Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  Colivar knows more about the Souleaters than any man alive, Ramirus had told Salvator. Secrets within secrets. Ask a Magister to shed light on one of them and you put yourself in his power. Salvator had refused to take the bait.

  At least Ramirus had given his oath not to use his sorcery on Salvator’s behalf. Supposedly Colivar had agreed as well.

  And what if your life is endangered by this Souleater? Ramirus had demanded. Shall I stay my hand even then?

  Yes, Salvator had responded. Staring into the eyes of that ancient unclean soul without hesitation or doubt. I would rather be torn to pieces by a Souleater than submit to your sorcery.

  No doubt both Magisters thought him a fool for that. A shortsighted religious fool who would put his own life at risk for the sake of a whimsical and outdated prejudice. But if so, then they did not understand the nature of his faith, or the spiritual value of religious martyrdom. If he, the High King, chose death over corruption, might not others come to question their casual acceptance of sorcery? If his death inspired men to throw off the shackles of the Magisters and turn their eyes to their Creator instead, would not his duty on earth have been well served? Would not his life have been well lived and properly ended?

  Gwynofar seemed to understood that much. She mourned his dedication to such a path, but she understood the passion that drove him, and seemed to respect it.

  A gentle but respectful touch on his arm urged the High King to move forward; others needed room to follow him. Salvator nodded and moved off to one side. Half a dozen Guardians emerged from the shimmering portal behind him, led by Favias himself. Then came a small contingent of royal bodyguards—God forbid the High King should ever go anywhere without them!—and behind them, flanked by two of her personal guards, the Queen Mother.

  How like some barbarian goddess she appeared in that moment, as she stepped through the witch’s portal! The royal armorer had crafted a fitted steel breastplate especially for her, investing the best of his art into the effort. The upraised wings of the Aurelius hawk curled gracefully about Gwynofar’s breasts in damascened glory; and her golden hair flowed down over her shoulders like a brilliant waterfall, spilling out from beneath the matching half-helm. All her years seemed to fall away from her in that moment, along with all her ties to the mortal world. She seemed the living embodiment of the Maiden Warrior: pure, eternal, unconquerable. The embodiment of myth, sent to earth to inspire men. Was this how Danton had seen her?

  Then the witches who had conjured the portal stepped through it themselves, and the spell collapsed behind them.

  Penitent custom required that he kneel before the witches and thank them for the sacrifice they had just made. Royal custom required that he avoid any act of submission while in the presence of . . . well, anyone. He settled for a solemn nod of respect, and he knew from their expression that they understood what it represented. Never before had there been a Penitent king, so there were no precedents to guide them.

  “Your Majesty.”

  The leader of the local delegation stepped forward; the look of guarded embarrassment on his face confirmed Salvator’s guess that Lord Cadern was not going to be showing up anytime soon. The man bowed deeply. “We are humbled and honored by your visit. If his Lordship had realized you would be coming in person . . . .”

  Salvator waved off the apology. “Too much ceremony would only have delayed our business.” He looked toward the horses, now made restless by the sudden arrival of so many strangers. “These are for my people?”

  “Yes, Majesty.” The man bowed again. “His Lordship has provided a local guide as well, as requested.” He waved forward a man who had been standing to the side of the local retinue, a tall, wiry northerner dressed in the coarse woolen garments of a trapper. “This is Herzog. He knows the region better than anyone else.”

  “Your Majesty.” Herzog knelt ungracefully before Salvator, clearly uncomfortable with all the fuss. Judging from his personal hygiene, he was rarely in the presence of civilized men, much less men of rank. “I am at you service.” For a moment he looked as if he expected to be given a ring to kiss, but of course Salvator offered none. Acts of reverence should be reserved for the Creator.

  “We are glad for your service, Herzog. You know the place we’re looking for?”

  “Aye.” He rose to his feet. “It’s near one of the landmarks trappers use, though lately no one seems much interested in that stretch of woods.”

  Salvator felt his gut tighten at what was surely a confirmation of their worst fears. If a female Souleater was in the area, then humans would naturally turn away from the place and come up with their own reasons for doing so. At least that’s how it had been explained to him.

  It seemed to Salvator that he could sense her in the distance. She was too far away for him to detect with his human senses, but on some deep, visceral level, he simply knew she was there. And he sensed, with chill certainty, that she was aware of his presence.

  Trying to still the pounding of his heart, Salvator waved his people toward the waiting horses. One particularly fine animal, a pure white mare, broke free of the herd and went galloping across the plateau to where Ramirus stood. The Magister’s robe transformed itself as he mounted, dividing neatly up the center so that its two halves could settle smoothly over the animal’s flanks. By contrast, Colivar simply walked over to where the horses stood, separated out a dappled gray mount by hand, and vaulted up into the saddle. That such a prosaic action was probably meant as a gesture of respect to Salvator was not lost on the High King. Nor was the fact that the primary purpose of the gesture was probably to show up Ramirus.

  By the Creator’s mercy, I am glad I do not have to deal with these vile creatures on a daily basis.

  Two servants were ready to help Gwynofar up to her saddle, but she waved them back and mounted the high-shouldered animal without assistance, bearing the weight of the steel armor as effortlessly as if it were a length of gossamer silk. The Guardians were not surprised to witness such strength in her, but Salvator’s guards were apparently behind on their gossip, and several stood there with their mouths hanging open. Of such moments are legends born, the High King thought dryly, as he waved away a guard whose hands were cupped low to receive the royal foot. Even if Salvator had needed help gaining his saddle, he would not treat another man like a footstool to do it.

  But no help was needed. He was tall and agile, and four years of hard labor in the fields of the monastery had toughened his flesh; these soldiers might be more skilled in swordplay than he was, but he doubted that any of them could beat him in a direct contest of strength.

  A Souleater might be another matter.

  Before mounting his own horse Favias made his rounds of the company, giving out the special weapons the Guardians had brought with them. Arrows with glassy cobalt tips, lances with long, curved cobalt heads, and swords with strips of the same blue substance set into the cutting edges. Most of the items were clearly ancient, made from the blades of Souleaters killed in the Great War centuries ago, but four long spears had been newly crafted. He presented one of them to Salvator.

  “This was made from a tail blade of Kostas’ Souleater,” he told him. “It’s said such a weapon will cut through the hide of an ikati as if it were butter, and it leaves behind a poison that destroys the creature’s flesh from the inside out.” A faint, dry smile flickered across his face. “Don’t nick your finger on it.”

  Salvator’s expression was solemn as he took the weapon from him. This is the Souleater who caused my father’s death, he thought. And my brothers’. He felt a cold satisfaction in knowing that the vile creature had been cut into pieces and would now be forced to serve his family in a war against its own kind.

  Favias gave one of the other spears to Gwynofar. It towered well over her head, disproportionate to her delicate frame, but no one questioned that. They knew that all her strength and determination would mean little if she did not have a long enough reach to protect herself from the enemy.
If a Souleater surprised them while they were on horseback, every inch would count.

  Favias kept a spear for himself and gave the last to his second-in-command. Then, Salvator turned to Cadern’s men. “Tell his Lordship we are grateful for his assistance. We will return when our business is done and let him know the results.”

  The man bowed his head respectfully. “May the gods—” he began. And then he stopped himself.

  For a moment there was silence. Salvator’s lips tightened.

  “May your journey be a safe one,” the man muttered. A red flush of embarrassment brightened his cheeks. He bowed deeply, no doubt to hide his face.

  Salvator nodded stiffly. “The Creator willing, it shall be so.”

  And then the High King turned his horse around, to face the Spinas Mountains, and signaled for the company to begin its journey.

  I should not be here, Colivar thought.

  She was close. So very close. He imagined he could smell her now, though of course they were still too far away for that. But memories were coming back to him, of other times and places when he had known that smell. Sweet musk intoxicant, mixed with the blood scent of a fresh kill . . . soaked into the Witch-Queen’s silken sheets along with her perfume . . . filling the sky.

  I should not have come here.

  He remembered the spiritual paralysis that had overcome him at Danton’s castle, when the Souleater had risen. Centuries of resolve melting away in an instant, leaving him helpless. He had thought it would be easy to attack an ikati. He had more reason than any other man to want to do so. And yet he had frozen.

  —icy wind rushing past his cheek, frozen blood shattering into a thousand crystals—

  He shook his head to banish the unwelcome images and took his place at the rear of the party, letting the trapper lead the way to the landmark that Kamala had told him about.

  Kamala.

  For a moment he flashed back to the sensation of her body pressed against his, her skin warm and damp with sweat as she trembled in the aftermath of her vision. Why had that affected him so deeply? Did he find her attractive as a woman, as a sorcerer, or . . . as something else? The question was not one he was prepared—or equipped—to answer.

  The terrain was dismal for riding, dominated by steep and rocky inclines; periodically the horses had to wend their way single file through passes so narrow their riders’ legs scraped against the rock walls as they rode. At times it seemed as though it would have been easier to walk. But the distance was simply too great to cover on foot in a day, and even though Colivar had assured them that the Souleaters were creatures of sunlight, unlikely to assault anyone after darkness fell, none of the morati wanted to be camped in the mountains after sunset.

  As the morning wore on, the company climbed higher and higher into the treacherous range, following trails that only Herzog could see. The farther north they rode, the more uneasy their guide seemed to become. Clearly the man knew how to get them where they wanted to go, but the farther they went, the more reluctant he became to lead them. Which confirmed Colivar’s belief that a queen was indeed nearby. How would her power affect the lyr in the party? What about the young High King? Ramirus had suggested that Salvator might have some kind of special immunity to the ikati’s power. It was an interesting suggestion, which would no doubt be tested soon enough.

  Finally the company broke out of a wooded stretch and onto a stark plateau. Steep granite escarpments dominated the landscape on all sides of them, and to the north a cliff’s edge had eroded away, leaving a line of jagged columns behind. In one place a narrow column stood alone, jutting up from the ground as if it had grown there organically, a sight eerily reminiscent of the sacred spires in the north. The wind had carved its edges into odd twisted shapes, out of keeping with the landscape surrounding it.

  Herzog waved toward the spire and turned back to the High King. “Is this what you were looking for?”

  Salvator turned to look at Ramirus, who in turn looked over at Colivar. The black-haired Magister studied the spire for a long moment, remembering the sorcerous images Kamala had shared with him. Finally he nodded. “Yes. That’s it.” He looked out across the landscape. “I thought the queen would be southwest of this spot, but now I see the place, I think that instead we should look to the north . . . .”

  He stopped himself. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The Souleater’s power was beating at all their brains, altering the very channels of thought. He had to wrestle with his own mind just to think clearly.

  “Southwest,” he said at last. It took effort for him to force the words out. “That is the proper direction. As we planned.”

  “It’d be better to circle north a bit,” Herzog cautioned. “There’s better terrain up there.” He pointed. “We can come around—”

  “Southwest,” Salvator said firmly.

  For a moment they all just sat there, staring at him. Then, snorting in exasperation, Salvator kneed his horse into motion, claimed the point position, and began to ride southwest. His guards scurried to keep up with him, and one by one the others followed obediently behind. Even Colivar had to concentrate with all his might just to do so, when every instinct was telling him that this was the wrong way to go. But Salvator led them with regal confidence, and in time the territorial magic that had been numbing their minds let up. It took no sorcery to sense the smug pride radiating from him then. He, the Penitent King, had led his men safely through a land where even Magisters faltered.

  Colivar moved into the point position to guide them after that, moving from landmark to landmark as he recognized them from the images that Kamala had shared with him. If only he could have brought her along, they might have progressed much more quickly! But he was not yet ready to reveal the woman’s full role in this affair, and so they would have to make do with second-hand knowledge.

  Are you more afraid that Ramirus will hurt her if he learns the truth, he asked himself, or that he will claim her for himself?

  Another question he was not ready to answer.

  Then the party came around a bend, and they saw the Souleater skeleton.

  In life it must have been an impressive creature, and its long, sinuous armature stretched snake-like across the rocky ground for many yards. There was a sense of coiled energy about it, as if it might start to move again at any moment. Perhaps that was what made the horses unwilling to approach it. Or perhaps it was the scent of death, which seemed to cling to the bones, faded enough that human senses could barely detect it. Horses were more alert to such things.

  For a moment the whole company just sat there, staring at it. A flock of Souleaters could have passed overhead at that moment, and none of them would have noticed. This was the creature that had once destroyed all the works of mankind . . . and would do so again, if given a chance. Doom clung to its bones like a shroud.

  Colivar finally tore his gaze away from the dead ikati and sought the other one that he had been told would be present. “Over there,” he said, spotting it at last.

  As Kamala had reported to him, the second Souleater was smaller than the first. Much smaller. Probably a juvenile, Colivar thought. Which raised all sorts of questions he couldn’t begin to answer.

  “They killed each other,” Salvator observed.

  But Colivar shook his head. “No. That one’s too young. It wouldn’t have challenged a fully grown male. And if the latter had been hunting newborns, then only one of them would be dead.”

  “They do that?” Gwynofar asked. “Hunt their own young?”

  Colivar nodded. “The young one of today is the rival of tomorrow. Easier to kill them when they’re small. A Souleater’s deadliest enemy is his own kind.”

  Ramirus kneed his horse into motion and approached the larger skeleton. Its ribcage vaulted high enough that he could touch it without dismounting. He reached out a hand to place it on the bone.

  “No!” Colivar cried.

  Ramirus froze in midmotion. Colivar could sense the others holding their br
eath, and he cursed himself for having spoken.

  Ramirus looked back at him.

  “Don’t touch it with sorcery,” Colivar said quietly.

  It was clear from the look on Ramirus’ face that he wanted an explanation. But Colivar wasn’t about to tell the man about Kamala’s experience with the Souleater queen, or the fact that any sorcery that connected a Magister to an ikati was likely to have dire consequences.

  But was a skeleton like this really likely to have the same effect? Deep in his heart he knew such a fear was ridiculous. Then why had he stopped Ramirus? Was he really afraid that the Magister might get sucked into oblivion if he touched the thing with his power? Or was he afraid that if he used his sorcery on the skeleton, he might learn too much of the truth?

  One of Favias’ Seers dismounted and approached the larger skeleton on foot, ending the conversation. He looked up at Colivar for approval; the Magister made no move to stop him. It was unlikely that a witch would be endangered merely by using his power on a dead Souleater the way that a sorcerer might be. And besides . . . witches were expendable.

  The man studied the skeleton for a moment, then put his hands upon two of the vast, arching ribs, curling his fingers about them as he began to concentrate. He lowered his head and shut his eyes, muttering some occult formula under his breath. Out of the corner of one eye Colivar saw Salvator bow his head in prayer, along with a few of the guards attending him. For Penitents, this simple act of witchery was a sacred religious sacrifice.