C. S. Friedman - Magister 01, page 38
“No. No.” He shook his head slowly; his expression was grim. “You are right. We need her too much for other things.” He hesitated. “We should spread that news as well, I suppose.”
Colivar nodded. “To her lovers.” Again the dry, pained smile flickered across his lips briefly. “What a strange society we have formed, bound together by a morati woman. And by nothing else, save perhaps an instinctive distrust for one another.”
“If you are right about what these things are,” Sulah said, “and how they operate, the Magisters will have to ally. As the witches did in the Great War.”
“I can think of quite a few Magisters who would rather fornicate with a Souleater than work with others of their kind,” Colivar said dryly. “Let us hope we do not need to test them. As for the Great War… I will remind you that what the witches did was offer up their lives in sacrifice. Every last one of them was lost.”
Fadir nodded. “Not likely they will be willing to do the same again, now that we are here.”
“And not likely that any Magisters will offer to take their place, given that the one quality we all have in common is an unwillingness to die. So we need to see that matters never reach that point, yes?” Colivar wrapped his arms around himself; it was a strangely morati gesture. “I for one have no desire to see the Dark Ages return. And do not mistake it, that is the cost if we fail.”
“I will spread the word,” Fadir promised. He stepped back from the other two and raised his hand as if to bind enough power to leave their company, but suddenly Colivar stopped him.
“Tell them to kill their consorts,” he told him. “They will understand.”
The redheaded Magister bowed his assent and then called his power to him. The night air shimmered briefly about him… and then there was nothing in the place where he had stood save a chill breeze, which quickly dispersed.
For a moment there was only silence, and the deep ruddy shadows of the setting sun.
Then: “Your observations?” Colivar asked. “I am… curious.”
“You know more than you are telling us,” the younger man said bluntly. “Quite a bit more, I suspect. And I have as much chance of getting the rest out of you as these skeletons have of coming down off their posts and dancing, if you are not ready to talk.”
Colivar chuckled darkly. “You were always an insightful student___”
“Am I wrong?” He waited a moment for an answer, and when none was offered, pressed, “What did you mean, ‘tell them to kill their consorts?’ “
“A custom of war, among Magisters Royal. On the eve of battle one drains one’s consort dry, to force Transition to take place, so that one has a fresh consort when the battle begins, and need not worry about having to hunt down a new one at an inopportune moment.”
“Are we going into battle, then? Or just taking precautions?”
For a moment Colivar did not answer him. He gazed out into the night, and once more Sulah had the feeling that his thoughts were elsewhere. Remembering past battles, perhaps, or envisioning future ones. Finally he said, “It is possible, I suppose, that a handful of ikati escaped the hunt at the end of the Great War. Possible that they and their descendants kept a low enough profile that we did not realize any had survived until now.”
“And if not?”
The black eyes fixed on him. “Then the ones we are seeing came from the North. From beyond those boundaries which were supposed to hold them prisoner forever. And if that is the case, Sulah, if that barrier has truly been breached, then the war has already begun. On very different terms than the last time we fought them.”
He gazed out across the field of stakes; Sulah thought he saw him shudder. It was so uncharacteristic that the sight of it made Sulah’s skin crawl.
“Last time they did not have allies,” Colivar whispered.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was late at night when Gwynofar returned to her chambers, and she was weary. She hoped that was because of her pregnancy, and not any more significant problem. Not the fact that the whole building seemed to reek of Danton’s foul Magister now, and merely breathing air that carried his scent made her stomach churn. Once, mere days ago, she would have tried to deny the sensation, telling herself that the stink was no more than her imagination… but now that Rurick had made it clear that was not the case, and others could smell it as well, it seemed ten times more sickening.
At the door to her chamber Merian paused. The maidservant looked back the way they had come as if listening for something. When she did not move after a moment, Gwynofar asked, “What is it?”
“I thought I heard voices, milady. It would be odd, for anyone to be here so late at night.”
Gwynofar doubted that anyone would be passing by her chamber at such an hour, but she knew from experience that her maidservant would not be at ease until she had investigated the matter. “Go,” she said. “I will wait for you.”
She took the lamp from the woman’s hands, listened to the obligatory apologies for her running off when she should be by milady’s side, and watched with a half-smile as Merian finally went off down the corridor, back the way they had come. Woe betide any man who she decided was responsible for disturbing the queen’s peace, Gwynofar thought.
With a sigh she opened the heavy doors of the bedchamber herself and stepped inside. Setting the lamp down beside the bed, she wondered if she should just undress herself and go to sleep rather than waiting for her servant to return to help her. But no, that would just upset the woman more, and Gwynofar would have to reassure her ten times over that she had not failed in her duty to her queen by leaving her to undress herself. With a heavy sigh Gwynofar decided just to wait for her, and settled for pulling the long pins out of her hair and then turning to the bed—
—and she stumbled backward with a low cry, upsetting the sideboard and nearly knocking the lamp over.
There was something on the bed. It was small and still, and there was some kind of liquid spreading outward from it, wet and dark as it pooled upon the coverlet.
Leaning against the wall for support, she picked up the lamp again. Her hand was trembling, and the lamp sent shadows dancing across the walls. Slowly she approached the bed, raising it up so that it would cast its light directly on the object.
It was a messenger pigeon.
Her messenger pigeon.
Its neck had been torn open, a wound from which its last blood now dripped, staining the coverlet crimson. The tiny leather case that had been strapped to its leg was still there, but it had been opened, and the message she had placed within it was gone. The flesh was still warm, she noted with a trembling touch, the blood still fluid… which meant that it had only just been killed. Perhaps even while she and Merian were talking in the corridor.
She stared at it in horror and wanted to scream, but when she tried the sound caught in her throat and nothing would come out.
“Your bird, I believe.”
The voice came from behind her. She whirled about and suddenly found the speaker so close to her that she nearly fell onto the bed trying to back away from him.
Kostas.
“Merian!” she yelled. Or tried to yell. But though she did all the things one normally did to make a sound, no sound came out.
“She will not hear you, Majesty. No one will hear you, until I allow it.”
For a moment she was so weak with fear she could hardly stand. The sickness she felt in the Magister’s presence was nigh on overwhelming, and for one terrible moment she wondered if she might faint before him. Then anger took spark within her, setting fire to her soul… and she was queen once more.
“Get out of my room,” she commanded.
The lizardlike eyes fixed on her: unblinking, inhuman. “I suggest you listen to what I have to say, Majesty. Until now you have simply annoyed me, and it has cost you a messenger. But I would not like to think that some foolish act in the future might bring us to greater conflict.”
Her heart was pounding wildly, but she refused to let him see her fear. “I am your queen,” she said in her most imperious tone. “For as long as you are bound in contract to Danton, you are bound to my service as well.”
“But to him first and foremost, Lady. And if those two interests should conflict… let us say it would not be a good thing for you.”
Her voice was like steel. “I am his wife. I rule over his household. I share his throne. It is not for you to judge the manner in which I do those things.”
He reached out to touch her, to cup his hand under her chin; it was the sort of condescending gesture one might make with a child. She hissed softly as his fingers came near to her face, and could feel something within her self about to snap. It was a dark and terrible something, like nothing she had ever felt before.
But just as he was about to make contact with her, he stopped. It was not by choice, it seemed to her, but almost as if some unseen barrier had stopped the motion short. A strange look came over his face. For a fleeting moment she saw something in his eyes that was neither arrogance nor disdain. Could it be fear?
“You cannot plot against me,” he said quietly. “You understand that? I will know it if you do. Any thought you may have of interfering with my plans, or of turning your husband against me, I will know of it as soon as you begin. When you walk into a room where I am present, I will understand all your plots and connivings as certainly as if you had explained them to me. Your allies will be as clear to my Sight as if they wore your mark plainly upon their foreheads… and their thoughts, also, shall be known to me.” His eyes narrowed. “You have no secrets from me, Majesty.”
She did not trust herself to speak. She hoped he could not hear the wild pounding of her heart.
“Your husband is High King,” he told her. “I know what lies before him and I am guiding him to his destiny. That is my duty. You are his queen. That is a different role. Bear him heirs, pleasure his flesh, run his household if you please. Stay out of his business otherwise.”
That something which was inside her finally snapped. Willing authority into her voice, drawing energy from that place within her soul where terror and fury both raged, she could feel her expression harden.
Fe$sf of Sou/s
“You will leave my room,” she said. “NOW”
For a long moment he just stared at her. Perhaps waiting to see if she would back down. But she drew strength from the power of her hatred for him, and did not even blink. If he was reading her mind now, she thought, let him drink in that hatred and drown in it. My spirit is poison to you, Magister. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, but she suddenly knew them for the truth.
“Call upon your ancestral power if you like,” he said between gritted teeth. “But know that the cost will be the life of your unborn child.”
With no further word he turned and left her. Not until the door had swung shut behind him did the strength finally drain from her limbs. With a short cry of anguish she fell to the floor, and the tears she had fought so hard not to shed in front of him began to flow freely. Her body shook violently as all the emotions she had struggled to control in his presence were let loose. Ice-cold terror, molten rage, confusion… what had his final words meant? What power was he referring to? How was it a threat to her child?
“Milady? Milady!”
It was Merian. She was kneeling by the queen’s side an instant, cradling Gwynofar in her arms as one would a fallen child, drying her tears with the end of one sleeve. “What is it, what happened? What’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”
“He cannot hurt me.” The words tasted strange on her lips, but somehow she knew they were true. “He lacks the power.”
“I will kill him if he tries, I swear it, milady—”
“Shh. Shh. There is no need.” It was oddly comforting to focus on the other woman’s fear instead of her own. “He is gone now.”
He had not been able to touch her. He had tried to,
he had reached out to her with his hand… and he had not made contact. What had stopped him?
“Find me a room he has never been in,” she whispered. “Have my things moved there tonight. I will not sleep in a place that creature has befouled with his presence, not ever again.”
“But milady…” Merian glanced back nervously toward the door, no doubt imagining how well it would be received when she started waking up servants to see to the task. “I do not know—”
“And a new bed. There must be a new bed. I will not sleep in this one again.”
She sighed. “Yes, milady. As you wish.”
Gwynofar would wait in the garden, by the Spears, while a new room was prepared. She would sleep there if necessary. Kostas would never approach the Spears, she knew that now. Maybe that was the power he had referred to. Maybe he feared her family’s gods, and because of them, feared her. But why would the gods hurt her child?
My spirit is poison to you, Magister. I do not know how yet, or why, but I saw the truth of it in your eyes.
I will not forget.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Of all the sorcerous obstacles Fadir encountered, the fifth one was the most annoying of all. It appeared to be a garden maze of the sort one might find outside a grand manor house, the kind of thing that rich men created to show off how much money they had. The walls of the maze were made of cropped hedges taller than a man, so that once entered the way out could not be seen. Presumably one was supposed to wend one’s way through the labyrinthine pattern of the maze, admiring its botanical display with a lady on one’s arm, perhaps, and feeling no particular urgency about reaching one’s destination.
It should have been easy enough to divine a way out, but apparently the owner had taken safeguards against such an action, and the best of Fadir’s sorcery only brought him visions of more hedges. He had wandered about for almost an hour, wasting precious time, when finally he decided enough was enough. He gathered up his power into a ball of seething, molten athra, and loosed it in the direction he thought he should be traveling. As it crashed into each viridian wall it seared a hole through the tangled leaves and branches, leaving a black, charred path in its wake. So much for parlor games.
He was not in a good mood when he finally climbed through the last hole and reached the house that lay beyond. Fortunately there were no more games to be endured. No doubt the series of obstacles had accomplished its true purpose, causing him to waste enough power that he would be more hesitant to summon vast displays of sorcery while he was here. Either that, or Ramirus’ exile had unhinged his mind.
Right now he was willing to bet on the latter.
No servants scurried to meet him as he approached the house, or any other manner of living creature. He bound a wisp of soulfire to locate Ramirus and exhaled a sigh of relief when it worked. He didn’t have any more patience for games. He followed the sorcerous trail into the house, up a vast curving staircase, and to a library of sorts, that overlooked the gardens he had just been in. Through the diamond-paned window he could see the black path of his rage cutting through the maze like a carriage road. Ramirus could see it too. He was standing by the window as Fadir entered, gazing out at the ravaged gardens.
“You could have levitated,” Ramirus pointed out. “It would have been simpler, though arguably less dramatic.”
“I felt I had to destroy something,” Fadir replied shortly. “Be glad it was only shrubbery.”
Ramirus chuckled and turned from the window. He appeared much as he had when he had called them all to Danton’s palace a small eternity ago. If the stress of recent events weighed upon his soul, it did not show.
“I do not get many visitors here,” he said. “Though the ones that do come rarely make it as far as the gardens. Usually by the time they discover my giant monitor lizards they are having second thoughts about bothering me.”
“And the morati?”
The piercing blue eyes fixed on Fadir. “When I have need of morati I seek them out. Otherwise they know better than to come here.”
“Yes, speaking of which… where is ‘here,’ exactly?” Fadir looked about him as if expecting that a map might be pinned to the wall somewhere; the primitive ornaments in his hair clattered and tinkled as he moved. He looked extraordinarily out of place in this polished, sophisticated environment, but that was an image he enjoyed. In fact it had been many mortal lifetimes since he had been rightfully called barbarian, but some things were hard to leave behind.
“Does it matter? You sought me out, I allowed you to come. Now do sit down and tell me what this visit is about.” He waved to a pair of leather-covered chairs flanking a mahogany desk; there were books and manuscripts strewn across the latter, as if he had just been interrupted in the midst of some complicated research project. “I assume you can conjure any refreshments you desire.” Ramirus waved one hand and a glass of red wine appeared in it. “Make yourself at home.”
Yes, like I am going to waste one more bit of power in this place than I have to. Fadir was irritated, but only that. By Magister standards Ramirus was being downright hospitable.
The chair creaked as he sat down in it. After a moment he did indeed conjure himself a tankard of ale, despite the cost. The waxed leather vessel he created was better suited to a rustic tavern than this polished sitting room, which he hoped would annoy his host.
“I hear you have not taken patronage again,” Fadir said. “Any truth to that rumor?”
“I hear you are developing an unhealthy interest in other men’s affairs,” Ramirus responded pleasantly. “Any truth to that one?”
The visitor sighed. So much for small talk.
He put his tankard down on the table—a sorcerous breeze moved several papers out of the way just in time—and then said simply, without prelude, “The Souleaters are back.”
The wine glass that was halfway to Ramirus’ lips stopped there, frozen in place.
