Except in this place.
Truly, Colivar thought, if there was any woman fit to be a Magister it was this one. She was already closer to their brotherhood than any woman had ever been; what a small step it would be to manage that final transformation! Though, if she claimed that kind of power and still kept her alliances she would be the most dangerous Magister alive, and in time those who did not share her bed would probably unite to bring her down. Maybe even those who did. The black-robed sorcerers were loyal to allies only for as long as they needed them—or until they decided someone was a threat to them.
Thank the fates there are no women among us, Colivar thought. Our society would be torn to pieces if there were.
And then the hand that stroked his cheek moved on to other places, and he let himself surrender to the moment, and to such pleasures as a morati woman might inspire.
The night breeze swept in from the Sea of Gods, rich with the scent of salt tides and seaweed. It stirred the gauze curtains as it entered the bedchamber, and set to shivering the fine silk hangings that were draped from a frame above the wide bed, thwarting the approach of insects.
Colivar lay awake for a long while, tasting the breeze, reading its message. In another day the wind would blow strongly enough for ships to sail through the Narrows. The harbor would empty then, and Sankara would prepare for its next round of visitors while its ruler prepared her house for the visit of still more Magisters, who would come to share gossip, leave messages for one another, and perhaps seek a brief respite from the machinations of less personable monarchs.
The world will be a darker place when this morati dies, he thought.
He wondered just when that would be. Already she had ruled Sankara for four decades, but no one was sure of how old she’d been when she arrived. He did not think that any Magister knew her true age, and she certainly never spoke of it, preferring to surround herself with mystery.
She was young. That was all that other morati saw. Eternally, supernaturally young. In the beginning it would not have seemed so remarkable—any witch willing to pay the price could alter her flesh to look youthful—but as the years went by and she did not die the premature death of a witch, as her lifespan equaled and then exceeded that of the healthiest of mortals and still she showed no sign of weakening, it must have become clear to all that something other than witchery was involved.
He wondered if any of her household had guessed the truth: that each visiting Magister in his turn repaired her aging flesh, taking on that duty just as they voluntarily took on other projects for her. That the power the “Witch-Queen” wielded was not her own power at all, and therefore did not cost her a fraction of her own life. How far back in her history did that arrangement go? Had she lived a witch’s life before her first affair with a Magister, or waited until a sorcerous patron was located before even thinking of using the power? Without knowing her true age, he could not hazard a guess.
Yet you are morati, my queen, and so there will come a point when even all our sorcery cannot save you.
Gently he placed a hand upon her brow, binding stolen soulfire to his fingertips, and caressed those places where the first lines of age were beginning to show. Delicate crow’s feet vanished at his touch, and the fine lines at the corners of her mouth grew faint and disappeared. She sighed in her sleep and turned her head slightly but did not awaken. From his distant consort Colivar drew yet more power, and he bathed her in it, letting her skin draw nourishment and youth from the immersion. The irony of killing one morati to benefit another was not lost on him. Did she sense his efforts in her sleep, perhaps suffering shadowy nightmares that hinted at the cost of her beauty? He would never ask, but he always wondered.
When he had done all he could to preserve her youthful appearance, he gathered his power and looked deep within her flesh, seeking less visible hallmarks of age. Where her muscles had weakened, he strengthened them. Where blood flowed too sluggishly, he cleared its path. There was a place in her heart where the beat was not certain, and he repaired its rhythm. There was a place in her female parts where the flesh had grown awry, and he dissolved the growth and encouraged her body to reabsorb it, not resting until he saw that safely done.
He had done such things for her many times, as had the others. But one other thing he did regularly as well, one that he had never told her about. Deep, deep within her soul he looked now, following the currents of athra to their source, seeking that inner flame from which both life and sorcery drew their strength. That one thing alone which no Magister could bolster or repair, and which in time would falter and expire, as it did in all living creatures.
When he found it at last, he felt a cold chill run down his spine. No longer was the fire of her soul a blazing furnace as he remembered it, but a quieter thing, measurably dimmer. There was no question what that meant; not even a witchling could mistake it.
Her life was nearing its end.
How long would it be before she realized that something was amiss, and searched within herself for the cause? She still had a few years left to her—maybe as long as a decade if they kept her in perfect health—but in the end, the simple law that governed all living things could not be denied. Soon her vital energies would begin to sputter and fade, and not all the healing tricks of the Magisters could save her then.
What will you do when you realize you are dying? Surrender to the inevitable as the morati do, as all true witches must, and die with grace? Rage against the gods who made you a woman, and thus put salvation out of reach? Or perhaps curse the Magisters whose sorcery failed to save you?
Either way it would be the end of an era, he thought soberly, and he would mourn its passing.
He lay back down by her side, his cheek against a tangle of fine braids, and tried to quiet his thoughts enough to let the sea breeze carry him back to sleep.
Chapter 24
KAMALA STOLE some clothing.
She didn’t have to. She could have just conjured something into existence and it would have covered her up just as well as the coarse woolen tunic she found hanging on a clothesline. But she didn’t.
The role of thief was a comfortable one, familiar to her, and right now the role of sorcerer was not. The death of the scar-faced Magister still haunted her. In real life she had not seen his eyes as he fell but in her dreams she did, over and over again, and they were black with terror as he felt the power slipping from his fingers at the moment he needed it most, his desperation a thing so palpable that she could taste it on her lips as Transition rendered him suddenly helpless—
And he hit the ground.
Again.
And she awoke, shuddering.
Thievery did not have such a cost. Not if you were careful. She was a bit out of practice from all her years of living with Ethanus, of course, but they said that stealing a horse came back to you as easily as riding one did. Certainly sneaking around clotheslines under cover of night was an effortless task that quickly netted her the essentials of a peasant’s costume. A boy peasant, of course. She wanted no more of the trouble that came from being a lone woman on the open road. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Now, with a shirt torn into bands that she wrapped around her chest before dressing, flattening her breasts, and her wild red hair tucked into a cap, she appeared to be nothing more than a nondescript youth a bit down on his luck, dressed in patched and mended hand-me-downs. She even found a knife embedded in a tree stump where someone had left it for the next day’s work, and liberated a loaf of bread from a windowsill where it was cooling. The bread was strangely satisfying, moreso than all the elite delicacies served by Tower Savresi. This simple fare was honestly made, honestly baked . . . honestly stolen.
She did not use sorcery. At all. It made a chill run up her spine just to contemplate doing so, knowing that any spell could plunge her into the darkness again so that she must find another consort or die. Ethanus had assured her that once First Transition was past there was really no doubt about the pro
cess succeeding—any Magister without the strength of will to claim a consort would not have survived that trial in the first place—but deep inside her soul, in that place where doubts and fears scurried about like beetles, Kamala was not so sure of herself. Transition was a quick process, Ethanus had taught her, nigh on painless after the first one. But had not he himself fled a royal appointment because of a bad experience with it? Had he not taken pains to teach her that she must try not to fall to Transition while surrounded by enemies, while also teaching her that there was no real way to control the experience?
Now it seemed she understood the true danger of it at last, as no mere words could have taught her. By its very nature, Transition was likely to weaken a Magister at the moment he needed his power the most. The greater his need, the greater his expenditure of athra, the more likely it was that his efforts would drain his current consort dry and suddenly leave him stranded, without power or consciousness.
She shuddered, remembering the terror in the fallen Magister’s eyes.
No wonder some sorcerers were miserly with their power. No wonder so many chose to attach themselves to morati patrons, so that their daily needs might be met by mundane means in exchange for a handful of spells to suit their patron’s less ambitious whims. There was far less effort involved in fixing a love potion for a morati prince and then letting him build a castle for you than there was in conjuring the same castle out of stolen athra . . . and therefore less risk. Little wonder that even such a bargain was not enough for some Magisters, who chose to leave the kingdoms of man entirely, as Ethanus had done, so long ago. Trading power for peace and draining their consorts slowly, gently, not because they cared if their victims lived or died, but because the time and place of that dying mattered.
It was all too much to think about. Too much to absorb right now. Easier for a while to just avoid using the power, and thus dodge the issue altogether.
When she had her new clothes on just right, and her reflection in a pool of water assured her that she looked passably like a boy, she caught a ride on a wagon loaded with bales of wool whose driver was too drunk to notice her clamber aboard. The bales smelled of sheep but they made for a soft perch, and she nibbled the last of her stolen bread as the wagon lurched onward, as comfortable in her wooly nest as the richest southern pasha reclining on silken cushions.
Which you could be, she reminded herself. You might be anything you wanted, if you did not fear using the power.
But that thought raised questions she was not willing to face just yet, and so she pushed the thought out of her mind and settled back into her nest of pungent bales, trying to find some state between waking and sleep that would allow her to rest without dreaming.
“They call it the Wasting.”
The voice cut through all other sounds in the market, heading straight for Kamala’s ears. She stiffened, seeking the source.
The wagon had brought her to a small but crowded plaza—probably a common market for several surrounding towns—but where exactly that was, she didn’t know. Despite her best intentions she had dozed off during the journey; upon awakening she did not have a clue how far they had gone, or what turns they might have taken getting there. She had only just managed to slip free of her perch before the wagon had stopped to unload its goods, in time to avoid detection. There was no way to get her bearings in any larger sense.
The power can tell you where you are, an inner voice had chided her.
She ignored it.
Now something more important had her attention: a phrase carried to her on the warm currents of the crowded market, as surely as if it had been intended for her hearing. She looked around, trying to locate the speaker. Finally her gaze fell upon a couple of women in coarse but serviceable woolen garments, standing by the cart of a fruit vendor. The voice of one seemed to match what she had heard in tone and cadence, even though she could not make out most of her words now. Carefully Kamala made her way nearer to them, trying to remain inconspicuous. The power can keep you from being seen, the inner voice chided. Use it! As she came closer she strained to catch their words, trying to sort them out from all the other sounds of the busy market.
“No doctor can help her,” the woman was saying. Her face was pale and drawn, sharp lines of grief etched into her flesh. “Though they charge well enough for the show of trying.”
“Like as spit the potions out of their own asses,” the other muttered, “for all the good it does.”
“Aye, the last round made her sicker than she was to start with.”
“Have you asked after witches?”
The heavy sigh was loud enough to be audible even from where Kamala stood. “No one will serve without more coin than we have. Life costs money, they say. Besides, if it is the Wasting, what can they do?”
Kamala’s heart was pounding. If it was the Wasting, that meant the person they were discussing was some Magister’s consort. Was it possible it was her consort? Common sense cautioned her that the odds were against it, and yet there were only so many Magisters in the world. It was not impossible.
What would it be like, to gaze into the eyes of the one whose athra she was stealing, to connect a name and a face to that exchange? The thought was strangely thrilling. Ethanus had warned her against ever trying to do such a thing, but then, he had given her many warnings which had more to do with his own weakness than hers. And besides, if the consort was not her own, then she was the key to the power of some other Magister. That was surely a possibility worth exploring.
So she drew in a deep breath and stepped forward to where the women stood, waiting until they took notice of her before speaking. She tried to pitch her voice in a voice she thought a boy would use as she said, “Forgive me for overhearing your words . . . you speak of a sick one? Perhaps I can help.”
The two women looked her up and down with obvious misgivings. From the dusty cap that covered her hair to her patched and mended shirt, she seemed the very embodiment of a youth down on his luck. What possible help could such a person offer them?
“You barter in medicines, boy?” one of them at last said.
“No.”
The brow of the other woman furrowed. “What then? Witchery?” It was clear from her expression she would find that claim doubtful; anyone possessed of true power could surely manage a more prosperous lifestyle.
“I have the Sight,” Kamala said. “I can see disease, and perhaps put a name to it.” That much was true, anyway. Even before she had met Ethanus she had possessed that simple gift. “Sometimes that is enough to help. Sometimes I can manage other things, as well.”
The women looked at each other. Kamala did not need sorcery to read their thoughts. From one: What insanity is this? Who is this boy? Do you know him? From the other: All else has failed. What do we have to lose?
“And for payment?” The edge in the woman’s voice was undisguised.
Kamala tried to shrug like she thought a young man might do. Inside her shirt her breast bindings slipped a bit, almost coming loose. “Food for a traveler, if you have that to spare. A bed for the night, perhaps. My Sight is a gift from the gods, I do not charge men for its use.” She tried to make her words sound casual, as if she hardly cared whether they accepted her offer or not, though inside her chest her heart was beating wildly. Surely they would not trust any stranger who seemed too intent upon visiting this invalid.
Again the two women exchanged glances. The doubt in the eyes of one was undiminished, but in her grieving companion there was another emotion evident, even stronger: desperation. What is there to lose? her expression seemed to say. He cannot make things worse.
Finally she turned to Kamala. “What is your name, boy?”
“Kovan.” It had been her brother’s name once, and was the first thing that came to mind. It stuck in her throat for a moment as she spoke.
“Well then, Kovan. I am called Erda, this is Sigurra.” The woman nodded stiffly toward her companion. “You can try your Sight, for what goo
d it will do. I won’t turn hope, however slight it might be.” She sighed heavily. “Perhaps the gods will favor your efforts as they have not favored others.”
The dwelling that Erda brought her to was a good mile from town, a long hike on a humid day. Kamala shouldered the heaviest burdens from the day’s shopping, as she thought a young boy would offer to do. Her back was sore from the effort (how easily sorcery might have lightened the load!) but she hardly felt the pain for the excitement of what was to come. Was it possible she was about to meet the source of all her power? Or if not hers, then that of some other Magister?
The cabin was a small one, crudely built out of logs from the surrounding forest, with a pen for livestock flanking it on the near side and some kind of cultivated garden at the far end. Erda ushered Kamala inside, into a single living chamber with a stone fireplace dominating its center. The windows were small, better suited to keeping out the winter’s cold than admitting a cool breeze in summer, and the smell of sweat and sickness hung heavy in the still air. It took no sorcery to locate the source. There were several narrow rope beds set into alcoves flanking the room, and on one of them a small figure lay still, swathed in blankets better suited to winter than this humid season.
When in doubt, sweat the sickness out, her mother had once said. It hadn’t worked for Kamala’s brother; she doubted it would work for this patient either.
“That’s her, over there.” Erda put down her basket on a rough-planked table and made some manner of religious sign over her heart, as she indicated a small bed in the farthest alcove. “May the gods ease her suffering.”