C. S. Friedman - Magister 01, page 39
“And Danton is going mad.”
“Danton was always mad,” Ramirus said quietly. “Tell me about the Souleaters.”
So he did. All of it. The appearance of the witch Antuas in Sankara, the interrogation that had followed, the slaughter in Corialanus, the nest, the bodies, Colivar’s theories… all of it. Ramirus was silent and still as he listened; he moved only once—to let go of the wine glass, which vanished from sight before it could hit the floor— and then steepled his fingers thoughtfully, his white brows furrowed above eyes that had suddenly become colder than human eyes should ever be.
When Fadir was finally finished, Ramirus said quietly, “Colivar always did have a taste for offering up fantastic tales—
“Do not mock what you know nothing about,” Fadir warned. “I was there and I saw—”
The white-haired Magister held up a hand to silence him. “As I was about to say… he also knows more of these matters than any man alive.”
“You believe him, then.”
“No man would lie about such creatures.” He smiled darkly, an expression without warmth or mirth. “Not even Colivar.”
He rose up from his chair and walked to the window again. For a long while he just stood there, gazing out at his ravaged gardens.
Finally Fadir said, “They have allies, Ramirus. Human allies. Danton may be one of them.”
He said nothing.
Feast of Souls
“It has been suggested that if he understood what the Souleaters really were, he would surely keep his distance from them.” Still the white-haired Magister said nothing. “Colivar said that you were the only one who would know how to reach him.”
“It takes no great art to know how Danton should be ‘reached.‘“Ramirus’ expression was grim. “But our Law dictates we cannot harm him directly while one of us is bound to his service. So what would you have me do? Show up at his door and offer him counsel? Send him flowers, perhaps, wrapped in some spell that will make him a gentler, kinder king?” His tone was harsh. “Danton is a ruthless bastard, who wants one thing and one thing only. Power. If a Souleater showed up at his door I do not doubt that his first thought would be how to bind it to his purpose… and if any morati could accomplish that, it would be Danton Aurelius.”
Fadir exhaled sharply. “Surely he would understand that the return of such creatures puts the whole world at risk—”
“—and he will not live long enough to see it happen. That is both the gift and the curse of the morati, is it not? What does a man like Danton care if five hundred years in the future someone else must do battle with these creatures again?” He turned back to his guest; there was a blackness in his eyes that was terrible to behold. “If the monsters will serve him now, if they can help him strengthen his empire, let future generations worry about the consequences.”
“Do you really believe that?” Fadir demanded. “Conquerors like Danton care passionately about what kind of legacy they will leave behind. You tell me this High King is different, you tell me the future means nothing to him, that he would sell out the world in which his own son would be High King for some fleeting military gain… and I will say, you know him better than any other Magister. From you alone I will accept those words. But they strike me as wrong, by all of my own experience with kings.”
For a long time Ramirus just stared at him. His expression was unreadable. “No,” he said at last. “The Danton I knew would never make such a bargain. Not because he was unwilling to pay the price. Because he would not trust that anything so powerful, so innately malevolent as a Souleater is said to be, could be controlled indefinitely.” He shook his head. “He is many things, Danton Aurelius, but above all else, he likes to be in control.”
“He appears to be losing control,” Fadir said quietly.
Ramirus said nothing.
“Those who know him best say his manner is becoming more and more erratic. Violent fits of anger are more commonplace, provoked by the most innocent cause. Allies whisper of him being ruled now by impulse and emotion, rather than ruthlessness and reason. They fear that his judgment is floundering because of it. They whisper he has even turned on his own family.” He saw Ramirus stiffen at that suggestion, and paused to give him a chance to comment, but the white-haired Magister said nothing. “Is it not possible that in such a state of mind Danton might do the unthinkable? Perhaps cross the line between ambition and recklessness, where he has always backed down from it before?”
For a moment Ramirus shut his eyes; his brow furrowed briefly as if in pain. “I’ve heard these things,” he said at last. “From one who would not lie to me. Yes, Danton is changing, and not for the better.”
“What can be done?”
“Nothing. He is Danton Aurelius.” His eyes flickered open; their depths glittered like ice. “And he has a new Magister Royal, so our Law dictates that none of us may work sorcery upon him directly. Not my favorite rule, granted, but I understand why it was enacted. So what do you propose we do?”
“Surely his Magister Royal understands the danger of allying with Souleaters.”
“Why? No Magister existed back when they ruled the skies; our time came later. We know of them in the same way the morati do: from legends and songs created long after they were gone. All after the fact, as they say. Man did not have the spirit to write songs or create legends when they ruled the earth.” He shook his head. “Still, a Magister should know the risk, at least in theory. And if Danton is serving these creatures in any way, even unknowingly… that is bad, very bad.”
“Will you help, then?”
Ramirus looked up sharply. “Help with what?”
“Colivar suggested that if Danton could be made to understand the larger picture, he might change his course.”
“Colivar is a fool,” he said shortly. “Danton ‘changes course’ for no man.” He came back to his chair and sat down in it once more, stroking the carved wooden arm like he might the soft skin of a lover. “There were once three people in the world who could broach such a matter to Danton Aurelius without suffering his wrath for their honesty. I was among them. My counsel is no longer welcome, for obvious reasons. The second was his wife, the High Queen Gwynofar.” A muscle along the line of his jaw tightened briefly. “I have reason to believe that their relationship is… let us say, it has changed. So she cannot help.”
“And the third?”
“The third was Prince Andovan. Gods alone know why Danton valued his word so much, but he did. Perhaps because the boy had no great desire for political power, and thus could never be a rival to his father. Perhaps it was simply because he had his mother’s eyes. Who can say what manner of sentiment rules the heart of a tyrant? A prince who does not desire his father’s throne can say things straight from the heart without the worry that his every word will be dissected for motive.”
“Andovan is the dead one, yes?”
“Oh, yes. Quite dead. And Danton’s other sons all have agendas of their own that their father is wary of… even that mad recluse Salvator. So they could sermonize about the dangers of Souleaters for a fortnight, and all Danton would ever hear were the echoes of their own ambition. He’d likely do the opposite of whatever it was they advised.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Fadir. That’s not the answer you came for, I know, but it is the truth.”
“Then there is no one to counsel him.”
“Not unless this Kostas can. And I suspect—” He drew in a sharp breath and did not finish the thought.
“Suspect what?”
For a long time again he was silent. Weighing a Magister’s love of secret knowledge against the need for cooperation in this case? If so, there was nothing Fadir could do but wait for him to decide.
Finally Ramirus said, “Some time ago, I experimented with the effects of sorcery upon a morati mind. Specifically, when we wrap our spells around the spirit of a man, so that his thoughts are more in keeping with what we desire, does this change him in other ways? It is well known that a misstep in such arts can cost a subject his sanity, but are there more subtle changes, perhaps cumulative, that might normally pass beneath our notice?” He steepled his fingers before him as he spoke. “The answer is yes. Over time the natural barriers of a morati soul can weaken, until he begins to absorb more than simple orders from his master. In time, he may even take on something of the sorcerer’s own aspect…
a sort of spiritual contamination.” He paused. “It was an impressive experiment, and in this case, I think you will agree, most relevant.”
For a moment Fadir was speechless. Had Ramirus really just shared with him the kind of knowledge that might give a Magister sorcerous advantage over his peers? To do so was almost unheard of among their brotherhood. Magisters were rivals first and foremost, and everything else came second.
It is a measure of how serious he thinks this matter is. The thought sent a shiver up his spine. What extremes he thinks we may have to go to, to deal with this threat. “So you think Danton suffers from too much sorcerous manipulation? That his seeming madness is the result of someone toying with his mind?”
Ramirus’ eyes glittered darkly as they fixed on Fadir. “You miss the point, my brother. Kostas did not cause his madness. Kostas is his madness.”
He rose again, and walked back to the window. The sun was just beginning to set. Orange rays speared through the line of charred holes in the maze, setting their edges alight. “Now the only question is how does Colivar imagine he will deal with a Magister who may have passed beyond the bounds of sanity, and a king who may soon do the same, without breaking the Law that binds us all?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The girl/boy/goddess was a witch. Once he finally figured that out, Andovan was roundly embarrassed that he had not guessed the truth earlier. What else would explain the casual way she had spoken of adding him to Netando’s retinue, as if any request she made would of course be granted? Who else but a witch would dare to make such an assumption? A woman of rank might have done so, but Lianna did not have the manner of one born to noble blood, he thought. Despite occasional hints of a pride that would have done the Aurelius line proud.
True, there had been an awkward moment when she had first spoken to Netando about his coming along. Certainly it was not helped by the fact that Andovan had refused to give Netando any information on his background. Any merchant worth his salt would have considered such a cipher a high risk on the best of days. Rival merchants would be all too happy to plant a spy in such a prosperous company, and as for bandits, the havoc they could wreak with an agent on the inside to feed them information did not bear thinking about. Yet, despite all this, the caravan leader accepted Andovan into his company, with little argu-
Fea,sf of Souls
ment. Only a witch could have caused that great a turn of heart.
Yet it had not occurred to Andovan to ask about such things, or even to suspect that she might have power, until the first long day of travel was over. There was enough to think about before that point. He had agreed to serve as scout, a position which suited his natural talents well, but it had him riding ahead of the caravan most of the time, so there was little opportunity to focus on the mystery he had named Lianna. Or to strike up a closer relationship with her, for whatever that might lead to.
The caravan was a large one, comprised of the companies of two experienced men: Netando’s retinue— flanked by black-skinned warriors from his homeland who looked fierce enough not only to take on an army of bandits, but to tear the flesh from their bones with their very teeth—and that of a Sudlander named Ursti, whose cargo of spices permeated the air surrounding the company with an odd and often distracting combination of smells. He also had guards, but they were disguised as simple servants, and drove the wagons and handled the goods as if they were no more than common workmen delivering a load of wood or stone to the nearest building site. Hopefully anyone observing the company would underestimate the true force it had at its disposal, Andovan thought, and if bandits attacked, they would walk into a trap. It was a strategy noticeably at odds with Netando’s own, which was designed for a deterrent effect, and he wondered that the two had made arrangements to travel together, given the disparity.
But they were heading into the highlands, a dangerous area by any measure, and no doubt the company of another well-armed merchant along the trip was worth overlooking a few points of disagreement. Roving bands of thieves were a danger in any realm, but in the twisting mountain roads of the Highlands travelers had to be doubly wary. Indeed, if both Netando and Ursti had not had trade goods they wished to purchase which were only available in that region, they would likely not travel there at all.
But they did, and so Andovan spent the first few days of the journey ranging far ahead with the other scouts, looking for signs that someone was taking an interest in the caravan. It was exhausting work, given his condition, and made all the more exhausting by the fact that he was determined to let no man see his weakness. But it was also a task that played to his strengths as a woodsman, and several times he was able to read meaning into patterns of scraped bark and trampled earth, where his companions could only point and say, “Look, something has been here.”
Thus far there was no trouble, and all the signs of human passage in the lands surrounding them were old. Perhaps the goddess Lianna was watching over him?
He hadn’t told the witch Lianna the whole of the goddess’ myth; he wondered if she knew it. Each spring, it was said, Lianna came down to earth to do battle with her half-brother Umbar, who claimed dominion over the world during the winter months. The sheer force of their confrontation shook the very ground men stood upon, and the northlands resounded with the agonized groans of Umbar’s ice as it was split into shards by the convulsions of the earth beneath and carried away in pieces by chill, swift-running rivers. Yet even so Lianna’s triumph was not complete, for the earth was still cold, and in the end she must come to her half-brother’s bed and seduce him, so that the heat of their passion might warm the earth, and allow the bright summer sun to claim the sky for a season.
Personally, Andovan suspected that the god of winter had long ago resigned himself to his yearly defeat, and kept up the fight at this point simply because it won him the lady’s sexual favors… but that was another story.
What a mystery this mortal Lianna was! How she obsessed him, in the hours they traveled! And when he finally heard Netando make mention of her witchery the force of his obsession trebled. Who was she, really? Why was she part of this odd company? At first he had thought that she was somehow connected to the mystery of his illness, but no, his gut instinct assured him that was not the case. Wouldn’t Colivar’s spell have alerted him if it were? Then for a short while he had thought that she and Netando might be lovers (and he’d felt a surprising spark of jealousy over the matter), but now that he’d had a chance to observe them more closely he did not think that was so either. Did she have an interest in Andovan? His masculine ego would have been happy to believe it, but he was never quite sure. Not that there weren’t moments he knew such a thing was on her mind. He could tell it by the brief flash of heat in her eyes when she spoke to him, the lingering of her touch upon his arm, and the thousand and one other nuances of a woman’s desire that an attractive young prince learned to read at an early age. Yet, just as clearly, no door was being opened for him. She might spark his interest with a brief hint of fire, but then it was as quickly gone, and all the walls of her spirit were like fortified steel again.
She had been hurt badly, at least once. He had seen it before in women and knew the signs. And if his guess about the child in the Third Moon was right, and this witch had also been manhandled at a young age… it was little wonder she did not trust men. Or take lightly the thought of bedding one of them.
That in itself was enticing, in a strange and somewhat disturbing way. He had grown up in a world where women were easy conquests, if not falling for his masculine charms outright, then to the dual seductions of wealth and power that he embodied. He could probably have bedded any woman he chose, save perhaps those princesses of such high rank that their marital favors could alter the fates of nations… and even in those cases there was often room to maneuver, providing the outward signs of chastity remained undisturbed.
Yet here was a woman he could not even court openly as a woman, lest he be labeled a sodomite… a woman who was clearly intrigued by him, but not necessarily in a way he comprehended or desired… a woman who had been injured in the past, so that one wrong move might cause her to withdraw into herself, behind such barriers as no mere prince could ever breach. It was all strangely enticing. Energizing, even. It even seemed to him that when she touched him something of his accustomed strength flowed back into his limbs, and his skin tingled with a mysterious heat. Was that witchery? Or just his overactive imagination? All he knew was that he had not had any real interest in a woman since his illness had begun, and feeling all those instincts come alive again inside him was like emerging from a dark, dank cave into the blinding light of day.
Not that he had much of a chance to explore such possibilities. She apparently did not know how to ride, and so established a perch for herself upon the driver’s seat of Netando’s own carriage, from which she commanded a view of the entire caravan. When the scouts were being briefed she caught Andovan’s eye, and an enigmatic smile hinted at secrets that might be revealed if only there were a private place to share such things. But there wasn’t, and she knew it. Maddening.
They spent the first day traveling hard, making progress as quickly as they could through the rocky foothills, anxious to reach the heights before nightfall.
The road grew narrower and steeper by the hour, and the air grew colder as well as they moved up into higher latitudes. After the stifling heat of the shoreline, it was a relief to all but the black-skinned Durbanas, who gathered cloaks around themselves tightly and muttered invectives about the “northlands.” As if they had any real idea what the northlands were truly like, Andovan thought.
