Feast of Souls (33 page)

But there must be sorcery involved in this somehow
, he thought.
He would not have died otherwise
.

“Tell me about this woman,” he said quietly.

“No one seems to know very much about her. Some witch that one of the local merchants had brought with him. They said she was very beautiful, but very cold. Do you think that is why he followed her?” Her lips curled into a smile. “Maybe the Magisters of the west are starved for beauty.”

“No doubt that is it,” he said distantly.

Andovan’s little fortune-teller had told him that a woman was killing him. Now there was a woman involved in a Magister’s death. Was there any connection between the two? Women of power were rare enough in the world that it was a reasonable thing to consider.

And then there was the Witch-Queen herself. He had defended her in the company of the other Magisters, insisting she had nothing to do with Andovan’s illness, but that was more to put others off her trail than because he was sure of her innocence. If a woman of power was somehow connected to the prince, draining him of strength… well, there were not all that many in the world who might be capable of such a thing, and Siderea Aminestas was one of them.

If she ever claimed her immortality, became a Magister in truth, would she even tell us? Or would she continue to play the same game she always has, delighting in our ignorance?

“Tell me,” he said softly. He leaned close and whispered the words into her hair, in lover’s tones. “What do you know of Prince Andovan, of the Aurelius line?”

“Danton’s get?” She drew back far enough to look up at him. “Isn’t he the one that killed himself?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “There was quite a flurry after that one. I had more guests than I knew what to do with. Seating that many Magisters at the same dinner table is not unlike putting rival wolves in the same pit.”

He smiled faintly. “Doubtless those who were visiting from halfway across the world did not wish to return home without witnessing your legendary charms first, my lady.”

“They said he was a skilled hunter, strong in health until the illness took him. That Aurelius had called many Magisters together to find a cure, and they had failed him, and he had cast them all out in fury, including his own Magister Royal. Whom I have not yet met, by the way.”

“Ramirus?” Colivar chuckled. “He is not your type.”

“Ah, do I have a ‘type?’ I did not know.”

A Magister who can kiss a morati without feeling as if he is kissing dead flesh. That is no small thing, my queen.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “Tell me more of Andovan.”

She knew the invitation for what it was, and though she raised a finely plucked eyebrow in curiosity, did not ask why he required it. She had dealt with Magisters long enough and intimately enough to know that some secrets would not be shared. So she told him of An-dovan, passing along such court gossip as had reached Sankara, while Colivar used his power to measure what was hidden deep within the depths of her soul.

She did not know him
, he determined at last,
or have any reason to harm him. She had nothing to do with his illness
.

A wave of relief passed over him; a burden he had not even realized he was carrying was lifted suddenly from his shoulders. She must have sensed the change in him for she asked softly, “Are you satisfied?”

He nodded.

There were too many puzzle pieces to sort out in all this. Too little sense of the overall pattern. Not for the first time, he wished Siderea were someone he could truly confide in so that she could help him ferret out the answers. But she was morati, and no matter how many Magisters might trade gossip with her in her gardens, no matter how much useful information she might give him, that meant there was a barrier between them that could never be breached.

Another servant entered, this one a young boy with the fair skin of the northlands and a costume to match. He carried in his hands a finely carved ebony box with golden hinges, which he handled as if it were a priceless treasure. He came to where the two of them sat and knelt before them, offering the box to Siderea with his head bowed, as if he would not deem himself worthy to view its contents. She drew a small golden key on a chain from out of her bosom and unlocked it, fingered the few dozen papers inside, and at last drew one forth. “I believe this is for you.” She relocked the box, slid the key back into the neck of her gown, and nodded for the servant to leave them. “Left by a Magister named Sulah. A student of yours, I gather?”

“Long ago. I did not know he had made your acquaintance.”

“All Magisters do, in time.” She smiled. “Or so they tell me.”

The paper was a simple note, unsealed. He unfolded it and recognized Sulah’s neat handwriting within.
Contact me soon
, it said, with the single initial
S
scribed below. Colivar ran his fingers over the words and felt the whisper of power adhering to them. Enough to enable him to establish a link with Sulah one time before it faded. Good enough.

He tucked the note away.

“I have served you well tonight, my sorcerer?” she murmured.

He reached up to her face and stroked her cheek softly, a lover’s touch. “Always. Now how may I serve you in turn?”

“That is not necessary. It is a humble woman’s honor to serve the Magisters.”

“And my pleasure to thank the humble woman for that service.”

“Ah. Well then. I would not deny you
pleasure
.”

“Speak, then.” He leaned back on the couch again. “The power is restless within me. Tell me where I may give it outlet.”

She lay down beside him, playing with a lock of his hair. Her skin smelled like sweet almonds, warm and inviting. “I hear the western fields of Corialanus are wanting rain. The summer has been long and dry there, the crops are suffering. Perhaps you would like to help?”

He chuckled softly. “You promised rain to Corialanus?”

“Lord Hadrian knows I am a witch. He asked me to help his people. How can I refuse?”

“I am surprised he does not ask his own king for aid. There are sorcerers enough in that court.”

“I gather he does not wish to become indebted to his king more than he must.” Her dark eyes glittered. “It is… interesting, yes?”

He chuckled softly. “He will pay you well enough to compensate for true witchery?”

“He will, when I require it. For now, let us say he will owe me a great debt.”

“Very great, when he asks that a portion of your life be expended for his sake.”

She laughed merrily. “Yet the people see that the years pass and I do not die, and they wonder why, Colivar. Do you know what they say now? They whisper that I am a Magister.”

“Yes. I have heard those whispers.”

“When the truth is merely that I please the Magis-ters.” She leaned close and brushed his lips with her own. It was a tantalizing half-kiss that stirred Colivar’s flesh more than he expected. Normally Magisters were immune to such temptation, not because they were incapable of physical indulgence, but simply because when a man could have any woman that he desired, or create a simulacra of any woman for an evening’s pleasure, the game simply lost its edge.

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.