They did not matter to her.
Deeper she went into the complex, scratching marks into the walls as she went so she could find her way back later, not wanting to use any more sorcery than she had to in this place. She did have to conjure light for herself once she left the front chambers, but she kept it to a minimum, and she bound it to her own body so that no traces of it would be left behind. She wanted to leave as little of her own resonance in this place as possible.
You won’t find him here, she told herself. At best, maybe you’ll find some clue that tells you where to look for him next. If that.
At last she came to a what looked like a dead end. The tunnel she had been following terminated in a small chamber whose far wall had collapsed, leaving a steep slope of rubble blocking the way. Colivar’s trail headed straight toward the slope and then seemed to pass underneath it. Had the way been open when Colivar came through here? Might he have gotten trapped in a surprise rockfall? That would be an ignominious end for a Magister, she thought soberly. It was also a humbling reminder that for all their power, sorcerers could be as fragile as the morati if they were surprised. Sorcery took time and concentration to muster, and if you did not have enough time, or failed to concentrate properly, then the most complex and powerful of defenses were meaningless. You would die just as Kostas had died, the night that Gwynofar cut his head off.
She stared in frustration at the rubble, trying to decide what to do next. Obviously the obstruction was too massive for her to clear out by purely physical means. But shifting or banishing that much mass would require considerable sorcery, and she was loath to throw power around on that scale until she knew exactly what had happened here. Perhaps if she reached into the rubble with her senses and simply looked for a dead body, she could at least determine if Colivar had met his end here. That at least would be something.
She had just began to gather her sorcery in preparation for the effort when she caught sight of something glinting amidst the rocks. Reaching down, she pulled loose a small metal object.
A silver ring.
She brushed the dirt from it so that she could make it out more clearly. And a shudder ran up her spine as she recognized it. Colivar had worn this ring the day they’d had their picnic. She closed her hand over it, pressing it into her palm, and trembled slightly. What would she do if he were really gone? she asked herself. Who would guide her through the maze of Magister politics then?
“So many guests.” The voice came from behind her. “I should have put out refreshments.”
Kamala whipped about, summoning power even as she did so. Or trying to. But her legs seemed strangely numb, and they would not obey her; she fell heavily to her knees, banging them painfully against rough stone floor. Her power slipped from her grasp even as she struggled to control it. Her head and heart pounded wildly. The room began to spin about her. The ring dropped from her hand.
“I did not expect a woman,” the voice mused.
Before her stood a figure dressed in black. Magister black. His face was shadowed by a deep hood, but his voice sounded strangely familiar. She tried to focus her mind enough to identify it but could not. The whole of her past history was becoming a blur now, and trying to summon specific memories was impossible. All she knew was that her hand burned where Colivar’s ring had been pressed into it, and it seemed to her she could feel the venom it had carried seeping through her skin and into her bloodstream.
How could she have been so foolish?
She looked up at the figure and tried to mouth words. A question, perhaps. Or a curse. But she had forgotten how to speak, and the only sound that came out was a muffled cry. Then a thick, choking fog began to wrap itself around her, layer by layer, and try as she might she could not banish it.
“Don’t fight the effect,” the Magister told her. “It will only make it hurt more.”
It was the last thing she heard.
Chapter 24
“S
ALVATOR AURELIUS, son of Danton Aurelius, High King, Priest Emeritus, Scion of the One True Church.”
The words echoed from the vaulted ceiling high overhead, resonating along the sweeping stone arches of the sanctuary. Tall, narrow windows capped with stained glass sent shafts of light streaming across the polished stone floor, alternating with bands of knife-edged shadow. Nine throne-like chairs on a raised platform were arranged in a U shape facing the entrance, four on each side and one at the far end. Each man seated along the sides wore a long robe and a stiffened cap of deep crimson wool, with the narrow bands of a priest’s stola flanking the medallion of the Primus Council on his chest. The one woman among them was dressed identically, her small frame the only overt indication of her sex. Beyond the question of clothing, the variance among them was striking. Salvator recognized the black-skinned Primus Naga, broadshouldered and solid as a rock; milk-pale Primus Argentus, his hair like spun gold; and ruddy-faced Primus Pisaro, slit-eyed and pockmarked. Salvator did not recognize the others, but it was clear from their appearance that they had come from every corner of the earth. A rare and impressive gathering, indeed.
The man who was speaking stood at end of the room. Primus Soltan was a tall man, physically impressive even without his formal robes, doubly intimidating with them. His voice was strong and solemn, and authority echoed in its depths. Salvator had met him twice before, once when he had first been anointed as Priest, later at his coronation. The man had impressed him, and that was saying a lot; the son of Danton Aurelius was not easily impressed.
In front of Soltan a young woman knelt, her head bowed, hands covering her face. A witch no doubt, who had offered to sacrifice a portion of her life to serve the Council in this meeting. Most likely she was maintaining a channel of mental communication among the primi, so they could confer secretly while Salvator stood in front of them. But that was only a guess.
“You have called us from the four corners of the earth,” Soltan pronounced. His tone was solemn, with just a hint of challenge in its depths. “A long journey for some, and in several cases a costly one. Now we are here, to attend upon the words of the Penitent High King. What business do you have for us that merits such a meeting?”
The formality of the challenge made Salvator glad that he had worn his most impressive costume to the meeting. He had toyed with the idea of coming here in a simple gown, unadorned, a statement of his continuing humility before God. But Gwynofar had quashed that idea as soon as she’d heard it, and he trusted her instincts in this sort of thing. Danton would have been proud of him now, standing there in his royal gown of black-and-gold damask, the double-headed Aurelius eagle resplendent upon his chest. The fact that the silken grandeur of his outfit was in stark contrast to the three ragged Souleater scars running across his face lent those wounds additional power.
Look like a High King, his mother had said, and they will treat you like a High King. She was right, as always. Gwynofar Aurelius, costumier to kings.
“Esteemed Primi.” He bowed his head respectfully, but not too deeply. There was no established protocol for determining the balance of authority between a High King and his primus, and therefore no precedent to guide them. He must give this man the respect he was due without offering undue submission. It was a delicate dance.
The fact that these foreign primi had answered his summons at all was a vast concession to his power. Somewhere down the line he knew that he was going to have to pay for that.
Once we were brothers in faith, he thought. Now we are rivals in politics.
“Fellow servants of the Creator,” he said, “I thank you for receiving me. On this day, the Church and the High Kingdom are bound together in the spirit of faith and common purpose. May the Creator look favorably upon my words, offered in humble service to His will.” He could see the lips of several primi moving silently, and he could almost hear the unvoiced benediction: Amen.
“Earlier this summer, as your Eminences know, the ancient barrier in the northlands was breached, and a colony of
Souleaters entered the human kingdoms. Though Penitents and pagans alike were braced for battle with them, ready to die if necessary in defense of the human kingdoms, the creatures did not attack immediately. Rather, they disappeared into the mists, to gather their strength in solitude, preparing for a greater campaign.
“The Church has now given its blessing to our battle against these creatures.” He nodded briefly to the primi, acknowledging their spiritual authority. “I have been at the forefront of the effort to locate them and to gather the information needed to cast them into the Destroyer’s Pit forever. For as God has sent these creatures forth to test mankind, so shall He receive them when that test is completed, that they may roast in the fires of eternal torment until the universe itself expires.
“You all know of the recent battle in my lands, which destroyed the northern queen, and I have delivered to you the information that we gathered on that day. Today I bring you more information . . . and a request.”
He could see one of Soltan’s eyebrows rise slightly. How many thought-whispers were buzzing about him now, carried on the wings of witchery? Each one was costing a precious second of that witch’s life. Secrecy through sacrifice.
“Those who know the creatures best have been convinced to share their knowledge,” Salvator continued. “Those with access to artifacts of power have opened their gates to us. Those with the power to find these creatures will surely do so soon, and we must be prepared to act as soon as they succeed.
“There is but one Souleater queen remaining. If she is killed, the entire species can be eradicated. But as soon as she lays eggs and creates more queens, that opportunity will be gone forever. Then a second Dark Ages will truly be upon us. We cannot allow that to happen.
“Our timetable is short, as war is measured. My sources estimate that in half a year the new queen will be mature and ready to mate. Possibly earlier. The season of war is brief in some lands, constrained by storms or snow. Depending upon where the Souleaters are, we may only have a small window of opportunity in which to act, if military action is needed. And I believe it will be. The young queen is said to be allied to Siderea Aminestas”—he could see a flicker of distaste on several faces as he mentioned the name—”and she is a savvy and powerful woman, who may have nearly unlimited witchery at her disposal. Wherever she is, it will surely take more than a handful of Guardians to defeat her.” He paused. “It may take an army.
“Time will be required to muster such an army, and to transport troops and supplies without sorcery.” He stressed the last two words slightly; they were both a promise to pursue this war in keeping with Penitent beliefs and a reminder to them all that Penitent beliefs were an impediment to military efficacy. “I believe we should begin preparations now, so that when our enemy is finally located, we will be ready to move into action immediately.
“Your Eminences: I am Penitent. I am lyr. I am High King. In me, faith and blood and political power are combined. Who should lead such a campaign, if not me? Who else in the Church could play such a role properly, so that in the aftermath of battle men would understand that it was not the hand of man alone that saved them, but the mercy of the Creator?
“This battle will not only save the world, but it will change it. We will not only safeguard the Second Age of Kings, but we will turn it back to penitence and faith. Surely that is what God intended when He sent His demons back into the world to test us.”
He drew in a deep breath. The expressions of the primi betrayed no emotion, but one could sense the intensity with which they were listening to his every word.
“I come here today,” he said, “to ask for your support. I need the facilities of the Church behind me. I ask for the support of our witches, and any of our warriors who have special skills pertaining to the Souleaters. The armies of Aurelius are vast, but my soldiers are merely men, and mere men cannot fight these creatures. And I will need supplies. Not because food and water can’t be conjured on the battlefield, but if we mean to wage this war without relying upon Magisters, the cost of that would be measured in human lives. Penitent lives.” He paused. “And I will need these things immediately, so that all our people can be properly trained, and so they will all be in one place when the time comes to move out, and thus can be mobilized expeditiously.”
His presentation concluded, Salvator waited for a response.
A brief eternity passed in which the primus just stared at him. His dark eyes, narrowed in concentration, offered no hint as to what was going on inside his mind. Salvator said nothing, merely continued to wait.
Finally Soltan said, “Let me make sure I understand this properly. You’re asking for all the faithful who are skilled in witchery to come to your side, and to place themselves beneath your command. All our witches, from all corners of the earth, wherever they may be found. Our most skilled warriors should come to you also, to be trained by your people. Presumably to fight alongside the pagans of the north, yes?
“All this for a battle in which you do not know where the fighting will take place, or even when. You don’t know what the size or makeup of the enemy army will be, the kind of terrain you will be fighting on, or even how many soldiers—or witches—you will need. In fact, outside of knowing there is one Souleater you have to kill, and probably a witch who will be guarding her, you do not have a single fact on hand about who or what you’ll be facing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do I have that right, your Majesty?”
“That’s the gist of the matter,” Salvator agreed. “Though I do think we should specify that only witches who are willing to die for the cause should be recruited. That will help keep the numbers manageable.”
The primus sat down on the throne-like chair behind him. For a moment his eyes disengaged from Salvator’s, and they seemed to focus on a point beyond the confines of the sanctuary. The witch moaned softly, rocking back and forth.
After what seemed like an endless wait, Soltan’s eyes fixed once more on Salvator. Cold, so very cold. There was no affection in that gaze.
“Will there be Magisters involved in this war of yours?” he asked.
Salvator stiffened. “There will be no sorcery in my campaign.”
“But they will be present.”
“No man can bar them from the battlefield, Eminence.”
“They do not acknowledge your authority.”
“They do not acknowledge anyone’s authority.”
“And the one that is in your palace? What of him?”
Salvator’s eyes narrowed. “He is not my Magister Royal, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But he serves you.”
“No. He counsels my mother on matters of ancient lore. His sorcery is forbidden in my house.”
“But his corruption is not forbidden.” The primus stood, his cold gaze fixed on Salvator. “Ramirus’ very presence is corrupt. His counsel is corrupt. You come to us asking to be made a figurehead of our faith—to wield our sacred authority in addition to your own—but you can’t even maintain spiritual balance in your own house.” He stepped down from the dais and walked toward Salvator; his expression was dark. “Who will answer for the corruption of this Magister, Salvator Aurelius? Have you offered penance for Ramirus, so that the blackness of his soul does not befoul the souls of all who would trust in your leadership?”
Lips tight, Salvator reached up to the neck of his damask gown with both hands, grabbing hold of the stiffened collar as well as the linen shirt beneath it. With a quick jerking motion, he then ripped them both open. The buttons of the gown went flying, and the shirt gave way with a sharp tearing sound, strands of linen stretching across his torso before they finally snapped. And then his chest was laid bare for all to see, along with the Penitent sigil that had been seared into it. Angry red flesh marked where a heated brand had been driven into his flesh; the wound was recent, and its edges looked raw and painful.
“This is my penance for Ramirus,” he declared defiantly. “And for my own sin, in allowing him into my ho
use.” He looked about the chamber, meeting the eyes of the primi one by one, daring them to question his sacrifice. “And I will do penance for all the others as well, if I must. Bring me a thousand Magisters! I will kneel before God and beg Him to lay the sins of each and every one upon my shoulders, that I might offer up penance for all of them.” He turned back to Soldan. “Well, Primus Soldan? Am I worthy to lead God’s faithful into battle? Or do I still fall short?”
For a moment there was silence in the chamber. True silence. The witch had stopped her rocking, and Salvator sensed that the primi were no longer communicating with one another mentally. All attention was on him.
Slowly he released the edges of his gown. The garment fell partly closed, but the edges did not come together entirely, and a thin line of reddened skin could still be seen. He did not move to cover it up.
“Danton Aurelius had the spark of greatness in him,” Primus Soldan said quietly, “but he was constrained by his personal ambition. A man cannot reach his full potential until he submits to a cause greater than his personal glory.” His eyes met Salvator’s. “You have that same spark in you, King Salvator. And because you are willing to surrender yourself to God, then yes, you are worthy to lead men in His name.”
He held out his hand toward Salvator. On his forefinger was a ring of carved ruby with the sigil of the Church etched into its surface. It was clear what he expected. In the monastery such obeisance would have been frowned upon, but Salvator knew that outside those walls it was common practice. The primi were the highest authority in his Church, God’s spokesmen on earth. Formal acknowledgment of their authority was seen as a gesture of submission to God’s will.
But he was a king now. Submitting himself to the Church’s authority in this way had new implications.
The primus waited.
There was no past history to guide him here. No Penitent had ever wielded secular power on the scale that he did. Whatever happened between him and Soltan would stand as precedent for every king who came after him.