By the time he got to the room where the altercation was taking place, several members of the palace guard had assembled outside, wary of entering without some kind of instruction from him. From inside came the kind of sounds one would expect from combat, though it didn’t sound as though metal weapons were being used. Nasaan wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign.
“The Lady Consort said we should remain outside—” a servant began.
He did not wait for the end of that sentence either, but drew his sword and pushed his way through the half-open door. The room had been stripped bare of all its normal decorations, he saw, and racks of weapons from the armory had been arranged against one wall. The sand shutters were tightly closed, reducing the early morning light to a bare minimum, and the few lamps that had been set up in the four corners of the room did little to dispel the shadows. There was indeed a fight going on, between Nyuku and a tall, black-haired man, and while no weapons had been drawn, it was clearly more than a simple wrestling match. Gouts of flame accompanied blows that were struck faster than a human limb should be able to move, and shadows and smoke swirled in the air between the two contestants, only to be quickly extinguished. Blood appeared, then became a cloud of crimson mist, then was gone. He could hear bones cracking under blows so forceful they seemed to make the whole room shake, but the one who had been struck would simply glance at his shattered limb and then reengage his opponent.
Thus do demons fight, he thought darkly.
He saw Siderea in one corner of the room. Her eyes were bright and moist as they followed the fight, and her full lips were parted in an expression that was both sensual and disturbing. When she saw him enter, she waved him over to her, and she put her hand on his free arm as he drew close. “They can’t see or hear us,” she said quietly, and he saw no reason to think that she was lying. Her pulse was hard and rapid, like a woman in the throes of pleasure, and the scent that rose from her skin was something that belonged in a bedroom more than an armory. It made him more wary than the battle itself, and he pulled away from her, putting enough distance between them that the scent of her arousal was less intrusive.
“What is this all about?” he demanded.
“What it’s always about,” she answered. Nasaan watched as Nyuku grabbed hold of his opponent in what might have been a death-grip among normal men, but the black-haired stranger simply altered his form into a more flexible shape and slipped from his grasp. He left behind him a sheet of blue flame that clung to Nyuku everywhere the two had made contact, but that was quickly extinguished. The action was almost too fast for Nasaan to follow, but he had the impression there was much more going on than was visible to the human eye. “Power,” she continued. “Lust. Dominance.” She paused; her lips curled into a smile that was warm on the surface but utterly chilling in its essence. “Courtship.”
He remembered the last time he had seen that smile. He had been on a battlefield then, and she had stood within a circle of death, the blood of living men falling about her feet like rain. He had feared what she was capable of, even as he’d lusted for what she was offering him. That formula had never changed.
She had toyed with whole armies that night, for her pleasure. Tonight it was only two men, but the hunger driving her was clearly the same. And for the first time since he had known her, its nature was undisguised. Nasaan could read the truth in that cold, predatory smile. He could smell it on her skin. And as two men attempted to tear each other to pieces in front of her, he knew for the first time exactly what the name of that hunger was.
Or perhaps he had always known. Perhaps he had simply not wanted to acknowledge it.
Let them die for me, her expression proclaimed.
Speed and strength. That was what mattered. Speed and strength enough that Nyuku would be forced to respond in kind. Nothing else offered hope.
Colivar clung to that thought, even while fear and despair pounded in his veins. Fighting with a sorcerer was futile. He knew that. He had been alive in the days when Magisters were still allowed to kill each other, and he knew how it had to be done. By surprise. By stealth. Nothing else worked. When you were dealing with a man who could heal any wound with a single thought, and who could protect himself from any attack he saw coming, the only way you could take him down was to give him no warning and allow no time for healing. And since a skilled Magister could detect hostile intent in an enemy, that meant you couldn’t even plan out your actions in advance. How often did all those elements come together?
But refusing to fight was not an option. The beast within him had risen to the surface, and its rage was not to be contained. Memories of past pain and humiliation welled up inside him, awakening a hunger for vengeance so powerful that all other thoughts were simply swept aside. All of his being was focused upon one thing and one thing only: taking down the man who had bested him so many years ago, driving him into the embrace of madness.
The chamber they were in restricted their sorcery, forcing them to fight as morati would fight—strength against strength, speed against speed, a primitive physical contest. Sorcery flickered about them, but they were too evenly matched for it to make a difference. Flames engulfed Colivar, but he doused them before they could ignite his clothing; poisonous smoke shot into Nyuku’s lungs, but the Kannoket neutralized it with a thought. The fact that neither of them could transform the air or summon foreign elements into the chamber made it next to impossible to conjure any malign force of consequence; even a fireball, lacking proper fuel, would extinguish itself within seconds. But their own bodies were fair game, and Colivar was quick to realize the potential of that. The sweat on his skin could be transformed into an acid mist. His own breath easily became toxic smoke. But conjuring such effects entailed considerable risk, and Colivar knew it was something that must be done carefully lest he poison himself in the process.
And then there were the weapons.
Colivar dared not touch them for fear they were entrapped, but Nyuku was under no such restriction. With one wild gesture he levitated all the swords from their rack and sent them hurtling toward Colivar. The Magister transformed the natural oils of his own skin into an impermeable shield—just in time, for in that fraction of a second in which he was distracted Nyuku transformed his fingers into an ikati’s talons and swiped at his throat. What an inept fool, using the same sort of physical assault that Colivar had just established protection from! As it was, the swords slammed into Colivar from the side, but they did not pierce his skin; Nyuku’s blue-black talons skittered across his body as if it were made of stone.
Out of the corner of his eye Colivar could see that the swords that missed him continued on in their flight until they struck the wall. All save a group of three, which stopped in midflight as if some giant hand had grabbed hold of them, then dropped to the floor with a clatter. So. Apparently there was an unseen audience that did not wish to be skewered.
He could not tell how long they fought, but thin rays of sunlight soon began to lance through cracks in the shutters, and the air about them was warming. Good. Nyuku would be at a disadvantage in the full heat of day, and more likely to make mistakes. Already Colivar could see that his opponent was tiring, and once or twice the man seemed to stumble. Was that exhaustion, or something more significant? It was clear that Nyuku was enhancing his own strength and speed to match Colivar’s, which was what he had been pressing for. If such a transformation wasn’t done properly it could destroy the very body it was meant to protect. The thin, porous bones and slender ligaments of a normal human body were not sufficient to anchor what their muscles were becoming, and the unnatural exertion was pouring toxins into their flesh with every moment. Colivar had made allowances for all that. Had Nyuku? If the Kannoket’s body failed him from the inside, that would be one precious instant in which he would have to focus on healing while Colivar still had full use of his sorcery. It would only provide a moment’s advantage, but one moment could mean the difference between life and death in a contest
like this.
Colivar grappled with Nyuku, hands shifting into claws as the Kannoket’s flesh reshaped itself to break free, forcing him to exert himself beyond any human limits . . . and he could feel the break as it occurred. Not the simple crack of a limb that resulted from blunt force impact, but the shattering of a bone from the inside, after it had finally been stressed to its breaking point. He could hear Nyuku’s grunt of surprise and could feel him withdrawing his concentration from their grapple as he focused all his attention on weaving his broken flesh back together.
And in that precious instant Colivar lifted him up and heaved him against the stone wall, headfirst, as hard as he could. He didn’t expect he’d be able to crush the man’s head so easily—though it would have been nice—but his action forced Nyuku to shift his focus from internal healing to external defense so quickly that he could not pay attention to his environment at the same time. At what point would he realize that Colivar had chosen an impact point just above the rack of spears? He could save his head or control his fall, but he could not do both at once.
One second of confusion. That was all Colivar needed, one extra second in which to conjure his weapon of choice, in the way that it needed to be done. Now he had it. The instant he released Nyuku, he bound the sweat on one hand, transforming it into an inert, impermeable surface that covered his hand like a glove. Then he touched his palm to his forehead, picking up a few drops of sweat, and he transformed those as well. He trembled slightly as he did so, for he knew just how deadly this weapon was, but he might not get a second chance to try this.
Nyuku twisted in midair, and even as he hit the wall he began using sorcery to melt the spears beneath him. Colivar could not have asked for more. He lunged toward Nyuku and grasped him briefly in a place where he was unarmored, so that the substance coating his palm was pressed tightly against the Kannoket’s bare skin. The rider’s body shuddered, and it crashed into the rack of weapons before they were fully blunted. Most of the blades were deflected by his ikati armor, but one that was directly beneath him punched through, and Colivar could hear Nyuku moan in fear—not from the pain but from what else was happening to him.
Then he tumbled to the ground and fell silent. The body twitched a few times, but it was clear that he had no control of it. Or over his mind, apparently. For a moment Colivar just stood there, waiting for some movement that might indicate his plan had not worked. But at last it was clear that Nyuku was fully unconscious. Their fight was over.
The beast within Colivar screamed for him to rip out his rival’s throat and consummate their vengeance by drinking his blood, but he shook his head and focused on his sorcery once more. Pain lanced through his transformed muscles, exacerbated by physical exhaustion, as he carefully banished the substance he had spread across his palm, making sure that not even a single bit of it remained. The poison that Lazaroth had used on Kamala was far too volatile for any Magister to handle safely. Thank the gods he’d had the foresight to study the traces of it that remained on his ring when he had rescued it from Tefilat.
Banishing the layer he had conjured to protect his hand from the stuff, he turned to face his audience. Knowing with certainty who must be there, but no less shaken to see her.
Siderea Aminestas.
She was dressed in an opulent gown of deep purple silk, with some kind of crown resting on the thick dark curls of her hair and a necklace of golden drops trickling down between her full breasts like rainwater. Her scent was a mixture of human arousal and the spicy-sweet smell of a Souleater queen; he trembled as it filled his nostrils, stirring memories anew. Nyuku was no longer a threat to him, but his body was a trophy of conquest. An offering to be laid before her. He remembered other bodies in other times, dead warriors in their blue-black carapaces, which he had laid at the feet of various queens. He struggled to control the sudden flood tide of memory, but the battle with Nyuku had opened the door to his past, and he could not force it shut. He had been a queen’s mate once. Nyuku had stolen that from him. Now he would reclaim what was rightfully his.
There was a man standing next to Siderea. For a brief moment Colivar wondered if he would have to fight him as well. But though the man was armed, and clearly wary of Colivar, the same energy was not there. This man had never known the glory of flight, nor surrendered to an ikati’s hunger. He was as relevant to their business as a pet dog would be.
Now it was time for Colivar to answer to that hunger. Time for the ancient ritual to be completed at last. Slowly, muscles aching, he went down on one knee, and bowed his head. He could hear Siderea’s sharp intake of breath as he did so; he thought he could feel the pounding of her heart echo within his own chest.
“I have killed for you,” he whispered.
Flying in icy skies, drunk on the scent of the queen . . . tasting the enemy’s blood in his mouth . . . this, this is my offering, this is my strength, this is my worth . . . I have killed for you, my queen!
Kamala’s eyes shot open. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The images being channeled from Colivar had been so powerful that it was hard to focus on anything else.
Then she realized why that was happening.
She turned to Salvator. “He’s with her.” She could taste the truth of the words on her lips even as she spoke them. “Go!”
The High King signaled to the lead witches, who moved into position and began to concentrate. Six portals appeared in neat array. Silently, efficiently, the teams that had been waiting patiently in place for nearly an hour began to step into them.
Two witches would establish a traditional barrier at each arrival point, by the fastest method possible. Two more would perform the spellsong ritual, a lengthier process; they would weave a more permanent construct once linkage was solidly established. Other witches would protect them from supernatural assault while they worked. Soldiers would stand guard against more traditional attacks. And when everything was in place and the final barrier was sealed, so that Siderea could no longer help her Souleater queen escape the trap, the secondary teams would transport in to help protect everyone.
Then it would be Kamala’s turn.
Her heart pounding, she tried not to think about Colivar. He had played his part, and now she must play hers. She needed to focus on her own role in this campaign and not be distracted by worrying about him.
But something in that last series of images had been deeply disturbing. Not the overwhelming sense of an ikati presence—though that was truly daunting—so much as what had been missing. There had been no human element in that vision. No human element in him. Gods willing, that was no more than just a quirk of the spell she was using to connect to him, reducing his mindset to its most basic elements. Gods willing, he had not surrendered his human self entirely.
Because once he did that, she was not sure he would ever be able to find his way back.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she stared out at the desert, using her Sight rather than her sorcery. Shimmering sparks seemed to play about the edges of a vast circle with Jezalya at its center as the witches took up their places one by one, casting their spells. Kamala could see the shimmer of witchery take shape over various portions of the landscape, gleaming in the sunlight like vast plates of glass. The sections were not uniform in nature but differed in their depth and luminosity, and where they met, the power shimmered and rippled like air over sun-baked sand. Slowly, piece by piece, a dome of power was being erected with Jezalya at its center, and presumably a matching dome was being established underneath the sands as well, enveloping the city above and below in a perfect globe. It was a powerful but unstable construct, with too many different minds feeding into it; Kamala’s Sight could pick out tremors of energy coursing through the dome at irregular intervals, and they crashed into one another at the seams where the different conjurations met, sending thin sprays of witchery into the air.
She consulted Colivar’s ring briefly to make sure that Siderea was still within the city walls. Judging fro
m his state of mind, she was. She nodded to Ramirus and Salvator to let them know that. So far so good.
Now the spellsong was being established, and Kamala could see the barrier being transformed by it. The tremors of power that had roiled across the dome’s surface grew quieter, then ceased; the fracture lines between the segments faded and then disappeared; a soft, measured light began to emanate from the whole of the dome, no brighter or dimmer in any one place than another. Where there had once been wild currents and eddies of power and the collision of mismatched planes, there now was a single, uniform whole, as clear as a flawless crystal. It seemed to Kamala that it had not merely been improved in its visible aspect but that it was stronger in its substance as well. Such a construct might well succeed in binding a powerful witch . . . or even a Magister.
And Gwynofar was a part of it. Kamala had never fully understood the nature of the special relationship she had with the lyr, which helped her link them all together, but it was clearly visible now. The same arcane light that shimmered from the crystal dome surrounded her as well; the same sense of balanced power that gave it strength resonated in her aura. No creature with supernatural sight could possibly mistake the fact that she was central to this undertaking, if not the metaphysical keystone for the entire project. The shimmering dome of witchery was a visible extension of her person.
Then Ramirus met Kamala’s eyes, and she knew that her turn had finally come.
Raising up her arms, she bade the power come to her. Athra rushed into her soul, drawn so swiftly from her unnamed consort that it still carried a whisper of life’s warmth about it as she molded it to her purpose. Holding the image of a Souleater queen in her mind, she surrendered herself to transformation. This was no easy change, as adopting the form of a familiar creature would be, but it required that she create her new body by conscious effort—crafting it scale by scale, cell by cell, even as she fixed Colivar’s image of the queen within her mind. As she did so, she imagined she could feel the ikati essence within herself stirring, expanding—exulting in its new horizons—and she surrendered herself to that as well. If she was to call the others to flight successfully, and keep them engaged after that, she would need every ounce of ikati instinct in her soul to be active.
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