Feast of Souls (32 page)

There was a brief tightness in his heart. “No,” he said quietly. “You cannot return to me.”

You stand outside the Law now. That fate cannot be shared with another.

She bowed her head respectfully. The gesture reminded him of when she had first come to him, a fiery and determined child ready to take on the world.
And now you have done so
, he thought.
Was it worth it? Do you, when the shadows of doubt draw too close, regret the course you have chosen
?

It was more of a rhetorical question than a real one. If ever she truly regretted becoming a Magister her soul would lose the strength it needed to fight for continued life, her consort would break free of his bond, and she would die. The fact that she still walked the earth bore witness to her continued commitment.

“I am sorry to come to you now,” she whispered. “I know you must break the Law even to talk to me—”

“No, I have broken no Law.”

He met her bright eyes with his own, willing all the strength he could into his voice, that she might partake of it and refresh her own spirit. “I had a dream, nothing more. It is hard to tell dreams from reality, sometimes.” He paused. “This was an odd dream, for I imagined that an old student of mine returned to me and revealed that she had broken our Law, and then asked for my counsel. Of course she would not do that, for she knows our ways. And I would not give my counsel to one who had killed a Magister.”

She nodded. Her eyes glistened. There were no tears this time. That was good.

“Besides,” he said softly, “The moons were at odds with one another. So how could it have been real?”

“How indeed?” she whispered.

For a moment she just stood there. The trees groaned softly in the breeze; a single frozen teardrop fell to the ground and shattered there. He had the sudden desire to take her in his arms, to kiss her gently on the forehead, as one might with a child. To give her comfort. But it was not his way… nor was it hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered. No louder than a breath. Then she drew the cloak’s hood forward over her head once more, and with it the shadows of the night, until she became one with them, and slowly faded from his sight. He stood there until she was wholly gone, silent and unmoving, savoring the last moments of her presence, wondering if he would ever see her again except in a dream. While overhead the bloodred moons grew pale and silver even as she vanished, and the pines beneath them shed their frozen coats and the world became normal once more.

Except for the ache in his heart, more terrible than any earthly wound could ever be.

Go with the gods
, he thought.

The Palace of the Witch-Queen glowed like a beacon in the sunlight, its outer colonnade almost too bright to gaze upon directly. One could see it from miles away, perched on a hilltop overlooking the port city of Sankara, an elegant monument set against a backdrop of soft clouds and the rich turquoise of a late summer sky. Peaceful, Colivar thought. It always looked so peaceful.

The wind had been quiet for three days when he arrived, so the harbor below was filled with ships of all kinds, awaiting passage through the Narrows to the eastern seas. From the cliff-top gardens they looked like a flock of white birds perched upon the water, bobbing gently with the rhythm of the waves. Doubtless a few of the captains had access to a witch or Magister who could make the wind blow, but either those efforts had been stalemated by other sorcerers who wished it to remain calm, or all were simply content to wait. And why not? It was a beautiful city that had been catering to travelers for centuries, a regularly scheduled stop for merchant ships before they committed themselves to the waters of the east. Some considered themselves lucky if the wind died while they were there.

Most Magisters who visited the palace traveled in one winged form or another, but Colivar preferred to make the trip as the morati did, riding up past terraced gardens on horseback until at last he reached the uppermost levels. There were always servants waiting to see to the welfare of guests, and one took his reins as soon as he dismounted while another went running to the palace to announce his arrival. It was of course no problem that he had arrived without warning; the woman they called the Witch-Queen was always ready to receive Magisters, announced or otherwise, and their arrival took precedence over all other business.

Soon a young girl appeared to lead Colivar to her mistress. She was a slender little thing dressed in layers of silk that fluttered like butterfly wings as she moved, and she wore a veil of translucent gauze that did more to draw attention to her features than to hide them. Probably from the desert lands, Colivar thought. Siderea’s servants came from all over the world and she let them dress as they preferred, which made for a remarkable court. Doubtless she had sent this child to Colivar because she associated him with the tribes of Anshasa and thought it would please him, though if she knew him better she might have sent a hardy blonde in northern furs instead.

Siderea Aminestas was waiting for him in an audience chamber fashioned in the southern style, with low couches laden with silken coverlets and thick, plush cushions scattered about the room. She was a striking woman, not beautiful in the traditional sense, but possessed of a presence that permeated whatever space she was in. Her coffee-colored skin glowed with the warm highlights of the Sankaran sun, and her long black hair was braided with jewels that glittered as she moved. A thin line of gold paint bordered her eyes, giving her the aspect of a great cat, and as she stretched forth a hand to greet Colivar it was almost as if some feline spirit had entered her flesh, along with all the languid sensuality of its species.

“Colivar.” She smiled. “I was just thinking of you.”

He kissed the hand she offered and smiled in turn. “You say that to all the sorcerers.”

“Posh on that. Only to the pretty ones.” She rose to a more upright position on the couch, making room for him beside her. “Why do they come to me in such awful bodies? You would think if a man had the power to look like anything he wanted he would choose something more appealing. Like this.” Her slender hand caught up a lock of his hair, twisting it playfully around her index finger. “I have always liked this one.”

He chuckled. “It has served me well.”

As he settled himself on the couch beside her another servant entered and stood by the door, awaiting her word. “You will take refreshment?” she asked. “I have a fine pomegranate cordial I think you would like. Sent to me by an admirer in Eskadora. Will you try it?”

“You know I cannot refuse you, lady.”

She nodded to the girl, who backed out silently to fetch the drink. “You are my greatest flatterer, you know that, Colivar? Some days I think that Magisters are above mere social pleasantries and then you show up at my door, as silk-tongued as the finest courtier, and prove me wrong. In truth, you make the others seem like barbarians by contrast.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it softly again. “And you, my lady, are known to flatter whichever sorcerer is by your side in terms so pleasing we do not care if there are others waiting in the shadows.”

She laughed softly. “Ah, but you would not wish to have me all to yourself, would you? For then I should become demanding, and perhaps expect loyalty in turn.”

“And we cannot have that,” he agreed.

The young girl returned, and the two of them fell silent. Colivar noted that she kept her eyes low as she set a silver tray on the table before them, as if she was not worthy of looking directly at her superiors. That too was a desert custom. He wondered if it was a habit natural to the girl, or something Siderea had asked her to do while Colivar was present.

When she was gone the Magister leaned back on the couch, watching as Siderea poured him a portion of the bloodred cordial. “So what do the barbarians gossip about, these days?”

“That the High King Dan ton is mad, and threw all the Magisters out of his domain.”

He chuckled as she handed him a glass. “All too true on the latter count, I am afraid. It was quite a scene. The madness… that is not news.”

“They say that another Magister has come to serve him now, one called Kostas, and he is a mystery to all of you.”

Colivar shrugged. “No Magister seems to have heard the name before, or recognizes the body he wears. Which in itself does not mean very much. We can change such things as easily as other men change their clothes.”

“But most do not do so, yes?” She sipped from her own glass and then reclined on the couch beside him. The layers of her gown parted over one leg, baring sleek copper skin. “Magisters seem to enjoy their reputations.”

“Aye, most do,” he agreed. He sipped the cordial, and nodded his approval as it slid warmly down his throat. “He is welcome to Danton as far as I am concerned. The man has been mad from the cradle.”

“But his madness has made him powerful, and men are drawn to power.”

He smiled slightly, running his glass along the line of her thigh. “And women are not?”

She sniffed. “I would rather bed an iguana.”

“Interestingly,” he noted, “that is how I have heard this Kostas described. Perhaps you should add him to your collection.”

“You do not think he is dangerous, then?”

“All Magisters are dangerous, my lady.”

“I meant Danton.”

“Ah.” He stared into the deep red depths of his glass, considering an answer. “Danton has always been dangerous,” he said at last, “especially to princes who are in the way of his expansion. But I think perhaps his glory days are coming to an end. For years he had Ramirus to guide him, and to rein in his temper. The High King has yet to prove that he can manage the same feats without such a mentor.” He shook his head. “I never understood what that bearded old fool saw in him. Maybe just a challenging project.”

“Corialanus is worried.”

“Corialanus should be worried. As should all of Dan-ton’s immediate neighbors. When madmen fall they tend to take other people down with them.” He looked at her. “Sankara will be spared, I am sure. You have enough Magisters wrapped about your lovely little finger to see to that.”

She pouted sweetly. “I am not sure if that is a compliment or a challenge.”

“Perhaps both,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

You will be safe
, he thought,
because in all the world there is no other person who can offer the Magisters what you do. To serve as a repository for news of our kind, so that those who visit you may be thoroughly updated. To give us a way to ally our common interests, without needing to admit that we value alliance. Where else has such a thing ever existed, in our world? Who would take your place if Sankara fell?

He drained the last drops of cordial from his glass and set it aside. “What other news, besides madmen and iguanas?”

“There was a death in Gansang. A Magister. So my contacts say.”

He stiffened. “A Magister? Are you sure?”

“How can one be sure of things half a world away? I give you what I have heard. You have better means than I to discover the truth.”

He nodded. “Fair enough, then. Tell me more.”

“They say he fell from a high bridge, or else some sort of tower, my sources were not sure which. They say he hit the ground without aid of sorcery and died as mortal men die, crushed by the impact.”

“But that is…” He could not find an appropriate word. Yes, an accident might claim the life of a Magister, but it usually was an end that struck swiftly, so that the victim had no time to muster his power in self-defense. A falling man would have time enough to conjure up any of a dozen spells to save himself on his way to the ground. If this one was dead, then there was some reason he had not done so. Perhaps he was even dead before he had begun his fatal descent. Why? “How did he come to fall? Do you know?”

She shook her head. “Apparently he was following some woman at the time. None saw them meet. The next thing anyone knew was that passersby saw him plummet to the ground, and by the time anyone thought to look up to the place he had fallen from there was no one there. The woman is gone, apparently. Though they are searching.” She sighed. “I do not blame her—even if she is innocent of wrongdoing, they will want someone to blame, and women are always easy targets for that.”

“You know the names? The one who died? This woman they think he was following?”

With a smile she reached into her bodice and brought forth a folded slip of paper. “I thought you might ask for that. Here it is, all of it. And the names of three other Magisters said to be present. The woman was new to the city, I have only her name—for now.”

He took the paper from her. “You are a treasure as always, my jewel.”

He looked over the list of names. The Magister who had died was unknown to him; the others were vaguely familiar from ages past, men of minor power and little renown. Would any of them have breached the Law to bring down one of their own kind? It was a dark thought indeed, but not one he found likely. The Law was the Law because all Magisters understood that staying alive required such rules to be absolute. Magisters did not kill Magisters; never had, never would.