Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  She ran a featherlight finger down his cheek, tracing one of the crimson gashes. Because Salvator’s witches had closed the wound properly, there was no pain, but the touch felt odd, as if the scarred cheek were not truly his own. “Besides, their gods are concerned with things like crops and rainfall and human fecundity. Not with saving the world. Your faith is your armor, my son.”

  For a moment he was taken aback. Was she praising his religion? If so, this was new ground; he did not know how to negotiate it. “And you, Mother? Do you fear bloodshed?”

  Her hand fell away from his cheek; her expression grew somber. “I do believe I’ve already answered that question. The dead Souleater queen, remember?”

  He shook his head. “It’s one thing to defend your home territory from a threat. To know that your family may die if you do not act. It’s another thing to spill blood in a foreign land, where the people are not your own, and where you cannot count on any support save that which you bring with you.”

  She gazed into his eyes for a long moment. “What are you asking me, Salvator?”

  He drew in a deep breath. All the words he had prepared for this moment fled from his mind. Who knew if they had even been the right words to begin with? “I believe . . . you have a special power, Mother. I believe that the gift that was granted you on the Throne of Tears, your ability to connect the lyr to one another, and to awaken the ancient power in their blood . . . has not left you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This immunity I seem to have . . . it appears to be stronger when you are nearby. I think that was part of the reason I was unaffected by the queen’s power. What if you have the same effect on all the lyr, Mother? Most of the Guardians have some tie to the lyr, if only a distant one. What if you are a catalyst for all of them?”

  She stared at him. Just that, for a small eternity. Unnamed emotions flickered in the depths of her eyes.

  “The prophecy that led us to the Throne,” she said at last, “had a passage at the end of it that Favias thought might refer to me. I was not so sure. But if what you say is true . . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence.

  “What did it say?”

  She shut her eyes, concentrating, and recited:

  The mother of men will raise up her sword against the mother of madness

  The queen who sits upon the throne of tears will bring demons to weep

  The masters of the earth will sip from her blood, to bolster their courage,

  As they gird themselves for battle with the glory of her faith

  “There was more,” she said, opening her eyes. “But Kierdwyn’s Archivist thought the rest referred to events that had already come to pass, so those verses were no longer meaningful. Of course, it’s all quite cryptic.” She smiled faintly. “I do think that is required in writing prophecies.”

  “Why did you not share this with me before?”

  “Because of the reference to my faith. If this passage does in fact refer to me . . . and if you are among those it calls the masters of the earth . . . then the last line suggests you will fight in the name of my gods.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “Not likely.”

  “Thus the reason we have not had this conversation before, my son. But if what you are saying now is true, then another meaning is possible. If the blood of the lyr refers to our inheritance—”

  “—Then the ‘glory of your faith’ might refer to that heritage. To our immunity.”

  “Perhaps. Of course,” she shrugged, “it is possible the passage doesn’t even refer to me at all. Siderea Aminestas satisfies the same description, at least in a metaphorical sense. While the reference to drinking blood might well turn out to be literal. Though whether that would signify a magical act, or some sort of ritual, one can only speculate. We simply don’t know enough to interpret the passage with any certainty.” She smiled dryly. “Yet another reason I didn’t bother you with it.”

  “You need to be at the front lines with me,” he said.

  The smile fled. A shadow passed over her eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand that now.”

  “I will call Valemar to court. We can find some excuse for it that sounds reasonable. No one must know the truth. The less warning our enemies have that I may be absent from my throne, the less quickly they will be able to take advantage of that absence.” He looked sharply at her. “You think Valemar can handle all this?”

  “If he fails, he will have his mother to answer to.”

  Despite himself, Salvator smiled. “Do you know what my father once said about you, Mother? More fierce in spirit than all the armies of Anshasa, and more stubborn than the gods themselves. I thought he was exaggerating at the time.”

  A corner of her mouth twitched. “And now?”

  “As you said. A Souleater queen is dead. I would not like to get between you and the next one.”

  “It is a mother’s destiny to protect her children.” Again the half-smile. “And their world.”

  Her words stirred new thoughts. Disturbing thoughts. “Siderea Aminestas did not have any children,” he recalled.

  She raised an eyebrow. “And this is significant . . . why?”

  “What was the first line of that prophecy? The mother of men will raise up her sword against the mother of madness. So the first reference cannot possibly be to her.”

  “Which means that the second might be?”

  “You are the one who puts stock in such things. But she were to go insane . . . then, as I understand things, her Souleater would go mad as well.” He was remembering the wild Witch-Queen of his dreams, with her faceted eyes and erratic demeanor. So close to madness even then. He had sensed it in her. Now, if what Colivar had suggested was true, one of the world’s most fearsome creatures might be wedded to that madness. And along with it Siderea’s intelligence, her political acumen, and her seductive gifts. What an adversary that joint creature might become!

  This is what the Creator has been preparing me for all my life. This is why the Penitents exist.

  Never mind that the very gift that enabled him to stand up to the ikati was the result of a Magister’s political machinations. He himself was untouched by sorcery, and that was what mattered.

  There were no Magisters among the lyr, he remembered suddenly. Did that mean that the Creator was protecting those bloodlines? Or was there some more mundane explanation? Some reason that lyr blood was incompatible with sorcery?

  Too many mysteries, he thought. At the heart of each one was a weapon they needed, if they were to keep the Second Age of Kings from ending in tragedy like the First. But such secrets had to be ferreted out and identified before they could be put to use. So what was at the heart of this one?

  Chapter 16

  T

  HE WINDSWEPT peak was surrounded by a sea of clouds, which frothed against the flanks of nearby mountaintops like an angry ocean. Here and there, when the clouds parted briefly, one could catch a glimpse of the earth far below, but the distance made it seem unreal, like something out of a dream. Then the clouds would shift and the opening would close, and there were only granite peaks rising up from an ocean of white once more, a chain of jagged islands extending as far as the eye could see.

  Fadir was the last to arrive. His sorcery shimmered in the thin mountain air, allowing him to step through onto the bare granite surface as smoothly as if he were taking a stroll through the royal gardens. The surprise on his face as he looked around, however, was unmistakable. With a quick nod to the others present—Ramirus, Lazaroth, and Sulah had arrived some time ago—he looked out over the stark landscape, seeking some clue as to where he was or why he had been summoned here. There were no clues visible.

  “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

  Lazaroth shrugged. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

  The air on the mountaintop was thin and cold, which normally would have been a welcome change from the oppressive summer heat, but Fadir wasn’t dressed for
it, and a cold breeze raised rows of goosebumps down his arms. With a muttered curse he bound enough power to conjure more appropriate dress, and his clothing reshaped itself into a long woolen gown that matched Ramirus’ own. For once, the ancient Magister was setting the fashion for them all.

  “So where’s Colivar?” Fadir demanded.

  Lazaroth shot him a derisive look, which made it clear the answer to that question was the same as the first, and he was not going to bother repeating himself.

  With a snort Fadir settled himself down on a knee-high ridge near the others, to wait.

  Colivar watched them from the shadows for a long while, sorcery guarding him from their sight. Earlier in the day his thoughts had been in turmoil, and he had come very close to canceling this meeting altogether. But now that he was here, a strange calm had come over him. What an alien emotion it seemed, at that moment! Calm had been a rare indulgence in his early days as a Magister, a state nearly beyond his comprehension. How much he had changed since then! And yet, the things that mattered most in him had not changed at all.

  Ramirus is right, he thought solemnly. The time has come for them to know the truth about what they are.

  But that didn’t make the task at hand any easier.

  The sun was beginning to sink beneath the clouds, edging them in golden fire, when he finally stepped out of the shadows. He had chosen a traditional robe for this meeting, which was such a marked contrast to his usual attire that the others were clearly taken by surprise. He could see Ramirus looking him over, eyes narrow as he tried to read meaning into Colivar’s sartorial choice. Maybe I did it just to distract you, Colivar thought. Maybe I do not want you looking too closely at other things.

  He walked to the circle of rocks where they sat, but he remained standing. For a moment he just studied them all. Allies. Was that what he was supposed to call them now? As if such a thing were truly possible.

  A thin, chill wind gusted briefly across the circle, and Colivar raised a hand absently and summoned sorcery to banish it. Warmer air took its place at his command, more comfortable for the lungs. But the mountaintop was still a barren and forbidding place, which is why he had chosen it for this meeting. It suited his current mood.

  “Fellow Magisters,” he said, “I’ve asked you here in order to pass on some information my mentor gave me, back when I was still a student. In those days it was customary for a teacher to pass on not only his knowledge to his student, but some of his memories as well. So please understand, much of what I am about to tell you, I witnessed through his eyes, as he did through the eyes of his teacher before him. So we know these things as if we had seen them ourselves.” He paused. “A custom that was wisely abandoned.

  “I’ve never spoken of these things to any living man before today, and I will never do so again. So whatever knowledge you don’t get out of my words today you will have to seek out on your own.” He paused. “Are those terms acceptable?”

  He looked at the Magisters one by one, his dark gaze moving around the circle. There was nothing of his usual arrogance in that gaze, or cynicism, or humor, or any other recognizably human emotion. Only a blackness so empty, so haunting, that it seemed to fill the circle they had established, silencing all sound, swallowing all sentiment.

  One by one, the Magisters nodded.

  For a moment Colivar shut his eyes, and his brow tensed slightly as he braced himself for what was to come. But when he finally spoke, it was in a quiet tone, devoid of any emotion. He had practiced this speech so many times it was almost as if he were reading from a script. Performing.

  That was safest way.

  “First, understand that the ikati are lone predators by nature, utterly intolerant of their own kind. No two males will ever enter the same territory unless forced to, and if that happens, they’re more likely to fight to the death than accept the situation, even for an hour. The females are marginally gentler, as they prefer to drive their rivals away rather than fight them. And they have the ability to turn their mesmeric power against their own kind, which helps protect them from unwanted attention. But if territory is an issue, then they too will kill without hesitation.

  “This antagonism is not by choice,” he stressed. “It is innate. Instinctive. To a wild ikati, every other member of its species is a mortal enemy. Only under the most extreme circumstances can they ever bring themselves to share territory, or work toward a common goal.”

  “What about the armies of ikati?” Sulah asked. “The ones that supposedly filled the skies during the First Age of Kings?”

  Colivar shook his head. “Legends, nothing more. If there had ever been two ikati in the same territory back then, they would have fought for dominance until one of them surrendered and fled . . . or was killed. It was the only way they knew.”

  “Back then,” Ramirus said sharply. It was obviously meant as a question, but Colivar did not respond to it.

  Ah, my old enemy, you are sharper than all the rest of them put together. And older than most of them, as well. I wonder how much of the story you have already figured out.

  “You know that their strength comes from stolen life,” Colivar continued, “and from sunlight. They need open spaces—cloudless skies—the heat of the sun upon their wings. So our ancestors used fire to drive them north. First the illusion of fire and then, when they ran short of witches to conjure such images, the real thing. They filled the heavens with smoke, so thick that the Souleaters were driven north in order to avoid it.” He paused. “That is not to say such tactics would work again. Their weakness is not what it once was.”

  Ramirus nodded. “Kostas set fire to Danton’s forest himself.”

  Colivar nodded. “I doubt he considered the forest a real threat, since any Magister could conjure images of smoke and fire without need for material fuel. I imagine he meant the fire as gesture of triumph. Or perhaps as a message that the ikati could no longer be controlled by such primitive methods.

  “You all know that when the Wrath was conjured, a small band of witches volunteered to be trapped on the northern side. Isolated in that frozen wasteland, they meant to hunt down and kill the last of the Souleaters, even if it cost them the last of their life-essence to do so.”

  He could hear emotion edging its way into his tone, and he paused for a moment to settle his spirit. Ramirus’ eyes were fixed on him with a rare intensity, and they seemed to be drilling into his very soul. But that was just an illusion, Colivar knew. He had enough sorcerous defenses in place right now to ward off an army of Magisters. As long as he did not provide them with simple physical clues as to his state of mind, his mental privacy was assured.

  “That was their dream,” he continued, in a more guarded tone. “Their passion. To ransom the world with their own deaths.” How could these Magisters possibly understand such a passion? he wondered. Men who were willing to sacrifice themselves for others did not ever become Magisters. Everyone knew that.

  Focus, Colivar. Focus.

  “North of the Wrath was a land of utter desolation. The ikati could simply fly over it, of course, but the witches had to struggle along on foot, or else expend their final reserves of soulfire to ease the journey. Many died along the way, but those who survived were relentless. Determined to save the world.” No doubt they would read the edge in his tone as disdain, he thought. That was fine. “Had they not already been exhausted by months of battle, they might have thought to question why the ikati were fleeing from them at all. For if there really were no other living creatures in that wasteland, then the witches themselves were their only possible food source. The Souleaters should have turned on them, desperately trying to get close enough to sap them of their last living energy. But they didn’t. Because they had sensed what the witches could not . . . that there were other humans in the wasteland.”

  He looked at Ramirus and said, “Show them what you conjured after the battle.”

  Ramirus nodded; he did not seem surprised by the request. With a short gesture of his ha
nd he summoned up a wave of power, bound it to his purpose, and cast it into the center of their circle. All without looking that way himself. His eyes never left Colivar.

  An image began to take shape in the center of their circle. It was the same one that Ramirus had conjured from the memories of the Souleater’s rider, of a land warmed by volcanoes, and the tribal people who lived there. Ramirus let them study it just long enough to grasp its full meaning, then banished it.

  “The habitable territory was small,” Colivar said. “Not nearly sufficient for so many ikati. So terrible battles took place in the skies as the creatures fought with one another. The exhausted witches watched it all, praying to their gods that the cursed creatures would just tear each other to pieces and save them the effort. They were too weak and exhausted after their long journey to take on so many.

  “But the ikati didn’t all die. A few survived. One queen. A handful of males, more adaptable than most, who proved able to share the same hunting grounds without attacking each other on sight. And then the witches . . . .”

  He shut his eyes. And he poured all his strength into his sorcerous shields, not only the ones that guarded his thoughts, but the ones that would keep other men from reading his facial expression. Even as he did so, he knew that Ramirus was taking note of the effort, and that the mere fact that he had conjured that level of defense told his rival more than he would have wanted him to know.

  “It could have ended then,” he whispered. “If they had given up their lives as they had promised to do, if they had expended the last of their athra destroying those last few survivors . . . it could all have ended. And the world would have been safe.”

  “But the temptation was too great. And they . . . they were weak. So they decided to delay the final destruction of the creatures. Maybe they could figure out a way to tap into their athra and claim the life-energy that the creatures had stolen from others, to replenish their own failing stores. After that they would be stronger, and could complete their mission more easily. Or so they told themselves. Maybe they could even find a way to go home after that. Breach the Wrath, somehow. It was a distant dream, but a compelling one.”