If she could somehow get them to assist her—would that help? Did they know where Siderea Aminestas was? Were they trying to tell her that? Or was this about something else entirely?
With a sigh she rose to her feet. Body and soul both ached from the long hours of futile concentration. There must be a better way, she thought.
Conjuring an apple, biting deeply into its cool flesh, she gazed about the polished wooden floor and the maps that she had etched into its surface. This was the first time she had ever conjured a shelter for herself rather than claimed a structure that already existed, and if the results were somewhat bare in decor, at least it had the facilities she required. Her meditation chamber was vast, and the maps etched into its polished wooden floor all radiated out from the center of the room, as if that were the actual center of the world. Each section had been copied from some morati map, adjusted in scale and then burned into the wood with sorcery, exactly as it appeared on the original parchment. The overall result was a discordant creation, its style shifting from panel to panel, mountain ranges transforming from the hurried scratch-marks of a traveling scribe to the rich, sweeping strokes of a master cartographer as they crossed over unseen boundaries . . . but in its entirety, it effectively represented the world. Or at least as much of the world as humans had explored.
The arrangement helped her concentrate, but it did little more than that. Thus far Siderea Aminestas had defied all detection. Mere sorcery could not locate the woman. Not even hers.
But she was not willing to accept failure. It had nothing to do with the box of tokens that Colivar had hinted at, though that was certainly enticing. It had to do with pride.
Think, Kamala. Think. There must be a way.
For the hundredth time, she reviewed what she had learned about the power of the ikati, when they’d all been briefed in Kierdwyn. Their power can draw human attention toward them, or turn it away. Few ikati can manage the trick well enough to be truly invisible, but when men are distracted, they might as well be. Legends speak of human wars in which the ikati appeared suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, to feast upon the dying. It is hard to know how much that reflects their mesmeric power, since generally in the midst of battle no one stops to study the sky.
A new thought flickered briefly in the back of her head but was gone too quickly for her to attach a name to it.
If this queen can hide herself from others of her kind, she thought, then that’s probably the kind of power she’s using. Not true invisibility, but rather, an ability to make her subject look somewhere else, at something else instead.
A shiver of excitement ran through Kamala. And also dread. The thought that was taking shape in her mind had potential, but the amount of work that would be required to test it was almost too vast to imagine. A morati lifetime might not be enough for it.
Looking down at the floor surrounding her, she contemplated its scale. Tiny lines represented wide, raging rivers. A line of loosely drawn mountain peaks might represent an entire range. The whole of the territory that she had explored in her years with Ethanus took up no more space than the palm of her hand . . . if that much.
Somewhere in that vast world there would be a place she could not investigate. A place she would not investigate.
It would likely be very small. Maybe only the size of a nesting site. Invisible from a distance, just as the actual nest would be. If one were close enough to be affected by its power, could one somehow detect that effect? That would be a much larger range.
If one’s viewpoint were close enough, would that suffice?
With a shaky breath, she considered the world map laid out before her.
I cannot search every inch of it, she thought.
But the ikati did not live everywhere. They preferred stark mountains for their nesting sits. They required a source of water somewhere near open ground, so that their vast wingstroke would not be impeded when they came to drink. And since they now fed exclusively on human beings, they would want to be near a population center of some kind. During the First Age of Kings they had been drawn to the great human cities like flies to honey.
She ran her eyes down the edges of the mountain ranges, pausing at each lake, each river coursing through an open plain. (But at this scale, how many smaller ones might she miss?) She used her sorcery to determine where human habitations were clustered. (But how many morati must be in one place for a Souleater’s hunger to be satisfied?) She tried to figure out what kind of climate the creatures would prefer. (Would they flee as far south as they could, to escape the curse that once bound them, or would they stay in the north right now, where the summer days were longest? If the latter, then how far from the Wrath would they need to be to feel safe?)
Slowly, inch by inch, she edited the map with her sorcery. Erasing any locations that could not possibly meet her criteria. Sometimes that meant a whole mountain range had to go. Sometimes just a single canyon.
When she was done, she stared down at the map in silence, contemplating her results.
Well. That leaves only half the world to search. Much better.
But daunting though the undertaking was, she knew she had to try. There simply was no better option. And besides, what else was she going to do with her time? Twiddle her thumbs creating palaces on mountaintops, like some of the Magisters apparently did? This task at least had real meaning.
—And for one heart-wrenching moment she was back at Rhys’ funeral, looking down at his body. Remembering the emptiness of that moment, and the cold kiss of envy she had felt then.
Now I, too, have purpose.
She wrote to Colivar before she began. A simple note, which sorcery deposited at their secret drop point. Tell me all that you know of the sort of terrain that Souleaters prefer, she wrote. Do not try to guess at what details will be relevant, but tell me everything. Favias had briefed them in Kierdwyn, but she doubted that he knew as much as Colivar did about the ikati’s true habits. She was beginning to doubt that anyone knew as much about the Souleaters as Colivar did.
But his response might take days to come, if it came at all. There was no point in wasting all that time. Settling herself down in the center of the vast map, conjuring a pillow to rest her head on and a small bit of food and water to have by her side, she shut her eyes, sighed deeply, and extended her sorcerous senses out into the world, to begin the impossible search.
Chapter 10
T
HE DESERT region on the room-sized map was represented by a gleaming field of diamonds, each one faceted to perfection. To the east of the desert, past a wide ridge of black onyx mountains, a narrow band of emeralds appeared, the fertile shoreline of the great southern River of Life. Smooth chrysocolla tiles represented its waters. To the north of the desert, diamond sands gave way to a city sculpted out of gold and silver, whose soaring monuments were now edged in fire from the late afternoon sunlight trickling into the room. The chrysocolla river wound through the vast map, progressing in tight serpentine loops, with gleaming cities at every turn. And then there was the lapis Sea of Tears, beyond which every northern nation had been assigned its own semiprecious stone. Amethyst for Sankara, topaz for Sendal, blue chalcedony for Corialanus. The High Kingdom was laid out in jasper, each vassal state a different variety of the stone. An observant spectator might note that the surface of that particular nation was smooth, its mountains represented by bands of flat black stone, the whole of it polished to a slippery gloss. A savvy spectator might make note of the fact that such a surface was much easier to move military markers across.
Right now the crystal markers of Anshasa’s armies were clustered about that nation’s capital city or ranged along the shoreline nearby just to the north: small faceted obelisks to represent hundreds of men, large ones to represent thousands. There was a cluster of troop crystals up north as well, across the base of the isthmus of Tathys . . . the one land route that gave access to the High Kingdom’s territories. Was that a defensive formation, or did it indicate an a
ggressive campaign in the planning stages? As Colivar looked down at it, he could not tell from the positioning.
In a world without Magisters, such a map would have been priceless. But in a world where powerful sorcery was regularly harnessed to serve the whims of kings, it was merely indulgent.
His Most Merciful Majesty Hasim Farah, Scourge of the Tethys, Guardian of the River of Life, Custodian of the Sacred City, looked up from his musings when he heard his Magister enter. A faint, dry smile spread across his face as he blinked. “Colivar, isn’t it? I knew someone by that name once. I think. Over time one forgets.”
Colivar chuckled. “I beg your indulgence for my long absence.” He bowed his head respectfully. “Of, course, his Majesty always has the means to summon me should he require my service. Unless he has forgotten that as well.”
“Yes, yes.” Farah waved a ringed hand absently. “You are free to go about as you please, of course. I merely jest.” He clapped his hands loudly, and a eunuch in white silk appeared, seemingly from nowhere. “Refreshment for my Magister Royal.” The man bowed and hurried off.
Colivar was too distracted to be hungry, but he had learned long ago that there was no point in turning down Farah’s hospitality. The king was a son of the desert, and his native culture made such gestures obligatory. It was easier to break bread and eat a handful of olives than it was to argue about whether such things were necessary.
“Come.” Farah walked over to Colivar, patting him on the back as he gestured for him to walk alongside him. Colivar had known very few men who would touch a Magister so casually. “You keep the rains falling, so that my storehouses are full of grain. My wives are fecund, my slaves are eager for pleasure, and the Green Vomit—or whatever that miserable plague is called—has never crossed my borders. What more could a king ask for?”
Colivar glanced back at the map. “It looks to me like you have a few new projects planned.”
“Ah.” Farah followed his gaze to the military markers in Tethys, and to the jasper expanses beyond them. “Tempting, isn’t it? A new High King, young and untested. Mistrustful of Magisters, I’m told, and shackled by a religion of guilt and self-denial. Thus far I’ve restricted myself to gathering intelligence on him, and perhaps a few subtle political jabs managed through proxies, but I admit that the prospect of all-out war is appealing. We haven’t fought the High Kingdom in an honest and open manner for many years.”
“Don’t underestimate Salvator Aurelius,” Colivar warned. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“Of course. His mother would not have summoned him to the throne were it otherwise.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. A woman determining who would be High King! I’m torn between being amazed that such a thing could happen and wanting to see such a woman for myself.”
Colivar smiled. “Only see her, Majesty?”
The Anshasan king laughed long and hard. The sound was rich with energy and power, and it reverberated off the stone walls like the pealing of a great bell. “You know me too well, my Magister. Come. Break bread with me.”
He led Colivar to a lavish chamber, where servants were already laying out the ritual repast. Richly woven rugs and cushions lay scattered about the floor, and the heavy drapes that covered the smooth stone walls suggested the folds of a tent. Colivar was never quite sure if Farah actually preferred that style, or merely understood the value of nurturing a desert mystique among his subjects. The fierce tribes of the south were the stuff of legend, all the more so because few Anshasans had ever actually seen one of their warriors in the flesh. By playing up his desert heritage, Farah became part of that legend. The result lent him strength in diplomatic circles and discouraged aggressive posturing by his rivals; one did not pick a fight with a desert chieftain unless one had a sword in hand and was ready to fight to the death.
As Farah settled down onto a pile of richly embroidered cushions, his long robe billowing out around him, he was joined by half a dozen women in various stages of dishabille. Each was from a different province of his empire, and they ranged in color from a young beauty with the bronze finish of the sun-kissed delta to a leggy seductress with skin as black as charcoal. All of them were exquisitely beautiful, of course, and dressed in a combination of glittering jewels and filmy silks that left little to the imagination. That, too, was desert custom, a statement of power that no Anshasan would mistake: Covet what is mine, but know that you may not touch it, save by my command.
Not that Farah would deny Colivar any woman he wanted, of course. In fact, as the Magister settled himself onto his own pile of cushions, the southern king waved over Safya, one of his favorites, to attend him. Lending one’s wife or servant to a valued servitor was a desert custom as casual as breaking bread, and Safya had pleased the Magister in the past. On this day, however, he had little interest in such pastimes.
The eunuch arrived and set out a tray of bread and olives between them; the dense loaf was freshly baked, still warm from the oven, and its scent filled the chamber like a fine perfume. Farah broke off a piece of it for himself and then passed the loaf to Colivar, who did the same. Not until they had both eaten a token mouthful of the stuff and washed it down with a ritual swallow of ale did Farah speak again.
“You’re got some weighty business on your mind, or else I’ve forgotten how to read you.“
Colivar bowed his head solemnly. “Your Majesty is insightful, as always.”
“Something to do with these Souleaters you’ve been hunting?”
Colivar’s expression darkened. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Something to do with them.”
For a moment the Magister just stared into his cup and said nothing. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I regret that I must leave your service.”
Farah drew in a sharp breath. “Have I not treated you well? Do the size and scope of my kingdom not bestow status upon you, such as benefits you in the rivalries among your own kind? You said once that such things mattered to you.”
“Indeed, our contract has been a satisfying one. I am sorry to leave you.”
Farah sat back, a perplexed scowl upon his face. Losing the service of a Magister of Colivar’s repute was no small thing, especially with possible warfare looming in the north. “Anything that you desire, if I can give it to you, you know that I will. Even the best of my wives.” He waved a hand about the room, a gesture that encompassed the women by his side, the rich trappings that surrounded them, and the whole of the vast kingdom that lay beyond. “Have I ever denied you anything?”
“You’ve been most generous,” Colivar agreed. “Believe me when I say this, I regret this move with all my heart.”
Farah exhaled noisily in frustration. “Then what’s the problem? Does it have something to do with this investigation of yours?”
Lips tight, Colivar nodded.
“You know you’re free to come and go as you please. That was our arrangement from the start. I’ve never placed limits upon you. If you need more time to yourself, well then, take it.”
Colivar nodded. “It’s been a good arrangement. And up to this point, it was sufficient for my needs. But now . . . .” He sighed heavily. “The Souleaters have invaded in force, and we don’t know where they are. They have to be found—and dealt with—before they have a chance to establish new nests. Otherwise, the war will be lost before it has even begun.”
Farah frowned. “And my kingdom can’t serve you as a base of operations? There are few nations that could offer you better facilities, I think. If you need a staging ground for war . . . .”
“Majesty.” Colivar’s expression was tight. “Forgive me. It has come to the point where I must focus all my attention on one task, and I need to make sure nothing is going to distract me. Not even a contract as pleasant as this one.” He glanced at Safya with a half-smile; she blushed prettily.
With a heavy sigh, Farah settled back into his cushions. A copper-skinned beauty raised an olive to his lips and he accepted it absently, chewing without pleasur
e as he contemplated the situation.
“I will need to replace you,” he said at last. “That is no easy thing.”
Colivar nodded. He’d been with Farah since the man’s first days on the throne, drawn to the challenge of helping a young prince build an empire. Farah had never experienced the need to search for a Magister Royal, or lived through an interim period without one.
There would be no danger to him during such an interim, of course. The kingdoms of the world would not last long if sorcerous vultures moved in the minute a Magister walked away from his job. All of the sorcerers understood that, and they would give Farah a reasonable period of time to seek a new contract, just as they had done with Danton. A powerful nation like Anshasa would have applicants appearing out of the woodwork the instant Colivar’s resignation became public knowledge, so there would be no lack of options for him.
But the secrecy with which the Magisters habitually shrouded their business meant that a morati king had little ability to evaluate candidates. Most morati knew less about the predilections of individual Magisters than they did about clouds in the sky. Farah had been fortunate in his deal with Colivar, and he knew it; he might not be so fortunate again.
This has been a good situation for me, too. Colivar thought solemnly. I will miss it. “If you will permit me, Majesty, I have a suggestion.”
Farah raised an eyebrow.
“I know of a Magister who is without a contract right now. I believe he might be interested in serving Anshasa. If you like, I will let him know that you have a contract to offer.”
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