Legacy of Kings (14 page)

She watched for what seemed like an eternity as the boy scoured the countryside, squinting intently as he turned over nearly every stone and twig in the area, searching for what he called “an anchor.” He seemed particularly interested in the place where Hedda had left food for the strange girl, near where the tracker had later found a partial footprint that he said might belong to her. But after contemplating that location in silence for many long minutes, the witch finally shook his head in frustration and moved on. What exactly was he looking for, Hedda did not know. When the tracker had gone over this turf with his hounds, she’d understood the goal. Scent might still cling to the earth. Broken twigs or scuffed earth might mark the flight of a human girl (or something else?) carrying an infant in her arms. But this random-seeming search, this strange dance of ignorance . . . try as she might, she could not decipher it. She could only watch in abject misery, huddled against Dura’s side, praying silently to her gods.
Give me back my child,
she begged them,
and I will do whatever you ask of me. You can even have my life, if you want it. Just bring my son back safely.

By the time the witch finally turned back to them the details of the surrounding landscape were beginning to fade, as day slowly prepared to give way to night. The minute Hedda saw his face she knew what his answer was going to be, and something within her heart that had been clinging to hope since her son’s disappearance finally, irrevocably, let go its grip, and plummeted down into the abyss of absolute despair.

“I am sorry,” the witch said softly. Only that.

“Nothing?” Dura’s voice was desolate, echoing as if in an empty cave. “Nothing at all?”

The witch shook his head. “There’s no good anchor. I found a few traces of a female presence that might or might not belong to the girl you told me about, but nothing clear enough to focus witchery on.”

“Maybe it’s not the traces that are lacking quality,” Dura said, “but the witch.”

The youth flushed. “If you want to hire someone better, you’re welcome to try.”

“My husband didn’t mean that,” Hedda interjected. She knew from the pain in Dura’s voice that he was just striking out blindly, venting his despair at the nearest target; later he would regret such cruel words. The young witch had offered up a portion of his own life-essence in order to help them, after all. “We’re both half mad with worry. I’m sure you can understand that.”

The youth nodded stiffly. His failure to garner useful information would not impact his fee, of course—a witch was paid for the life-essence he sacrificed, not for the quality of his results—but he seemed genuinely distressed that he had been unable to help them.

What was she supposed to do now? Hedda wondered. Put on a black veil and mourn her son as if she knew for a fact that he was dead? Even if he might still be alive, in the hands of some half-mad waif? What on earth did the girl want him for? The fact that she couldn’t even begin to imagine an answer to that question made her feel sick inside.

“There are others, you know.” The witch spoke quietly.

“Others?” Dura asked.

“Other children that have disappeared.”

Hedda blinked. “You mean . . . like this?”

“Don’t know the details. They’re just witch rumors, mind you. But I heard there’ve been a number of infants stolen, from towns all around here. Witches were called in a few times to look for ’em—that’s how I heard about it—but no one could find any clues worth a damn. What traces they could find led nowhere. Just like here.” A wave of his hand encompassed the surrounding woods. “Now that I’ve seen it for myself, I give more credit to such stories.”

“Did the others . . . did the parents . . . was a strange girl involved?”

He shook his head. “As far as I know, you’re the only one who’s ever seen anything like that. The other children just disappeared when no one was looking at them. One minute there, the next minute not. All outdoors, I think.” He wiped a long straggle of dun-colored hair back from his eyes. “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

Hedda struggled to absorb this new information. Did this mean that her own loss was part of some greater pattern? If so, what on earth was its purpose? Try as she might, she could not come up with any motive that made sense to her. It wasn’t unheard of for children to be stolen away by bandits, this close to the wild—one could get good coin from the slavers for a strong, healthy child—and Lord Cadern kept a wary eye on the woods surrounding his lands for that very reason. But it was rare for an infant to be taken, because a child that young would require too much care. Every now and then there were stories about some noblewoman who stole a peasant’s baby to replace one that had been stillborn, but even if those tales were true, it was at best a rare occurrence. Nothing like what this witch was suggesting.

If something like this was happening repeatedly, she told herself, then his Lordship might take note of it. The life of a single peasant meant little to him, but the knowledge that someone was persistently offending against the law and order of his domain . . . that might move him to act. And he had the kind of resources that Hedda and Dura could not possibly muster. Perhaps even access to a Magister.

A faint spark of hope took light in her soul. And she knew from the way her husband’s touch shifted on her arm that he shared her moment of insight, and his soul now housed a similar spark.

“Can you bring us more information?” Dura asked the witch. “About the other children who were taken? I’ll pay for it, of course.”

Again the witch flushed. “You don’t have to pay me. There’s no athra involved. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more for you today. What information are you looking for?”

“Whatever you can gather. The towns that those incidents took place in. Name, dates, the circumstances of any incidents . . . .”

Please,
Hedda prayed to her gods.
Please let these crimes be within his Lordship’s domain, so that he will care about this. Give us that much, I beg you.

“I’ll find out what I can for you,” the young man said. “I promise.”

He glanced up at the canopy, where dark shadows were beginning to mottle the highest reaches of the treetops, random golden sparks picking out branches on their undersides. The sun would be setting soon. “We should be heading back,” he said.

“Aye,” Dura agreed, but he did not move.

Hedda watched as the young witch shouldered his travel pack once more, offered them a last parting glance, and then headed back the way they had come. And then, in his absence, the woods were still. So still. Only her breathing and Dura’s, the soft thud of their heartbeats, and the distant rustling of nocturnal creatures as they began to stir from their burrows, waiting for night to fall.

“We’ll find him,” her husband promised her. “I swear it.”

Chapter 7

D

ESERT BREEZES stirred the gauze drapes, rippling them like ocean waters ahead of a storm. Now that the blazing summer sun had set, Jezalya was finally cooling, and the crowds of people who had been coursing through the palace all day were finally taking their leave. Priests and counselors, diplomats and elders, all gone at last. Silence had not fallen upon the palace yet, but its approach was inevitable. Thank the gods.

Siderea touched a hand to her hair, binding a bit of power to urge some straggly bits back into place, refreshing the curls she had set that morning. How strangely exhilarating it was to be able to do such a thing! A witch would not have had the luxury of expending soulfire for such casual cosmetic purposes, but a woman who was bound body and soul to an ikati, and might draw upon that creature for power, could expend life-essence without limit. As long as there were humans in the world for her consort to feed upon, there was athra to spare.

What happens next?
The thought from her ikati welled from the shadowy recesses of her mind, taking on human language and structure only as it surfaced in her consciousness. Siderea knew that the original thought had not been expressed in human terms, but in the formless animal instincts of its winged source. It was her own mind that translated the thought into more familiar terms, adorning it with the trappings of civilized understanding, until it manifested in her head as a quasi-human voice. The process was still new to her, and was sometimes a bit unnerving, but the moment of direct contact with her other half always brought with it a sense of soul-deep satisfaction. What a miserable, incomplete creature she had been, before the ikati had come into her life!

We will do what must be done,
she responded. Letting her sense of satisfaction with the day’s events seep through the mental connection, soothing her winged consort.

Moving to the window, she looked out over her new empire. It was a small thing by the measure of her former life, but it was enough to begin with. Beyond Jezalya’s walls there was only wasteland as far as the eye could see. To the north and east, flat-topped mountains with wind-scored slopes dominated the landscape, offering some cover from Jezalya’s scrutiny; to the west there was only open land, windswept and empty. Somewhere in the distance—many days’ march distant—was a great river, its silt-laden waters flanked by narrow bands of rich farmland, its cities protected by Anshasan troops. There were no easy riches at hand in this region, nor cities close to Jezalya that one might wish to claim . . . but that also meant that there were no enemy armies nearby, nor any foreign prince keeping close watch on Jezalya’s business.

Soon the desert tribes would begin to flock to Nasaan’s banner. How could it be otherwise, once the gods made it clear how much they favored him? Those tribes who swore fealty to Jezalya would remain healthy and prosperous, while the ones who remained independent would be stricken by a strange ennui, in which even the bloodthirsty passions that normally drove them would fail to arouse any interest. Perhaps the Black Sleep would appear in time, that dread disease that drew all of a man’s strength from his limbs until he could do nothing more than lie in a mindless state, drifting in and out of a sleep akin to death. The desert folk believed that the only way to contain the terrible Sleep was to burn its victims to ash, along with all those relatives who might carry the disease. Considerable incentive for a tribe to seek the protection of Nasaan—and through him, the favor of the gods—before the Sleep put all its members at risk.

The fact that the Sleep had nothing to do with gods, and everything to do with the male Souleaters who circled restlessly about Jezalya, feeding upon everything outside its borders, was a secret no one but Siderea needed to know. Like dogs on a leash, the great beasts circled restlessly about their mistress, sucking Jezalya’s enemies dry. As more tribes flocked to Nasaan’s banner, Siderea would expand the border of her little empire, and though the males might beat their wings in fury to be ordered still farther away, they would obey her. Anyone who did not might find himself in disfavor when the new queen began her first flight, and such a fate was unthinkable.

Why do human politics matter to us?
Siderea’s ikati consort wondered.
We do not answer to their rules.

Because the First Kings turned against the ikati,
she thought.
Because we must have a base of power from which to operate, if we are to keep that from ever happening again.

But was that the only reason she cared so much about Jezalya’s expansion? Or did the dream of carving out a desert empire from scratch, and eventually laying siege to Anshasa itself, speak to a more primal hunger? There had been a time when she had not been mistress of her own fate, much less that of other men. How long ago that had been! She had spent so many years in Sankara since then, having every need attended to, every whim indulged, that it was easy to forget she had begun her life in a very different mode. Easy to forget the desperation of those early years. Yet it still played into her psyche, and no doubt it fueled the hunger for power that sang in her veins now. And the fact that it was desert kingdoms that she was marking for conquest added a piquant irony to the situation.

You were not a queen back then,
thought the ikati, responding to her thoughts.

How many questions went unvoiced in the wake of those words! Thus far Siderea had chosen not to reveal all of her personal history to her winged consort. Would there come a time when such decisions were no longer a question of volition, when she would lose all mental privacy, and holding back secrets would no longer be an option? Perhaps. Until then, there were some memories the young ikati might not be able to deal with, and so she had not yet shared them with her.

No
, she thought solemnly. Answering all those questions at once, while not really answering them at all.
I was not a queen back then
.

Footsteps were approaching. The rhythm was strong and purposeful, as befitted a newly crowned prince. Nasaan’s meeting with the city elders must have gone well.

She smoothed the fine silk layers of her gown down over the curves of her body. Such fabrics cost a fortune here, but what did that matter to her? Even if royal sycophants had not laid the wealth of nations at Nasaan’s feet, including bolts of silk and cloth-of-gold from empires halfway across the world, she still would not have to pay the Anshasan merchants a single coin for their overpriced wares. All she needed was a scrap of the most miserable mottled wool to work with, and she could transform it into whatever manner of elegant fabric she desired. Or with a little more effort (and a lot more stolen athra) she could simply conjure whatever she needed, as if from the air itself.

Casual, thoughtless magic. What a heady indulgence it was! No wonder the Magisters were drunk on their own power. It was a wonder they ever appeared sane at all.

The double doors opened for Nasaan’s entrance and closed soundlessly behind him, maneuvered by unseen servants. He was a solid man, hard-muscled and confident, with battle scars that stood out whitely against the sun-baked leather of his skin. Not unhandsome, in his own way, but a man whose charisma was wholly dependent upon the fierce warrior persona that he projected. No amount of silk or perfume could ever soften the edge of such a presence.