“I know what some of them are.” He pointed to a tall figure with a crown of green and orange feathers. “That one is Duat, Lord of Death. From the Zoav jungle. And that one”—he pointed to a golden figure encrusted with gems—“that looks like an Anshasan deity. With a Skandir war god standing next to him. And that odd-shaped rock, that represents Jaasa, a water god revered by the desert nomads. How very curious.”
“So are they really gods, or just . . . images of gods?
“Well, what you are showing me are clearly idols, that is, physical representations of gods. But the line can be very thin between the two, Kamala. Some idols have centuries of prayer invested in them, which can transform them into more than mere statues. Others may have been used as the focal point for spirit conjuring and may even retain the essence of the beings who once possessed them. And witchery can turn such things into spiritual conduits, although that’s a costly endeavor. Windows into other realms. So, in answer to your question . . . yes.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, somewhat frustrated; she’d hoped for a simple answer, and this was not it.
“The question,” he mused aloud, “is why?”
“Why are they watching me?”
“Why are they all standing together?”
She shrugged. “The world is about to end, apparently. Maybe the gods are worried about it.”
He shook his head. “These are statues you’re seeing. Whatever power they might have absorbed down through the centuries, whatever supernatural creatures might inhabit them now, they are still just statues. Physical objects, which can only exist in one location at a time.” He looked up at her. “Such things matter in a vision, Kamala. They wouldn’t have manifested in such a form if it weren’t significant.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “I see them whenever I search for the Witch-Queen’s location.”
He nodded. “Perhaps there is a connection, then. You say she has the power to hide from those who are hunting her. Perhaps these idols channel more energy than she can mask. Perhaps their essence is . . . bleeding through somehow? I don’t know.”
“So, then, what’s the location?” She tried not to let frustration creep into her voice, but it was hard to be so close to the answers she sought and not know how to access them. “You’ve named gods from the four corners of the world. Where would they all come together like that?”
He did not answer her right away. His expression thoughtful, he got up from the table and walked over to his map chest. The cabinet of shallow drawers contained the most precious and delicate documents that he had gathered during his centuries of scholarship. There was strange and touching irony in how gently he handled them, taking care not to damage the fragile parchment sheets. In the house of any other Magister such things would have been reinforced with sorcery so that nothing short of a hurricane could damage them. But Kamala knew him well enough to know that he took pleasure in their fragility. One should never take knowledge for granted, he had told her. Their fragility forced him to handle them with appropriate reverence.
He chose one particular document from the collection, brought it to the table, and laid it out before her. A map. She banished her cups from the table so that the two of them would have room to look at it without risking a spill.
The map was an odd creation, reversed from the vantage point that cartographers usually preferred. With south at the top and north at the bottom, it defied her immediate recognition, and it took her a minute to get her bearings. Once she realized the trick, the various land masses and waterways began to take on recognizable form. Cities to the north, flanking a great delta. Mountains to the west, and a series of long ridges to the east. A vast expanse in the middle with dark, irregular lines running across it. It was all meticulously labeled, but the script was one she did not recognize, and the map was so old that the ink had faded, making it hard to see the letters. Any sorcerer other than Ethanus would have fixed the thing long ago.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked her. Always the teacher. But she didn’t have to think long to answer him; the map that Colivar had showed her earlier had covered much of the same territory.
“This is Anshasa,” she said, sketching out the borders of Farah’s kingdom with her finger. And there ” She pointed, “Tefilat.”
“Look south,” Ethanus prompted.
South were the strange lines, labeled in an unknown script. Where a number of them crossed there was a crude picture of a walled city, larger than anything else in the area. A circular wall surrounded it. A title of some sort was written above it, and there was smaller writing beneath it.
“These are caravan routes,” he told her, indicating the lines. “They connect the markets of the south with Anshasa. Any man who controls a source of water along that route stands to make a fortune. Wars are fought over such locations.” He pointed to the city. “Can you read the markings?”
She couldn’t, but that was what sorcery was for. Binding enough athra to gather the knowledge she needed, she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the foreign script. When the strange shapes began to resolve into more familiar letters she began to read. “City of the Gods . . . .”
Her voice left her suddenly. Her heart skipped a beat.
“Read on,” he prompted her.
She reached out to touch the faded script; her hand was trembling. “Let no man storm these gates, lest the gods of Jezalya strike him down.”
“I’d heard tales of the place long ago,” Ethanus said. “Legends, really. Some powerful spirit who was crossing the desert supposedly grew thirsty and commanded the earth to bring forth water, which it did in such copious quantity that the gods themselves were impressed. They all came to visit the place, not only those who were native to the desert, but deities from all over the world. A great palace was built so that those who wished to live there might do so. I know little about it, except for those legends. But it will be easy enough to gather information now that we know where to look.”
She nodded. Normally it would be hard for her to focus her sorcery on such a place; the desert was so featureless there were no easy landmarks to follow. But if Jezalya’s gods had truly been appearing in her dreams, there might be some residual energies to work with. Shutting her eyes, she tried to focus on the figures that had appeared to her. Now that Ethanus had identified them, she could see that they were indeed statues, but she could also feel the power that emanated from them. A true sacred presence, or simply the residue of morati devotions? It mattered little to her sorcery. Centuries of religious focus could transform a sculpture of stone and wood into something that had power in its own right. She could sense that power now as she imagined herself inside their circle, surrounded by Jezalya’s gods. Help me, she thought. Show me the way.
She could feel her consciousness expanding as she extended tendrils of sorcerous inquiry southward, using that connection as her anchor. Forest and ocean and alabaster cities passed beneath her viewpoint—and then she came to a land that blazed with heat, set beneath a merciless sun. Since the real Jezalya would be shrouded in night’s darkness right now, that meant she was not merely seeing features of the landscape but was tapping into the very essence of the land, revealing its spiritual signature.
A hunger for water enveloped her, not something born in the minds of men, or even animals, but arising from the land itself. That was a recent thing. This place had once been green, she saw. Images from ancient history flashed in and out of existence too quickly for her to focus on any one of them. Lush grasslands. Vast lakes. Herds of animals roaming as far as the eye could see. Had the Great War destroyed this place too, or was there some more natural cause for the devastation? It was hard not to stop and study such images, but she had work to do. Focusing with all her strength on her objective, she willed the distractions to fade, until only the desert remained.
She located a trade route. It would not have been discernable to a human eye, for the restless sands had buried any signs of human passage, but her Sight could pick out t
he spiritual traces left behind by the hundreds of caravans who had passed that way over the centuries. This was her path to the city. She followed it with her mind’s eye, ignoring the ghostly echoes of merchants and soldiers and beasts of burden that had traveled this path before her. Sometimes when the echoes grew quiet, she thought she could hear Jezalya’s gods whispering in the distance, though whether they were trying to tell her something, or were just passing the time in sacred gossip, she could not tell.
Something moved in the corner of her vision. In another time and place she might have focused on it, but she needed to stay focused on finding the city. But then there were more shadows, flitting about the edge of her awareness like angry flies. She tried to ignore them, but they grew larger with each passing minute, until one swooped down low over her vantage point, its vast black wings blotting out the sun. Kamala had to remind herself that she was not actually present where they were flying and that there was nothing in this vision that could hurt her, save perhaps the Witch-Queen herself; nonetheless, every fiber of her being cried out for her to flee, as more and more of the monstrous shadows filled the skies above her. Souleaters.
And then she saw the city.
It was still many miles in the distance, but it gleamed in the sunlight like a precious stone, drawing her eye directly toward it. Most of it was shielded behind a wall many times the height of a man, but a single tower rose up from the heart of the city, with a great golden finial at its summit. The precious metal caught the light of the sun and reflected it outward, providing a beacon that could be seen from many miles away. A lighthouse in the desert.
This, she knew, was Jezalya.
Gazing at the city, she suddenly realized that her whole search was pointless. Obviously the woman wasn’t here. There was no point in wasting any more time searching the desert for her. Jezalya was of no interest to Siderea Aminestas. Colivar was looking in the right place after all. The clues were all in Tefilat, and he would find them there.
If not for what she had experienced in the Spinas, she might not have recognized the power for what it was: a masterpiece of obfuscation. Siderea Aminestas was not here; she had never been here; she would never be here; that message was as clear as the sun in the sky and the camel tracks leading up to the city’s main gate. Kamala knew enough by now of how a queen’s power worked to recognize the signs of it here, but though she admired the artistry of it, shaking it off was another thing. The person who had woven the spells surrounding this city was no simple beast, instinctively throwing up barriers in the wilderness, but a woman renowned for her skill at human manipulation. Kamala knew that it would take all the strength of her will to pierce through such a defense. And she also knew that if she succeeded in doing so, the Witch-Queen would sense her interference and know that her enemies had found her.
Now was not the time.
Dark shapes flitted hungrily about her as she withdrew her awareness from the desert, returning to the cool confines of Ethanus’ study. For a moment she just sat there, trying to focus on the night and the silence in order to still the pounding of her heart. Ethanus, ever patient, waited.
“She’s there,” she whispered. “In Jezalya. I think the other Souleaters are there as well, but she keeps them far away from the city.” She shuddered, remembering the hungry, restless shadows. So many of them. What were they all feeding on? “I have to tell Colivar.”
Would the other Magisters be able to see through Siderea’s power as Kamala had? Or would they need her to go back there, to gather more information for them? She felt a cold chill run down her spine at the thought of confronting the Witch-Queen directly, but also a strange sense of excitement. It was right that they should test their power against each other this way. Waging a war not with armies and siege engines, but with the gift of the ikati, that could turn a man’s attention away from his target. She remembered how Siderea’s power had tried to turn her thoughts to Tefilat, insisting that she must go there instead—
She stiffened suddenly. All color drained from her face.
“Kamala?”
“It’s a trap,” she whispered. “Tefilat. It’s a trap! She wants him to look for her there. That’s what Sulah’s dream was all about.” She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. Was Siderea’s power still affecting her brain, or were her thoughts her own now? “I have to warn him!”
She got up from the table so hurriedly that her chair fell back, clattering noisily to the floor behind her. “Ethanus, I—”
“Go,” he said. “Do what you have to.”
She began to draw her power to her. Normally she would never do so inside the house of another Magister, but there was no time to waste. Ethanus watched her mold a portal for herself, his expression calm. Unflappable. The world could come crashing down around them all and Ethanus’ heart would not miss a beat. What opposites they were!
She leaned across the table and kissed him on the forehead. At least that surprised him.
And then she wrapped the portal spell around her and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 20
C
OLIVAR CIRCLED Tefilat several times before finally moving in. In wide, sweeping circles he flew over the desert surrounding the abandoned city, scrutinizing every grain of sand with his sorcery. Seeking . . . what? Some kind of trap? A sign that she was currently here, despite Kamala’s assurances to the contrary?
Even while he did his reconnaissance, he knew how futile such an effort was. Tefilat resonated with so many residual energies that it was all but impossible to pick out the one or two that might be meaningful. It was as if a hundred witches were there right now, casting all their spells at once . . . and doing it badly. Fragments of ancient power hung in the air like a dust cloud, making it hard to see anything clearly. Broken spells, failed summonings, frustrated conjurations: the detritus of an ancient war. Looking for signs of trouble here was like looking for signs of shark activity in a storm-tossed, churning sea.
When he finally landed, it took him a few seconds longer to reclaim his human form than it should have The last of his feathers did not want to recede, and his skin felt rough where they were finally absorbed. It seemed to him that Tefilat’s effect had worsened since the last time he had visited, many years ago. Or maybe that was just his nerves speaking. At any rate, there seemed to be no one around right now. He scanned the area once more, just to make certain, and then headed toward the city proper. He wrapped sorcery about himself as he went, to discourage prying eyes. Though gods alone knew if such a spell would have any power in this place.
The canyon was ancient, carved out by a river the earth had swallowed up long ago, leaving only ghostly memories of water clinging to the narrow bed at its center. Its walls were colorful, with bands of rust, orange, and in one place an odd shade of pink, layered as neatly as masonry in some places, buckling into strange curvilinear patterns in others. He knew from earlier explorations that each stripe had been formed in a previous age, and contained both relics of that age and faint resonances of the things that had lived here then. The concept had fascinated him once, but now his only concern was to make sure that nothing was hidden within the shadowy caves and crevices of the place, besides the inevitable snakes and lizards.
But all was as it should be, and there was no sign of any fresh magic that he could discern.
Finally he came to Tefilat itself. Though he had been there several times before and theoretically knew what to expect, still the sight of the place awed him. Not simply because of its grandeur, but because it had been created in an age before sorcery, when every magical task had been measured in human life.
Or, more to the point, human life with a name attached.
The main buildings had been carved directly out of the cliff face and, amazingly enough, had stood the test of time. Had any new witchery been embedded in the stone by recent visitors? Too much faded power clung to the façade for him to be sure.
When he reached the widest part of the canyon�
�the town square, as it were—he stood still for a moment, listening. Just listening. But only silence greeted his ears, broken by the faint susurration of wind in the distance. Kneeling down, he bound a bit of sorcery, molding it twice over just to make sure that he had it right, then he let it sink into the ground around his feet, shutting his eyes as he absorbed the images it was gathering for him.
Nomads had passed through here recently. He could see them in their desert robes, richly striped and edged in plaited cord: Hom’ra. He watched as they brought in supplies on the backs of asses and then unpacked them. Heavy amphorae sealed with wax comprised the bulk of the delivery, and baskets of what Colivar guessed to be foodstuffs. There was a sigil on several of the amphora seals that he did not recognize.
Interesting.
Letting the vision fade, he headed toward the largest building in the complex. It was a two-story structure with columns flanking the main entrance and a frieze depicting a mythological battle scene overhead. He paused for a moment to take in the carved images, his mind applying names to gods and events that the morati world had long forgotten. Then he bound a bit of power to test the entrance for wards—there were none—and to establish one of his own that would be triggered by anyone else entering the building behind him. The place seemed utterly deserted, but one could never be too careful.
The temperature dropped as soon as he entered the shadowy interior, becoming almost tolerable by desert standards. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, resisting the impulse to cool the air further. He didn’t want to use any more sorcery in this place than he had to.
The main chamber was empty, but a layer of sand and dust had accumulated underfoot, and footprints had recently scuffed a path across the room, heading toward an interior chamber. Many footprints, he noted. Whatever was happening here had been going on for some time.
He followed the path to a rear chamber. Only a trickle of sunlight could reach this far, but it was enough for him to see what was inside.
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