“No,” the visitor agreed. It was maddening to Colivar how calm he was. Was this man’s inner beast weaker than his own, or was it just better disciplined? He had always wondered what the others of his kind experienced. Were their internal battles less fierce than his, because they were farther removed from the source? Or did they just hide them better? “Sorcery cannot change it.”
“What, then?”
“Something more powerful than sorcery. Something that the morati, ironically enough, understand the value of . . . though we have forgotten it.” He let Colivar consider that for a moment, then said, very quietly, “Law.”
Colivar drew in a sharp breath. “You mean . . . what? Rules of engagement?”
“No. Those are for wartime. This must be something more basic. More primal. Something to help us curb our darker instincts when they arise, so that open warfare will no longer be necessary. Or at least . . . .” A dry smile flickered across his lips. “Not quite so often.”
“We are not morati,” he said harshly.
“No . . . but that does not mean we cannot learn from their accomplishments. Rule of law is what separates the morati from the beasts. Perhaps it can do the same for us.”
But a Magister’s beast is part of his soul, Colivar thought darkly. Divide the two, and you destroy both halves. This stranger did not understand that, of course. None of the other Magisters did. And he was not about to explain it to them. “How do you propose to enforce these laws?” he demanded. Trying to focus upon the stranger’s words, rather than the memories they conjured. “What manner of authority do you think that Magisters will accept?”
“Common accord would be required.”
For a moment Colivar was speechless. Finally he managed, “An agreement by . . . all of us?”
The stranger bowed his head.
“Even the morati could not manage such unanimity.”
“We are greater than the morati, are we not?”
Colivar shook his head in amazement. “There are some who would call you mad for even suggesting such a thing.”
“Whereas I prefer to think of myself as practical.”
We are incapable even of talking face-to-face with our own kind without bestial instincts taking control of us. What kind of law do you envision for us? How do you propose to punish transgressors?
But those words died on his lips, unvoiced. Because the suggestion, mad as it was, struck a chord deep within him. A human chord. And for a moment—just a moment—the beast within him was quiet, and he could think with unexpected clarity.
“This was your idea?” he managed at last.
The stranger shook his head. “Not mine alone. But few are capable of spreading the word as effectively as I, so I volunteered. The task requires . . . .” A faint smile quirked his lips. “. . . . unusual self-control.”
What if all the others join together in this project, Colivar thought suddenly, and I alone cannot? He was suddenly acutely aware of the chasm that separated him from all the others of his kind. If this stranger knew the truth about him, would he have come here with the same offer? Would he even want Colivar to be part of this project?
“It will take a very long time,” he challenged.
“Perhaps. But time is the one thing we have in abundance, is it not?”
“And the ultimate goal is . . . what? To bring us all together in one great assembly, so that we can collaborate on a set of rules?” He laughed harshly. “We would tear each other to pieces before the first word was set on paper.”
“Ah.” A smile flickered across the stranger’s face; it was a cold and humorless expression. “But you see, that is the difference between you and me. I believe that Magisters can rise above their bloodier instincts, if they are convinced of the need to do so. Maybe someday, if we are determined enough, it may even be possible for a number of us to come together like civilized men and discuss matters of common interest without our darker instincts interfering. That would be a thing to marvel at, wouldn’t it?”
“You really believe that establishing a set of rules can all make this possible?”
The stranger said solemnly, “It is not the law itself that will have power, Colivar. It is what we must become in order to establish it.”
Ravens cawed in the distance. Somewhere amidst the bodies, unseen, a dying man groaned. Colivar shut his eyes and focused upon the sounds, trying to sort out the storm of emotions in his soul. He felt as if he were at a crossroads, peering into the darkness, trying to make out any hint of the terrain up ahead, to choose his way. But both paths were shrouded in fog, their features indiscernible. One must step forward in blind faith or not go forward at all.
All the assumptions he had made about his power—about his very soul!—were being challenged by this man. But what if his assumptions had been wrong? What if the other sorcerers, born in a simpler time, had a clearer understanding of what their true potential was? What if they could really change things?
And what if he, unique among Magisters, could not share in that change? It was a chilling thought, that made the more sensitive parts of his anatomy want to draw up into his body out of pure dread.
But if they could succeed in this mad plan . . . just imagine the potential of it! Not only for their society in general—if the ranks of Magisters could be called that—but for his own inner struggle as well.
I could be human again, he thought with wonder. It was a dream he’d been forced to abandon long ago. Now he was being challenged to take it up again. The concept was almost too much to process.
A raven cawed in the distance. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“What is it you want of me?” he said at last.
Though the stranger had been impassive thus far, it was clear from the way his expression eased now that he had been far from certain about where the conversation was heading. Or who would come out of it alive, should it devolve into a less civilized discourse. “Simply your agreement that the task is worth attempting. That when the time comes to enter the next stage, you will consider playing an active role. How much will be possible, of course, no man can predict. But we mean to do our best, and your support would mean much to us.”
Colivar raised an eyebrow. “Do not attempt to flatter me,” he said darkly. “That is a morati trick.”
The stranger shrugged. “Your word has much weight among our kind. That is not flattery, simply the truth.”
“Because I am more deadly than most?”
“Because you have more knowledge than most.” The sapphire eyes glittered. “Even though you hold that knowledge close to your breast.”
Colivar drew in a deep breath. What lay within his breast was the soul of a beast, coiled, waiting. Did other Magisters perceive themselves in the same way, as if every moment they were caught in a tug-of-war between their human halves and some dark, animalistic master? Or did they believe that all their violent, territorial urges were simply human emotions gone awry? There was no way to ask; Magisters did not discuss such things with one another.
He had always perceived their ignorance as a weakness. But perhaps it might open doors for them, where his own knowledge of the past had closed them.
“Very well.” Colivar nodded stiffly. “When the time comes that all the Magisters have agreed to this course—when they come together to determine what manner of law they will establish—then I will come to that place, also.” A faint smile flickered across his lips. “And I will try my best not to kill them all.”
The stranger bowed respectfully. “That is all we can ask.”
And he turned away to leave. It was, in its own way, as powerful a statement of intent as a Magister could possibly offer. He had no way to know that Colivar would not strike him down from behind as soon as his back was turned. Yet he willingly took that chance. Was it optimism that motivated him, or foolishness? Or both?
“Wait,” Colivar said.
The stranger turned back to him.
“You know my name, but you
have not given me yours.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is that the way you wish to begin this cooperative effort?”
The cold blue eyes regarded him. There was power in a name, even one that was used in public circles. And there was much more power in receiving a name directly from its owner. Few Magisters would make such a gesture.
Prove how much you care about this project, Colivar thought. Prove how far you are willing to go to bring it to fruition.
“Ramirus,” the stranger said. “I am called Ramirus.”
Ravens cawed in the distance as he once more turned to leave. This time Colivar did not stop him.
Beginning
Chapter 1
T
HE ATTACK began before dawn.
Jezalya’s population was mostly asleep, trusting to its sentries to sound an alarm if trouble came calling. But no one really expected trouble. The wall surrounding the desert city was tall and strong, with centuries of witchery woven into its substance; only a fool would try to break through it. Least of all during the night, when even the fiercest of warriors laid his weapons aside, leaving sovereignty of the sand to lizards and demons.
Their error.
Outside the city Nasaan waited, studying the great wall through a spyglass. He had a small but loyal army at his command, made up of tribal warriors from the most powerful desert families. Perhaps they were not as well armored as the soldiers of Jezalya, but they were ten times as fierce, and they were bound to him by ties of blood as well as political fealty. His witches were kin to him as well, which meant that they would be willing to lay down their very lives to assure him victory. They were a whole different species from Jezalya’s witches, who provided the city’s prince with power in carefully measured doses in return for carefully measured coinage. Oh, those witches would help out with a few small tasks, and maybe even scry for trouble now and then, but only up to a point. As soon as they became convinced that Jezalya was a lost cause they would bolt like frightened rats, and not waste one precious moment of life-essence trying to save her.
Or so Nasaan’s spies had assured him, after months of reconnaissance.
A pale blue light began to spread along the eastern horizon, harbinger of dawn. Inside the city, Nasaan knew, people were just starting to stir. The grand market at the heart of Jezalya would open as soon as the sky was light, so the most ambitious vendors were already laying out their wares, lining up fresh vegetables and strips of newly slaughtered flesh in neat rows to entice buyers. Wagons were beginning to move up and down the narrow streets, transporting goods from one place to another in anticipation of a new day’s business. Merchants who had sheltered in Jezalya for the night were gathering their parties together, preparing to return to the road. And along the top of the great wall sentries watched the sky lighten, unutterably bored. Once more, a night had passed without incident. They were not surprised. War was a creature of daylight, and if trouble came, it would not be on their watch.
Wrong again.
There was not yet enough light to see by, but Nasaan’s spyglass had been bewitched so that it would magnify what little there was, facilitating his reconaissance. He could see sentries walking along the top of the wall, their eyes scanning the barren plain that surrounded Jezalya. Nasaan tensed as one man looked his way, but his witches had crafted spells to keep the enemy from seeing him or his people, and apparently those were more effective than whatever spells Jezalya was using to watch for trouble.
His men were clearly anxious to begin the fighting, but it would do no good to rush the city’s outer wall prematurely, Nasaan knew. His strategy inside the city must play out before he and his men could make their move. Otherwise they would be held at bay by the same great wall that had defeated greater armies in the past. Such a barrier could not be conquered from the outside.
With a whispered word he cautioned his men to stillness, and waited.
One of the sentries’ lanterns suddenly went dark. Nasaan stiffened. A few seconds passed; then the light returned, and whoever held the lantern now bobbed it up and down: once, twice, three times.
Nasaan’s signal.
There was no alarm sounding yet. No noise of combat from inside the city, carried to them on the dry desert wind. Nasaan held his breath, his hand closing tightly about his reins. The more that his agents in Jezalya could accomplish by stealth and trickery, as a prelude to all-out battle, the better it would be for everyone.
No man can breach the walls of my city, Jezalya’s ruler had bragged. The words had been meant as a deterrent, but instead Nasaan had accepted them as a personal challenge. That was the day that he had known it was his destiny to claim the prosperous trade city for his own. Not with brute warfare, charging against the great wall as so many armies had done in the past, struggling to mount ladders and climb ropes while the city’s warriors rained down hot oil and burning arrows on their heads. No. Such a strategy was doomed to failure before it began. But a few dozen men inside Jezalya could accomplish more than a thousand men on the outside, if the desert gods favored their mission.
And Nasaan was on good terms with his gods.
What was the name of the city’s ruler, anyway? Dervash? Dervastis? Son of a chieftain from a minor tribe that few men respected. It was amazing that the city had accepted the rule of such a man, given the weakness of his family line. Nasaan carried the blood of ancient kings in his veins, and with it the spark of their greatness.
Jezalya deserved such a leader.
Slowly, torturously, the massive gates finally began to swing open. Nasaan could see a wave of anticipation sweep through the ranks of his men as they tensed in their saddles, preparing to ride forward. Not yet, he thought. Raising his hand to signal them to hold their ground, cautioning them to have patience for a few moments longer. Not yet! His small army was positioned much closer to Jezalya than would have been possible during the day; his witches had drawn upon night’s own darkness to augment their protective magics. But the greatest risk of the operation would be in its first moments of aggressive action, a mad dash across open the open plain to the city’s entrance. Not even all his witches acting in unison could obscure something like that. They needed to wait until Nasaan’s men inside the city had finished their job and controlled Jezalya’s main gate. If Nasaan’s men tried to storm the gate before that had been accomplished . . . well, it would be one hell of a bloody mess, that was certain.
This prize is worth bloodshed, he thought. And he whispered a final prayer to the god of war under his breath, promising to build him a great new temple in the heart of Jezalya if the battle went well.
And then, at last, the gates of the city were fully open. The massive armored doors would not close quickly or easily, Nasaan knew; his first objective had been accomplished, and all of it without raising the city’s alarm. So far so good.
But there was no way to manage the next phase of the invasion without alerting his target. Hiding a host of warriors from sight when they were moving stealthily in the depths of night, keeping to cover whenever possible, was one thing; masking the charge of an attacking horde riding noisily across open ground was another. Better to abandon witchery entirely, now, and claim whatever advantage speed and fury could buy them.
A tense silence fell over the armed company, punctuated only by the impatient snuffing of a few horses. They, too, could feel the tension simmering in the air. But no one was going to move without Nasaan’s command.
And then his hand fell. And with a war cry so terrible it would surely strike fear into the hearts of the enemy, his men kicked their horses into sudden motion. Thundering across the dry earth, the beating hooves raised clouds of dust so thick that it seemed as if a sandstorm were bearing down upon the city, faceless and terrible. This was not merely a human army descending upon Jezalya, but the very embodiment of the desert’s fury.
Fear us! Nasaan thought fiercely. Gripping his reins with one hand as he raised up his other arm, positioning his battle-scarred shield high enough that it would p
rotect him from the enemy’s fire. Fear us so much that you choose surrender instead of risking slaughter at our hands. Choose life instead of death.
He had agents inside the city who would tell its leaders that this was their only choice. That they could either surrender to the tribal army and know peace, or suffer the full fury of its wrath. Nasaan himself hoped they would choose the first option—it would leave more of the city intact for him to rule—but he suspected that many of his men felt otherwise. They lusted for the aftermath of military conquest as much as they did for battle itself, hungering for the thrill of unbridled rapine and destruction that would follow a lengthier siege. Nasaan’s greatest challenge, if the city surrendered, would be to keep his own men from destroying it.
Of course, if the leaders of Jezalya did not surrender . . . then he would rule over whatever was left once his men were finished sacking the place.
A sudden sharp blow struck his shield from above. Then another. Arrows were being launched at them from the upper reaches of the wall. There weren’t as many as normally would be expected—Nasaan’s agents had apparently taken control of the nearer portions of the wall, denying Jezalya’s archers access—but still there were enough to send a thin steel rain hurtling down from the sky, lethal in its velocity. One arrow pierced through Nasaan’s upraised shield right next to his arm, gouging his bracer. Another struck a bolt on his shield with a sound like the crack of lightning and bounced off. He heard several of his warriors curse as they were struck, but no man fell, and no man faltered. They all understood the importance of getting inside the city gate before Jezalya had a chance to mobilize.
Even now the alarm must be sounding in all her barracks. The head of the night watch would be cursing his own inattention as the daylight officers staggered naked out of bed, fumbling for their armor, yelling for information. No doubt they would order the great city gate to be closed, unaware that Nasaan’s men had taken control of it.