Silence fell over the table.
“Well then.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think that should be the first order of business.”
“Are you offering your services?” Ramirus asked him.
The black eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I would not presume to step forward in a matter you are obviously well qualified to handle. Some Magisters might deem that an insult, yes?” He chuckled softly. “Far be it from me to insult anyone.”
“There are means that can be applied without undue risk,” Suhr-Halim pointed out. His accent was more noticeable than most, with a lilting rhythm that hinted at vast expanses of desert sands beneath golden sunsets. “To examine the prince’s fate in a general sense, to seek knowledge of his past associations . . . if this woman is significant to him she could surely be found there. It would not be a dangerous undertaking so long as one did not seek to trace the consort’s bond directly.”
Lazaroth looked pointedly at their host. “Ramirus, this is your affair, I assume you would be willing to attempt this?”
The challenge hung thickly in the room’s still air for a moment. Colivar resisted the urge to either bait Ramirus or come to his rescue. The first would have been excessive at this point and the second simply out of character. Instead he waited, which was a kind of challenge all by itself.
Finally the white-haired mage said quietly, “I will attempt it.” His voice was low and even but the look he shot Lazaroth was murderous. Colivar repressed a smile of amusement. Yes, there were ways to seek out such information without running the risk of getting sucked into a consort’s bond, but Ramirus had never been the innovative type and it was doubtful he would come up with anything truly creative. Perhaps when enough nights had passed that the Magister Royal became embarrassed over his lack of progress, Colivar might suggest a few. For a price, of course.
My, the game just gets better and better.
“Then it is decided.” Lazaroth pushed his chair back, scraping its wooden legs noisily against the stone floor. “With no offense to this company, I see no reason to continue with this discussion until our host has completed his investigation. When he has done so, hopefully we will have some real facts to deal with, not just sorcerous fairy tales about hypothetical creatures.” He looked around at the other Magisters, his lips quirking slightly in what could only be distaste. “Frankly, the company here . . . wears thin.”
He bowed slightly to Ramirus as he left, a formal gesture not one inch deeper or more sincere than strict protocol required, and left the room. After a moment, with similar leavetaking, Fadir followed. Then Thelas. Then Kellam.
At last there were only Colivar and Ramirus in the room. Colivar was still comfortably ensconced in his chair, and remained in that position as the Magister Royal’s cold, steely gaze fixed upon him.
“If I ever find out you were part of this,” Ramirus warned, “or that this Witch-Queen of yours was behind it somehow and you knew about it—or even suspected it—so help me gods, Law or no Law, I will have your head. Do you understand me, Colivar?”
“I am as much in the dark as you are,” the black-haired Magister responded. “And equally anxious to find out the answers. This matter threatens us all, does it not?”
For a long moment Ramirus just stared at him. Perhaps he was secretly binding power to read Colivar’s intentions. If so, Colivar was confident in his own defenses. No man walked into a meeting of Magisters without first making sure that his own mental armor could not be pierced.
He wondered how many of those present had been probing for each others’ secrets even while they spoke of other things. What a tapestry of power must have been woven this night, connecting all the Magisters like the sticky strands of some vast spider’s web! He almost regretted he had not joined in the game himself, for the sheer entertainment of it. But he much preferred reading men by subtler means—some might say by morati means—and he had never cared for working superfluous sorcery in the company of his own kind. Yes, in theory the Magisters were all here under a flag of truce, but he did not wish to wager his life on how well that truce would hold should one of them fall into that defenseless state which accompanied Transition. A thousand spells might be woven about a man in the instant it took him to claim a new consort, and Colivar had no intention of inviting such an assault while he was surrounded by his fiercest rivals.
Imagine what it would be like, he mused, if we really could control that bond! Imagine what it would would be like if a Magister could cast loose his current consort at a convenient moment, before its athra was completely exhausted, and so choose the time and place of his next Transition.
Would we spare their lives then, if we could? Or simply choose the moment that best suited our own convenience, with no thought for the ones we were destroying? If it was no longer necessary to kill a consort to stay alive, would we continue to do so out of habit? Or not even care enough to question it?
The questions were oddly disturbing. But they were also a novelty, and novelty was always welcome in a Magister’s life. When one lived as long as Colivar had, divorced from all the normal rhythms of human life, one understood that the greatest danger lay not in the treachery of rivals, or even the possibility of sorcerous mishap—it lay in boredom, and the tricks a human mind might play upon itself when it had no outside matters to occupy its attention.
No fear of that now, Colivar thought dryly.
Chapter 9
AS SOON as Ethanus saw the woodpile, he knew. It was stacked twice as high as usual, with a neatness rare even for Kamala. The pieces had been fitted together with almost artistic grace, like the interlocking stones of the wall they had built around the house so long ago, and the ends butted up flush against an imaginary plane, each one exactly the same length as the next.
He wondered if she even knew she had done her work differently that day . . . or the reasons for it.
He did.
She was waiting inside. Like the woodpile she was neat and tidy, her normally wild hair tamed to a simulacrum of civilized style, her clothing scrubbed clean of any hint of labor or exertion. Her wide eyes fixed on him as he entered, and he reflected for a moment upon how very beautiful they were, and how much he was going to miss looking at them. Even her fingernails were clean; that was the first thing he had taught her to do, back when he had finally accepted her as a student.
“Master Ethanus—” she began.
But he raised a hand to quiet her. “I’m a bit thirsty, Kamala. Are you? It’s a dry day.”
He walked by her and went to the fireplace, where a kettle was waiting. It was far easier to focus on something else now, something that had no feelings attached to it, so he fixed his attention on the kettle. He peered inside to see steam rising from the surface of the water within and nodded his approval. He reached for two ceramic cups from the shelf and set them to one side, then fetched the box of herbal tea he kept by the mantle. He put one pinch in each cup, put the box away, and took up the kettle. He poured hot water over each portion, slowly, watching the dried leaves swirl in the current.
All in silence. Trying not to think. Trying not to feel.
At last, when the ritual was concluded, he brought the cups to where she sat and handed her one. The tiny leaves bled color into the water slowly, gracefully, and the aroma of the herb filled the small house like perfume.
“So it is time for you to leave me,” he said quietly. Not a question.
She bit her lip for a moment, staring silently into her teacup, then nodded. “I’ve learned so much from you, Master Ethanus. And from this place. But there are things I cannot learn here.”
He grunted softly and sipped his tea. It was safer not to say anything.
“You could come with me,” she offered.
They both knew the answer, so he said nothing, just drank his tea in silence.
Why is this so hard? He wondered. By the time my other apprentices left me I was practically ready to throw them out of the house. Why is this one so different?
/> When she finished her tea she swirled the leaves about in the bottom of the cup and studied their pattern. That was the Seer in her, playing at witchery. From where he sat he could see a simple circle. The wheel of fate. Time passes, things change, all things have their proper moment.
“The power burns inside me like fire,” she said quietly. “Some nights I think it will consume me if I do not give it an outlet.”
“You know the danger in that.”
She nodded.
“You must be master of the soulfire, or you will become its slave.”
Outside the sun was beginning to set; a random shaft of light flickered in through the window to illuminate her red hair briefly, like a halo, then was gone. Ephemeral beauty. Too wild to be that of an angel, too perfect to be anything less.
“You are a child of the city streets,” he said quietly, “of the reeking mob with all its tensions, of casual violence and hot tears and the clamor of multitudes living in despair. You left those places to gain the power that would enable you to survive them. Now you have it and it stands to reason you would want to return. To test yourself.”
She nodded.
“I fear I have given you very little to help in that regard.” He drank the last few drops of his tea and set his cup aside. His own leaves huddled damply in the bottom, an uninspirational lump. “Perhaps you should have sought out something better than an old hermit for your teacher.”
She came to where he sat and knelt before him. Her warm hands took his own in a loving grasp. The long, slender fingers were calloused at the tips, marked by past labors she was too proud to disown. She could have any skin she wanted now.
“You,” she whispered, “have given me life, and power, and the hunger to devour all the knowledge the world has to offer. What more could I ask from any teacher?”
“I have not prepared you well for the outside world.”
“Ask rather if the world is prepared for me.”
Despite himself he smiled. “The Magisters will not welcome you.”
Mischevious energies flashed in her eyes. “And I have made myself welcome before, where men did not desire me to be. Yes?”
He sighed, catching her fingers in his own and squeezing them tightly. “Don’t underestimate them, Kamala. Men who exist in a private world without women do not take well to its invasion. Not to mention that your very existence puts a lie to much of what they have been taught about the power. And proud men do not like to be corrected.”
The proud eyes glittered defiantly. “Are you suggesting I hide from them?”
“You? Never.” A faint smile creased the corners of his mouth. “Just . . . be careful. Be discreet. You can be discreet, can’t you? Pass as a witch for a while, at least until you get your bearings. Don’t let them know something new has come into the world until the announcement can be made on your own terms.” He paused, and when she said nothing, “Will you promise me that?”
“As much as fate allows me to control such things,” she said quietly.
“They will put you to tests once they know. Tests they intend you to fail. Tests that will draw blood from your very soul.” His eyes met hers and held them. “They will want you to fail. You must understand that. Your very existence upsets the order of the world as they have been taught it. Once they acknowledge you as Magister they may no longer seek your life—that goes against the customs of our kind—but anything else is fair game. And if they can prove to themselves that you are not truly a Magister, but an imposter, a witch with no more than a few fancy tricks and pretensions of grandeur, then they will hunt you in earnest for the sheer sport of it.”
The diamond eyes narrowed slightly. Her tone became solemn. “My teacher . . . I was sold on the streets before my adult teeth came fully in, and I survived it. I lost my mother to the Green Plague soon after that, and also my home, and I survived it. I have seen such trials and known such cruelty as I will not speak of, and been tested against the darkest, most base instincts of mankind . . . and survived it all.” She stroked his cheek gently with a calloused finger; the corners of her mouth quirked into a smile. “What makes you think I can’t handle a passel of Magisters as well? Maybe I, too, would enjoy the sport.”
He caught up her hand in his own and squeezed it. For a moment there was something in her eyes too tentative for words that held his own gaze captive. For a moment—just a moment—she was a woman before him, and all the barriers he had placed between them so that they might function properly as student and teacher ceased to exist. He was suddenly very aware of her body—the warmth of her hand within his own, the faint scent of pine wood that clung to her fingertips, the rise and fall of her breath—and of a question in her eyes that was all the more powerful for not being voiced.
No, not a question. An offer.
Remember me, they seemed to say, for all I have been to you. And more.
Slowly, carefully, he put her hand down and released it. A faint sheen of moisture remained upon his palm, perfumed with her sweat. He resisted the urge to raise up his hand nearer to his face, to breathe it in. Already it seemed to him that her presence was fading from the house and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in it so that he would never forget her.
And then the moment passed, as such fantasies do, and he shook his head ever so slightly, answering them both.
“You were my most gifted—and exasperating—student. And I will always think of you as such.”
“That is not Magister tradition,” she said softly.
“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”
He took a ring off his finger. It was a thin silver band given to him many years ago, one of the few adornments he had kept when he left Ulran. He put it into her hands and folded her fingers over it. “With this you can speak to me if you have need, and even come to me, without having need to drain an army of men dry of athra to do it.”
“And we are not to be rivals? Antagonists?” Her eyes were teasing but her tone held a note of uncertainty in it; which of the two spoke for her heart? “Is that not Magister custom also?”
“It is,” he agreed. “And the morati world would be a lot better off if it weren’t.” He picked up the two teacups and rose from his seat, swishing them about one last time to see if the leaves within had any final messages to offer. “However, as I am already an exception to the rules by living as I do, and as you are one by your mere existence, I don’t think breaking another rule is likely to upset anything.” He raised an eyebrow and looked back at her. “Or that you would give a damn if it did.”
She grinned at that and the fire blazed in her eyes and the stolen heat of her soul warmed his face like a bonfire.
Yes, he thought, with an ache in his heart, it is time for you to go. A fire that bright would burn down any house that tried to contain it.
May the gods help the Magisters if they make an enemy of you.
Chapter 10
MIDNIGHT.
The breeze had stilled long ago and summer’s heat lay heavy in the courtyard. The guards spoke little as they exchanged places, new soldiers taking up the pole arms and banners of the old in preparation for their turn at vigil.
Atop the keep, at the uppermost ramparts where only the royal family ever wandered, a figure stirred. The guards might have seen it if they were looking up, but they were not. Their job was to see that no enemies attempted to scale the building to the height where narrow walkways flanked by crenellated walls might facilitate invasion. That was the theory, at least. But as no enemy had ever gotten past the outer walls to attempt such a thing the reality of their service was somewhat more mundane, and the captain of the guard sighed heavily as he anticipated yet another night of prodding would-be lovers out of the nooks and crannies that the royal servants persisted in using for their trysts.
The captain’s eyes scanned the shadows below even as the figure above him moved, ghostly smooth, to the edge of the highest rampart. Had the captain looked up he might have seen the flash
of blond hair in the light of two gibbous moons, and perhaps his heart might have caught in his chest for a moment as he realized who the figure must be. Only one member of the royal line had hair that color.
But he did not look, and the figure was eerily silent, so the motion went unnoticed.
The figure above was dressed in dark colors, like a man who did not wish to be seen or disturbed. He appeared from nowhere, it seemed, as if drawn from the substance of shadow itself, but the moonlight solidified him as he climbed to the highest point the castle had to offer. It was an archer’s nest atop the north tower, one of four narrow structures that marked the cardinal points of the structure.
There he stood for a moment, silent and still, as if contemplating what was to come. Or watching the guards below, perhaps, waiting for a moment when there were no men near the base of the tower.
When the moment came he spread his arms as if to embrace the night, and if anyone had been close enough to see his face, they might have seen fear flicker across it, a fleeting and furtive shadow.
Then he jumped.
It was a long drop to the stone walkway below. The impact was sharp and short and bloody, and brought the guards running with their weapons drawn. The captain was among the first, crying out the alarm as soon as he saw the body. His heart was like ice in his chest, imagining what Danton’s response would be if he thought he had failed in his duty—he feared the High King more than he feared any enemy—but years of training made him capable of focusing on the moment at hand in spite of everything. Sound the alarm. Search the grounds. The body had clearly fallen from above, which meant from within the castle itself. Make sure there is no enemy hidden inside, seeking another victim.
Then one of his men turned the body over, far enough to reveal what was left of the face, and the captain froze. One side of the face had been crushed by the impact, but there was enough left whole to allow for identification.
Andovan.
Those inside the castle were stirring now, responding to the alarm. Lamps flickered to life in the narrow arrow-slit windows as voices shouted orders within. After a moment the great bell in the south tower started to toll, warning all who sheltered within that there was an enemy at large. Let those who were capable take up their swords, and those who were not lock their doors and wait for word.
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