His eyes narrowed. “Those whom I represent are not merchants, come to haggle over a handful of coins. They are men of power, seeking a woman of equal power as an ally.”
“Men?” The edge to her voice was undisguised. “They are all men?”
He bowed his head in assent. “Aye.”
“That is the way of Magisters, is it not?”
“Except that we tender you an invitation to join our ranks, while they—may I be blunt, my Queen?—left you to die.”
The words were like a slap across her face. Yes, the Magisters had left her to die. Used her when it pleased them, to bind their pitiful backstabbing brotherhood together, and then thrown her on the trash heap when they were tired of her. Like the rind of a fruit that had been sucked dry of juice. Who cared if the flies ate what was left?
Did the Magisters even suspect how much she hated them now, she wondered. Not damned likely. They were narcissistic bastards, all of them, blind to anything that did not revolve around their own desires, their obsessions, their petty rivalries.
The thought of possessing some power that they had no knowledge of was a heady one. The thought of surviving long enough to actually turn the tables on them, to make them pay for their callous abandonment of her, was almost too sweet to contemplate.
But words were cheap. Any fool might offer them. And if her years as queen had taught her nothing else, it was that a woman in power attracted fools like honey attracted flies.
“What proof do you offer that any of this is true?” she challenged. “Or do you think that I will swear my allegiance to a complete stranger for a handful of pretty words that any good actor might invent? How do I know that you even have allies?”
The cold, reptilian eyes flickered with amusement. What if he could read her thoughts? It would not be beyond the reach of a witch to do so, she realized suddenly, and certainly not beyond a Magister.
“When the time comes for you to claim this power, Majesty, all will be made clear to you. And you may choose then whether to go forward or not with full knowledge of all your options. Is that satisfactory?”
“When the time comes?” Her heart skipped a beat. “You claim to know my situation, then speak casually of waiting.” She glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I have wasted my time after all.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. How alien they seemed in that instant, how lightless! Not like human eyes at all. “There are things that must be set in motion before you can join us. Certain natural processes must be completed first. We have done all we can to hurry them along, but—”
“How long?” she demanded.
“A lesser month at least. No longer than a great month at most.”
She exhaled in a soft hiss. “Then why come to me now? Why speak of these things to me tonight, when—” when I may not be alive a month from now “—when you cannot deliver what you promise, or even prove that such a power exists?”
“I came tonight to see if you were interested in such an offer. If not, we will seek elsewhere.”
“For another woman?”
“Yes.”
“A woman of power?”
“A queen in spirit, if not in title. No one else can accept such a gift.”
“And was I your first?” she asked. “Or have you approached other queens before me and been rejected?”
A muscle along the line of his jaw twitched. “There have been no other queens,” he said. His expression was impassive, but she could sense the hostile energy coiled just behind it. He was not accustomed to bargaining with women, or with masking his emotions; the strain of it showed. “There are others who can take your place, if need be.”
Take her place in what? In claiming an unnamed power that must have a woman to master it. The whole idea was mad. Every rational fiber of her being was crying out for her come to her senses and throw this miscreant out on his head—and perhaps have him meet with a convenient accident on the way home, thus silencing a man who seemed to know far too much about her private business. Surely a wild tale like this deserved no better treatment.
But what if there is some truth to all this? she thought. If even one word out of twenty was true, that still hinted at secrets worth learning. Risks worth taking. Didn’t it?
She had to know the truth.
Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for what well might be her last act on earth. May the gods help you if you are lying to me, Amalik. If so I will have you torn limb from limb for making me waste the last hours of my life indulging your delusion.
Focus. Focus.
Reaching deep inside herself to where the final sputtering embers of her soulfire lay hidden, she struggled to claim one precious drop of power to bind to her purpose. Her dying soul did not part with its substance easily; it would have been easier to thrust her hand between her ribs and rip her heart out of her body than it was to claim that tiny portion of power.
But she had not risen to her throne by being weak-willed, nor had fear ever kept her from doing what she needed to. Her body trembled as she focused upon that dying flame, her flesh growing cold as it sensed the closeness of Death, but she remained focused on her objective. And in the end she claimed it—one precious drop of her soul’s strength, divorced from the whole, that she might shape to her will.
Carefully, so carefully, she crafted a truth-telling spell, knowing that she must make it perfect, absolutely perfect, for in this enterprise there would be no second chance.
(And how much of her life had this effort already cost her? Was Death laughing at her as he watched, amused by her desperation?)
“All that you have told me of this power,” she whispered hoarsely, “all the promises you have made and the reasons you say you are making them . . . you swear before the gods, all these thing are true?”
“Aye, my Queen.” There was an edge to his voice that had not been there before. “By the gods I swear it.”
She released the power to do its work and shut her eyes, feeling her spell fill the room between them: testing the stranger, tasting his substance. Hunger. Lust. Impatience. Powerful emotions roiled within him, primitive in their intensity, strangely inhuman in their tenor. Hatred. Dominance. Desperation. His outer aspect might appear civilized, but the depths of his soul were just the opposite. Dealing with him would be dangerous beyond words. But what of the prize he had promised? Did it exist? Might she really lay claim to it, if it did?
Then she tasted the truth of his words and a shiver ran up her spine.
He does not lie.
Slowly she opened her eyes. She did not need to say anything to him; he could read in her expression what she had learned.
You expected me to do this, didn’t you? That was part of your plan from the beginning. The reason you could speak to me in riddles like you did. You knew that I had the power to see through your games, if I were willing to make the sacrifice to do it.
And you wanted to see if I were willing, she realized suddenly. This was a test, wasn’t it? Of strength. Of commitment. Perhaps of desperation.
Only one decision was possible now. Only one promised a chance of life.
“What do you ask of me in return?” she said quietly.
Amalik smiled coldly. How calm his outer demeanor was! As if he and she were bargaining over some trinket of jewelry that had no real value. But she had seen inside him and knew the truth: whatever these men wanted her for, their hunger for it was every bit as driving as her hunger for life itself. “A token. A test. To seal our bargain.”
“Such as?”
“You are planning to attend the coronation festivities for the new High King, I believe? Position yourself in the palace. Earn his favor. It should not be difficult for someone of your talents. Our plans may require some influence in his court. You will provide it.”
But that is only a secondary goal, she thought. The hunger that burns within you is for something much simpler, a goal far less civilized than courtly politics. “And what is it you want him influenced to
do?”
“For now?” He chuckled softly. “To be true to his faith. To be confident in Sankara’s friendship so that he does not look too closely in this direction. And to distrust the many Magisters who will be vying for his favor. I assume the latter will be no problem for you?”
Now it was her turn to smile. “No. None at all.”
“Later there will be more concrete assignments, I am sure. But for now that will suffice. Let us say simply set the groundwork for him to trust your counsel, so that in the future your words will have power.” He raised up one black eyebrow. “So do we have a bargain, my Queen?”
There was a voice that whispered deep within her soul, warning her to be careful. Reminding her that the welfare of Sankara was not necessarily well served by such a plan. The Free Lands needed a war, or at least the threat of war, to keep them unified. A peaceful, happy High King was not necessarily a good thing for them.
But if there was even a remote possibility that this man could deliver what he promised—even a shadow of a chance—could she afford to turn him away?
He asks no more of me than what I would do anyway. Assess the weaknesses of this new king, play him like an instrument, wrap him about my finger. If not for political influence, then for the sheer sport of it. How often do the gods give me a monk to play with? And by the time this stranger and his allies return to ask for more—by then I shall know more of what their game is all about. Who knows? Perhaps we shall bargain anew when that happens.
“Aye,” she said quietly. “We have a deal.”
The voice in her soul was silent.
Chapter 6
THE MIRROR in front of Salvator was not one of his father’s sorcerous accessories but a simple sheet of polished metal set in a tall wooden frame. As such it was a less than perfect reflector that made his lean form look even thinner and his angular features somewhat awry. That did not bother him, of course, though it did seem to bother his mother.
What bothered him was the stole about his neck. The long strip of embroidered cloth hung down the front of his robe on both sides, its foundation fabric encrusted with so many layers of embroidery and so many gemstones that one could no longer see the original cloth. Which was not what bothered him, of course. Well, it was not what bothered him most.
With a sigh he lifted it off over his head and held it out to Gwynofar. “I am sorry, Mother. I cannot.”
“It is part of the coronation regalia,” she said quietly.
“I understand that.”
“It represents your family’s history,” Gwynofar said firmly. “Your heritage.”
“Again, I am sorry. But I cannot wear it.”
She exhaled sharply in frustration. “All the Aurelius kings have worn this stole at their coronations, since the first one that claimed a crown. Each has added his own signs to it. His accomplishments. These—” she indicated a section of the intricately embroidered piece near one end of the stole “—these are all your father’s triumphs. The victories that brought the High Kingdom into existence. Without them you would have nothing to rule over.”
“I understand all that, Mother.” His tone was infinitely patient. “But we will have to find some other means of honoring Father’s work.”
“I had all the sacred symbols removed,” she said, still not taking it from him. “You know that, yes? There is nothing here that speaks of any god but yours. Only human history—centuries of it—reaching back to the First Age of Kings—”
“And that time was many things to many people, Mother—we could argue over it for years and reach no agreement—but one thing cannot be argued. Whatever the First Kings did, ultimately demons were sent to punish them so that mankind was driven back into the darkness for centuries. Some would argue we are only just now recovering from that blow. Yes?” When she did not answer he asked, “Do you wish me to begin my reign by tying myself to that disastrous age?”
“Your father did,” she said coldly, “and he was a great king.”
For the first time since his arrival at the palace, a shadow of anger passed over his face. “My father’s last days were lived in the shadow of a demon. Let us never forget that. Nor the fact that demons have now been seen in other places as well. This world is on the brink of utter devastation and I for one do not intend to forget it.”
He drew in a deep breath then, and shut his eyes for a moment as he muttered a prayer under his breath to settle his spirit. Then he held out the stole to her. “Forget past glories. We will make new ones. Commission a stole to be crafted that celebrates my father’s triumphs, and those of the kings that came before him. But not back past the Dark Times. That is all I ask.”
She hesitated, then nodded tightly and accepted the stole from him. “You will at least wear silk, yes? Something appropriate to your rank? Not that . . .” She indicated his monk’s robe. “. . . burlap.”
A flicker of a smile softened his expression. “It’s wool, Mother, but, yes. Never fear. I shall wear the most expensive silks you can procure, and a feather in my hat besides, if you so desire it. Festoon the ground with priceless gems and I will walk on them in golden shoes while dancing girls strew rose petals upon the ground for me to crush underfoot. All this I will do if you deem it appropriate.” His expression darkened; he put his hand upon the stole. “But not this. I cannot celebrate the age of sin, not without inviting the Destroyer to punish us again. Is that how a new king should begin his reign?”
She bit her lip for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she began to fold the stole, her pale fingers smoothing the delicate embroidery with every turn. “You are as stubborn as your father was, you know that?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “And you would not have asked me to take up his crown if I were anything less. Would you?”
“We have space enough in the palace for your vassals,” Jan Cresel told him, “providing they do not bring large retinues with them. Some may prefer to remain in the field for that reason. It should not be seen as an insult. Nor should your invitation be framed in any way that will cast aspersions upon those whose might choose such a course, or make them feel pressured to do otherwise. Some princes do not travel ten miles from home without a veritable army to accompany them; they will want the space to spread out and put on a show worthy of their retinue.”
“To build their towers,” Salvator said quietly.
“The invitations will be rendered with suitable diplomacy,” Gwynofar promised. “As always.”
“You have other names on the list,” Salvator pointed out.
Cresel nodded. “Allies of Danton, who will be looking for a clear sign that you mean to continue in his footsteps, at least where they are concerned. Offering them rooms in the palace will be seen as a sign of favor that will help keep them focused upon you rather than upon the blandishments of your enemies. But do bear in mind that any of those who accept your invitation will be doing so in the hopes of catching a private moment with you sometime during the festivities. Some will simply want reassurance from you, others. . . .” He hesitated.
“Others will wish to see if the new High King will be easier to manipulate than his father.” He smiled slightly. “You see, Master Cresel? I do understand the game.”
“You can expect every noble house with a marriageable daughter to arrange for an introduction sometime during their visit. Needless to say you should remain as neutral as possible in all such meetings. Should you so much as twitch an eyelash in some girl’s direction, the gossipmongers will see it transformed into a marriage proposal within an hour. Which can sometimes be as much trouble as the real thing.” He smiled dryly and offered Salvator a leather portfolio. “I have assembled reports for you on the candidates worthy of your attention . . . and a few warnings regarding those that are not.”
“And what do you advise?” Salvator asked. “Regarding marital prospects.”
Cresel hesitated. Clearly he was not accustomed to being asked for this sort of advice. “I would advise waiting,” he said finally. “Neithe
r allies nor enemies know what to make of you just yet. For so long as a man believes that his kinswoman might win your favor, he must act to keep that option open. The moment you make a choice in such matters—or even appear to be swayed in the direction of a particular choice—he is free of that obligation. So for now, let them dream their dreams while you take stock of your options. And try not to be too . . .” He paused uncomfortably, seeking the proper word. “. . . affected by their charms.”
Salvator looked sharply at him. “Do you know what my father did, Master Cresel, when I told him I meant to enter the monastery? He brought in a whore to teach me about love. Well, actually, he brought me a bevy of whores. Some earthy and crude, some elegant and sophisticated, the whole gamut of feminine charms. He said that I should experience Woman in all her guises before choosing to forego such pleasures forever.” He shrugged. “Obviously his hope was that after a night or two of unfettered debauchery I would no longer have the heart to go through with my plans. Alas, he did not understand enough of the Penitent faith to realize that he had in fact given my sacrifice greater value, and thus had only fuelled my determination.” The chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “The point of the tale is, Master Cresel, the fact that I rejected the cruder pleasures of this world for four years does not mean I do not understand their power. Quite the contrary. I assure you I will mistake neither passion nor political alliance for love. I know that decisions made in the heat of the night rarely survive the morning’s inspection. So please, do not fear that my innocence will lead me down some dark and terrible path. I am better armored than most to face that particular enemy.”
He reached out for the guest list that Cresel had compiled and nodded as he approved its contents. He had spent the last few days studying all the lineages and households of significance, and was pleased to see that most of these looked familiar.