“The Law of the Magisters forbids any sorcerer from killing another,” she continued. “Whether a murder is intentional or not is irrelevant to our justice system. That is because the Law exists for one thing and one thing only: to place limits upon our darker instincts, so that we can live as something better than bloodthirsty beasts. The part of our soul that is ikati will devour all the rest if we give it a chance; our spirits must be kept in balance or we will cease to be human.
“The Law was created to safeguard that balance. It is therefore sacrosanct. It is the very bedrock upon which the sanity of our kind depends.”
She paused. “It is also incomplete.”
She could hear whispers now, pitched low but urgent, but she ignored them to go on speaking. “What was the original purpose of the Law?” she demanded of them. “Not to deny our ikati instincts but simply to channel them appropriately. The bloodthirsty competitiveness of the male ikati was forced into a more ‘civilized’ mode, but it was not outlawed. The Souleater’s hunger for dominance was transmuted into a subtle rivalry that might be sustained down through the ages with minimum bloodshed. Territorial battles were to be fought politically and psychologically, rather than with tooth and claw . . . but they were still to be fought. Only a Law that accepted our darker instincts—that accommodated them—could ever hope to bring the two sides of our spirit into balance.
“But what were those instincts?” she demanded. “Did the Law encompass the full range of ikati potential? Or did it speak to only one half of that bloodthirsty species—and therefore to only one half of our species?”
She paused. Her blood pounded hot in her veins, driven by a heady mixture of fear and elation. “I am, like you, a Magister. But I am also unlike you, in that my soul contains the essence of a Souleater queen. Those who designed the Law originally did not figure that into their plans, for they did not know a creature such as myself could exist. Yet I assure you, though I am currently the only woman to claim the title of Magister, others will follow me. And in order for the Law to serve all the Magisters, as its creators intended, it must be amended so that we, too, are part of it.
“That is why you were asked to come here today,” she told them. “To provide that amendment.”
She was tempted to shut her eyes for a moment. To concentrate on reading the emotion that must be welling up on all sides of her, hidden behind masks of perfect composure.
“Raven assaulted me,” she told them. There was naked hatred in her voice now, and a razor-edged indignation whose source was not entirely human. She could sense her ikati rage stirring the bestial awareness that lay dormant within their own souls, like calling to like, demanding the justice of the open skies. “Had we been ikati, I would have torn him to pieces with my claws and my teeth and scattered the bloody bits before the males of my species as a warning. That is a queen’s right. It is my right. And it is what our Law must accommodate.” She paused “Until it does, that Law is incomplete and cannot rightfully be applied in judgment of my actions.”
What were they thinking now? The ikati energy in the room made it hard for her to focus on subtle displays of human emotion. No matter. She was finished now. She had said what she had come here to say and cast the spell that she had come here to cast, and if those things were not enough . . . then the game would end here and now. There would be no second chance.
Sometimes life required such a gamble.
“I leave the matter in your hands,” she said quietly. And she stepped down from the stage without looking back, to leave her black-robed colleagues to their deliberations.
She was deep in meditation when a fist rapped lightly on the door. Gazing down at the remnants of her latest conjuring (possibly the most important one of her life) she did not turn around. “Come in.”
The door creaked open behind her, then closed again.
“It is done,” Colivar said.
Day had reached its end long ago, and the candles she had conjured on the sideboard had melted halfway down. She closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out their light. “And?”
She heard him walk up behind her. “The Law will be amended. Granted, that will take a while to arrange. Not quite as simple as scrawling an additional line on the bottom of a contract.” He paused. “Raven’s death was judged to be outside the scope of the current Law. So you are quite safe, my dear.”
She could feel a wave of relief come over her, so intense it made her feel light-headed. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I believe Ramirus was a bit surprised by the verdict. Though not necessarily displeased.”
“And you?” she asked. “Were you not surprised?”
He chuckled softly. “Not once I realized that most of the Magisters who were arguing in your favor were Siderea’s ex-lovers. The same ones you had sent me running all over the world to find.” He paused. “There was never any real doubt about the verdict, was there?”
“There is always doubt,” she whispered.
He came up beside her. There was a box on the table before them, ebony with a domed lid. He reached out and opened it. Inside was nothing but a thin layer of ash, featherlight, that stirred in response to his motions. He gazed at it for a moment, then shut the box again. “I admit that when I first told you about Siderea’s tokens, I envisioned you using them to bargain with. But this was far more entertaining.”
She smiled slightly. “As you said, there was not much power in them. Barely enough to influence a man’s judgment. But you don’t have to figure out which token belongs to which Magister if you use them all in a single spell.”
“Your argument about the Law was not half bad, you know. It might have succeeded on its own merits.”
“Perhaps.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “We will never know, will we?”
“Do you really believe that more women will join our ranks? That your presence among us has more significance than a quirk of nature?”
He didn’t know the truth about Lazaroth, she realized. Well, she would not be the one to tell him. If there really were other women hiding among the ranks of the Magisters, it was not Kamala’s place to unmask them. Each one of them must decide for herself what sort of life she wanted to live, now that there were other options available. Some, like Lazaroth, might have invested so much time and energy in their masquerade that they would have a hard time letting go of it. Old habits—and fears—died hard.
She wondered if the women present today—assuming there were any—had argued for or against her execution. No way to tell.
“There will be others,” she said softly. “Be sure of it.”
Colivar reached up and fingered a lock of her hair. She was not accustomed to being touched in such a casual manner; it was strangely pleasing. “So what will this particular woman do now?” he asked her. “Take up a position as Magister Royal, perhaps? I’m sure there are monarchs who would be pleased to have a sorcerer who is as pleasing to the eye as she is useful on the battlefield.”
“I was thinking I might hunt Souleaters,” she told him.
A strange look came into his eyes. He said nothing.
“Mad or not,” she said, “the survivors are still dangerous. And once they scatter to the four corners of the earth, it will be that much harder to track them down. Favias said the Guardians want to deal with them before that happens, and he asked me if I would help. I can call the creatures to them better than any Guardian can.” She shrugged. “It seems a logical alliance.”
His said it quietly: “You would risk taking on that form again?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Now that most of their human consorts are gone, all that’s left in them is blind instinct. Easy to manipulate. A few may still have partners, but we can deal with them by other means.” She cocked her head to one side. “And you, Colivar? What is next for you?”
For a moment he said nothing. His fingers played with her hair for a moment longer, then his hand fell away. “A few of us will be heading to
Alkali,” he said. “We’ll establish a gateway through the Wrath, and then we will head north, to hunt down any ikati who were left behind in the original invasion.”
She breathed in sharply. “Such ikati would still have consorts. And the use of witchery.”
A faint, dry smile flickered across his face. “That’s why I am not going there alone.” His dark eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “Perhaps when that species has been dealt with there will be time for . . . other things.”
There was an intensity behind his words that made her breath catch in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but could not make any words come. And then someone rapped on the door, shattering the mood. She looked at Colivar, a question in her eyes.
“I’m afraid you have one more gauntlet left to run,” he said apologetically. “The Magisters all want to meet you.”
“Ah,” she said softly. “Now, that is a prospect more daunting than Souleaters.”
He chuckled softly and offered her his arm. “Magister Kamala?”
She accepted the offer, resting her hand upon his arm. Taking pleasure in his warmth beneath her fingertips. And in victory. And in life.
Not to mention the new game that was about to begin.
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About The Author
Celia S. Friedman was born in New York City in 1957. From her earliest days she delighted in coming up with strange stories about alien worlds, which pleased some of her grade school teachers more than others. Later, while pursuing a college degree in theater design, she wrote stories for her own private amusement. Some of them would eventually be expanded into her first novel, In Conquest Born. In 1985, while teaching costume design at a university in Virginia, she decided to submit her work to DAW, just to see what would happen. The rest, as they say, is history.
Celia’s published works include: In Conquest Born, the Coldfire Trilogy: (Black Sun Rising, When True Night Falls, Crown of Shadows) This Alien Shore, The Madness Season, The Wilding, and, of course, the Magister Trilogy: (Feast of Souls, Wings of Wrath, and Legacy of Kings.) She has also written a sourcebook for White Wolf’s Vampire: the Masquerade role-playing game, and several works of short fiction. She currently lives in Northern Virginia with two Maine Coon wannabees who like to snuggle between her arms while she types.
Celia loves to hear from her readers, and anyone who would like to drop her a note or get information about her upcoming works is invited to visit the C. S. Friedman Facebook page or to stop by www.csfriedman.com. Her next planned project is a Coldfire short story named “Dominion,” so fans of the Gerald Tarrant saga should keep an eye out for details.
Novels by
C. S. Friedman
available from DAW Books:
The Magister Trilogy
Feast of Souls
Wings of Wrath
Legacy of Kings
The Coldfire Trilogy
Black Sun Rising
When True Night Falls
Crown of Shadows
The Madness Season
This Alien Shore
In Conquest Born
The Wilding
Table of Contents
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C. S. Friedman, Legacy of Kings
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