What in all the hells are those things?
Vast they were, vast creatures with wings too long to measure, powerful wings that stirred the stormclouds into eddies and funnels as they passed. Where a fleeting bit of sunlight fell upon them it was quickly absorbed, their skin glistening like ice for a moment before it passed into darkness again. Rain came in their wake, as if the beating of their wings had torn the stormclouds open, and he could hear it pounding along the ground as they approached. To fall into the shadow of their wings was death, he knew that as certainly as the hare knew there was danger in the shadow of a hawk, yet he could not run from them, nor even gather the power to defend himself. It was as if the mere presence of the creatures turned him to stone.
Gwynofar screamed then. It was more than a mere sound, it was a howl of anguish such as an animal might make while predators slowly tore it to pieces. His arm about her tightened instinctively, and with a herculean effort he managed to bind enough power to confirm that their appearance was no more real than the rest of the landscape, however terrifying they might be.
“It’s your dream,” he whispered fiercely. “Take control of it.”
She shut her eyes and nodded. He could feel a shudder pass though her body as she struggled to shut the creatures out, to deny them existence. It did not seem to help. The shadow of their wings were nearly upon the two of them now, and Ramirus instinctively lent her strength, not wishing to discover what would happen if they fell prey to such creatures, even while dreaming.
Were these the ikati that legends spoke of? Had they truly been that fearsome when they lived? Could they have overcome a Magister’s power as easily as these did? The thought was a chilling one, yet not half so chilling as the question that followed: what were these ancient creatures, supposedly extinct, doing in the High Queen’s dream?
Then, with a shriek that made the very air shiver, the first of the great creatures wheeled in its flight, turning back the way it had come. Others followed, likewise keening their rage at the power that was forcing them back. The movement of their wings struck up a black funnel that touched the ground briefly just outside the circle of stones, then disappeared. And in another few seconds they were swallowed up by the clouds overhead, and were gone. Ramirus felt himself breathe a sigh of relief, and forced his hand to release its death grip on Gwynofar’s shoulder. Where the clouds were parting now there was a glimpse of a bloody, swollen sunset, as if the sky itself had been bruised by the creatures’ passage.
A tremor passed through Gwynofar as Ramirus released her. Her eyes met his; he wondered if his own expression looked as fearful as hers. It was a strangely naked feeling.
“Souleaters,” she whispered.
“I would guess so.” The air felt strangely crisp, like it did just after a storm. “Though I have never seen one myself, so I cannot say for sure.”
“The bards of my land say that at the end of the Dark Ages they would fill the sky like that, until the sun could no longer be seen . . . that men turned to stone in their shadow and could not even run away to save themselves.”
With effort he forced his tone to become something more like its accustomed self: controlled, unemotional, authoritative. “The songs of bards may reflect some truth, but they also exaggerate it. In that the Lord Protectors established their rule in the name of protecting mankind from such creatures, it stands to reason they would encourage stories that made men cringe in terror at the thought of their return.”
She looked at him sharply. “And is that all you think it is, Ramirus?”
“The last ikati was killed a thousand years ago, Lady. The skies have been free of them ever since. Do you not think that if any had survived, we would know it by now? In all the human lands there is not one creature remaining that feeds the way they did, for all were hunted down and destroyed following the Great War. Had they not been, we would be barbarians still, and the Second Age of Kings could never have begun.”
She hesitated, then breathed, “My people believe they will return someday. You know that.”
His nod was solemn. “I know.”
She sighed heavily. “Danton has utter scorn for such beliefs. He says the Lord Protectors invented those tales to claim power long ago, and were foolish enough to forget that and to fall for their own lies.”
“Danton . . .” his expression darkened, “. . . is an ass.”
“What if this dream is some kind of omen?”
He shrugged stiffly. “I don’t know, Lady. For now, let us hope it is merely a dream. Your mind has been filled with tales of these creatures since your birth, it is not unreasonable they might make an appearance in your nightmares. Or even leave images appended to the fate of your son. He is half a Protector as well.”
She gazed out at the bruised horizon and said quietly, “The northern skies looked like that, this past winter. Rhys wrote me about it. There were many who took it for an ill omen, but then nothing came of it, and in a few months things seemed mostly normal again. But he said that for a few months it was as if the sky itself were bleeding, and the sunsets were the most terrible and beautiful thing he had ever seen.”
Ramirus nodded “I remember the color of the northern sky being odd for a time, though not to that degree. The witches and fortune-tellers were delighted, of course. They made a fortune peddling doom and gloom to the rich and gullible.”
“And the Magisters? What did they make of it?”
He chose his words carefully. “They determined that it was a wholly natural phenomenon. The sea too turns red in some places, and that is only an illusion brought about by the profusion of plant life near the surface. Something similar may well have occurred in the skies, far enough north that we could not see the cause from here.”
She said it quietly. “That would mean it came from beyond the Wrath.”
He said nothing, just nodded.
“Do you believe there is really something out there? Do you believe that—that it is linked to us somehow, like the legends say?” She did not meet his eyes, fearing what might be in them. “What do you think of my line, Ramirus? I have never asked you directly before, but now, with these omens . . . I must know. Danton scorns the Protectorate legends, Kostas listened to my tales as if I were a child reciting nursery rhymes. Yet you—you never laughed at me. You asked me of my bloodline, and I told you the truth, and you never ridiculed my answers.”
Ah, my Queen, that was because I brought you here to teach me these things, and it would have been poor return for such a service to laugh at your lessons.
“I believe that your line is imbued with special gifts,” he said quietly, “but I also observe there are no witches among the Protectors, none at all, nor any who have ever become Magisters. The combination is . . . intriguing. I did not lie to Danton when I told him you were not a witch, for you have no control over your own soulfire, nor even a conscious awareness of it, I am guessing. But if the legends speak true, and the ikati do return . . . perhaps that will change.”
“You believe that the gods gave us power for that day,” she breathed. “Like the legends say.”
“That, or simply that the army of witches who traveled north for the final battle left behind enough survivors to found a unique bloodline—one that has inherited their potential for power, but not the ability to master it. That is . . .” He smiled slightly, “. . . outside of matters of childbearing, in which some manner of instinctive control seems to come into play. But you have told me yourself you are not aware of that.”
She had not meant to ask, but now that the moment presented itself she had to. “The birth of my children—did you affect that at all?” She tried to keep her voice steady, but even she could hear the emotion in it. “Danton accused me of seeking your help.”
He met her eyes with a rare frankness. “A Lady Protector needs no help in begetting or bearing children,” he said quietly. “Only a fool would think otherwise.”
She flushed.
“Now, Majesty, you have bus
iness to get back to and I . . . I have some things that need looking into.”
“The Souleaters.”
He nodded solemnly. “If this dream has true significance, I will discover it.”
“And you will tell me what you find out?”
He hesitated. There was no reason not to lie to her. It shouldn’t have mattered to him if he did. Just tell her yes, an inner voice urged. It is the answer she wants to hear.
“As much as I can,” he promised at last. As much as the Magisters are willing to share.
He held out his hand to her. The silken scarf in it had been crushed by his fisted grip when the creatures approached; it eased slowly open as he released it now, like the wings of a newborn butterfly spreading to meet the wind. “I cannot return this to you here. The real items are over a thousand miles away from here, where my true body lies. I am sorry.”
“Keep it,” she said. “I may have need of you again someday, yes? Or perhaps . . .” her pale eyes glittered, “. . . you will have need of me.”
“I hope that will never be the case, Lady Protector.” His expression was solemn. “For both our sakes.”
It occurred to him then that there was something else he should say to her. A warning he should give her, before they parted ways. But as he saw her rest her hand upon her belly again, as he saw her face soften in anticipation of the child to come, one cast in her beloved Andovan’s mold, he kept his silence. Let her have this moment, this silent communion, without his adding new fears into the mix.
It is not needed yet, he told himself.
And an inner voice added, Let us hope it never is.
Chapter 27
IN THE tower that had no doors, upon a table of unpolished oak, a body lay.
“Where did she turn up?”
It had once been a woman, though warm days submerged in the river had taken their toll upon her flesh. The face was unrecognizable, its softer parts gone to feed the denizens of the river. Several fingers were missing. The heavy silk of its green gown had proven too much for the scavengers, but the fabric along the neck-line was damaged in several places where metal adornments appeared to have been torn loose, and tiny creatures stirred behind the holes, apparently unaware that they were being observed.
The body was wrapped in a shroud of sorcery, which trapped the worst of the smell inside it. Without that precaution it would surely have made the room unbearable.
“Up the river, by several miles. One of my men heard word of it and brought it here.” Tirstan paused. “It’s the gown she wore that night, there is no question of that.”
The forest green silk was coated with muck and soaked in blood and very little of its original color was visible, but where it was, the hue could not be mistaken.
“Gemstones stolen, you think?”
“No doubt. We are lucky whoever took them did not just bury her to hide the evidence.”
“Do we know for a fact it is this . . . what was her name . . . this Sidra?” Magister Kant asked.
Tirstan shrugged. “The flesh is too long dead to garner any living trace from it. The dress appears to belong to her, though; they both bear the same resonance. So it seems likely.”
“How did she die?” Tamil asked.
“Fell from a height, crushed several bones, drowned.” Tirstan’s expression was grim. “There is a distinct impression of suicide, though it is hard to make out details at this point. My guess is that she threw herself off the cliffs north of Tonnard, onto the rocks below. The river must have washed her downstream.”
“There is sorcery about the body,” Tamil said quietly.
The other two narrowed their eyes, focusing their special senses upon the rotting flesh. Tirstan cursed softly under his breath as he caught sight of the trace Tamil was referring to, a residue of sorcery that clung to the body so faintly, it took all his skill to make it out. “It is not what killed her,” he said at last.
“No, but it may be what caused her to kill herself.”
Kant drew in a sharp breath. “You are saying one of our kind forced her to commit suicide?”
“So it would appear.”
Tirstan looked up at Tamil. “Your mystery Magister, perhaps?”
Tamil’s dark eyes, lidded with the parchment skin of great age, returned the stare. “It seems certain now, does it not? She escaped our justice only to find a harsher master waiting at home.”
“Falling to her death,” Kant mused. “There is irony in that, no?”
“Her master is subject to the same Law that we are,” Tamil pointed out. “What she did in Tower Savresi was an offense to all the brotherhood.”
“Yes, well.” Tirstan sighed. “She has paid for it now. And the morati jackals have had their entertainment, in Ravi’s death. Shall we say this matter is ended?”
“Save for not knowing the name of her master,” Tamil said quietly.
“The body came straight down the river toward us,” Kant pointed out. “Which means that he meant for us to have it. I would call that an apology.”
The aged eyes fixed on him. “And if there is a Magister still at large who would use a morati thus, to invade our city? To insert his spy in our midst, to undermine our houses, perhaps even to claim what is rightfully ours?”
“It is not against the Law,” Kant pointed out.
“Actually,” Tirstan offered, “it was rather creative.”
“However,” Kant added, “if you would like to leave Gansang to go search for this individual, by all means, please do so. Tirstan and I will be happy to care for the city in your absence.”
Tamil glared.
Tirstan carefully did not smile.
After a moment Kant passed his hand over the corpse, muttering words of binding under his breath. The flesh seemed to quiver for a moment, then contracted. Water poured forth from it, first in a trickle and then in a torrent, raining down the sides of the table onto the floor. When the flood finally ended there was only a pile of ash left upon the oaken table.
Tirstan banished the sorcerous shell that had enclosed it, releasing a noxious mist that was quickly dispelled by the breeze. With a gesture, Tamil conjured stronger wind that picked up the ash and carried it out through the window, out over the city, and away.
“We are done here?” he asked.
Moments later, three great birds left the high tower, winging their way back to various posts within the city.
If any morati noticed, they did not comment upon it.
In a forest that had no name, in a circle carefully cleared of brush, a fire burned.
Kamala stared into its depths for a few long minutes, then drew out a leather pouch from beneath her cloak. Opening it, she spilled a handful of gems into her palm: cabochons of star sapphire, square-cut diamonds, and a single golden brooch set with marsh pearls.
For a moment she hesitated. A lifetime of poverty did not prepare one to discard such wealth, no matter the cause. Briefly she entertained the thought of keeping the gemstones, if only as a souvenir.
But they were dangerous. Too dangerous. She had worn them that night—used her power while wearing them—and so they bore her trace as well as Ravi’s. The dress was another thing; soaking it in the blood of her peasant sacrifice, she had impressed it with traces of its wearer’s death, so strongly that her own mark was all but obliterated. Gemstones defied such treatment.
It had been a true suicide, anyway. If they studied the body closely they would see that much, yes?
It is all wasted effort if you do not let the gemstones go.
Muttering words of power under her breath, she closed her hand about the precious gems. When she opened it again there was nothing in her hand but sand. She cast it onto the fire and summoned enough power to force it to burn; when the fire finally died there was nothing left but ash, indistinguishable from the remains of any other fire set for any other purpose.
Not until the embers were cold and dark did she leave the clearing behind, and with it the city of her childhood.
Chapter 28
“WELCOME, MY teacher.”
Colivar brushed the long black hair out of his eyes, where the wind had blown it, and looked over the place that his former student had chosen for a landing point. From the hilltop where they stood he could see northern wilderness on one side, stark granite mountains with a stubble of pine trees clinging to their lower slopes, peaks capped in glistening snow. On the other side was a valley with a river coursing down its center, in which a small town was nestled. Narrow windows, multiple chimneys, and steeply canted roofs spoke of a region where snow and the omnipresent cold ruled every human concern. Yet there were places even farther north than this forsaken place, he knew, and even more inhospitable . . . places where it was said only Magisters and witches might survive.
He banished that thought with effort. Too many memories within him responded to that vision, including things he had promised himself he would not remember. That was the problem with living as long as Magisters did. After too many centuries the walls between memories grew thin and were easily compromised, letting the thoughts bleed into one another.
Sometimes that was dangerous.
He took a deep breath of the chill, bracing air, and forced himself out of the past and into the present. “You said it was important, Sulah. There are few I would trust to call me across the nations like this, but as you have not ever wasted my time yet, I give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“You do me great honor, my teacher.”
A brief sweep of his hand dismissed the honorific. “I am not that any more.”
The younger Magister shrugged, acknowledging the denial without accepting it. He was one of the few apprentices Colivar had ever taken, and he had never quite internalized the tradition which said that a Magister who had been released should be a rival to his teacher, not an ally. Colivar kept him at arm’s length most of the time to drive the lesson home, but there was no denying that his loyalty was . . . intriguing. Such emotions rarely survived Transition, and almost never survived the immersion in Magister politics that quickly followed. Sulah was unique.