Salvator raised a hand to silence his protest. “Magister Ramirus. Please.” When he saw that he had silence, he lowered his hand. “It’s rare that a Magister comes up against anything that has the capacity to kill him. But these Souleaters undoubtedly can do that, and Siderea may be able to as well. Yet you and Colivar have offered your support in this venture, and shortly you may risk your lives to assure its success. He certainly is risking his life. That’s the kind of thing no man does lightly, and for one who can hold death at bay indefinitely if he’s careful enough . . . it’s an extraordinary act.
“It would be ungrateful of me—and unreasonable—to expect you to do that with both hands tied behind your back. Would it not?”
Ramirus’ expression was wary. “I would not presume to judge your character, Majesty.”
“No.” He smiled faintly. “Not while I’m around to hear it, anyway.” He shook his head. “Understand, I do expect you to respect the beliefs of the Penitents and not use your power upon myself or my witches. Death with honor is preferable to corruption, in our eyes. And since the gift of the lyr shows signs of being incompatible with sorcery, you should refrain from using your arts on them as well, lest their power be compromised. A purely practical matter. Other than that . . . .” He paused, then said quietly, “I will not place restraints upon your actions. Or Colivar’s. So you can concentrate on the matter at hand without worrying about my sensibilities.”
Ramirus just stared at him for a moment. Salvator could not recall any other time when he had seen the Magister look surprised; it was oddly satisfying. “Majesty, I . . . don’t know what to say.”
“There is nothing to say, Ramirus.” Salvator picked up his pen again and focused on it, not wanting to meet the Magister’s eyes any longer. “Send the servants back in on your way out, please. And let Colivar know.”
When Ramirus was gone he put down his pen and sighed. You will do whatever you want once the battle starts, and so will Colivar. Don’t you think I know that? This way, at least you may respect my prohibition when you can, as opposed to writing it off entirely.
Maybe if he repeated that often enough, he would believe it.
Gwynofar found Salvator at the edge of the field, almost alone. Now that Farah’s people were finally gone, he was allowed to walk more than ten feet away from his guards without them protesting, but they were still watching him, albeit from a respectful distance. She felt a pang of sympathy in her heart, knowing how much he valued the quiet solitude of meditation. But until they went home again, this was as close as he was going to get to being alone.
“Salvator,” she said gently.
He turned to her.
“I heard about the witches,” she said.
He sighed and shut his eyes for a moment. “Why would their love of God make them incapable of learning?” he whispered. “Is it my fault? Have I offended against the Creator somehow? Is this His punishment for me, to send me into battle with my forces hamstrung?”
“Surely he wouldn’t do that to one so faithful.”
“I vowed obedience to His will, and I have fallen short. Time and time again I’ve compromised His law for political expediency, or else just to please others.” You being one of them, his expression reminded her. “Now I sit at a table with Magisters and listen to how they will play a part in this war, as if they were no more than morati marshals. Not all the penance in the world is enough to cleanse that stain from my soul,” he said bitterly.
“Salvator. You are a king. A Penitent king. If your god wants such a creature to exist in the world, then He must make allowances for the things a king has to do.”
He sighed heavily. “I told Ramirus I wouldn’t forbid him from using sorcery.”
She said it softly: “I heard that too.”
“What other choice did I have? He’s not going to restrain himself for my sake, if he perceives that his life is at stake. So I can play the fanatic and pretend that isn’t the case, insist that he go into battle on my terms rather than his, and then watch as he blithely disregards my authority . . . or I can put on a show of compromise and hope that the few conditions I do insist on—the ones that really matter—will be respected.”
She put a gentle hand on his arm. “It was a wise call, my son.”
“Then why are the Penitent witches failing?” he demanded. “What if He doesn’t want us to fight this war at all, Mother? What if He brought the Souleaters back to punish mankind for its sins, and He doesn’t want us destroying them until they’ve finished their job? Might he not give us one last warning, in that case? One last warning to withdraw from this affair of our own free will, before He takes matters into His own hands?”
“The leaders of your Church sanctioned this campaign,” she reminded him. “If your god didn’t want this to happen, don’t you think he would have sent them some kind of sign before this?”
“Perhaps He did. Perhaps they missed it. The entire First Age of Kings misread the will of the Creator, didn’t they? The Souleaters were sent as a warning, and they never understood that. So their world was destroyed. If the leaders of my Church repeat their mistake, doesn’t it stand to reason that the same penance might be applied to them?”
“Would your god destroy a whole world for the sake of a few?”
“My god is the Creator, from whom all life descends. He fashioned this world as an act of divine love, and He gave mankind all that he needs to prosper. My god is also the Destroyer, whose job it is to cleanse the world of sin. If mankind’s spiritual corruption becomes so great that mere prayers and penance can no longer address the problem, then it is His duty to step in and wipe the slate clean, so that man can start over. As He did once before.”
Gwynofar sighed. Your god demands a perfection of man that is not in his nature, she thought. But she squeezed his arm gently and said in her softest, most comforting voice, “I know nothing about these things, my son. All I know is that come daybreak we’ll be heading out to Jezalya, and you need a good night’s sleep before that. For better or for worse, we’re committed to this now. Try not to torment yourself with doubts that have no practical purpose.” She paused. “Have one of the witches help you sleep if you need to.” When he didn’t respond she prodded him gently with her finger. “Promise me.”
A faint, pained smile flickered across his face. “I promise, Mother.”
She drew him down to her and kissed him gently on the forehead. Then she quietly took her leave. As she headed back to the encampment, she whispered a prayer to her own gods. Not to any one of them in particular . . . just anyone who cared to listen.
Help me, she begged. I know he’s wrong. He has to be wrong. Give me the tools I need to prove it to him, so he can go into battle armored in the confidence of his faith, not weakened by doubt.
The wings of the Throne of Tears are dark and silent, inviting Gwynofar into their embrace. She trembles, remembering her first experience with the artifact, and one hand moves reflexively over her stomach, mourning the child who was lost that day.
The ancient knowledge of the lyr is linked to this artifact. Surely she can find the answers she needs here.
But her legs feel weak beneath her as she steps up onto the dais. She can see where her crusted blood still adorns the grotesque chair. Wasted, all of it wasted, until the ultimate sacrifice was offered. If she had known what would be required of her, would she have followed the same path? Or would she have given in to a mother’s strongest instinct and backed away from the Throne, protecting her unborn child at any cost? Even if that meant that all the others in the tower would have to die? The question has haunted her ever since that terrible day.
How merciful the gods were, to have removed the choice from her hands.
Trembling, she lowers herself down onto the throne, resting her arms along its deeply carved arms. Her fingers curl down naturally over the ends, fitting themselves in between the polished claws, fingertips brushing the faceted crystals they hold.. A single flake of dried blood,
dislodged by her motion, falls to the floor.
Show me the way, she prays to her gods. Show me what I am here for.
The gods respond.
This time she is prepared for what the Throne will do to her, but even so, the raw force of the power that surges into her leaves her breathless. Molten ecstasy and pain and fear and despair and yearning: a maelstrom of living energy. It bursts forth from her and reaches out to all the other lyr, connecting her to all of them, connecting them to each other, not only on a personal level but through every social network that exists. Man to woman, family to family, bloodline to bloodline . . . a burning web starts taking shape around her, with a point of searing light at each intersection. Some points are brighter than others, and some lines of connection are stronger than others, but overall its purpose is clear: it is a map of her people, charting their metaphysical connections. The overall pattern matches the faceting of the black crystal, as if that stone were an attempt to capture the essence of this vision in material form.
Then she catches sight of something between the lines of power. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the supernatural display, she struggles to see what it is. After a moment she can barely make out a dim point of light, almost invisible beside the brilliance of the lyr network. Looking about the map, she finds one more. And another. They are all over the place, filling the darkness between the glowing strands. If the points of bright light represent the lyr, are these meant to symbolize the people who are not lyr? How sad they seem! Isolated fragments of humanity that have no connection with one another, no existence outside of their own identity. The strands of the lyr web brush past them, but do not connect; in the midst of all the network’s thrumming power they remain dim, isolated, eternally disconnected from the power that the Throne has awakened . . . .
Gwynofar’s eyes shot open. For a moment she just lay there, heart pounding, as her mind struggled back to full waking consciousness. Then, in a hoarse voice, she called for her maidservant.
The girl who appeared a moment later had obviously been roused from a sound sleep. “Majesty? Is everything all right?”
“Go get Shina,” Gwynofar whispered. “Now.” She sat up and reached for her dressing gown. “Tell her that I know what we must do.”
Chapter 33
T
HE STORM over the Sea of Tears arrived with no warning. One moment the sky was clear and bright—a perfect summer day—and a moment later clouds swept in. Dark thunderheads reared up like stampeding horses, blotting out the sun, casting the beaches of the Free States into shadow and turning the sea black as ink. Below the clouds, in an increasingly choppy sea, sailors struggled to make it to the safety of a port—any port—before the storm worsened. But it was already hard to navigate. The wind seemed to shift direction back and forth repeatedly, a bizarre and unnatural pattern that made the sailors doubly afraid. It was as if nature itself had gone mad, forgetting all the rules that usually governed storms.
By the time the sun set, the entire sky was almost entirely black, and bands of rain whipped across sea and shore in a pounding rhythm. One thin band of orange light that managed to work its way into the storm was caught up by the rain, making it seems as if liquid fire were raining down on everything.
Then lightning began. Flashes of blinding light raced across the heavens one after the other, accompanied by ear-splitting cracks. Most of the bolts did not strike downward, but rather traveled from cloud to cloud, as if great storm gods were dueling among themselves. So frequent and bright were the flashes that the entire sky seemed to pulse with light, and the thunder was so loud at times that it made the sailors’ ears ring.
On the shores of the Free States, in the ports of Anshasa, on board ships that were struggling to stay afloat in a world gone mad, desperate prayers were voiced. For surely a storm such as this was not natural, and nothing less than a god’s intervention would be required to end it. Yet even as the sailors prayed, they noted that the seas were not as high as they should be, given the ferocity of the winds. It was as if some outside force were keeping the waves artificially low while the heavens went wild overhead, so that their ships would not capsize.
Eventually the terrible display subsided. The lightning became less frequent, and the clouds began to thin. When they finally parted, one could see that night had fallen during the storm, and a single crescent moon now glowed in the heavens like a beacon of hope. Fearfully, men and women who lived by the sea eased their shutters open, hesitant to trust that the unnatural storm had passed. Many left candles burning on their family altars until dawn, just in case.
The Magisters who saw the storm did not pray. They watched it with quiet interest but not with any sense of wonder, for they instinctively sensed its cause. They didn’t know the names of the Magisters who had conjured it, or even how many of them there were—clearly it was the work of more than one sorcerer—but they knew what its purpose had been. Weather-working was one of the most costly and difficult arts in a sorcerer’s repertoire, and no man undertook a project like that unless there was a purpose to it. Somewhere in the world, one or more consorts had been deliberately drained of their final soulfire. Somewhere else in the world, the same number of new consorts had been claimed, fresh and vital. The only thing the Magisters who were watching did not know—and wondered about—was what sort of monumental effort was about to take place, that required more than one of their kind to be at the peak of his strength.
By morning, the sea was still once more.
Chapter 34
T
HE WITCHES gathered in the chill of early morning, as the sun was just beginning to rise. The thin band of light that played along the eastern horizon was not yet enough to see by, so torches had been lit, and their flickering light illuminated nearly a hundred expectant faces.
Penitent faces.
“They are all here,” Salvator said.
Gwynofar nodded. She could feel the force of their strange faith like a glowing warmth against her face, defying the morning’s chill. Not faith in her gods, perhaps, but still a powerful sacred energy. She stood still for a moment, letting the sensation envelop her, drawing strength from it. Salvator waited patiently by her side, respectful of the moment’s solemnity.
Finally she nodded. He held out his arm to her, and together they stepped up onto the dais. A sea of faces looked up at them, and it seemed to Gwynofar all the shapes and colors of mankind were represented in this gathering. As it must have been during the Great War, she thought. That army had been made up of the last survivors of their age, coming together to pool their resources in a final desperate attempt to save their world. This time the strike would be preemptive, but the act was no less universal.
When she saw that all eyes were upon her, she drew in a deep breath, trying to still the fluttering of her heart. All the paths they had traveled thus far had led to this one place, this one moment. It was impossible to be here and not feel the weight of destiny upon one’s shoulders.
Mankind’s destiny begins or ends with us.
She unhooked the padded leather pouch at her side and withdrew the precious item it guarded. Holding it up before the crowd, she turned it in her hand so that its black facets caught the torchlight. It seemed to her she could feel energy thrumming within the ancient crystal.
“This is the blood of the ancient martyrs,” she announced, “safeguarded down through the generations by the Protectors, preserved by witchery until the day of our need. It is the living essence of men and women who came together to fight when it seemed all hope was lost, and who ultimately sacrificed their lives to save a world. From each of them a single drop of life’s substance was taken, and with it a trace of that person’s spirit. Courage. Faith. Sacrifice. All bound together into what you see here so that it might come down to us intact and strengthen our spirits in the darkest of hours.” She turned the sphere so that its facets caught the torchlight
“This is your inheritance. Your birthright. Bequeathed by men and wo
men of courage to their spiritual descendants.” She breathed in deeply. “What more precious gift can there be than the essence of one’s own life? What greater wisdom can there be than to foresee the trials that are yet to come, and to prepare the tools your children will need to face them?” She held the sphere up high, so that all could see it clearly. “Know that these men and women, your ancestors in spirit, divided their most precious knowledge into thousands of pieces, and scattered those pieces all across the earth, not to make it hard to find, but so that tyrants hungry for power would look past it. In their wisdom and foresight they wove their knowledge into songs—into prayers—into prophecies—so that even the burning of all the world’s books would not have the power to destroy it all. And they trusted that if darkness ever fell again—when darkness fell again—their descendants would search out all those fragments and learn how to reassemble them.
“This we have done.”
She lowered the sphere. “Tonight you become family to those men and women in body as well as spirit, so that their last and most precious gift can be shared with you.”
Shina had been waiting quietly in the shadows to one side of the dais. When Gwynofar nodded to her, she approached, offering her a large silver chalice. Gwynofar took the chalice in her free hand and positioned it in front of her, holding the black sphere directly over it.
“Return it to its original form,” she ordered.
Shina shut her eyes for a moment. Gwynofar could see her lips move as she recited the incantation that would help her focus her power. When she opened them, a strange light seemed to shine forth from her. Not a physical light, Gwynofar thought, but a mystical one.
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