Legacy of Kings (33 page)

“No man can teach you your own nature,” he said quietly. “You must discover that for yourself. As I did, in my time.”

The part of us that is human will fear you. The part of us that is ikati will desire you. Wielding those two elements, you will have the power to destroy us all
.

He did not trust himself to say any more, but stepped back from her silently, and summoned the power needed to reshape his flesh. A moment later his broad wings caught hold of the wind, and he soared outward from the mountain, heading down toward the sea of clouds. Molding the currents of air with his sorcery as he went, so that they would be strong enough to support him.

If she said anything to him as he left, he did not hear it.

Chapter 17

S

ULAH STOOD alone in the desert, waves of heat rippling all around him. Now and then the wind stirred up a plume of sand, twisting it into a long streamer that would scurry across the landscape like a drunken dancer. Fleeting beauty in the midst of utter desolation: the paradox of his new home. The sharply angled late afternoon sunlight picked out features along the landscape, underscoring them with ink-black shadows. One shadow in particular seemed more symmetrical than most, and he headed toward it, wondering what sort of man-made structure might exist in such a place.

As he came closer, he could see that a large tent had been pitched on the shifting sand, in the fashion of desert nomads. The shadowy space inside seemed cool and inviting, and as he entered, he felt as if he were diving headfirst into a mountain pool. There was incense burning within, or perhaps some other source of perfume; a sweet smell that he could not name filled the shadowy space, exotic and pleasing. He blinked as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, picking out details of the interior. Richly woven rugs were layered underfoot, their patterns intricate and their pile lush. Cushions decorated with mirrored embroidery glittered as he walked by, teasing him with captured sparks of sunlight. A low table inlaid with ivory vines supported a decorative wine service, sterling silver with cabochon stones set about the lips of a pair of goblets. An ornately decorated water pipe sat by its side. Whoever owned this tent, he was no common tribesman.

“Welcome, Sulah.”

Startled, he turned around to find the Witch-Queen reclining on a couch at the far end of the tent. She was dressed in a sleeveless white gown that made the copper tone of her skin seem to glow. Bronze ornaments worked with tribal patterns adorned her neck, her bare arms, and her hair. She was, as always, exquisitely beautiful, and at one time he’d found her attractive, but now that he knew her for what she was—what she had become—it put a damper on any attraction he might have felt for her.

He took a step backward, looking around the tent for hidden dangers as he readied his power in case of possible assault.

“Hush, my love.” Her voice was liquid silver in the darkness. “It’s only a dream. I wanted to talk to you, and this seemed the best way to do it. Safest for both of us, yes?”

She rose from the couch, the fine silken layers of her gown flowing like water over the smooth curves of her body. Sulah remembered the night she first seduced him—the unexpected smoothness of her flesh, the warmth of her tongue against his skin—and it took effort to turn his thoughts away from those memories, even as they heated his flesh. But whatever her purpose had been in creating this dreamscape, he needed his wits about him to deal with it. “What is it you want?”

She tsk-tsked. “Such cruelty, Sulah. Such suspicion. You were nicer to me in Sankara.”

You were human in Sankara,
he wanted to say. But he bit his lip and did not respond.

She walked over to the table and leaned down to fill the two goblets with wine. The loose neck of her gown fell partway open as she did so, revealing breasts that were full and firm. It took effort not to look at them.

“Here.” She walked to where he stood and offered him one of the goblets. When he hesitated, she smiled. “It’s just a dream, Sulah. I can’t poison you here.”

No, but if you have the power to draw me into your dream, then who is to say where that power ends?

Slowly he took the goblet from her, lifted it to his lips, and sipped from the contents. It was wine. Good wine, but simply wine. What else had he expected?

“You really are far too suspicious,” she said. She was close to him now. The human scent beneath that strange perfume stirred memories that made his flesh tighten. “Have the others been telling you stories about me?”

“What is it you want?” he repeated. Fighting the urge to take a step backward.

“You mean that for all your power you can’t guess?”

“I prefer to be told.”

She shrugged lightly. “Perhaps I need a Magister’s assistance.”

“You know many Magisters. Some are used to doing you favors.”
Do you think me weaker than they are?
he wanted to demand.
Easier to manipulate?
“Why me?”

He had shared her bed once. Only once. It had been a strange whim, motivated as much by the pleasure of keeping secrets from the other Magisters as by any physical desire. She had proven skilled and passionate, and he did not regret that night, but the scent of too many sorcerers clung to her bed for his liking.

“That is why, Sulah.” She ran a featherlight finger down his chest, more a suggestion than a caress. “The others have taken me into their confidence, they have shared their secrets with me, some have even given me tokens of their personal essence. You have not. If I were to approach one of the others, he would have to question whether or not I had done something to sway his mind in my favor. But you . . . you have no need to be suspicious. Because you know that I have no power over you.” She chuckled softly. “No more than any woman does.”

A cool breeze moved through the tent’s interior, stirring Sulah’s hair. No witch would waste athra on such a superfluous effect in the real world, but in a dream it cost her nothing.

“So what is it you need help with?” he asked.

Her smile faded; a more sober expression took its place. “You know what has happened to me. You know the power I now have at my disposal.”

“I have heard rumors,” he said carefully.

“I won’t defend the Souleaters. They’re a brutal species, and the men who control them are little better. Mortal kings are wise to fear them. But it doesn’t have to be that way, Sulah. Their fury can be tempered, their passions controlled. Their power can be harnessed. Such power! You cannot even imagine the raw potential of it. And all that would be required to make that happen is the right leadership.”

“Which is you?”

She shook her head. “A woman can’t lead them. Not directly. But a woman can be the one who decides which man wears the crown.” She cocked her head to one side. “Which offers some interesting possibilities, don’t you think? Perhaps even . . . interesting alliances.”

Sulah drew in a sharp breath. Was she suggesting what he thought she was?

Careful, Sulah. You know her reputation. No woman wields the kind of political power she once did without an arsenal of manipulative skills that would put the First Kings to shame.

But there was no denying that her suggestion stirred his blood. And now that Colivar had explained what the Magisters were really about, he understood just where that sensation was coming from. Deep within him, the seed of something that was not human wanted what she was offering. Wanted it badly. And for a brief moment, the force of that desire seemed to take on a life of its own. In that moment it seemed to Sulah that he could feel the Souleater inside him, hungering for power over its own kind in a way that no mere human could understand. The sensation of it was sickening, but it was also strangely exhilarating.
He did not know whether to run from the feeling or embrace it
.

Did she know the truth about the Magisters?
he wondered suddenly. Given this woman’s reputation for collecting secrets he wouldn’t put anything past her.

“There are other Magisters who owe you no debt,” he pointed out. “They would be better suited to such an arrangement. Why not send your dreams to them?”

She chuckled softly. “Because you’re young, Sulah. Still very human, as Magisters measure such things. Capable of a kind of passion the others lack. And passion is needed for this.” She paused. “The Souleaters don’t respond to intellect. I can’t rule over them by the side of a man who understands nothing else.”

He drew in a long, slow breath. For a moment, no words would come.

“You are surprised,” she murmured.

“It was . . . not what I expected.”

“That I would seek a man to share my throne with?” A hint of dark amusement flickered in her eyes. “Or that it would be you?”

“Yes.”

She brought her goblet up to her lips, not quite masking her smile, and sipped from it. He could see her nostrils flare delicately as she did so, like a predator on the trail of its quarry. For some reason that image disturbed him more than all the rest put together.

“The Souleaters can’t be controlled by a woman,” she said. “Not by a woman
alone
. A couple is required.” She put a hand on his cheek. Warm, so warm. The scent of past indulgences rose from her fingertips. “Lovers,” she whispered.

He wanted to push her hand away, but that would be giving her a kind of victory. “You’re asking a lot of me.”

“I offer a lot in return.”

“Why seek out a Magister for this at all? Aren’t there men who ride the Souleaters? Don’t they have enough passion for you? Why bring in an outsider to rule over them, when you know they are sure to reject him?”

“Because those men are not my equals,” she said quietly.

She let her hand fall away from his face; her touch left fire in its wake. “Centuries of isolation in the north have shaped them into something less than men. Life for them has been reduced to fighting bloody battles with tooth and claw until someone comes out on top; nothing else matters in their world. True, they speak our language, they wear our clothing—a few even bathe—but at heart they are simpleminded barbarians, so drunk on the bestial passions of their consorts that they can barely think straight. Is that who I should take as my mate, and entrust half my new empire to? I think not.”

Do you know that sorcerers are hunting you?
he thought.
Do you know that you are feared now, as much as you once were loved? That the Magisters would rather work cooperatively—against all tradition and instinct—than let you expand the territory of these creatures one more inch?

Of course she knew that. That’s why she had created this dreamscape.

“So you offer me a throne among beasts,” he said, “at the cost of a world’s destruction.”

“Ah. So is it saving the world you want now? Is that the new goal of the Magisters?” Again she chuckled. “Well, then, what’s the best way to do that? Not with a war you’re destined to loose, against an enemy that can suck the life out of your very soul—yes, even out of a sorcerer’s soul—but by more subtle means. Political means.

“You can’t destroy the Souleaters, Sulah. Not with all the Magisters of the world allied against them . . . which you don’t have. But you can, perhaps, control them. I’ve set the stage for that already. I need a man by my side whom I can rely on to help me. That man will gain access to a kind of power no Magister has ever known before.” She paused, giving those words a chance to sink in. “The kind of power any Magister would covet.”

Did she know just how tempting those words were? As one of the youngest of the Magisters, he had lived in the shadow of ancients like Colivar and Ramirus since the night of his First Transition. What would it be like to reverse that situation, so that the ancients envied him instead? Perhaps even feared him?

Gods, this woman was dangerous! He had been right to be wary of her. Yet could anyone less dangerous hope to take control of these creatures? Was there not a terrible kind of logic to her plan, and did it not offer a better chance of success than his current precarious alliance, which the touch of a feather might shatter?

It is right that one of us should rule over the Souleaters.
The words came welling up from the depths of his soul as if from some outside source. Seductive and chilling. How much could he trust his own thoughts right now?

The Witch-Queen was silent. Watching him. Waiting.

“I need time to think about this,” he said at last.

“There’s not a lot of time left, Sulah. Events are moving quickly now. The longer the Souleaters go without proper leadership, the harder it will be to bring them under control in the end. ”

“I understand that.”

She considered, then nodded. “A few days, then. After that I’ll be approaching other candidates. You understand.”

“I understand.”
Another will rule over the Souleaters. Another will become the envy of the Magisters.
He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. “How will I reach you with my answer?”

“I will reach you. Like this. If we seal a deal . . . then we will meet on more solid ground. Agreed?”

He nodded.

She put her goblet aside, then took his face in both her hands and drew him down to her lips. He did not resist. Her kiss was warm and moist and tasted of wine. The perfume of her skin filled his nostrils, and it seemed to him that the dark presence within him stirred, aroused by the scent. Heat stirred in his loins, but it was a strangely distant heat, without urgency; his mind was focused on other things.

“Think well, my Magister,” she murmured.

And then one by one the elements of the dream faded away, until there remained only sand and sun . . . and then darkness.

Chapter 18

I

T WAS a strange feeling for Colivar, entering Farah’s palace as a guest. Stranger still for Farah’s servants, who didn’t know quite what to make of his sudden arrival. How deeply did one bow to a visiting Magister? Weren’t the sorcerers at war with one another? Should they be worrying about that? Colivar had never been visited by Magisters while he had lived in the palace, so Farah’s servants had no experience with this kind of thing.