For it would be that in Danton’s eyes if he knew she had contacted me, Ramirus thought. Gods help her if he ever finds out.
He waited a few minutes to see if she would notice him, and when she did not, bound a wisp of soulfire to alert her to his presence, and to let her understand that it was in fact a dream they were sharing. Sometimes when one contacted dreamers they were so lost in the landscapes of their own imagining that they never realized that someone from the outside was really speaking to them. Any information given to them in that case was likely to be forgotten by morning’s light, along with their own fantasies.
Though nothing in the surrounding landscape changed she looked up suddenly, and rose to her feet as soon as she saw him. He could see immediately that she had been stressed near to the breaking point by something; given that she’d spent years dealing successfully with Danton and his moods, that was an ominous sign indeed.
She is no longer your queen, he reminded himself. It is no longer your job to worry about her.
“Ramirus!” The look of relief gave way to one of confusion. “This dream then, is it of your making?”
“No, Lady Protector. It is your own. I merely use the tools at hand.” He held forth the token her servant had given him—a golden ring with a silken scarf knotted around its band—and scowled at her. “You were foolish to send such a personal object into unknown places. Even a witch can bind enough power to harm you with such a focus.”
“I knew of no other way to contact you—.”
“Then perhaps you should not have tried,” he said curtly. “By your husband’s own words I am enemy to your House. Banished from your realm, forbidden any contact with the royal family. Are you so sure it is wise to seek out such an enemy, much less place your essence into his hands?”
She said it softly. “You are no enemy of mine, Ramirus.”
“Your husband would beg to differ.”
“My husband—” She bit her lip. “Is a fool, sometimes.”
He nodded shortly. “On that we are agreed, at least.”
She sighed heavily; one hand fluttered up to her stomach and remained there, resting against the silk of her gown as if guarding some secret pain. “I have need of answers, Ramirus. For questions I cannot entrust to strangers. What would you have me do?”
“You believe I can be trusted?”
The blue eyes fixed on him, their depths pleading. He wanted to hate her as he hated Danton, he wanted to make her part of that bitterness and dismiss her as callously as Danton had once dismissed him, but he couldn’t. She didn’t deserve his hate. He might not be a compassionate man—no Magister was—but he prided himself on being just. And it would be unjust to turn his wrath upon this woman merely because her husband had offended him.
“You are a foolish woman,” he said at last, and he sighed. “One should never trust a Magister. Didn’t I teach you that much?”
“I am foolish,” she agreed. “And stubborn, as you often noted.”
“Indeed. Though so beguiling in your stubbornness that few men ever object to it.”
She smiled faintly, sadly, an expression edged with shadows. “Will you aid me then, Ramirus? For I tell you truly, if you deny me in this, I have nowhere else to turn.”
“There is risk in it,” he warned her. “Do not mistake that. In making contact with your spirit I am trespassing upon another Magister’s territory, and every moment we share this dream increases the chance of discovery tenfold. If Danton were to find out about it . . . you will lose your head, milady. At the very least.”
“I know that,” she whispered. “I knew it when I sent out men to search for you.”
“You are that desperate for aid?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Ramirus, I am.”
If she had made one move to pressure him then, if she had hinted through gesture or tone that he owed her the service somehow, perhaps in memory of past affection, he would have blasted the dreamscape to a smoking ruin and left her to find her way out of it alone. Indeed, that was what he had half intended when he had first entered her dream. But there was no pride in her manner now, no regal authority, no sense of entitlement such as a High Queen was taught to have, only humility. And that was as it should be. He had known her for twenty years, since the day she first came to the High King as a virgin bride, he had seen to her education in all things royal, had watched with almost a father’s pride as she proved herself a true queen in every sense of the word—but the day Danton had banished him all that was swept from the record. Magisters did not cling to past affections. Clearly she understood that. Clearly she respected it.
She’s worth more than Danton will ever understand, he thought. And is ten times more woman than he deserves.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will hear you.”
The clouds overhead lightened a bit as he spoke; her dream was responding to her mood. The increased bit of sunlight let him see clearly just how drawn and pale she was. A morati would have felt great concern for her.
“What do you know of the Magister named Kostas?” she asked him.
He frowned. “Danton’s new Royal? Next to nothing. His name isn’t recognized by others of my kind; I know, for I’ve asked after him. The face he wears is not one any Magister has seen before. Which means either he is a very new Magister . . . or perhaps very old, and he has changed those things because he wishes not to be recognized.”
“You could not see through such a spell?”
He scowled. “Were I to look upon him directly, perhaps. Are you suggesting I do that? He would surely know if I tried, and then we should become embarked upon the sort of relationship I do not relish.”
It was not quite true—a good adversarial relationship was as sweet to a Magister as the finest of wines—but that was not something he was going to reveal to a morati.
“There is a darkness in him, Ramirus. I don’t know its name, but I can sense it. Not like the darkness in other Magisters I have seen. Not like anything human.” She shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself as if guarding against sudden chill. “He plays my husband like a puppet, encouraging all that is worst in him to come to the surface . . . I do not know toward what end.”
All princes are our puppets, dear Gwynofar. The only question is how openly we pluck their strings, and how much effort we will expend to maintain our puppets once we tire of them.
“He is a Magister Royal,” Ramirus said quietly. “The one that Danton has chosen to support his throne. If you are asking me for help in protecting him from the consequences of that choice . . . I am sorry, Lady, that service is not being offered.”
She whispered, “I would not ask that of you.”
“Then tell me what it is you wish.”
She told him then, in halting words, of her husband’s last visit to her. Of what she had sensed in him that night, the frightening power that attended his assault. Of her fear that this unnamed sorcery had affected her newly made child, perhaps even altered it into something less than human.
“Who else could I turn to for answers?” she whispered finally. “What witch could I ask to search my flesh for signs of a Magister’s curse, that would give me the truth, while keeping it a secret from all others? Or what Magister could I ask for help, when by custom all are rivals to Kostas, and will not hesitate to lie if it gains them political advantage over him? Only you, Ramirus. No one else would give me the truth. But you will do that for me, yes? Even if it is something I do not wish to hear.”
There was a long pause. The clouds overhead stirred darkly, and in the distance on all sides of them a thin veil of rain began to descend to the earth. Only within the circle of crumbling Spears was the rain held at bay . . . for the moment.
“What you ask,” he said slowly, “will put you at great risk.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” He drew in a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “Lady, in order for me to enter this dream I needed only t
o touch your spirit with my own. If this Kostas is watching your dreams he may detect the invasion, but otherwise it could well pass beneath his notice. What you ask for now requires considerably more effort. You ask me to read the truth of what is in your flesh, and in the flesh of your child, and to do that I must extend my sorcery to actually touch your body where it lies, in Danton’s own keep. If Kostas is watching you . . . I can disguise the fact that the sorcery is mine, I can try to hide its purpose, but he will be aware that something has been attempted. And that will not be good for you, Lady.”
If his words had caused her to have second thoughts she gave no sign of it. Which was little surprise, really. Other women might whine and wring their hands and beg for mercy with tears in their eyes; Gwynofar was made of stronger stuff.
That is why men are willing to serve you, he thought, even when they are not obliged to do so.
“Kostas is arrogant,” she said, “as my husband is arrogant. He will not be watching me.”
“Arrogance does not mean carelessness,” he warned her. “And your husband keeps close watch upon friends and enemies alike.”
“Kostas has no reason to suspect I know of his sorcery, and my husband will assume that if I had the power to defy him I would have done so that night. Neither has any reason to watch me now. After all . . .” Her tone was bitter. “I am merely a weak woman, easily raped into submission.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that assessment?”
“Ramirus . . .” Her gaze was clear, compelling. “My life is more threatened by ignorance right now than by the risk you describe.”
He sighed. Fair enough.
First he focused his Sight upon her person, looking for any overt sign of sorcerous taint in the athra surrounding her. It was a bleak aura, that trembled with fear and despair, but there was nothing unnatural about it. Nothing that came from an outside source. He told her so and then commanded, “Lay bare that place where the child resides.”
She hesitated, then began to unbutton the front of her gown where it lay over her belly. She opened that and then pulled her chemise aside, until the skin beneath was bare.
He put his hand upon her flesh within the dream, and in the real world he reached much farther with his power, to that canopied bed where her true body lay. It was a feat he probably could not have managed without her token to aid him, but with that in his hand it was as if he was truly standing in the room beside her. He hoped for her sake Kostas did not sense his power entering the keep. When Ramirus had been Magister Royal he was always alert for the tricks of his fellow Magisters, but perhaps Kostas was different.
Gwynofar’s body, like her aura, was pure of any sorcerous manipulation. He did find a few lingering wisps of soulfire apparently left over from some spell that had been worked upon her in the past, but the source was now safely expired. If Kostas had indeed used sorcery to influence her child’s conception it might have left just such a trace. There was nothing active within her now, which was good, but that also meant there was no way to discover what the purpose of that spell had been. Not enough had been left behind to analyze.
He told her that as well, and could feel the relief pass through her body in a shudder.
Then he began to look for the child.
Tiny . . . it was so very tiny. . . . A normal woman would not even have known she was pregnant yet, but the women of the Protectors’ bloodlines were unique in that regard, and seemed to know instinctively when they were with child. In the north it was believed that the gods of the Wrath had given the Protectors the ability to control their reproductive arts in ways that normal women could not. Having watched Gwynofar manage her own births with ease, unconsciously manipulating when and how each child would be born, bringing them to term in relative comfort and safety, Ramirus saw no reason to doubt it.
Now, searching deep within her flesh, he focused his senses upon the whispering flame that was her child, that tentative flickering of soulfire which was the first sign of a new life being created. At this point the child’s athra could hardly be distinguished from that of the mother, and looking for it was not unlike trying to focus on a candleflame in the midst of a blazing fire. But he had experience in this matter, and knew how to search. Unbeknownst to Gwynofar he had watched each of her pregnancies closely, curious about the innate magic her bloodline was rumored to have. It was in fact the real reason he had suggested that Danton take a bride from a Protector’s line—he had wanted one to study.
As far as he knew, neither Gwynofar or Danton had ever suspected that. Which was as it should be.
At last he found the tiny thing, close against its mother’s flesh, weaving the nest of blood and tissue that would secure it for the next nine months. It was neither male nor female in body yet nor even remotely human in form, but that was no hindrance to his sorcery. He had learned long ago that the mere seed of a human coupling contained all of its potential, and by observing that seed closely one might gain a hint of what the adult would become. So he did now to this child, studying the ebb and flow of its tiny life, marking the tenor of its fledgling aura, and plucking at the tapestry of Fate that surrounded it, seeking insight into its unique patterns.
He spoke as he did so, though his voice seemed to him a distant thing, echoing as if in a cave. “I see no sign of foreign sorcery in your child’s flesh, Lady. Nor any sign that sorcery has altered his flesh or spirit. Whatever spells might have accompanied his conception, they have not changed his identity, nor wedded any power to him that you should fear.”
“Thank the gods!” she breathed. And then she whispered, “You say ‘he.’ Is it a boy? Can you tell?”
“It will be a boy, when such things are determined.”
“Can you—can you tell me more?”
Ramirus hesitated. Normally he regarded divination as an art better left to fortune-tellers in the marketplace. Most divination was simply an illusion, the wishful thinking of witches applied creatively to earn a few coins. Men did not like the fact that the future was uncertain, and so were willing to invest money in any proclamation that would allow them to pretend it was otherwise.
Nevertheless, a child’s flesh bore within it clear signs of what it might become. And there were greater fates that had been set in motion by the very fact of its conception. A skilled Magister might observe such things and take counsel from them. A truly skilled Magister might weave them into a story reflecting the child’s possible future.
He did not do it often, but for this woman he would try.
And so he opened himself up to the tides of power surrounding the child. Not only Gwynofar’s own athra but all the strands of consciousness that were present in her castle, those emanating from Danton and Kostas and far beyond . . . all the thoughts and intents that touched upon this child and his future. There were some Magisters who believed that in doing so one enjoined oneself to some sort of universal consciousness, while others claimed to commune with a god who himself knew everything the future would hold. Ramirus was much more down-to-earth, and simply believed that every thought and action in the world left behind ripples in the tides of fate, which one might observe and interpret if one looked closely enough.
With that in mind, he studied the child. It was strong and healthy in its substance, and likely to come to term safely. That was no surprise, given its mother’s heritage. The boy would take after Gwynofar in coloring and temperament, as Andovan had. He paused to tell her both those things, and could observe the mixture of love and sorrow that coursed through her at the reminder of her lost son.
Then he steeled himself for greater effort and reached out to touch the boy’s future. A flood tide of raw potential washed over him, and he struggled to make sense of it all. Such strange images! There was nothing in them that reflected a normal life, nor even a Magister’s twisted existence—it was as if the boy was fated for something else entirely, so powerfully that all the normal signs of a future were swallowed up and lost.
He felt himself s
peaking and let the words come, sorcerous instinct bringing phrases to his lips without conscious thought. “He will not be a hero himself, though he will help bring a hero into existence. His strength will never be measured, but he will test the strength of others. He will attend upon Death without seeing it, change the fate of the world without knowing it, and inspire sacrifice without understanding it.”
Slowly he opened his eyes. Gwynofar was gazing at him with frank astonishment and not a little bit of fear. He was no less surprised, though he hid his emotions better. No, High Queen, I do not know myself what all that means, only that it is true.
She was about to speak when he suddenly caught sight of something dark in the sky coming swiftly toward them. He waved her to silence and focused his sight upon it, willing the soulfire to sharpen his senses so that he could see what it was.
When he did so he drew in his breath sharply.
“Ramirus? What is it?”
“This is your dream,” he breathed. “So it is something drawn from your spirit . . . or from his. You tell me.”
The darkness was coming closer now, and resolving into individual winged shapes arrayed in a triangular formation, like birds. But they were not birds. Their wings were not shaped right, their motion was all wrong, and the essence of the creatures besides was somehow . . . foul. Ramirus could sense the wrongness of them in his flesh, a repellent knowledge, as if he had swallowed something poisonous and needed to vomit it up. A wave of raw terror washed over him—terror!—and knew it came from the creatures overhead, for nothing that resided upon the earth could inspire such fear in him. He found suddenly that he wanted to flee, but could not do so. He could not even move, save to put his arm around Gwynofar as she moved closer to him. It was as if the presence of the creatures had frozen him in place, and not all of his sorcery could countermand it.
Feast of Souls Page 28
