Legacy of Kings (18 page)

In a world without Magisters, such a map would have been priceless. But in a world where powerful sorcery was regularly harnessed to serve the whims of kings, it was merely indulgent.

His Most Merciful Majesty Hasim Farah, Scourge of the Tethys, Guardian of the River of Life, Custodian of the Sacred City, looked up from his musings when he heard his Magister enter. A faint, dry smile spread across his face as he blinked. “Colivar, isn’t it? I knew someone by that name once. I think. Over time one forgets.”

Colivar chuckled. “I beg your indulgence for my long absence.” He bowed his head respectfully. “Of, course, his Majesty always has the means to summon me should he require my service. Unless he has forgotten that as well.”

“Yes, yes.” Farah waved a ringed hand absently. “You are free to go about as you please, of course. I merely jest.” He clapped his hands loudly, and a eunuch in white silk appeared, seemingly from nowhere. “Refreshment for my Magister Royal.” The man bowed and hurried off.

Colivar was too distracted to be hungry, but he had learned long ago that there was no point in turning down Farah’s hospitality. The king was a son of the desert, and his native culture made such gestures obligatory. It was easier to break bread and eat a handful of olives than it was to argue about whether such things were necessary.

“Come.” Farah walked over to Colivar, patting him on the back as he gestured for him to walk alongside him. Colivar had known very few men who would touch a Magister so casually. “You keep the rains falling, so that my storehouses are full of grain. My wives are fecund, my slaves are eager for pleasure, and the Green Vomit—or whatever that miserable plague is called—has never crossed my borders. What more could a king ask for?”

Colivar glanced back at the map. “It looks to me like you have a few new projects planned.”

“Ah.” Farah followed his gaze to the military markers in Tethys, and to the jasper expanses beyond them. “Tempting, isn’t it? A new High King, young and untested. Mistrustful of Magisters, I’m told, and shackled by a religion of guilt and self-denial. Thus far I’ve restricted myself to gathering intelligence on him, and perhaps a few subtle political jabs managed through proxies, but I admit that the prospect of all-out war is appealing. We haven’t fought the High Kingdom in an honest and open manner for many years.”

“Don’t underestimate Salvator Aurelius,” Colivar warned. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“Of course. His mother would not have summoned him to the throne were it otherwise.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. A woman determining who would be High King! I’m torn between being amazed that such a thing could happen and wanting to see such a woman for myself.”

Colivar smiled. “Only
see
her, Majesty?”

The Anshasan king laughed long and hard. The sound was rich with energy and power, and it reverberated off the stone walls like the pealing of a great bell. “You know me too well, my Magister. Come. Break bread with me.”

He led Colivar to a lavish chamber, where servants were already laying out the ritual repast. Richly woven rugs and cushions lay scattered about the floor, and the heavy drapes that covered the smooth stone walls suggested the folds of a tent. Colivar was never quite sure if Farah actually preferred that style, or merely understood the value of nurturing a desert mystique among his subjects. The fierce tribes of the south were the stuff of legend, all the more so because few Anshasans had ever actually seen one of their warriors in the flesh. By playing up his desert heritage, Farah became part of that legend. The result lent him strength in diplomatic circles and discouraged aggressive posturing by his rivals; one did not pick a fight with a desert chieftain unless one had a sword in hand and was ready to fight to the death.

As Farah settled down onto a pile of richly embroidered cushions, his long robe billowing out around him, he was joined by half a dozen women in various stages of dishabille. Each was from a different province of his empire, and they ranged in color from a young beauty with the bronze finish of the sun-kissed delta to a leggy seductress with skin as black as charcoal. All of them were exquisitely beautiful, of course, and dressed in a combination of glittering jewels and filmy silks that left little to the imagination. That, too, was desert custom, a statement of power that no Anshasan would mistake:
Covet what is mine, but know that you may not touch it, save by my command.

Not that Farah would deny Colivar any woman he wanted, of course. In fact, as the Magister settled himself onto his own pile of cushions, the southern king waved over Safya, one of his favorites, to attend him. Lending one’s wife or servant to a valued servitor was a desert custom as casual as breaking bread, and Safya had pleased the Magister in the past. On this day, however, he had little interest in such pastimes.

The eunuch arrived and set out a tray of bread and olives between them; the dense loaf was freshly baked, still warm from the oven, and its scent filled the chamber like a fine perfume. Farah broke off a piece of it for himself and then passed the loaf to Colivar, who did the same. Not until they had both eaten a token mouthful of the stuff and washed it down with a ritual swallow of ale did Farah speak again.

“You’re got some weighty business on your mind, or else I’ve forgotten how to read you.“

Colivar bowed his head solemnly. “Your Majesty is insightful, as always.”

“Something to do with these Souleaters you’ve been hunting?”

Colivar’s expression darkened. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Something to do with them.”

For a moment the Magister just stared into his cup and said nothing. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I regret that I must leave your service.”

Farah drew in a sharp breath. “Have I not treated you well? Do the size and scope of my kingdom not bestow status upon you, such as benefits you in the rivalries among your own kind? You said once that such things mattered to you.”

“Indeed, our contract has been a satisfying one. I am sorry to leave you.”

Farah sat back, a perplexed scowl upon his face. Losing the service of a Magister of Colivar’s repute was no small thing, especially with possible warfare looming in the north. “Anything that you desire, if I can give it to you, you know that I will. Even the best of my wives.” He waved a hand about the room, a gesture that encompassed the women by his side, the rich trappings that surrounded them, and the whole of the vast kingdom that lay beyond. “Have I ever denied you anything?”

“You’ve been most generous,” Colivar agreed. “Believe me when I say this, I regret this move with all my heart.”

Farah exhaled noisily in frustration. “Then what’s the problem? Does it have something to do with this investigation of yours?”

Lips tight, Colivar nodded.

“You know you’re free to come and go as you please. That was our arrangement from the start. I’ve never placed limits upon you. If you need more time to yourself, well then, take it.”

Colivar nodded. “It’s been a good arrangement. And up to this point, it was sufficient for my needs. But now . . . .” He sighed heavily. “The Souleaters have invaded in force, and we don’t know where they are. They have to be found—and dealt with—before they have a chance to establish new nests. Otherwise, the war will be lost before it has even begun.”

Farah frowned. “And my kingdom can’t serve you as a base of operations? There are few nations that could offer you better facilities, I think. If you need a staging ground for war . . . .”

“Majesty.” Colivar’s expression was tight. “Forgive me. It has come to the point where I must focus all my attention on one task, and I need to make sure nothing is going to distract me. Not even a contract as pleasant as this one.” He glanced at Safya with a half-smile; she blushed prettily.

With a heavy sigh, Farah settled back into his cushions. A copper-skinned beauty raised an olive to his lips and he accepted it absently, chewing without pleasure as he contemplated the situation.

“I will need to replace you,” he said at last. “That is no easy thing.”

Colivar nodded. He’d been with Farah since the man’s first days on the throne, drawn to the challenge of helping a young prince build an empire. Farah had never experienced the need to search for a Magister Royal, or lived through an interim period without one.

There would be no danger to him during such an interim, of course. The kingdoms of the world would not last long if sorcerous vultures moved in the minute a Magister walked away from his job. All of the sorcerers understood that, and they would give Farah a reasonable period of time to seek a new contract, just as they had done with Danton. A powerful nation like Anshasa would have applicants appearing out of the woodwork the instant Colivar’s resignation became public knowledge, so there would be no lack of options for him.

But the secrecy with which the Magisters habitually shrouded their business meant that a morati king had little ability to evaluate candidates. Most morati knew less about the predilections of individual Magisters than they did about clouds in the sky. Farah had been fortunate in his deal with Colivar, and he knew it; he might not be so fortunate again.

This has been a good situation for me, too.
Colivar thought solemnly.
I will miss it.
“If you will permit me, Majesty, I have a suggestion.”

Farah raised an eyebrow.

“I know of a Magister who is without a contract right now. I believe he might be interested in serving Anshasa. If you like, I will let him know that you have a contract to offer.”

Farah’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Didn’t you tell me once that Magisters were sworn enemies to one another? I seem to recall a comment about how your average sorcerer would rather have his eyes gouged out by a red-hot poker than help another of his own kind. Yet you would help this one?”

“We are rivals, not enemies,” he said quietly.
And such injury means little, when we can steal the athra required to build new eyes in the time it would take you to blink your own.
“And my relations with this particular Magister are . . . uniquely civilized.”

“I see.”

“You need someone with knowledge of the Souleaters. Sulah has been following their progress along with me. He will know what signs to look for.”

The implication of his words took a moment to sink in. When they did, one of the women drew back from Farah and wrapped her arms protectively about herself; goosebumps prickled her charcoal skin.

“You expect there will be
signs
in Anshasa?”

Colivar shrugged stiffly. “Your kingdom is vast. The Souleaters must seek shelter somewhere. Better to be watchful, don’t you think, than to risk being taken by surprise? Sulah knows what to look for. And he has connections with other Magisters who are sworn to cooperate in this matter. If he calls for help, they—
we
—will come.”

Farah’s eyes narrowed. “Magisters swearing to aid one another. Why does that worry me more than Souleaters?”

“It is a bad sign,” Colivar agreed, smiling faintly. “Normally no enemy could have brought that about. But these are not normal times.”

Farah frowned as he considered the matter. The reasons Colivar had given for leaving his service were weak, and clearly he knew that. Farah would have given the Magister all the time and space that he required for his business, and they could have made it work. But the truth was, Colivar feared that if he remained bound to a particular domain and then the Souleaters moved into it, it might awaken territorial instincts in him that were better off forgotten. Instincts he might not be able to control. And that was a truth he could not share with any morati . . . or even with his own kind.

Some of the Magisters thought that their curse had been weakening over time. New recruits certainly didn’t seem to suffer through First Transition the way earlier generations had. If that were indeed the case, then Sulah’s youth meant he might have better resistance to the ancient drives than the ones who had come before him. Certainly better than Colivar, who was among the oldest of his kind, and uniquely weak in that area.

Youth was needed here. Human instincts were needed here. Colivar could offer neither.

“Very well,” Farah said at last. He was clearly not pleased by what was happening, but he was wise enough to know that arguing with a Magister was a pointless exercise. ”Bring me this Sulah. If he suits my needs, and I think I can work with him, he may take over your contract.”

A knot inside Colivar’s chest loosened a bit. It was only one knot of many, but the change in pressure was noticeable. “I thank you, Majesty.”

With a gentle touch to Safya’s cheek, genuine in its regret, he rose to his feet. Farah had a taste for interesting women, and Colivar would miss having access to them. “I think it is best that I leave now, Majesty. I have much to do.”

Farah nodded regally. “I am sorry to see you go, Magister Colivar, but I understand. Know that you have both my gratitude and blessing.”

With a final nod of leave-taking, Colivar began to walk away. He could have done one of a hundred other things instead, things involving wings or shadows or flashes of light or quivering portals hanging in midair . . . but he simply walked. It seemed a respectful gesture to mark the end of their contract. The end of this part of his life.

“Magister Colivar.”

He turned back to look at the king.

“You will always be welcome here. I know that’s not the usual custom, but it is
my
custom, and I will see that your successor honors it. Whoever that turns out to be.”

Colivar had nothing to say to that. Magisters were fiercely territorial creatures, and no matter what courtesies a king like Hasim Farah might offer, he would never show up in the court of a rival without proper clearance. Doing so might stress the beasts within them both to the breaking point.

So many customs, so many constraints, all to keep us human. What happens if those tools ever fail us?

“I understand,” he said at last. And he added—because it was expected of him—“Thank you.”