“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.
They think I am a boy . . . they cannot find us like this . . . Then his hand slid between her thighs, his touch leaving rivers of hunger flowing across her skin. She moaned despite herself and shut her eyes, transported by the sensation. Let the rest of the world be damned. She would drink in this moment for what it was worth, and worry later about the consequences.
Sliding his hands up to her waist, he tried to untie the cords that held her leggings in place. It was a difficult task in such cramped quarters, but boy’s wear did not allow the kind of freedom a woman required for love-making, and so they must be taken off. For perhaps the first time in her life Kamala found she regretted not wearing women’s clothing; the thought was so unexpected that she laughed softly at herself. Talesin looked up in concern, but she smiled and put a finger to his lips and then followed it with her own kiss, turning his attention back to more pressing issues.
And then the ties at her waist finally came loose, and with trembling hands he slid the leggings down over her hips, over her thighs, free of her legs entirely. She slipped loose the closure of his own breeches, drawing him free from the confining cloth as she parted her thighs to receive him. And then he was quickly inside her, not only his flesh but his spirit as well, his athra surging through her veins anew with every thrust. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out, but she did not; instead she bit down on her lip so hard that it bled, determined not to make any noise that might draw other people to their hiding place.
And then all those other people ceased to exist, and so did the world they inhabited. And for a short while there was only hunger, and fire, and a pleasure so forbidden it did not even have a name.
Peace.
It was a rare and precious thing in his life. A brief time when struggles and fears could be set aside, forgotten. A moment to savor the simple here-and-now of human passion, and drink in the peace that came at the end of it.
The witch Lianna rested against his side, her hand on his chest, breathing in time with his heartbeat as if there was nothing wrong in the world. As if he was not soon to die.
For that one precious moment, he could almost believe it himself.
Thank you, he thought to her. Not knowing how to say the words aloud without feeling foolish. Thank you for giving me this.
Voices rose in the distance. He could not say what about them made him suddenly come alert, but Lianna was startled as well. This was not just a few random speakers who happened to be heading in their direction, like before. Some kind of argument was going on, and it was rapidly coming closer.
Quickly he helped her back into her clothing. It wasn’t easy in the small space. As they struggled to get her leggings tied back on the voices came closer; with a sinking heart he realized the speakers were heading right towards their wagon. There was no time to restore her disguise, or do anything other than avoid total indecency; if she wanted to convince the men outside she was not a woman she would have to rely upon her witchery for it, for her clothes would no longer serve. Not in their current state.
They will see me coming out of this wagon with a half-dressed boy, he mused, as he pulled his own shirt and breeches back into order. It was darkly amusing.
He didn’t loosen the oilcloth cover, but simply slipped out the small opening that Kamala had left. She did the same. Outside, the companies of both merchants seemed to be circling around some new arrival, like nervous hounds that wanted a sniff of a strange new dog but were afraid to get too close. That didn’t bother Talesin. Taking her hand, he led her through the outer ranks of the group until they were close enough to see the man about whom the circle had formed. He was tall and slender, with the olive skin and almond eyes of the eastern races. His black clothes were dry despite the rain, as was his long, jet-black hair, and when Andovan looked closely he could see that the rain was not falling in the place where he stood. Everywhere else on the road, but not there. It was the kind of display of power that left no doubt as to what he was, and how dangerous he might be to any man that chose to cross him.
The newcomer’s eyes fell upon Andovan then, and it was clear that everyone else in the circle had ceased to be of interest to him. “Ah, you are here after all. These fools insisted you were not.”
It took him a minute to find his voice. “Colivar? What are you doing here?”
The Magister glanced at Lianna. It was clear from his expression that he was seeing right through whatever witchery she used to disguise herself, and that didn’t leave much question about what had been going on between them. He raised a thin eyebrow but said nothing, asked nothing, merely turned his attention to Andovan once more.
“We need to speak,” he said quietly. “In private.”
He nodded toward Netando’s coach. If Netando had any objections to a Magister commandeering his vehicle, he did not voice them. Smart man.
Andovan wanted to look back at Lianna and reassure her, but he didn’t. Never appear weak before a Magister, his father had taught him. They are like wolves beneath those black robes, and will tear a man to pieces if he gives them the opening.
Knowing himself a prince of royal blood, trying to display the kind of confidence a prince should have, he led the way to Netando’s carriage, and did not look back.
Chapter 37
THE INTERIOR of the carriage was dark and musty but passably dry, its seats covered with once-opulent silk cushions that had been beaten flat by the rigors of past journeys. Colivar gestured for Andovan to precede him inside, wanting one last look at this witch his wayward prince had found.
How quietly she stood there. How patient. Not gawking, like the morati were. Not nervous, like the guards were. More . . . defiant. Her eyes glittered like cold, hard diamonds, and in truth they were the only part of her that he could see with any clarity; the spells of disguise that were wrapped around her were too tightly woven—too skillfully woven—for him to unravel them without considerable effort. Oh, Andovan’s own thoughts had revealed her as a woman, and bore witness to their recent intimacy, but trying to read her directly was like trying to read a book that had been sealed shut. All he could do was study the cover and wonder at the contents.
The spell he had cast on Andovan back in Danton’s realm was gone now; that much was clear to Colivar the first moment he saw the young prince. Which meant one of two things: either it had accomplished its purpose and expired naturally, or someone had banished it. Which was the more intriguing possibility? Could this diamond-eyed witch wrapped in the seeming of a young man be the one that all the Magisters were hunting? Parasite of princes, killer of Magisters, perhaps even a sorcerer in her own right? Even asking the question was dangerous, Colivar realized. If Andovan was truly her consort, then any attempt to scrutinize the link between them with sorcery might prove a fatal enterprise. Which is why he had not tried to do so yet.
A strange rush of excitement rippled through his veins at the sight of her. Let morati men drink in their fill of undying love and political passions; such things lost their power to affect a human soul after the tenth, hundredth, even thousandth repetition. For a Magister there was nothing more exciting than novelty, nothing more maddening than a mystery not yet explored. How many centuries had it been since Colivar had last seen something new come into the world? He could not even begin to count. Yet here there was something genuinely new, something that appeared to break all the rules of the world he lived in, perhaps the very first creature of its kind—and he was unable to give her the attention she deserved. Maddening.
If the Souleaters return there will soon be no world in which any of this matters, he reminded himself.
At last, with effort, he turned his eyes from the mysterious woman and stepped into the carriage himself. The shutters were already closed against the rain, leaving a small lantern whose wick had been turned down as the only source of light. In the flickering yellow glow he could see how pale Danton’s thirdborn son had become, even by normal meas
ure. Colivar guessed Andovan had lost at least ten pounds since he’d seen him last, and the prince hadn’t had that much excess flesh on him to start with. The end was very close.
Kill her and it ends, he mused. How simple the words sounded, now that there was a face to attach the pronoun to. How complex they had suddenly become.
“Why have you come here?” Andovan asked. “Have you found the woman who cursed me? Can I end this search now, and deal with her?”
For a moment Colivar was startled. Then he thought, He doesn’t know. It seemed an incredible thought, from his vantage point. But the prince did not have any knowledge of the kind of parasitic relationship that was responsible for his condition, nor did he have any way to know that Colivar’s spell had served its purpose and expired. Furthermore . . . a delicate inspection with a whisper of power confirmed what the Magister should have suspected from the start. There was a spell woven about Andovan with foreign magic, skillfully crafted, that prevented him from feeling any manner of suspicion toward the woman who was traveling with him.
She was thorough, no question of that.
Her spells were sorcery. Though Colivar’s blood ran cold to acknowledge that fact, though the universe he inhabited was shaken to its very roots, there was no mistaking the nature of the power. Cold, it was, like a layer of ice in the arctic sea, slick, frigid water over a glittering black core. Witchery did not feel like that. Witchery did not draw the living heat out of a man until his very soul was frozen. Witches did not toy with a man as he was dying, either. Suddenly their recent sexual dalliance was cast in a new light. Even by Magister standards, the implications were chilling.
Concentrate on the moment, Colivar. Do what must be done.
He drew in a deep breath and said, “Forgive me, Prince Andovan. I did not intend to disturb you during your journey. But things have occurred in your homeland that require your attention. I am sorry to be the one that has to bring you word of it.”
Andovan stared at him for a moment as if he was out of his mind. “You mean . . . you want me to go home? Now?”
Colivar nodded.
With a huff Andovan leaned back against the carriage wall. “My father told me all Magisters were mad. It seems he spoke the truth.”
A faint smile flickered about Colivar’s lips, dry and humorless. “Regardless, Highness, my business is very real.”
“Well then.” He waved a hand in the air, a vaguely regal gesture. “Tell me about it.”
So he did. Slowly at first, making sure Andovan understood the potential gravity of the situation before he went into details. He needn’t have bothered. As soon as he said the word “Souleater” the prince stiffened in his seat, and he did not relax again for all the rest of the telling.
He hissed softly when Colivar was done, a strangely visceral sound. “So they are not merely legend.”
“No, Highness. They are quite real.”
“Mother spoke of them. Often. It’s part of her religion, you know. She said that her people believed they would come back someday. That a great war would be waged, upon which the fate of mankind would depend.” He shook his head. “Who thought it would be in my lifetime?”
“If you know the legends,” Colivar said quietly, “then you understand the danger.”
Andovan looked up at him. In the shadows of the carriage his eyes seemed black and bottomless. “That Souleaters would devour the world, if they could? Yes. I understand.”
Colivar drew in a deep breath. I can’t believe I am about to say this to a morati. “We believe your father’s new Magister may be allied to them somehow. And that your father serves them through that tie, probably without even knowing it. If he understood what was happening, if he grasped the magnitude of the danger . . . some feel he might rethink his course.”
Andovan’s eyes went wide. For a moment it seemed he could not find his voice. “Is that what you want me for?” He said at last. “To explain all this to my father?”
“Ramirus says you are the only one who can. That he will listen to you.”
“Aye, he listened to me. When I was alive!” He tried to rise up in protest, but the close quarters of the carriage didn’t allow for such a movement; with a sharp exhalation he sat back down on the bench, his hands rubbing restlessly against one another. “Have you forgotten what we did to him, Colivar? What you did? Lianna’s veils! You think he will take advice from me after that?”
“He can be told the truth now,” Colivar said evenly. “In whatever words will make it acceptable. I will take all the blame if necessary, he can direct his fury at me—”
“What words?” Andovan demanded. “What words will you give me to tell a man like Danton Aurelius that his own son played him for a fool, drove him into mourning when there was no reason for it, cost him his Magister Royal, then drove him to the brink of madness—yes, I’ve heard the stories!—and for what? So I could take a quick tour of the provinces with no one looking over my shoulder, and then come home again?” He drew in a deep breath. “He will have my head, Colivar. Before I get as far as the second word of whatever speech you have planned. If you do not think so, then you do not know my father.”
“Then there is no hope,” Colivar said grimly. “Is that what you are telling me?”
“What about the Magisters?” he demanded. “If what you say is true, the real offender is one of your own kind. Can you not get control of him somehow, or even take him down if you have to? I know you have some custom about not fighting one another, but it seems to me this kind of situation should merit an exception. Or is the danger enough for morati kings, but not sufficient to inconvenience Magisters?”
Colivar stiffened. We have the Law, but you cannot possibly understand what that is to us. Morati have no memory of what Magisters did to this world before the Law was created. If they did then they would fear us far more than they do. They might well have second thoughts about wanting us to share this world with them.
“We will not act directly against a Magister,” he said quietly. “Nor against Danton, while he is contracted to one. Not even for this.”
“Well, then.” Andovan exhaled noisily and leaned back against the wall. “That is your answer about hope, then.” He shut his eyes, rubbing them wearily with his fingertips. “What about my mother? Can she help?”
“Gwynofar?”
“He listens to her counsel. More than he ever did with me. Even Ramirus sought her aid when dealing with Danton on sensitive matters. She calms my father. Always has.”
Colivar hesitated. It surprised him to discover that he did not wish to cause the young prince any more pain than he already had. A strangely human feeling. “Danton hurt her,” he said gently. “I don’t know the details. According to reports, she won’t go near him now.”
Andovan’s face lost the last of its color. “What? What did he do to her? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” Colivar lied. “I’m sorry.”
Andovan turned away from him as much as he could in the small space. Colivar let him withdraw without protest.
“What is happening to him?” the prince said at last. “I don’t understand. He was always a harsh man, quick to anger, but Mother brought out the best in him. He told me once she was the one thing in all the kingdom that kept him sane. She and Ramirus.” He bit his lower lip. “Now the one is gone and the other afraid to approach him . . . no wonder he is going mad. He is surrounded by rivals and false counselors, with enemies around every corner, and no one to trust. Even the strongest king would have trouble at such a time.”
And there is a Magister hovering over him like a vulture, ready to take advantage of it. “You see why he needs you,” Colivar said quietly.
“You can say that a thousand times, but it will not keep my head on my shoulders.”
Colivar exhaled noisily in exasperation. “Then where is hope? You tell me, Highness. You know the man and you know his court—”
“—And I know you are his enemy, Colivar. Or has that changed? Wh
y would I give an enemy knowledge of his situation?”
Colivar’s jaw clenched for a moment. “This is bigger than morati politics,” he said at last.
“Yet you did not send Ramirus to me, to make this request. A Magister I would have trusted. So perhaps it is not.”
Colivar’s expression darkened. “Ramirus hates your father more than the whole of Anshasa put together. He will not do anything to help him.”
“That is rather shortsighted, don’t you think? Assuming the danger is what you say it is.”
“In that one thing Magisters and men are alike, Highness. Both are capable of ignoring bad news when it is something they do not wish to hear.” He paused. “Ramirus told us there were only two people who knew Danton well enough to influence him in this matter: your mother and yourself. Both born of Protector’s blood. Is it not the duty of your line to deal with these creatures? To whom else shall that duty be given, if you fail to meet it?”
Anger flared briefly in the prince’s eyes, but he did not give voice to it. Because I am right, Colivar thought, and he knows it. Finally he said, in a voice as chill as ice, “You can get me to the palace?”
“To its vicinity. Not inside. Kostas will have woven a network of wards so tightly about the place that any sorcery will draw his immediate attention. Setting you down inside will mean announcing our arrival to him. Not a good idea.”
“Location is not an issue. I know a way in.”
Colivar nodded. The palace had been a fortified keep once, outfitted for war, and that meant that one or more siege tunnels would have been carved out of the surrounding countryside to give the royal family a route to safety if enemies surrounded the place. They were doubtless protected with enough spells to keep strangers from finding them, but Andovan would know the way.
“I will go,” Andovan said. “I will talk to my mother. I will see what she has to say about the situation, and urge her to take action if the situation merits it. Nothing more than that, Colivar. Any other course else is certain death, and while I do not mind dying for a cause, dying for an act of pointless stupidity is not nearly so appealing.”
Feast of Souls Page 43
