Legacy of Kings (13 page)

She raised an eyebrow. “And aren’t you concerned that if I found her I might wind up having sympathy for her cause? Perhaps even ally with her, against the cabal of heartless men who seek her destruction?”

With a dismissive flick of his wrist he cast the wine glass away from him; it vanished before hitting the ground. “Her only
cause
now is communion with a creature that feeds on human souls. You are a direct competitor to that creature and will not be tolerated in its territory; no other relationship is possible. Even if Siderea were genuinely interested in parleying with you—or seducing you—that would only be a temporary respite. The fact that ikati queens don’t attack each other on sight doesn’t mean they are capable of anything akin to human friendship. Sooner or later Siderea must submit to her partner’s instincts, and when she does, it will not matter what sort of bargain you have made with either of them.”

Which might or might not be true, Kamala reflected. But Colivar was not a fool, and he would not be offering her this deal if he thought there was any chance she’d ally with his target. Which raised other questions, equally compelling . . . but she was not going to learn anything more without giving him something in return, that much was clear.

What did she have to lose?

Slowly, warily, she nodded. “All right. I’ll make an attempt to find her. I can’t promise you results, but I’ll do my best.” She cocked her head to one side. “Now show me your saffron, Magister Colivar.”

If he noted the suggestive element in her tone he gave no sign of it. “Siderea Aminestas has a box of personal tokens in her possession. They have no identifying marks on them, but appear to be simple blank pieces of paper, folded in quarters. There may be other items stored with them as well, in which case those are probably of equal value and should also be retrieved.”

“Whose tokens?” she demanded.

A faint, dry smile flickered across his lips. “Each carries the essence of a Magister.”

She exhaled sharply in surprise. For a moment words escaped her. “How many?” she managed at last.

“Several dozen, is my guess. The lady was . . . prolifigate.”

The personal tokens of that many Magisters! The concept was almost too much to absorb. “How did she get hold of such things?”

“They were given to her freely, in return for her services. It seemed a safe enough bargain at the time. Now that she is no longer human . . . .” He spread his hands, inviting her to finish the thought.

Suspicion flared in Kamala’s heart. “And why is it all right for
me
to have them?”

“They bear no identifying marks of any kind, and would be destroyed by any spell you might use to determine what Magister each one belonged to. So they are of little use to you or to any other thief. Siderea knows which sorcerer is associated with each token, of course, and now that she is no longer human, that knowledge has become . . . inconvenient.” A thin, cold smile spread across his face. “Of course, if you were to get hold of all those tokens, no Magister could ever be sure that you hadn’t obtained her information as well. They would no doubt bargain fiercely to have their gifts returned to them. Just in case.”

You do not care if I manipulate the other Magisters, do you?
She knew that the sorcerers had no great love for one another, but even by that measure, this offer was remarkable. Magisters did not usually betray their own kind to outsiders.

Only she was not really an outsider, was she? She was an intrinsic part of their game now, a player instead of a pawn. He knew that. He accepted it.

The revelation brought a rush of heat to her face.

“I’ll need an anchor to work with,” she whispered.

“Of course.” With casual grace he waved his hand over the white cloth between them. A small wooden box appeared, carved ebony with a domed lid. “This is a duplicate of the one she kept her tokens in while she lived in Sankara.” He opened the catch and pulled back the lid, displaying its contents to her.

Colorful scarves, glittering bracelets, and a long strand of lilac-colored pearls were jumbled together in seemingly random array, a small fortune’s worth of goods. And if even one of them held a clear trace of the Witch-Queen’s personal resonance, then their true value was beyond price.

For the first time, the magnitude of what Kamala was being asked to do hit home . . . as well as the magnitude of what she stood to gain if she succeeded.

Colivar lifted up a strand of lavender pearls, their luster liquid in the sunlight. “These are all items that she favored. Signature ornaments, if you will. Bear in mind, recent events may have strained her connection to past anchors. She is no longer the creature she once was. How much of a difference that will make, metaphysically speaking, has yet to be seen.”

Kamala reached out to caress a length of scarlet silk. It vibrated beneath her fingertips, warm with the vitality of another woman’s life. Memories of perfume filled her nostrils, exotic floral notes with a musky undertone. She resisted the temptation to shut her eyes and drink it in, to begin to search for those elements in the Witch-Queen’s anchors that her sorcery could fix on. Traces that would speak to the core of the woman’s essence, that even her recent communion with a Souleater could not erase.

Maybe that is why the other Magisters can’t find her,
she thought suddenly.
Maybe they don’t understand a woman’s soul well enough to know what to look for.

“These should do,” she said, letting the scarf fall back into the box. A breeze blew softly across her face as she closed it once more, scattering the scent-memory. “Do you have any suggestions as to where to start looking?”

“I have a few ideas, but I don’t want to share that information with you just yet. You need to attempt this without any preconceptions so that you are equally open to all possibilities, not swayed by the possible errors of others.”

Her mouth twitched. “Of men.”

“Is there anything else you will need? Other than that?”

“Aye,” she nodded. “One thing more.”

“Name it.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How do I know that when all this is done, you won’t simply discard me? I’m sure many Magisters would consider that the wisest course, under the circumstances.”

She could see a muscle along his jaw tighten. Clearly he hadn’t expected her to be so forward about this.

You tested me, Magister. Now I test you in turn.

“What is it you want, then? A heartfelt guarantee that I won’t kill you? I think you know what that would be worth.”

She nodded. “But there is one kind of guarantee that would have meaning.”

How badly did he want her help? He had already stressed the bounds of the Law just by talking to her; would he take this final step to win her as an ally? She could see his expression darken as he considered the ramifications of what she was asking for. She waited in silence.

“Very well,” he said at last. It seemed to her that his voice was hardly louder than the beat of an insect’s wings. “You have my Oath.”

Triumph rushed through her veins like wildfire. The sensation was so powerful that it left her breathless; for a brief moment she felt connected to him, as one might be connected to a lover. The ultimate intoxication.

You see, Ethanus? This Law is not some mystical compact that Magisters are bound to, but simply a collection of words. If Colivar is willing to set it aside for the moment’s convenience, then surely the others will to choose to do the same. It is only a question of learning what their price is and paying it.

She looked away from him as she gathered the ebony box into her arms; she did not want him to see the triumph in her eyes. The foodstuffs vanished one by one as she rose to her feet, along with whatever sorcery had been holding the insects at bay; a dragonfly flitted by, seeking its midday meal.

“I will leave you a note in this place when I find what you seek,” she promised him.

Not
if,
but
when.

Then she gathered her sorcery about her, wielding her power openly, shamelessly. Calling up the stolen athra that was in her soul as only a true Magister could do, setting it alight, bidding it to consume her flesh. A firestorm of transformation blazed about her, molding her skin into feathers, her arms into wings. No witch would ever have summoned her power so wastefully. She knew it. He knew it. She celebrated her sorcery as he watched.

The wind caught her up then, and she could not resist one wild cry of exultation as she took to the air, heading westward toward the sun.

He stared at the sky for a long, long time. Long after the point when she had passed from sight and sorcery would have been required in order to watch her further.

So this is what it feels like to break the Law.

Amazingly, the gods had not arrived in a storm of black thunder to strike him down for his transgression. Nor had the earth opened up beneath his feet to swallow him whole. But those things were still possible, at least in a metaphorical sense. There was no guarantee they would not happen in the future, because of this.

But for now . . . there was only his memory of the moment. Nearly as ominous as the thunder of the gods. Nearly as daunting as the Abyss itself.

The Law of the Magisters dictated that Kamala must die.

He had sworn by the Law that he would not kill her.

He thought he could feel his darker half stirring, as if the paradox had awakened it from long slumber. Had Colivar’s long centuries of civilized existence weakened its grasp upon his soul enough that he could rise above this moment, or was he putting himself in genuine danger? The beast within him had nursed its grievances for a long time now, trapped within its prison of human intellect, ready and waiting to devour him whole the moment he showed the slightest sign of weakness. If it rose to the surface once more, if it took control of him, would he even remember what it was like to be human?

It does not matter what the Law is,
Ramirus had declared, back in the days of their early negotiations.
It only matters that we follow it without question.

But a female Magister existed now. He could think of only two ways that might be possible, and one of them shook him to the core of his very soul. If that was the process that had brought her into being, then her very existence rendered his Oath—and the Law itself—irrelevant. No Magister would be able to kill her. The darkness that lay coiled within their souls simply would not allow it.

That darkness was whispering to him now. Stirring his blood. He remembered the taste of her sorcery upon his lips, and a tremor of dread and desire coursed through his flesh.

To deny that darkness was to deny his own history. His very soul.

To surrender to it was to risk . . . everything.

Which did he fear more? he wondered.

Chapter 6

“T

HIS IS the place.”

Hushed by the reminder of her loss, Hedda’s voice was hardly louder than a whisper. It was the second time she’d been back here with her husband. The first time had been to point the way out to a skilled tracker. That man had managed to find a human footprint pressed into the loam where the hollow-eyed girl had once stood, which had set Hedda’s heart pounding with hope, but in the end he’d lost the trail as it wound up into the mountains. Too much bare granite, he’d told the grieving mother. Too many other animals scuffing over whatever traces had been left behind, in the time that it had taken Hedda to hire him.

One more thing to feel guilty about.

Merely coming back to this place made her feel overwhelmed by guilt. Never mind that her husband had stood by her side through all of this, without a single note of accusation crossing his lips. “We’ll find the trail,” he assured her, squeezing her tightly against his side. Dura was a stonemason in Lord Cadern’s service, and his strong, calloused hands raised prickles along her arms as he rubbed her briskly. It had been hard for him to get a day off from his current project to tend to this matter, she knew, and he’d had to go deep into debt to pay for a witch to come all the way out from Esla to help them. But she knew he would offer up the very blood in his veins to get his son back, if that’s what the gods required of him. And thus far he seemed to believe her story about what had happened.

Unlike the rest of the townsfolk.

She’d heard the whispering, of course. How her baby had fallen into the river and drowned. Or he had crawled off a cliff while she wasn’t watching. Or he had died of some illness that she’d failed to detect in time. Now she was just covering up the truth by making up a crazy story about some dirt-covered waif stealing him away, so that her husband would not turn her out of the house. Poor Dura, they whispered. How long would his faith in her last? How much evidence would he need to see before he realized he’d been duped? Crazy Hedda, pressing him to hire a witch who could well reveal her little plot! Did she think he would just go along with her little game?

And now they were here again, looking for her baby, and the witch was picking his way through the piles of branches that a recent windstorm had brought down, using his powers to search the ground for any sign of Hedda’s mysterious visitor. He was surprisingly young, to her eyes, barely past the age of puberty, and clearly he was not very experienced in this kind of investigation. But witches were few and far between in the region, and most of the good ones restricted their efforts to healing the children of rich lords, where bringing a moderate fever down a few degrees might earn them enough coin to feed their own families for a month or more. Had Dura been able to meet this witch’s price, or had the youth agreed to take less than usual out of compassion? Hedda didn’t dare ask.