed, and have them send their teachers to the palace.” He drew in a deep breath. “And when they arrive, I will train by your side. In knowledge, in combat, in all of it. I’ll even learn how to chop up the Souleaters and make soup out of them, if that will be useful.”
“Seriously?”
He stepped forward and took her hands in his own; his expression was solemn. “I have never been more serious, Mother. There is war coming. You were right in that. And while I can’t predict who will or won’t be on the front lines . . . .”
He stopped. There was no way to say any more to her without revealing too much. He wasn’t yet ready to tell her what he suspected.
“We should prepare for the worst,” he said quietly. Just that.
Gratefully, she nodded. And she reached up on tiptoe to kiss him in turn, a barely manageable feat given how he towered over her. She might have the strength of a man in her veins, thanks to Ramirus, but she was still a small and fragile creature in aspect.
Though not in spirit, he thought.
As she took her leave, he lifted the flagon to his lips, sighed, and drank deeply.
I’m sorry I can’t tell you the truth, Mother. Sorry I can’t explain that my visions are stronger when you are near me, their details clearer, their meaning almost within my grasp. Or that when you leave my presence, they fade once more, and I am left with no more than ominous shadows. Only with you nearby do I have any hope of interpreting my dreams, and finding the creature that nests within my kingdom.
Whatever had happened to Gwynofar on the Throne of Tears, she was clearly some kind of catalyst for him now. Would she have the same effect on other members of his family? Perhaps on all the lyr? He dared not ask after that possibility directly. If the Guardians even suspected that such a thing was possible they would steal her away into the northlands, to subsume her into their ranks forever. He could not allow that to happen. Not while there was still a Souleater in his realm, whose location he must discover. And not while he suspected he might have a special immunity to the power of the ikati, which her presence might be enhancing as well.
I need you more than they do right now. He shut his eyes as the warm alcohol seeped into his blood, soothing his spirit. Once the Souleater in the High Kingdom is dead . . . then we can decide where to go from there. Together.
Ramirus was waiting for her by the river. Out of deference to Salvator, Gwynofar had not allowed him to use sorcery to transport her, and of course she would not waste a witch’s life-essence just to save time. So she had simply ridden the distance, with two servants flanking her, and only as she approached the Magister did they fall behind, out of hearing range.
She did not dismount, but sat upon her white mare as it pawed the ground restlessly, looking down at the Magister.
“He said no,” Ramirus said.
She nodded tightly. “Yes.”
“You knew that he would.”
Again she nodded. “Yes.”
It was a warm night. The breeze rippled through her mount’s mane and through the Magister’s long beard. Fine white strands stirred in the wind.
“What else?” he asked her.
“You are welcome in the palace. You may not use sorcery, save for your own transportation, but he will accept your counsel. Or at least . . . he will allow me to accept your counsel. Which is effectively the same thing.”
He nodded. “Then you have what you wanted most.”
She whispered it: “Yes.”
“There are few who would ask me to accept such limitations.”
“There are few who would offer you the chance to be part of a lyr prophecy in return.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “There is that.”
She hesitated. “Do you think that the prophecy is true, Ramirus? That this war can’t be waged without me?”
“Prophecies are strange things, Majesty. Always confusing, often misleading. This one speaks of a woman of power sitting upon a throne of tears. I can think of two women who might satisfy that metaphor. Ironically, given the way things are heading, you may both wind up in the center of things.” He shrugged. “Even if the prophecy were correct, I would be wary of reading too precise a meaning into any given passage. But as a general warning that you should prepare for the worst, and learn everything you can about the enemy while you still have time to do so . . . yes, Majesty. That part is certainly true.”
“Thank you, Ramirus.” She sighed. “Will you stay at the palace, then? Your chambers are the same as when you left them. I allowed no man to touch your things.”
“I would have thought Danton would have set fire to the contents after our parting. Or at least smashed everything in sight.”
“He wanted to.” A soft, sad smile—half nostalgia, half mourning—passed over her face. “I would not allow it.” Her slender finger stroked the thin leather reins. “I always hoped you would come back to us.”
“Well.” He huffed. “To turn you down after that statement would be a veritable act of cruelty.”
She cocked her head to one side. “That is ‘yes,’ then?”
“Aye. That is ‘yes.’ Though I suspect that when Salvator told you I’d be welcome in the palace, he did not think I would actually be moving in. It will be . . . .” A faint, dry smile creased his lips. “. . . . interesting.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t bait him, Ramirus.”
He chuckled. “Asking that of me is like asking a fish not to swim, Maj
esty. But don’t worry. I’ll try not to be the source of too much torment for your Penitent son. Above and beyond what my mere presence mandates, of course.”
He stepped back to give her room, bowing his head slightly in leave-taking. Nodding an acknowledgment of the gesture, she kneed the white mare into motion, turning it back toward the palace. Not until she was out of sight would he draw his power to him, she knew. Not until the shadows of the night had wrapped themselves around him would he meld himself into them, making his exit as silent and secret as the breeze.
Urging her mare into a sudden gallop, she left the flustered servants to pull their horses about and race to catch up as she headed back toward the palace.
Chapter 9
T
HE GODS were watching her.
Kamala could sense them all around her as she stared into the smoke. A circle of gods watching her as she strained her Sight to the utmost, trying to manage by purely morati gifts what she had thus far failed to do with sorcery. Their expressions were impassive, revealing nothing of their purpose, but their presence raised a line of cold goosebumps along her skin.
But even when she was able to shut them out of her awareness enough to focus on her Sight, it was to no avail. Just as sorcery had failed her countless times before, her innate gift failed her now.
With a sigh she sat back on her heels, rubbing her head with weary fingers. Inside the offering bowl a perfumed scarf from Siderea Aminestas’ collection was slowly burning to ash, releasing pungent smoke along with its metaphysical resonance. Morati mystics often used such tools as a focus for their Sight, staring into the patterns of the smoke as they tried to conjure meaning from nothingness. Had she really thought that a bit of scented smoke might make a difference to a Magister? Or was the ritual aspect of it simply comforting?
Shutting her eyes for a moment, she drew in a deep breath of the scented air and tried to center her spirit. Whispers seemed to surround her, soft sounds, like the murmuring of insects. The voices of gods? She could sense them gather around her every time she made an effort to find the Witch-Queen. A dozen unknown deities, two dozen, sometimes as many as a hundred, clothed in garments that ranged from the finest silk to the coarsest hemp, in styles she did not recognize. Sorcery might net her an identification or two, picking out names and aspects from among the crowd—Sekmenit the Bloodthirsty or Utark, Lord of the Dead—but it could not tell her why they were there. The mysterious images just stood by in silence while she searched, offering neither help nor hindrance, then dissipated like the wind soon after her efforts were concluded.
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