Was this part of Colivar’s plan?
There was no point in warning the others yet. Salvator wouldn’t trust any information garnered by sorcery. Favias and Shina would need more specific facts before they could act, and he didn’t have those to offer. Whereas Gwynofar . . . she didn’t understand how severely the Law constrained his actions. She didn’t know that once sorcerers had thought nothing of slaughtering whole armies for sport, and that the Law had been formulated in part to keep such things from happening again. A Magister might guide the course of a war by advising its leadership, lending subtle advantage to one side, or perhaps fiddling with the environment where a battle was taking place. But he could not lay waste to a morati army by his own hands, no matter how much the outcome of that battle mattered to him. So while Ramirus could and would protect Gwynofar, there was a limit to how much he could do for her beyond that.
He had already broken the Law once, with Kamala. Now he could feel bestial instincts lapping at his mind again, as they had not done for centuries. He remembered what it had been like in the early days, when he had been less than human. He remembered how hard he had fought to reclaim his humanity, after First Transition had stolen it from him.
He would stand by while a thousand human armies perished before he would allow himself to be reduced to that state again.
But that did not mean he couldn’t take precautions. And so, shutting his eyes, he extended his sorcerous senses out into the desert. Across miles of sand and scrub brush and wind-scoured rock, so much athra pouring into the effort that his sleeping consort probably dreamed of death. He tasted the flavor of the wind and the shifting of the sand dunes. He drank in the moisture in the air above the oases, the breath of wild camels, the breezes stirred by the wings of vultures as they launched themselves into the morning sky. He measured the golden creep of dawn’s light across the barren landscape, and sipped from the wave of blinding heat that crested just behind it. He tested the traces of human emotion that clung to the sand: passion and fear, anger and hope.
With that much knowledge of the surrounding environment he could bargain with Nature herself if he had to. He hoped that such extreme tactics wouldn’t be called for, but war was full of surprises, and the more weapons you had in your armory, the more likely it was you’d have the right one available when trouble came calling.
I hope you know what you’re doing, Colivar.
The palace was white, pure white, and its central dome was tall enough that the rays of the rising sun played across it before reaching the rest of the city, setting it aflame. Its columns were made of white marble, with thin lines of color coursing just beneath its surface, like delicate blue veins beneath a woman’s skin. Such stone was precious anywhere, and doubly precious in this place, hundreds if not thousands of miles from the nearest marble quarry.
Which, of course, was the point.
Colivar gazed at the building for some time, trying to settle his spirit. On all sides of him the city was now stirring to life, and the palace guards were keeping a wary eye out for anyone who approached the palace too closely. Had Siderea told them he would be coming? Was she the one who had conjured the summoning spell that even now tickled the edges of his mind? It was such a faint thing that it was hardly compelling, and it wasn’t making a very concerted effort to get through his defenses. Call it more an invitation than a mandate. If he could be sure that it came from her personally, then nothing more would be needed; having her focus enough attention on him that she was sending spells out to find him would satisfy the tactical needs of Salvator’s people. But this spell was so faint and indistinct that that he couldn’t make out any kind of signature: a mere whisper of magic, so insubstantial that he could not determine whose trace it bore.
Passing his hand over his garments, he exchanged his camel-hued travel wear for crisp black clothing. No need to hide what he was if he was going to march in the front door. Then he let his sorcery drop, so that morati eyes were no longer forced to turn away from him. Startled by his sudden appearance, the guards drew their weapons. Then, after studying him for a moment longer, they sheathed them again.
He walked up the broad stairs with a casual air, as if this were a mere social call. But inside his head his mind was racing: binding power, molding spells, gathering all the information he could about the palace and its inhabitants. It appeared to be a new building, and it did not have the kind of residual witchery that came from a long history of defensive spells. But Siderea’s mark was clearly on it, and her power was no small thing. Especially now that the athra available to her was, for all intents and purposes, infinite.
One of the guards snapped his fingers as he reached the top of the stairs. A young woman emerged from the shadows of the doorway and bowed her head to Colivar, indicating for him to follow her into the building. He took note of a subtle power that seemed to emanate from the area they were approaching, but he could not make out its exact nature without stopping to concentrate on it. Gods willing, it was not a trap like the last one.
Breathing deeply, he repeated to himself all the things he had told Kamala: Siderea doesn’t want to kill me. Distraction is all we need. Make sure the battle goes on if I die. The ikati spirit within his soul beat its wings suddenly at the suggestion that it might die, raging against the mere concept of submission. He had not felt its presence so strongly in centuries, and he struggled to force it back down into its accustomed bondage so that he might think clearly. This was not a time to lose control.
But you are about to confront an ikati queen, he thought. How successful can you be in denying what you really are, in her presence?
The servant brought him to an empty chamber and gestured for him to wait. It was a large room with little furniture in it: a few benches, a narrow table set against one wall, and several wooden racks with an assortment of weapons in them. He was tempted to inspect the latter, but past experience suggested that handling unknown items in Siderea’s home might be a bad idea. He moved close enough to see that there were numerous swords of different makes and other handheld weapons of a variety of types. The half dozen spears in one rack had bronze heads inscribed with the images of gods; they looked as though they had tasted their share of blood. Not practice weapons, any of them. He wondered if they were normally stored here, or if they had been placed for his benefit; for a minute he was tempted to read the traces in the floor, just to see how long the racks had been present. But that was just the kind of trap that Siderea had set for him last time. He would not be foolish enough to fall for it again.
“So good of you to come visiting,” a man said behind him.
In Kannoket.
He whirled around, athra surging in readiness. Though there was a part of him that recognized that voice, the shock of suddenly seeing its owner standing before him was like a physical blow that drove the breath from his lungs.
Nyuku.
He was far cleaner than Colivar remembered, but otherwise he was much the same. Sharp Kannoket features in a weathered face, skin etched with harsh lines from squinting against the cold, eyes so dark that pupil and iris bled into one another, black as the arctic night sky. And, of course, the armor. Layers of Souleater skin molded into close-fitting garments, cobalt highlights shimmering along their surface like rainbows on an oil slick. He wore a necklace made of polished chips of Souleater tail blades strung on a cord of seal gut. Trophies from vanquished rivals, perhaps? The fact that each chip invoked images not only of a dead Souleater, but also of a consort gone mad, made it a truly macabre adornment.
Ever since Colivar had learned that Nyuku was still alive, he had been preparing himself for this moment. But it had not been enough. Nothing could possibly have been enough. Memories rushed up from a black pit within his soul, not coherent images but waves of raw emotion, images from a forgotten life—a life he had struggled to forget—
Scream, scream rage into the twilight winds
Wings beat wildly against the blistering cold
&nb
sp; Hatred is ice on the tongue
Pride becomes strength, fury becomes fuel, where is the sunlight?
Claws rend ice-air and flesh, hot blood froths like surf
Hatred, hatred, hatred on the wind, consuming all thought
Madness
Screaming pain madness fear hunger
Beg the gods for surcease
Beg the gods for obliteration
This, this is the cost for betraying mankind—
“The human world has not treated you well,” Nyuku said. “You reek of weakness.”
Colivar gritted his teeth against the tide of memory. The wounds in his soul throbbed mercilessly. “And you reek of arrogance, as always.”
He chuckled softly. “Is it arrogance to celebrate the downfall of a rival? If so, then I’m guilty. But you—surviving such a loss—that is no small accomplishment.” The black eyes glittered coldly; there was cruelty in their depths. “Tell me, what is it like to feel your consort killed while you’re riding him? To feel half your soul being torn away and be helpless to do anything about it? That must be a unique sort of impotence.”
Suddenly Colivar could feel the loss of his ikati as though it had just occurred, that terrible instant when his human identity had been ripped to bloody bits. He wanted to scream as a wounded animal would scream, as he had once screamed in the arctic: mindless agony, utter despair. But instead he balled his hands into fists by his sides, trembling as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure inside himself, even while he feigned loss of control on the outside. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as though Nyuku’s words had completely overwhelmed him, he struggled to focus enough power to detect any active spells in the room. It wasn’t a difficult task. The entire chamber resonated with power. Its walls, floor, and ceiling had been warded so that no sorcery could affect them, and the air in the room had apparently been fortified as well. Which would explain why the shutters were all tightly closed; fresh air coming in from the outside would dilute the effect. Colivar didn’t dare take the time to inspect the weapons closely, but it was a good bet that they had some power attached to them as well, perhaps even primed to respond to Colivar’s own touch, as the traps in Tefilat had been.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered. Pouring as much pain into his voice as he could, hoping Nyuku would take such pleasure in his humiliation that he would stay his hand for another moment, giving him a few precious seconds more in which to assess the situation.
He wouldn’t be able to use sorcery on the room itself, he thought desperately. Nor could he use it directly on Nyuku without risking a fatal connection to the man’s ikati. No, he realized with a sinking heart, the only thing he could use his sorcery on in this room was his own body, and the only safe weapon he had was his own intelligence. But the latter was no small advantage. Nyuku was an ignorant barbarian at heart, who had been raised up to power by forces beyond his comprehension. He might have learned to play the part of a sophisticated nobleman, but he lacked even a peasant’s education to back it up. Whereas Colivar had been a witch and a healer long before ever meeting the ikati, and he understood how the human body functioned.
It was his only possible advantage.
It would have to be enough.
Slowly he looked up at Nyuku. It didn’t take sorcery to sense the energy tightly coiled inside the man, or to see the rage of his ikati shining through his eyes. He might have been successful in claiming leadership of the colony from Colivar years ago, but clearly he regarded the Magister’s survival as a personal affront. He would give no quarter.
“Do you remember that day?” Nyuku said. His voice was a mockery of seduction, crooning insults to Colivar’s pride in the tone one might use with a lover. “Because I do. I remember the taste of your consort’s blood. The sound of him screaming and thrashing as he died. The sight of you lying in the snow, helpless as a child.” Clearly it was his intent to goad the ikati portion of Colivar’s soul into such a rage that he would be forced to surrender to it. And he was succeeding.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Colivar tried to stay focused; he knew he might have only a few seconds of sanity left, and he had to make them count. Sorcery rushed through his body with unnatural speed, driven by desperation. Muscles expanded. Bone thickened. The chemistry of his blood transformed. Organ by organ, fluid by fluid, his body was transformed—not in rational order, as it would normally be done, but in a chaotic whirlwind of mutation that left each living cell in agony.
And Nyuku smiled. Arrogant egotist that he was, he assumed there was nothing more happening than Colivar suffering. He was pausing for a moment to enjoy his rival’s pain.
His mistake.
His last mistake.
Then the transformation was complete, and Colivar’s self-control crumbled. The beast came roaring up out of the depths of his soul, hungry for vengeance. And everything turned crimson.
Hands gripped Kamala, holding her steady. Sand shifted beneath her knees. Her head felt as if it were on fire.
“Are you all right?” Ramirus asked. “What happened?”
It took Kamala a moment to realize who was talking to her and to remember where she was. Her concentration had been so tightly focused on Colivar that she had lost all sense of the world surrounding her. And then the storm had come. Blinking, she looked up at Ramirus, not sure how to answer him. Salvator was beside him, she saw. Equally worried, though likely for different reasons.
“Is it time?” the High King asked.
Was it?
Using Colivar’s ring as an anchor, she had been able to pick up faint traces of his emotional state. She knew that when he arrived in Jezalya he had been calm but apprehensive. She had been able to taste the subtle shadows of fear that played about the edges of his mind after that as he analyzed the threats surrounding him in a rational, controlled manner. And then, in an instant, everything had changed. A storm of violent emotion seemed to fill the very air around her: fury and hatred and frustration and pain . . . and then it had all exploded. A crimson mist seemed to hang about Colivar’s ring now. Was that a metaphorical vision, or something real?
But the mere fact that Colivar’s soul was in turmoil said nothing about their mission. The combined armies of Jezalya might have descended upon him with swords drawn, and still that might have no immediate relevance to Siderea. Nothing mattered except the moment in which she turned her attention on him, so that she stopped paying attention to other things. How was Kamala supposed to know when that happened if she had nothing more than these unfocused signs to interpret? For all she knew, Colivar had run into Siderea already, and that’s what this storm of emotion was about. Or not. She couldn’t use her sorcery to get more information without running the risk that Siderea would detect her efforts. Nor could Colivar contact her directly, for the same reason. How on earth was she supposed to find out what was happening to him?
She was suddenly angry at Colivar, but the feeling had more to do with frustration and fear than actual rage. Gods damn him for putting her in this position! If he managed to come out the other end of this alive, she was going to wring his neck.
Is it time for the witches to move out? Somewhere in the distance Salvator was asking her questions. Is Siderea’s attention fixed on something else?
I don’t know, she wanted to say. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to figure it out.
But an army could not be led that way. It required certainty from its leadership . . . or at least the illusion of certainty.
“No,” she said quietly. Feeling her words resonate across the desert sands, “Not yet.”
Cursing Colivar under her breath—and fearing for him—she waited.
Nasaan was just buckling on his sword when a servant came running in. Clearly the prince hadn’t put on his armor a minute too soon.
“In the east wing, Sire.” The servant was breathing hard, though it seemed to be more from agitation than exhaustion. “There’s some kind of fight going on, Nyuku and a stranger?
??”
Cursing under his breath, Nasaan was in motion before the end of the sentence could be voiced.
Nyuku was one of the Lady Consort’s sycophants, and Nasaan’s least favorite. Left to his own devices, Nasaan wouldn’t trust the man to clean out a chamber pot. It was hard to say just why he felt that way, since Nyuku had never actually said or done anything offensive—that Nasaan knew about—and he generally respected all the proper protocols in dealing with the royal household. If anything, his obeisance sometimes bordered on excessive, almost as if the whole thing were a joke to him. But as soon as he walked into a room, Nasaan could feel all the hairs on his neck prick upright, and his muscles tensed in the way they did during battle. There was a sense of challenge about the man, all the more irritating for never being voiced openly, that stirred Nasaan’s blood in ways he did not fully understand.
The djira’s insistence that this unpleasant creature have free access to Nasaan’s palace was one of the few real points of contention between them. His witches had told him that Nyuku’s aura was not entirely human—whatever that meant—and as Nasaan had made a contract with only one supernatural creature, he was under no obligation to allow another one into his house. So Nyuku barely had permission to visit, and he certainly had no permission to be raising his hand against anyone within these walls. Nasaan found himself hoping that the man had finally transgressed in some major way, so that he would have an excuse to throw him out for good. And to hells with the Lady Consort if she did not like it.