Legacy of Kings (34 page)

He should have warned them he was coming. Or Sulah should have warned them he was coming. Oh, well.

Finally one flustered guard offered to bring Colivar to the king. Then he became even more flustered when Colivar said it was not the king he had come to talk to. Finally they got it all sorted out, and with a pair of guards flanking him—presumably to do him honor, since it would have taken an army of guards to do anything more meaningful—he made his way to Sulah’s apartments.

Farah had set aside one wing of the palace for the use of his Magister Royal. Since Colivar had rarely made use of it, and accordingly had never invested any time or energy in its appearance, he was curious to see what Sulah had done with the place. It was certainly not what he’d expected. The border between Farah’s realm and that of his sorcerer was all but indiscernible; even the gauze curtains were of the same cut and color in both parts of the building. Sulah’s main chamber was appointed with classic Anshasan furniture and art, and Sulah himself was dressed in the long flowing robes of a desert chieftain. It was a strange juxtaposition with his pale northern features. The robes were black, in deference to Magister custom, but bands of different textures suggested the broad stripes of tribal fashion: a subtle homage to his new homeland.

“Colivar!” He rose from his chair as Colivar entered; the book he had been reading vanished from his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“No request of yours has ever wasted my time, Sulah.” He studied the younger man’s attire with a bemused expression. “I see you are going native.”

Sulah shrugged. “I thought if I was going to do the Magister Royal thing I should get into the full spirit of it.” His tone was light, but his expression was solemn. “Wine?”

Colivar nodded. He wasn’t thirsty, and he might have turned down the offer if it had been voiced anywhere else. But Anshasans took their hospitality seriously, and some of the locals would view a refusal to drink as an insult. He didn’t want to try to second-guess just how native Sulah had gone.

And, in truth, he mused, it was genuinely refreshing to fall back into his old patterns of behavior. He had served in Anshasa for a very long time, and there was a curious kind of comfort in the familiar rituals of southern life.

He waited until the wine had been poured, tasted, and praised, with all the appropriate social trappings, then said, “I’m sure you didn’t call me here just for a wine tasting. What’s on your mind?”

Sulah sighed and put his cup aside. For a moment he just stared at it, running his finger around the rim. Then he said, “Siderea came to me.”

Whatever Colivar had expected from him, that certainly wasn’t it. “When? Where? Do the others know?”

“She came in a dream. And no, no one else knows. You are the first I’ve told.”

To say that such a confession startled Colivar would be an understatement. The fact that Sulah was offering him this kind of information was nothing short of remarkable. Of course, Sulah had always valued Colivar’s counsel—perhaps more than he should—and now that the four Magisters had their “alliance,” it was not inconceivable they would share information with one another. But rivalry and mistrust still ran strong in their blood, rooted as it was in their ikati heritage. If Sulah was revealing something like this to Colivar, it suggested that the situation was so disturbing to him that he felt he could not resolve it on his own. But that would hardly be something he’d admit to, and Colivar knew that if he pressed him for details he didn’t want to reveal, the man’s defensive instincts might kick in, and he’d close up like a clamshell.

“What did she want?” he asked, trying to sound as if they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

Sulah drew in a deep breath. “She wanted me to share her throne,” he said. “To join her circle of Souleater vassals and help her rule the world.”

Colivar opened his mouth, but no sound would come. He was dimly aware that his own attempt not to show any emotion had just failed miserably, but he was not sure exactly what his expression revealed. Whatever he had expected to hear from Sulah, this was certainly not it. “I take it you said no?”

“I haven’t said anything yet. As soon as I turn her down, she’ll make the same offer to someone else. Yes? So my silence buys us time.” He sat down heavily in an upholstered chair and rubbed his temple wearily. There was an air of physical tension about him that was unlike anything Colivar had ever seen in his student before . . . but he had seen it in other Magisters, long ago, and he recognized its source.

She spoke to the Souleater in him. And awakened its hunger.
Does that mean she knows what we are? Has she guessed the truth?
The thought of Siderea teasing Sulah’s nonhuman instincts to the surface and then playing them like a finely tuned instrument was disturbing on more levels than he could count. And the sudden surge of jealousy that attended the thought was surprising to him. Unnerving. Clearly the presence of a Souleater queen in their world was starting to break down the mechanisms Colivar normally used to hold his more primitive instincts at bay. The other Magisters might suffer a similar fate in time, but they were not vulnerable in quite the same way that he was; the breakdown would not come as quickly for them, nor was it likely to hit as hard when it did.

Dark times were coming, to be sure.

“Someone will say yes,” Colivar agreed.

“Probably one of her past lovers. And when that happens, the Magisters may turn against one another, not in petty squabbling but as prelude to some greater conflict.”

“Which is no doubt what she wants. Morati would be hard pressed to destroy us. Even Souleaters would have a hard time of it. Magister against Magister, on the other hand . . . .”

Sulah looked up sharply “You think she wants us all dead?”

“Whatever she felt about us before, we are rivals to her now, and a threat to the empire she apparently means to establish.”

Sulah nodded. He had never been the most guarded of sorcerers, and Colivar had been his teacher for long enough that he could normally read him like a book, but there were depths right now that were veiled from his scrutiny. That worried him.

“The one who accepts her offer will not be viewed as a threat.” Sulah pointed out.

Only if she means what she says,
Colivar thought.
Only if this offer is legitimate, and not some sort of trick.
Sulah was equally suspicious, of course. Why else would he share this with Colivar? He asked quietly, “Were you tempted?”

Sulah exhaled sharply. “Of course I was tempted. What Magister wouldn’t be tempted? Forget about the power. Forget about the woman herself. We stand upon the cusp of an age in which the very nature of the world may be altered, and she offers the chance to ride the crest of that transformation rather than be drowned by it.” He looked sharply at Colivar. “Were you not the one who taught me that novelty is the ultimate temptation to a Magister? I didn’t really understand you back then. I was too young. Now that I have a bit more time under my belt, I do.”

But Siderea does not,
Colivar thought.
If she did, she would have approached one of the older Magisters first. Those who would be happy to see the entire world destroyed if it bought them five minutes of novelty.

Which did beg the question: Why Sulah?

“Would you be willing to show me the dream?” Colivar asked. “Its setting, at least?” He knew Siderea well enough to know that her dreams were meticulously crafted, and it was rare they did not communicate on multiple levels. Sulah probably did not know her well enough to know what to look for. Colivar did.

Sulah hesitated. The request was a highly intimate one, and not one a Magister would normally indulge. But these were not normal times. Nodding, he began to concentrate. The room itself seemed to shimmer as images from his dreamscape began to form in front of him, detail by detail. Desert, tent, rugs, furnishings, and finally the Witch-Queen herself. The vision was not wholly opaque; it was possible to see the shadow of an Anshasan sideboard behind one wall of the tent, and Siderea’s left leg co-existed with the ghost of a chair leg. But it was a detailed and realistic conjuring, and Colivar’s eyes narrowed as he studied every detail, leaving Siderea herself for last.

How familiar she looked, yet how changed! Even in this static vision he could see the alien energy that now blazed in her eyes, a force that was simultaneously more and less than human. The rugs she was standing on looked familiar, but he could not remember where he had seen them before. And the jewelry. That looked familiar as well.

And then it came to him.

“Tefilat,” he muttered.

“What?” Sulah asked.

“Tefilat. A city in the southwestern desert, near the border of Anshasa. Abandoned long ago. The Great War all but destroyed it.” He indicated Siderea’s necklace, the rugs, the goblets. “These designs are all based on tribal patterns of the Hom’ra, a tribe that makes its home in that region. The original designs were meant to ward off evil spirits. Tefilat is supposed to be full of them.” He paused. “Which is not without some grounding in truth.”

“Meaning?”

“The landscape there is ideal for Souleaters. Wide sandstone canyons scoured by the wind, with deep natural alcoves for shelter. Tefilat was built into the walls of one particularly large canyon, originally by constructing homes inside the natural alcoves, later by carving buildings out of the rock itself. It is . . . remarkable.

“It’s also a region the Souleaters favored, to feast upon the tribes that lived there. One of the greatest battles of the south was waged in and around Tefilat. It’s said that hundreds of witches converged upon the city in its final hours. Their spells still resonate in the sandstone.” He nodded. “I’ve been there. You can feel it.

“Such power plays strange games with the mind. The Hom’ra speak of a city of wraiths, and of fearsome demons who emerge from the canyon at sunset. They believe the place is cursed.” He paused. “There were no demons there when last I visited, but the ‘cursed’ label may not be that far off the mark. I would certainly hesitate to use sorcery in Tefilat without first testing to see how reliable it was. Especially as we are kin to the very creatures those witches were trying to destroy.”

He gazed down at the illusionary carpet. “She is there now,” he muttered. “Or she has passed through there recently. Or her people are there now, and are bringing back artifacts to her. Any way you look at it . . . .”

“There will be clues in Tefilat,” Sulah said.

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“I assume we need to go there, then. Just Magisters, do you think, or bring along some morati as well? I’m sure Farah would support an expedition if needed.”

“Farah would provide an army if it was needed,” Colivar agreed. “But first we need to know exactly what’s out there.”

“Our sorcery’s of limited value in such a place, according to what you just told me. Can we rely upon it for reconnaissance?”

For a long moment Colivar was silent. Long enough that Sulah shifted his weight impatiently and coughed softly, as if to remind him that someone else was still in the room. But he would not interrupt Colivar’s contemplations. The habits of a long apprenticeship were too deeply ingrained in him. Some portion of his soul would always recognize Colivar as his Master . . . no matter how much Colivar urged him to do otherwise.

“I have a means to determine if
she
is there,” Colivar said at last. “Once we know that, the rest can be decided.”

“I thought you said she could hide herself from us. That our sorcery was incapable of piercing a queen’s cover. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. Solemnly. “I did.”

“You have other methods, then?”

He said nothing. Just reached out to put a hand on the other man’s shoulder for a moment. It was a strangely amicable gesture, which stirred memories of another life, lived long, long ago. When men were merely men, and the souls of terrible beasts did not claw at their souls from the inside.

“I will let you know when I have answers,” he promised him.

Kamala circled her target area several times before deciding to approach. She could pick out a spell that Colivar had established to detect any incoming Magister, and she stayed well outside its boundaries. True, it looked as if it were merely a token effort, not meant to defend the place so much as to make sure that Colivar knew when visitors were arriving. But old habits were hard to break.

Finally, when she was satisfied that all was as it should be, she landed and reclaimed her human form. For a moment she just stood there, the hot summer breeze ruffling her hair as she took in the alien landscape. Red stone and red sand, washed in sunset’s orange sunlight. It was both barren and beautiful, a vision from another world.

There was a small building atop a nearby rise, built in the style of a temple. Gleaming white columns held up a roof of the same color, from which panels of white gauze depended, taking the place of walls. As the breeze passed by, it rippled the gauze like water, making the whole structure seem insubstantial. Magical.