“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But it is said the blood of the witches runs in your veins.”
She felt her heart skip a beat, and drew in a slow, measured breath to keep her outer aspect calm. If his power was focused upon her now she could not lie to him, but neither did she wish to give him the whole truth. “I do not know what legends you have heard,” she told him. “Some claim that seven witches survived to become the wives of the great generals, to bear them their firstborn sons. Some claim that the power of all the witches who died was absorbed into the land itself, and that the first Protectors were bequeathed luck in their name. But the first generations are long dead now, Lord Magister, and witchery is not a thing inherited along with a father’s name, nor transferred by the telling of tales.”
“She is not a witch herself,” Danton said. “If that’s what you are asking after. Ramirus made sure of that before we were wed.”
Now Gwynofar flushed with genuine embarrassment. “Magister Ramirus—?”
“I ordered it,” Danton told her. He cut any protest short with a wave of his hand. “What did you expect? I was not about to take a wife from a family of some enchanted race. And you are rumored to be that, you know it.” He looked to Kostas. “Apparently the gods promised the Protectors something like, if and when you need the power you will have it. Whatever that means.” He chuckled softy. “Gods are nothing if not obscure, yes?”
“So it seems,” the Magister said quietly.
“Well the Lord Protectors have built an empire based upon such legends, and I respect that. But you’d best look elsewhere for your enchanted races, Kostas. My wife is as pure blooded as Protectors come, and Ramirus assured me she had no more witchery about her than any other noblewoman.” He looked at Gwynofar. “I’m sorry, my dear, but you know that’s the truth.”
Acknowledging the point with a nod did not require her to answer. Without an answer, Kostas’ truth-sensing magic had no hold on her.
She nodded. “Is the Lord Magister satisfied, then? Or does he need anything more from me?”
It was impossible to ask the question without meeting Kostas’ eyes. A shudder ran through her as she did so. Their pale gray substance, not dissimilar from Rhys’ in color, seemed utterly unlike anything human in their essence, and for a moment she imagined she could see dark things slithering in their depths, hungry things, ready to swim down the conduit of his gaze to feast upon her soul the moment she gave him an opening. Or else ready to celebrate her weakness if she looked away. So though it took every bit of fortitude she had, she did not look away. His unblinking eyes held her for a moment, then two, then a small eternity, testing her mettle. Finally he said, “No. You have given me enough,” and looked back to Danton. She did not even hear what he said then, but breathed a secret sigh of relief that the contest had not lasted longer. She was a strong woman, despite her fragile seeming, and doubly strong in the kind of moral certainty that came of being a Protector, but staring down a Magister, even of the ordinary kind, was a contest few people ever won.
Danton drank again, this time draining the goblet. Had he filled it yet again? If so he was drinking more than usual today; that was not a good sign. “I told the Magister there was little substance to your myths. But he insisted upon hearing them. Now then Kostas, you have heard the fairy tales, yes? For what they are worth.” He nodded toward the door, waving absently in Gwynofar’s direction. “You may go, my dear.” Even as she rose obediently and curtseyed, it was clear that his attention was already elsewhere, and she dared to breathe a sigh of relief to be officially released from the interview.
Not until she was safely on the other side of the heavy oaken doors did she pause to lean weakly against them, to draw in one long, shivering breath, and to wonder, What was the purpose of that? For the one thing that Ramirus had taught her was that all things had purpose to a Magister, and rarely were their intentions of the sort that a mere mortal might guess at.
But try as she might she could not untangle the twisted knots of it all, and at last with a sigh she returned to her rooms, where at least she could put thick doors between herself and the new Magister Royal, and try to forget the unclean touch of his sorcerous scrutiny.
Danton grunted and poured himself more wine. “Well? Did you get the information you wanted?”
Kostas nodded slowly.
“If you ask me it’s all patent nonsense. Myths written by men who wanted to assure their place in history. All dynasties inherit such tales, or else must create them later.”
“You rule without the need for such legends.”
Danton laughed heartily. “I daresay there are places on this earth where my name is granted religious significance, though I doubt it’s of the benevolent sort. That is good, though. I encourage it. Fear keeps men in line.” He took another deep drink of wine. “Meek rulers ask gods for permission before they take a piss.”
A faint smile quirked the Magister’s lips. “And you do not?”
“I piss on such men. And their gods.”
“Your wife feigns a meek demeanor,” Kostas observed, “but the spirit within is defiant.”
“And so?” Danton reached over and splashed more wine into Kostas’s own cup. “A mare with no spirit breeds poor stallions, Magister.”
“Yes, and she has bred well, has she not?” He leaned back in his chair and added quietly, “Though not without aid.”
A thick, dark eyebrow arched upward in curiosity. “Eh?”
“Ramirus’ hand is upon your line, is it not?”
Danton’s expression darkened. “What makes you say that?”
“Come, my king—four male heirs in rapid succession, perfectly healthy, births evenly spaced, followed by two comely daughters appropriate for marital barter, at the same interval. Do you honestly expect a record like that with no assistance? Fate is rarely so kind to women. Or to kings.”
“I never asked for Ramirus’ help.”
“I never said you did.” Kostas sipped his wine slowly, letting the faint emphasis on you hang in the air for a moment.
Danton scowled. “The House of Aurelius has never required the aid of sorcerers to beget its young.”
“I am sure it does not.”
“So what, you think that my wife—?”
Kostas’ eyes glittered. “How would I know? It was before my time. I merely note that such aid means different things to a man and to a woman, for it is her life that is risked when an infant is brought into the world, not his.”
“She knows I would never approve of such a thing.”
Kostas inclined his head. “Then I am sure she would not think of displeasing you.” He sipped from his wine. “She is merely . . . lucky. Some women are like that.”
Danton rose from his chair and stood before the fireplace. He liked the drama of a crackling fire, for it reminded him of an enemy city put to the torch when siege was broken. Summer’s heat robbed a man of such simple pleasures. “Ramirus would never have done such a thing without being asked.”
“You know him better than I, Majesty.”
“He was my servant. As are you.”
He waited a moment to see if Kostas would protest the designation, but he did not. Finally he returned to his chair and poured himself another helping of wine. He drank from it in the manner of a man who is trying to wash a bad taste out of his mouth.
“I admit,” Kostas said, “I am curious about one thing.”
Danton looked up at him. “What?”
“Six children—one each year—the perfect royal family, and then no more? It seems . . . odd.”
Danton snorted. “No mystery to that one. She asked me after Tiresia’s birth if she might be spared further duty of that sort. It was a reasonable request, given that she had stocked my household well, and I granted it.”
“Ah, so she has . . . turned you from her bed?”
Danton’s glare was fierce. “Watch your words, Magister. Some kings might find them offensive.”
“I am
simply concerned for your welfare. And for the loyalty of those surrounding you.”
“The queen’s loyalty is not in question.”
“Nonetheless, it remains my duty.”
Danton drank deeply, wiped a stray drop of wine from his face with the back of his hand, and settled into the heavily carved chair with a noisy exhalation. “There’s very little flesh on her. No comfort to a man. I married her for her family crest, not for warming my bed, and she knows it. She gave me four sons any king would be proud of. Our daughters bought me valuable alliances. As far as I know she has no lovers, which is the only offense I would never forgive. When she sits beside me at dinner, visiting princes smile more and conspire less. I have no issue—none—with her queenly performance. Do not raise the topic again.”
“As you wish, Majesty.” The hollow eyes lowered briefly, respectfully.
“Outside of that nonsense with the rocks, of course.” The High King snorted softly. “But she keeps that to her own courtyard. So long as she does not offer up anyone’s blood but her own I have no issue with it.” He stared into his wine for a moment. “What do you make of all that? The truth, now.”
Kostas steepled his fingers thoughtfully as he considered the question. “I have been to the north, and seen these ‘Spears’ myself. They are rocks, nothing more, which the locals mortar and carve into fearsome shapes to keep the populace cowed and reverent. As for the so-called Wrath, there is without doubt some odd power present in that area—I have felt it myself—but not on the scale the High Queen describes. Say rather an ominous sensation that increases as one approaches the stones. Since the Protectors are rumored to have witches among their blood, I suspect that the effect is nothing more than simple witchery. That is why I asked after the High Queen’s bloodline. I myself believe the blood rituals they practice are in fact what raises the power, whose purpose is simply to establish awe in the hearts of worshippers. It is not strong enough to do anything else, I assure you.”
“There are Magisters up there, aren’t there? I am sure they would know more about it.”
Kostas’s lips twitched briefly. “And they are as unlikely to give away the secrets that sustain their domains as I am to betray yours, my king.” He bowed his head respectfully. “Besides, is it not a fair sport for Magisters to try to discover things from one another? We must have something to amuse ourselves with while our royal masters plot out their campaigns of conquest.”
Danton snorted. He was a proud man, and Kostas’ suggestion about his family was like a thorn digging into his side; it was hard to think past it. “Is there any way to know for certain?” he asked at last.
“What, Sire?”
“About the children. Gwynofar. Any way to know if my sons’ births were something other than natural?”
“Ah. Well, a woman would tell you that birth is never natural, but theirs is a different perspective.”
“You know what I mean.”
The Magister put his goblet aside. “If you are serious in that question, I could undertake to discern the truth. The mark of Ramirus’ sorcery might still be on her, or on the children. But such things are faint after so many years, and failing to find it would be no guarantee of anything save that sorcery is an uncertain art.”
Danton grunted and stared into his wine. Clearly the answer did not please him.
“You say she is loyal, Majesty. You say she would not seek Ramirus’ aid against your will. You say you are sure of these things, and of her. Is that not enough for you, then?”
“Aye.” The wine was a blood-colored mirror that reflected Danton’s scowl back at him. “It should be, should it not?”
“Men were not meant to know all the secrets of childbearing,” Kostas said quietly. “The gods gave that gift to women, and also exacted a price for it, that she should bear her knowledge in pain. Or so the priests say.” He shrugged. “Frankly I think the southern tribesmen have the right idea—lock the women away from men and Magisters both, until such time as they can no longer bear children. That way no man can interfere with what should be a natural inheritance, yes, Majesty?” He paused. “Of course, I do not imagine they make such bargains with their women as you have struck with Her Majesty, but we are a far more civilized land and must respect such things, yes?”
Danton said nothing.
A cloud crossed in front of the sun outside. It shadowed the light coming into the room briefly, but could not abate the heavy humidity that clung to the chamber, dampening a man’s skin. It was an unpleasant afternoon, by Danton’s reckoning. That did not improve his mood.
“It is not your affair,” the High King said finally. “You will not raise the issue again.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” The Magister Royal inclined his head respectfully. With his thin neck and sharp features, the gesture seemed more appropriate to a vulture pecking at carrion than to a man.
But Danton did not notice. His mind was on other things. And finally, when it seemed that his private thoughts had reached some turning point, he set his goblet aside on the heavily carved table and left the room without further word or backward glance.
On a more human face, the Magister’s twisted expression might have been deemed a smile.
Chapter 19
It is with great pleasure that Lord Entares Savresi and Lady Tandra invite you to a fete to celebrate the naming of their son, to be held upon the Night of the Twin Moons, in the Tower Savresi, Gansang. Festivities will begin at six in the evening.
THEY MADE Kamala wear a formal gown. It was a heavy silk creation embroidered in gold, worth more than all the money she had earned in her lifetime and then some. The style had some fancy name she could not pronounce which made it even more valuable (or so she was assured), and it had been made by a dressmaker who normally worked only for royalty (so she was told), and it was actually a very beautiful shade of forest green that brought out the color in her eyes . . . but still. It was a formal gown, which meant it embodied everything she hated most about women’s clothing.
She had fussed and sputtered and complained for the better part of a day, but the servants had insisted that nothing else would be acceptable if she was to attend an event as Ravi’s companion, and so in the end she was forced to acquiesce and allow them to fit her in it. It had a train, which she had tripped over several times, and the sleeves had long hanging ends that kept getting caught on things as she moved, but the maidservants insisted she looked absolutely wonderful, and one young girl who had run up from the kitchen just to see the fitting declared she hoped she would be as beautiful as Kamala some day. So it seemed in poor taste to keep complaining.
The day of the fete Ravi sent her a hairdresser, who spent the better part of two hours fretting over Kamala’s short hair, finally dressing it back in waves over the front of an opulent wig made up of coiling, pearlstudded braids. The wig was made of real human hair, the hairdresser told her proudly, not the combed wool or horsetail which might be used in poorer places. Kamala felt a knotting in her gut when she heard that, and for a moment the look in her eyes was so dark and terrible that the woman instinctively stepped back from her. What could Kamala say? That she had once lived among the kind of people so desperate for money that they might sell their own body parts for a few bits of copper? That the long red locks which so perfectly matched her own had probably once been the pride of a young peasant girl, now shorn like a sheep for Kamala’s pleasure? She had left that world behind now and become another kind of creature, the kind who wore the hair of other human beings as casually as Kamala the whore had once worn sheep’s wool.
When Ravi came for her he assured her that she was beautiful. He seemed to mean it, too, though she suspected he’d have said the same words if she looked like a warthog with a mustache. It was a first time a man had ever complimented her in such a tone, and even though she really did not give a damn what this plucked and powdered fool thought of her, still, it was oddly pleasing to hear the words.
There would be Magiste
rs at the fete. So Ravi had said. They were not social creatures, he had warned, and she would do best keeping her distance from them. She had the distinct impression that he was afraid that if she talked to a Magister she would be convinced to break her contract with him. Little chance of that, she thought darkly. Ethanus had made it clear that most Magisters regarded their mortal cousins with utter disdain, and were more likely to be amused by the pathetic self-destructiveness of such a contract than exert any effort to talk her out of it.
They manipulate morati because it passes the centuries, he had told her, and are not above driving lesser beings to their deaths if that serves the moment’s amusement.
Would she become like that in time, she wondered. Not only willing to kill, but thriving upon death, encouraging the suffering of others simply to ward off boredom? Ethanus had said it was likely, and a sadness had entered his eyes then, as though he would mourn the change in her. For the first time she had wondered if that was not what had truly driven him to his hermitage in the woods, the desire to safeguard his fading humanity. It was something she could never ask him aloud. But she remembered what he had told her once, about judging her own condition: Look in the mirror and ask yourself, do you like what you see? If the answer is no, it is time to reassess your choices. Had he fled to the woods because the face that looked back at him in Ulran was too distasteful to bear?
The day of the fete was cool and crisp and the wind was westerly, which blew the foul air of the Quarter out to sea; all in all, a pleasant day. Ravi and his entourage began traveling in the morning, making their way through the network of towers and bridges that enveloped the Hill according to some complex and—to Kamala—indecipherable pattern. At each new tower they stopped to pay their respects to the owner, exchange gifts and gossip, and then Ravi added his entourage to those that had already assembled. By midafternoon they were thirty strong, bobbing along the slender bridges in their jeweled silks like a pride of peacocks, with the richest and most important nobles of the city at the head of the line. Kamala walked by Ravi’s side, as he had promised. It gave her a secret thrill to know that the nobles surrounding her thought her their equal, but it also inflamed a silent anger to be forced to such subterfuge. If she were a man she could simply don the traditional color of the Magisters and all the world would give her the respect she deserved. Only because she was a woman was she forced to continually pretend she was something else and to receive her respect secondhand.
Feast of Souls Page 20
