But it has been too late for that for a while now, and even as he forms the thought he sees her falter. Only a shiver at first is visible, along her outstretched arms, but inside her he knows it is as if ice has suddenly filled every vein. He remembers it from his own Transition. He remembers what kind of panic takes hold of a man’s soul when the spark of life that has burned within him since birth sputters like a dying candle. He remembers the prayers one voices—useless!—as if any god who has watched one squander one’s power for years will feel sympathy for such last-minute regrets. The heart clenches in one’s chest like a fist, as if fighting to keep hold of those last few precious drops of life. But by the time that moment comes it is too late. The mortal life has been consumed, and the figure of Death hovers over his newest charge, pausing but for one precious instant while the fires of the athra sputter into darkness—
He hears her scream. Not a sound voiced by her flesh, but an agonized howling of her innermost soul. It is at once defiance, fear, determination—raw stubbornness, which has always been her strongest trait. Yet even that is not enough now. You must be willing to leave behind what you are, he thinks, and become something so dark and terrible that men would cringe in horror if they knew it walked among them. And you must choose that course of your own accord, without being shown the way; you must want it so much that everything else is cast aside.
Does a man truly cast aside everything? he wonders. A woman must. Nature has prepared her to bring life into the world and nurture it, and the very essence of her soul is shaped to that purpose. Such a soul cannot manage Transition in its natural state, nor survive the trial of the spirit that will follow. Can Kamala strip herself of all that the gods gave her in making her a woman, can she hunger for life so desperately that the lives of others are as nothing to her? It is a trick men are born to, for Nature has fashioned them for war, but women must learn it unnaturally.
You were meant to bring life into the world, he thinks. Now, to survive, you must bring death.
She is on her knees now, shaking violently as spasms of dying engulf her soul. Ethanus can hear her desperation screaming out across the heavens. He even hears his name, voiced as a prayer—a plea for the information she needs to survive—but he makes no answer. Each student must find his own way to the Truth; that is the Magister’s tradition. To do otherwise may bring weaker students through Transition safely, but it cannot make them fit for what comes after.
Forgive me, my fierce little whore. And forgive the gods, who have decreed that all birth must be agony.
And then—
He can sense it in her. A sudden awareness of something outside herself. Beyond the clouds, beyond the wind, beyond the parts of the earth that man has given names to. A source of power outside herself, like but unlike the athra whose flow trickles to a stop within her soul. She grasps at it but it eludes her. No! she screams. I will not fail! Another spark takes its place and she focuses her will upon it, desperate to lay claim to it before her flesh expires. Ethanus can taste her determination on his tongue, the sudden elation of understanding. This, this is what she was meant to discover—this foreign spark that is not soulfire, but might be bound and made to take its place. Why did Ethanus not simply tell her that? Why has he not taught her the tricks she needs to tame it? Now she must wrestle with Death even as she races to weave a link between herself and this distant power, so strong that no force wielded by man or god can ever sever it.
And he knows it before she does, when she has won. He knows because he has watched other apprentices expire at this point, consumed at the very threshold of immortality. In them the final sparks within their own souls had died before they could claim this new power, and Death had dragged them screaming into oblivion. In her . . . the ice within her veins cracks . . . the strangled heart dares a new beat . . . the breath that has been all but choked off by the force of her trials draws inward once again, bringing warmth to her lungs. He knows before she does because he knows what signs to watch for. She . . . she knows only that awareness of a foreign power throbs within her now like a second heartbeat, and that her flesh draws strength from it, easier with each passing breath.
When she is sure of what she has done, and sure it cannot be undone, she looks at him. There are tears in her eyes, red tears, for her body has squeezed forth blood in its exertions. How appropriate, he thinks. There were tears in his own but he wiped them away before she could notice. He does not want her thinking to question what emotions spawned them.
“I live,” she says, and in that phrase are captured a thousand things unsaid. A thousand questions.
“Yes,” he responds. Answering them all.
“I am . . . Magister?”
He gazes at her for a moment. Loving her, as he had not expected ever to love. Look one last time upon her in her innocence, told himself, for you are about to destroy that innocence forever.
“You may use the power as you will,” he says quietly to her, “for whatever purpose you like. You will not die. You have learned to draw your athra from other places, other sources. So it shall always be for you. When one source fails, you will find another. No Magister who truly desires life has ever failed to do so.”
“Then what?” she said. “What’s wrong? You spoke of a trial. Is that over?”
For a long moment he just looks at her. Fixing in his mind the picture of what she is now, before the Truth makes her into something else. A creature of legend, by virtue of her sex. A creature of darkness, by virtue of her choice.
“But one more thing,” he says. “One final lesson.”
She waits.
“Know this, Kamala: that there is no source of athra in all the universe which can sustain you, save that which is contained within the souls of living men.”
The distant clouds move across the face of the moon. The clearing is dark and silent.
“Now,” he says, “you are a Magister.”
Chapter 5
“SO,” RAMIRUS said. His voice echoed in the vast Schamber like a ghost’s cry in a crypt. “Prince Andovan is dying. And a Magister is responsible.” He spread his hands broadly to indicate the room, its occupants, and all that their presence implied. “You see now why I have called you here.”
The one called Del made a sound in his throat that might have been a cough, or it might have been derision. “I see that the gods have played a cruel joke upon your royal patron, Ramirus. But truly, are you so surprised? Transition doesn’t give a devil’s ass about race, age, or station. It stands to reason that sooner or later a member of a royal family would be chosen. For myself, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
Ramirus’ voice was low, as a wolf’s warning growl is low. “You do not understand.”
Colivar expended considerable effort not to smile. The subject matter was somber, true, but it was still a pleasure to see the Magister Royal of his enemy scorned in front of so many witnesses. A small reward for a long and dusty journey. “If I may . . .” He awaited Ramirus’ nod with the gallantry of a courtier. “The issue here is not whether Andovan is dying, which none of us truly cares about, or even if a prince of Danton’s realm is dying—which most of us do not care about—but rather, what men will do in the course of that dying. Yes?”
“Precisely,” Ramirus said. He nodded toward the two lamps on the mantle, forcing their wicks up higher. It was minimal compensation for the loss of the day’s sunlight, which could no longer manage the narrow angle required to work its way into the chamber. In truth, the dark wood and unpolished stone of the room’s vast interior made it feel as if night had already fallen; Colivar could not have guessed what the hour was. “We all know what the Wasting is in truth, and we know how hard the Magisters have worked to obscure that truth from outsiders. How many of us have not contributed toward that goal, at some point in our careers? Not granted an extra bit of fever to a sufferer, so that he might seem to be in the grips of a true disease? Or given him pockmarks or festering wounds or something els
e that might cause men to attribute his loss of strength to some more natural cause?
“Centuries of such tricks have caused men to believe that the Wasting is exactly what we say it is—a fearsome disease, no more, no less. Even doctors, while mourning the failure of their most effective concoctions, do not search for other causes . . . they merely waste their days seeking some new philter or paste that will grant the sufferers comfort. While we, knowing the true cause, know that there is no comfort to be had. Once the soul of a Magister has begun to drain a man of his mortal energy there is no end to the contract that is possible, save his death.”
“Well,” Colivar said casually, “there’s also the option of his just not using the power any longer, but it’s unlikely any Magister would agree to such a thing, merely to save a life.”
Ramirus nodded. “Precisely. And in this case it is no peasant we are talking about, content to die in obscurity in some mud hut while the world goes on about its business without him. This is a royal prince. He is guarded by a cadre of doctors as fierce and determined as Danton himself. There is not a cure on earth that will not be tried on him, and its effects cataloged in minute detail. There is not an expert on disease who walks this earth who will not be found and brought here, whether of his own free will or against it. Already his sire has said that there are to be no limits in money spent or risks taken to save the boy—and that may well be our undoing.”
“Money can’t buy a Magister’s secrets,” Kellam of Angarra said dryly. “And without that, they’re not likely to guess at the truth.”
“Are you so sure?” Ramirus demanded. “Are you so very sure? Thousands of years of folklore and superstition have attended this disease—witches on their deathbeds have been less than a hair’s breadth away from discovering the truth—ignorant and drunken louts offer up paranoid ramblings in their cups that sound fearsomely accurate to peasant ears—how much will you wager that now, with a king willing pay for every stray rumor, those things will not gain a patina of respectability, and perhaps be investigated?”
“There are natural creatures that feed upon the athra,” Del said. “No reason for anyone to think men are involved.”
Ramirus’ eyes narrowed; the snowy brows gave him an oddly feral expression, like that of an owl whose territory has been befouled. “Your education is lax, my brother. There is only one creature that is known for a fact to feed thus . . . and none of that species has been seen in the lands of men for centuries. The rest are tall tales we have created, attaching them to illnesses and conditions that have other causes, to obscure our own nasty habits. How well will those tales hold up, once a man of Danton’s estate directs all his wealth and power toward investigation?”
“Sickness attacks the body,” Lazaroth muttered. “A Magister attacks the soul. Any witchling worth her salt can tell the difference—if there’s reason enough for her to be looking for it.”
“So,” Colivar said. A smile flickered across his face before he could stop it. “Kill the prince. Problem solved.” He glanced at the fading sunlight. “Just in time for dinner, too.”
“Not an option.”
“Why?” His dark eyes narrowed ominously. “Danton needs him? The country needs him? Those are mighty political concerns for a Magister, Ramirus.”
Ramirus scowled. “And your suggestion isn’t? What kind of bonus do you get from your royal master if you come home with word of Andovan’s death, Colivar? Much less the news that you caused it.”
“Gentlemen.” It was Kellam. “No offense, but we are discussing the survival of all our kind, yes? I myself don’t give a rat’s prick who sits on what throne or how many sons he has, in the face of that.” He turned to Ramirus. “Colivar may annoy you, Ramirus, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Tell us why the boy can’t die. And by the way, dinner isn’t a terrible idea. Most of us have been traveling since daybreak.”
Ramirus scowled, but he did go so far as to reach out to the bellpull that hung by the fireplace. Hospitality was hospitality. He waited until the faint, fearful knock of a servant sounded upon the heavy oak door and called for him to come in. A young boy did so hesitantly, clearly fearful of entering the Magister’s domain.
“A cold supper for my guests,” Ramirus told him. “Have the bell rung when it is ready.” He raised an eyebrow in Colivar’s direction as if curious whether he would trust the local food, or the local servants, but with a dry smile the Anshasan bowed his graceful acceptance of the offer. There was even a faint arrogance about the move, as if he were daring Ramirus to do something unworthy of a host, that he might be caught at it.
Don’t dare me to kill you, Ramirus thought. No man is proof against that much temptation.
Not until the door was locked again and the boy’s footsteps had faded from the hall beyond did Ramirus speak again.
“The problem,” he said quietly, “is this. Should we move against the boy openly or even covertly now, the chance of discovery is great. Danton already has witches attending him, and several are marginally competent. How much effort does it take to trace such action? Any one of us could do it. Odds are one or more of them can do it.”
Colivar shrugged. “Kill the witches.”
Ramirus glared. “Have you no better advice than this? That all should die?”
“Magisters. Magisters.” It was Del. “This is unseemly.” He turned to Colivar. “Your tone ill befits a guest, brother.”
“The manners of the south,” Ramirus muttered.
“And you.” Del’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the Magister Royal. “You let this go on way too long. We should have held this discussion before Danton brought witches into the picture. Then we could have killed the boy with no repercussions and chalked it up to some accidental cause. Now . . .” he glanced back at Colivar, then to Ramirus again. “Now things are . . . complicated.”
“Exactly,” Colivar agreed. His eyes gleamed darkly in the lamplight.
“Heed me well,” Fadir said. He was a husky man, broad-shouldered and muscular; not for the first time, Colivar wondered if he had been a warrior in the days before he found his power.
“In my lands this would never have happened. In my lands I never forget the line we walk, that we must never stray from. If someone threatens Magister secrets, they die. That is the Law.” He met Ramirus’ eyes straight on. “I agree with my brother. You waited too long.” Then he looked at Colivar. “But what’s done is done, yes? Now we must deal with this mess as it stands. And perhaps, when it’s over with, set guidelines for our brotherhood in the future that such things will not happen again.”
“Agreed,” Colivar said.
“We must find out who is responsible,” the one called An-shi mused.
“Perhaps,” Kellam said quietly, “it is one of us.”
“No.” Ramirus shook his head decisively. “Do you not recall upon my invitation to you, I asked if any had claimed a new consort within the last two years? Even allowing for those who might have lied in their answers . . .” a faint smile flickered about the corners of his mouth “. . . none were even close.”
“And better to lie about a more recent Transition, if one is to lie at all.” Colivar mused.
“Exactly.”
“So it is none of us,” Fadir said gruffly. “What do you propose, then? Use the power to trace the link, find out who’s eating the boy? You know that can’t be done. Anyone trying to work his sorcery on a consort risks being dragged into the link and eaten himself. A piss-poor way to go out of this world, I say. Not how I intend to end my life.”
“And what if we do find him?” Del asked softly. “I will not kill a brother for the sake of any morati.” The reference to those who lacked the power to extend their own lives brought sneers from several around the table.
“Nor I,” others agreed; a chorus of rejection.
“Gentlemen.” Ramirus’ tone was even and firm. “That is why I brought you here, yes? So that the greatest minds that have ever mastered the athra might seek a so
lution together, and perhaps come up with better answers than a single Magister could manage.”
In the distance, muted by stonework corridors, a bell rang.
“I believe, gentlemen, that is your dinner. I suggest we take refreshment and then retire, and meet again on the morrow to compare our thoughts, and seek a solution to this unpleasant situation together.”
“Your servants seem impossibly fast,” Colivar remarked. “Do you employ witches in the kitchen now?”
Ramirus glanced at him. Of the score of emotions glittering in his aged eyes, disdain was the most obvious. “I had food laid out in advance, of course.” He shook his head and tsk-tsked softly. “You would do well not to underestimate me, Colivar. For some day it may be more than dinner at stake, yes?”
The night was quiet, humid and warm but not beyond tolerance. The two moons held vigil at opposite ends of the sky, lighting a marketplace that would play host to its share of whores and wastrels until daybreak. A mere human could not see them from the palace, but it took little effort for a Magister to adjust his vision, making it possible.
Ramirus stood at the edge of the ramparts, staring out into the night. Colivar watched him from a distance at first, cloaked by the shadows of the eastern tower, then moved forward with a deliberate footfall, one meant to be heard. The white-haired Magister nodded slightly but did not turn away from whatever he was watching.