But she was not ignorant. She knew exactly what he wanted—and why he wanted it.
He is prouder than most of our kind.
Lazaroth was Magister Royal here. Any sorcerous investigation that took place in Kierdwyn would be subject to his authority. For another Magister to become involved, as Ramirus had done today, bordered on insult; no doubt that was why Lazaroth had been in such a foul mood. If Ramirus now provided some vital piece of information that his rival had failed to uncover . . . ah, that would be a move to savor in the fierce competition which passed for social concourse among their kind! Rarely did a Magister come across such a perfect opportunity to embarrass a rival while appearing to aid him.
“Such information is valuable,” she said quietly.
“That depends on what it is.”
“I know its value to me. The favor of a Lord Protector, at the very least.” She paused. “That is a high price to bid against, Magister Ramirus.”
The bluntness of her challenge seemed to startle him. Good. If there was one thing she had learned in her whoring days it was the power of keeping a man off balance.
Another cold tendril of power slithered over her skin, seeking some chink in her armor; it was easily banished. Finally he said, “You have a price in mind.”
She cocked her head to one side, pretending to consider. Could he hear how hard her heart was beating? “Frankly, there is not much that I need.”
His eyes narrowed ominously; the warning in them was clear. I could crush you without pausing for breath, witch, and then summon your secrets forth from your ashes. Do not toy with me.
“But we could call it a favor owed,” she concluded, seemingly oblivious to his displeasure. “I am sure in the future something appropriate will come to mind.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That is quite an audacious request.”
She shrugged. “If you find it unacceptable, I am quite content to discuss my findings when our meeting resumes tomorrow. I am sure their lordships will appreciate my contribution.”
She began to move past him to the exit. Would he try to stop her? If so, he was in for one hell of a surprise. She could already feel her power gathering inside her, molten and eager. I have already killed one Magister, she thought to him. Don’t tempt me to make it two.
But he did nothing to stop her from leaving, and she was halfway out the door when he finally said, “A favor without limits is an invitation to misunderstanding.”
Since he could not see her face, she allowed herself to smile. “Well now, we do not want misunderstanding by any means.” Slowly she turned back, her mind racing. She was under no illusion about the subtext of this conversation; he was putting on a show for her benefit to convince her that her request had real meaning. As a Magister herself, Kamala knew better. No promise made to a morati was considered binding. Who was going to enforce payment? He could promise whatever he wanted to her, without limits or logic, and neither law nor ethics would require that he honor it.
The game was on now, and she hoped he would not realize where it was headed. “Very well, let us say . . . something reasonable. Counsel, perhaps; the benefit of your knowledge. Guidance, when morati wisdom falls short. Perhaps protection in some simple matter. Nothing so vast it would stress your resources, nothing that would put your morati allies at risk or any contract with them. A single, finite act. Is that reasonable?”
His brow furrowed as he pretended to think it over. All a farce, of course. It hardly mattered what conditions he agreed to; he would keep his promise if it suited him to do so and ignore it otherwise. But the drama of the moment had to be played out for as long as he thought it had meaning to her. “Agreed,” he said at last, with suitable solemnity.
“Excellent.” She let her eyes fill with gratitude, and gave him a moment to drink it in. See how grateful the poor little witch is for your magnanimous favor. “Now seal your promise with an oath upon your Law, and we will call the bargain sealed.”
Now it was his turn to be startled. “The Law is for Magisters. An oath to a witch would be . . . meaningless.”
“Ah.” She appeared to reconsider. “Then perhaps when the time comes to call in my favor, I will have a Magister do it for me. Does that sound reasonable?”
An oath sworn upon the Law was sacrosanct, Kamala knew. It was one of the handful of customs that kept Magister society from tearing itself to pieces, and all would respect it.
Ramirus’ eyes narrowed as he reassessed her. Bereft of sorcery, he had only his human senses to rely upon. She, however, had spent half her lifetime lying to men, getting them to believe that she possessed the one thing they wanted most in the world, then convincing them they wanted to pay for it.
“What you ask is unprecedented,” he said at last, clearly displeased with where his negotiations had led him. “Show me that what you have is worth such a price.”
Looking down quickly so that he would not see the triumph in her eyes, she untied a small leather purse from her belt and loosened the cord that kept it closed. Upending it, she spilled forth a handful of rubble into her upturned palm.
Brick.
Mortar.
“The substance of the Spear itself,” she told him. “Enough of an anchor to allow sorcery to divine the history of that artifact, its message, its makers’ intent.” She looked up at him. “I trust that has value to you?”
His face revealed nothing. Of course. He was a master of manipulation, and would let nothing of his true desire show.
Then: “Very well.” He said it gruffly, as if the promise he was about to give her was of no real consequence anyway.
“By the Law that governs Magisters, you shall have what you ask for.”
Reining in her jubilation so that he would not see it, Kamala handed the precious rubble over to him. She hoped he would never discover that she had prepared the fragments for just such a bargain. They might reveal many secrets to Ramirus, including the meaning of the Spear’s Karsi text—they would certainly enable him to upstage and embarrass his rival—but they would not betray the one secret that mattered most. All the traces of human sacrifice had been cleansed from the fragments; the screams of the dying had been silenced, and no man’s sorcery could restore them without her agreement.
My gift to you, Rhys. She thought it gently, softly, and wished it could give the Guardian comfort. Do with that secret as your spirit guides you.
Chapter 21
DREAMBOUND, SIDEREA flew.
Or perhaps not dreambound. Nor waking, exactly. Rather some state that was in between, that quieted the flesh but stirred the soul. A sense of otherness that allowed her to extend her senses beyond the limits of her human body and embrace the other half of herself. To share in the Souleater’s flight, her energy . . . her joy.
Broad, shimmering wings beat the air into whirlwinds beneath her. She could feel them lift her up and over the rocky peaks, while below her all sorts of animals fled in terror. That was all right. She was not hungry right now, so she let them run. But if she had wanted one . . . ah, the pleasure of the hunt! To feel the power surging outward from her until it stopped her prey in its tracks, until her target fell to its knees before her, inviting her to sup upon the essence of its life until it expired. An ecstasy of dying. The Souleater queen had not truly savored such things before; to her the world was simply divided into those who eat and those who are eaten, and devouring her prey was a simple animal indulgence. But now she had access to Siderea’s subtler instincts, and the Witch-Queen recognized the seduction of the kill for what it truly was. And it pleased her—it pleased them both—to have such power over other living creatures.
Amalik matched us well, Siderea thought, and she could feel the sentiment echo in the distance, couched in terms a Souleater might understand. Along with a mental growl of warning, should the man approach either of them again without the proper courtesies.
She had not seen him since the day at the ravine. Which was as it should be. He was a companion of Souleaters
and understood the male’s proper status.
Sometimes Siderea dreamed of tearing him limb from limb, along with his Souleater consort. They were terrifying dreams, but also pleasurable ones. Sometimes she would lie in bed for hours afterward, savoring the smell of Souleater blood and the screams of his dying, sharing that pleasure with the one who now shared her soul.
As it should be.
“Majesty?”
She returned from her distant flight drowsily, regretfully. Do not fly too high, she warned her consort as they parted. Not that there was need for such warnings any longer. The Souleater had absorbed enough of Siderea’s own knowledge of the world to understand why such secrecy was needed and how to maintain it.
But how she longed to fly high and free, daring all the other Souleaters to pursue her! No longer a secret invader who must hide her presence from men, but a true queen, master over all the earth!
Soon, the thought came. It will be soon.
“Yes? What is it?”
The servant bowed as Siderea shifted herself upon the silken cushions of the couch.
“Petrana Bellisi has arrived.” Despite the fact that Siderea was fully dressed and alone, the servant averted his eyes as he spoke; clearly he felt as if he had somehow interrupted an intimate moment.
Perhaps he had.
She rose up from the couch and clapped her hands sharply, so that her maidservant might come running. She had plans for Petrana Bellisi, and they required her looking her best. “Have her greeted as her rank deserves,” she told her servant. “Bring out the best of our wine and see that she is encouraged to relax. I shall be there shortly. Quickly now!” she prompted, when he did not leave immediately. A maidservant squeezed by him as he backed out of the doorway; Siderea indicated her sleep-tousled hair and the girl took up a brush and began to work on it. Shutting her eyes, the queen gave herself over to the sensations of the coiffure: warm fingers tickling her scalp, the sharp bite of pins as each curl and ringlet was fixed in place, the gentle tug of the brush as it smoothed out the snarls in the long hanging tresses, the soft weight of ornaments as they were positioned amid the strands.
?
The question was wordless, but she understood its meaning. Her consort did not comprehend why she would preen herself for another woman. As always, Siderea was never quite sure if the Souleater was actually observing her affairs or responding instinctively to thoughts and emotions that seeped from one mind to the other without context.
Desire is power, she explained.
It was getting hard to focus upon human company these days. Hard to shut out that other soul—so powerful, so primal!—and limit herself to human words and human thoughts. Her other self was a creature of pure self-indulgence whose every instinct became action as soon as it was conceived. A human queen, on the other hand, was a creature of plots and contrivances for whom every word must be chosen with care, voiced in just the perfect tone, then studied as it took effect. How much easier it seemed to just live in the moment, to simply be. Sometimes Siderea envied her Souleater counterpart.
She took a moment to glance in the mirror and was pleased by what she saw. The Souleater’s vitality had brought new color to her cheeks, and the deep ruddy tone of her lips no longer needed enhancement. Only a bit of kohl was required to blacken her lashes, drawing attention to her wide, dark eyes. Her body was draped in layers of ruddy silk, bound with a twisted girdle that accentuated the curves of her form. Pearl-headed pins peeked out from rich black curls about her face while the rest of her hair cascaded down over her shoulders in long, coiled tendrils. No man could resist her thus. Perhaps no woman either.
She chose a pair of long earrings that tinkled softly as she moved, misted herself with one of her more delicate perfumes—the tastes of men and women were so different in matters of smell!—and finally was ready. A strange, fluttering excitement filled her stomach; was that the Souleater? Was she watching her dress? Siderea took an extra moment at the mirror, just in case. What do you think? she whispered to her consort. There was no answer. But she thought to her as she left the room, silken skirts swirling around her ankles, Now you will learn how to fly without wings.
Petrana Bellisi was waiting in the atrium. She stood up quickly when Siderea entered and offered a quick curtsey. Clearly she was not quite sure what manner of greeting was expected now that they were in the Witch-Queen’s home territory. Beside her was a glass of wine, still full. We shall have to fix that, Siderea thought.
“My dear Petrana.” She held out her arms in welcome, then, when the visitor hesitated, moved forward to embrace her. A tender kiss on each cheek lingered just long enough to bring a warm flush to Petrana’s face; the woman was unaccustomed to such casual intimacy.
She was dressed in silk the color of twilight, an odd choice for a summer afternoon. The neckline was somewhat lower than her accustomed style, which was perhaps why she had chosen it; she was clearly trying to follow Siderea’s advice in looking less somber. But she had draped a veil across her bosom and tucked it into the dress in such a manner that whatever womanly gifts she might have possessed were effectively hidden from sight. Were the veil of thinner silk, or more artfully draped, it might have offered a seductive enhancement, enticing one to search for hidden treasures beneath. As it was, it seemed intended to serve as armor.
For the body or the soul? Siderea wondered.
“Your Majesty is kind to receive me.”
The Witch-Queen shook her head and touched a perfumed finger to her visitor’s lips. “Shush. No titles, my dear. I will not have it.” Taking Petrana’s hand in her own, she urged her to sit down once more by the abandoned glass of wine. “You are in my home now, not some foreign court. Siderea will do.” She signaled for a nearby servant to bring her a glass of wine as well.
—and a low growl sounded within her brain, as the scent of the visitor filled her nostrils—
“A lovely gown,” she murmured, startled by the mental intrusion. She ran her fingers down one of Petrana’s sleeves, along the edges where the fine white chemise peeked through. “Sendalese silk, is it? They make the finest blues.” A glass of wine was handed to her; she brought it to her lips and paused a moment, drinking in its scent before sipping. “Ah, exquisite. You must try some.” She lifted Petrana’s glass and handed it to her. “Our southern vineyards have no equal, when the rainfall is right.” She waited while her guest sipped from her glass, then smiled and drank more fully. It was a vintage Siderea usually saved for seduction: smooth, sweet, and laced delicately with herbs that were said to enhance the senses.
Her own were certainly more acute than usual. She could smell the residue of soap in her visitor’s hair, the faint minty fragrance from where she had brushed against one of Siderea’s plants, the thin sheen of nervous sweat upon her brow. Never had she experienced a person’s scent so acutely before. Was this another symptom of her partnership with the Souleater? If so, it was delightful.
Again the low growl sounded in the back of her brain.
Shhh, she thought to her consort. All is well.
She encouraged her guest to speak of her recent travels, all the while plying her with wine. Servants brought them plates of food as well: delicate savories made from the rarest of cheeses, Sendalese olives sculpted into flowers, slivers of smoked fish arranged in delicate patterns upon salted wafers. All of which increased Petrana’s thirst, of course. Her wine glass was refilled several times while they chatted. Of course. What Siderea meant to teach Petrana today required preparation.
Finally Siderea judged the time was right. She waited for an appropriate opening in the conversation, then laughed softly. Her long earrings tinkled with the movement. “But you must forgive me. Here I have plied you with questions, and not given you a moment to address the reason you came! What a poor hostess I am!” She set her glass of wine aside and then took Petrana’s from her, and set it aside as well. Then she took her guest’s hands in her own and gazed into her eyes, noting as she did so that th
e young woman’s pupils were more than a little dilated. “Pleased though I am to have such delightful company, it would be poor hospitality not to address the reason you came. Or do I mistake what that might be?”
A bright flush rose to Petrana’s cheeks. “You said at Salvator’s coronation that you would be able to . . . advise me. About, ah . . . men.” She tried to wring her hands together, but Siderea held them tightly.
“And so I did. And look what you have brought me to work with!” She smiled her most encouraging smile. “You are quite lovely, my dear. You know that? With a bit of powder and a few social tricks you could have any man you desired—even a High King. And that would be good for all of us, yes?”
She stood, drawing Petrana up with her. “Come, first I will show you how to make the most of what Nature has given you. Later, other lessons.”
Holding her firmly by the hand, she led her through the public portion of the palace back to her own private rooms. A whispered command sent her servants scurrying out, and caused the richly carved doors to be shut behind them. Petrana seemed to be breathless. Was that from the wine, or something more?
Wrong. Wrong. The intrusive thought had no words, but her own mind supplied them, translating animal instinct into human language. This place is ours!
Shhh, she thought back. It’s all right. Watch.
She brought Petrana over to her vanity and had her sit before the mirror. It was a Magister’s gift from long ago and offered a more perfect reflection than polished metal ever could. Clearly Petrana was not accustomed to such luxuries and she gasped as her reflection came into focus, raising up a hand to her cheek as if to test whether the image was her own.
“You see? You have so much potential, my dear.” Siderea stood behind her, close enough to feel the woman’s warmth against her flesh. Her fingers toyed gently with the tightly-bound hair, teasing bits of it loose. “May I take this down?”