Legacy of Kings (43 page)

“The Church has now given its blessing to our battle against these creatures.” He nodded briefly to the primi, acknowledging their spiritual authority. “I have been at the forefront of the effort to locate them and to gather the information needed to cast them into the Destroyer’s Pit forever. For as God has sent these creatures forth to test mankind, so shall He receive them when that test is completed, that they may roast in the fires of eternal torment until the universe itself expires.

“You all know of the recent battle in my lands, which destroyed the northern queen, and I have delivered to you the information that we gathered on that day. Today I bring you more information . . . and a request.”

He could see one of Soltan’s eyebrows rise slightly. How many thought-whispers were buzzing about him now, carried on the wings of witchery? Each one was costing a precious second of that witch’s life. Secrecy through sacrifice.

“Those who know the creatures best have been convinced to share their knowledge,” Salvator continued. “Those with access to artifacts of power have opened their gates to us. Those with the power to find these creatures will surely do so soon, and we must be prepared to act as soon as they succeed.

“There is but one Souleater queen remaining. If she is killed, the entire species can be eradicated. But as soon as she lays eggs and creates more queens, that opportunity will be gone forever. Then a second Dark Ages will truly be upon us. We cannot allow that to happen.

“Our timetable is short, as war is measured. My sources estimate that in half a year the new queen will be mature and ready to mate. Possibly earlier. The season of war is brief in some lands, constrained by storms or snow. Depending upon where the Souleaters are, we may only have a small window of opportunity in which to act, if military action is needed. And I believe it will be. The young queen is said to be allied to Siderea Aminestas”—he could see a flicker of distaste on several faces as he mentioned the name—”and she is a savvy and powerful woman, who may have nearly unlimited witchery at her disposal. Wherever she is, it will surely take more than a handful of Guardians to defeat her.” He paused. “It may take an army.

“Time will be required to muster such an army, and to transport troops and supplies without sorcery.” He stressed the last two words slightly; they were both a promise to pursue this war in keeping with Penitent beliefs and a reminder to them all that Penitent beliefs were an impediment to military efficacy. “I believe we should begin preparations now, so that when our enemy is finally located, we will be ready to move into action immediately.

“Your Eminences: I am Penitent. I am
lyr.
I am High King. In me, faith and blood and political power are combined. Who should lead such a campaign, if not me? Who else in the Church could play such a role properly, so that in the aftermath of battle men would understand that it was not the hand of man alone that saved them, but the mercy of the Creator?

“This battle will not only save the world, but it will change it. We will not only safeguard the Second Age of Kings, but we will turn it back to penitence and faith. Surely that is what God intended when He sent His demons back into the world to test us.”

He drew in a deep breath. The expressions of the primi betrayed no emotion, but one could sense the intensity with which they were listening to his every word.

“I come here today,” he said, “to ask for your support. I need the facilities of the Church behind me. I ask for the support of our witches, and any of our warriors who have special skills pertaining to the Souleaters. The armies of Aurelius are vast, but my soldiers are merely men, and mere men cannot fight these creatures. And I will need supplies. Not because food and water can’t be conjured on the battlefield, but if we mean to wage this war without relying upon Magisters, the cost of that would be measured in human lives. Penitent lives.” He paused. “And I will need these things immediately, so that all our people can be properly trained, and so they will all be in one place when the time comes to move out, and thus can be mobilized expeditiously.”

His presentation concluded, Salvator waited for a response.

A brief eternity passed in which the primus just stared at him. His dark eyes, narrowed in concentration, offered no hint as to what was going on inside his mind. Salvator said nothing, merely continued to wait.

Finally Soltan said, “Let me make sure I understand this properly. You’re asking for all the faithful who are skilled in witchery to come to your side, and to place themselves beneath your command.
All
our witches, from all corners of the earth, wherever they may be found. Our most skilled warriors should come to you also, to be trained by your people. Presumably to fight alongside the pagans of the north, yes?

“All this for a battle in which you do not know where the fighting will take place, or even when. You don’t know what the size or makeup of the enemy army will be, the kind of terrain you will be fighting on, or even how many soldiers—or witches—you will need. In fact, outside of knowing there is one Souleater you have to kill, and probably a witch who will be guarding her, you do not have a single fact on hand about who or what you’ll be facing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do I have that right, your Majesty?”

“That’s the gist of the matter,” Salvator agreed. “Though I do think we should specify that only witches who are willing to die for the cause should be recruited. That will help keep the numbers manageable.”

The primus sat down on the throne-like chair behind him. For a moment his eyes disengaged from Salvator’s, and they seemed to focus on a point beyond the confines of the sanctuary. The witch moaned softly, rocking back and forth.

After what seemed like an endless wait, Soltan’s eyes fixed once more on Salvator. Cold, so very cold. There was no affection in that gaze.

“Will there be Magisters involved in this war of yours?” he asked.

Salvator stiffened. “There will be no sorcery in my campaign.”

“But they will be present.”

“No man can bar them from the battlefield, Eminence.”

“They do not acknowledge your authority.”

“They do not acknowledge anyone’s authority.”

“And the one that is in your palace? What of him?”

Salvator’s eyes narrowed. “He is not my Magister Royal, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But he serves you.”

“No. He counsels my mother on matters of ancient lore. His sorcery is forbidden in my house.”

“But his
corruption
is not forbidden.” The primus stood, his cold gaze fixed on Salvator. “Ramirus’ very presence is corrupt. His counsel is corrupt. You come to us asking to be made a figurehead of our faith—to wield our sacred authority in addition to your own—but you can’t even maintain spiritual balance in your own house.” He stepped down from the dais and walked toward Salvator; his expression was dark. “Who will answer for the corruption of this Magister, Salvator Aurelius? Have you offered penance for Ramirus, so that the blackness of his soul does not befoul the souls of all who would trust in your leadership?”

Lips tight, Salvator reached up to the neck of his damask gown with both hands, grabbing hold of the stiffened collar as well as the linen shirt beneath it. With a quick jerking motion, he then ripped them both open. The buttons of the gown went flying, and the shirt gave way with a sharp tearing sound, strands of linen stretching across his torso before they finally snapped. And then his chest was laid bare for all to see, along with the Penitent sigil that had been seared into it. Angry red flesh marked where a heated brand had been driven into his flesh; the wound was recent, and its edges looked raw and painful.

“This is my penance for Ramirus,” he declared defiantly. “And for my own sin, in allowing him into my house.” He looked about the chamber, meeting the eyes of the primi one by one, daring them to question his sacrifice. “And I will do penance for all the others as well, if I must. Bring me a thousand Magisters! I will kneel before God and beg Him to lay the sins of each and every one upon my shoulders, that I might offer up penance for all of them.” He turned back to Soldan. “Well, Primus Soldan? Am I worthy to lead God’s faithful into battle? Or do I still fall short?”

For a moment there was silence in the chamber. True silence. The witch had stopped her rocking, and Salvator sensed that the primi were no longer communicating with one another mentally. All attention was on him.

Slowly he released the edges of his gown. The garment fell partly closed, but the edges did not come together entirely, and a thin line of reddened skin could still be seen. He did not move to cover it up.

“Danton Aurelius had the spark of greatness in him,” Primus Soldan said quietly, “but he was constrained by his personal ambition. A man cannot reach his full potential until he submits to a cause greater than his personal glory.” His eyes met Salvator’s. “You have that same spark in you, King Salvator. And because you are willing to surrender yourself to God, then yes, you are worthy to lead men in His name.”

He held out his hand toward Salvator. On his forefinger was a ring of carved ruby with the sigil of the Church etched into its surface. It was clear what he expected. In the monastery such obeisance would have been frowned upon, but Salvator knew that outside those walls it was common practice. The primi were the highest authority in his Church, God’s spokesmen on earth. Formal acknowledgment of their authority was seen as a gesture of submission to God’s will.

But he was a king now. Submitting himself to the Church’s authority in this way had new implications.

The primus waited.

There was no past history to guide him here. No Penitent had ever wielded secular power on the scale that he did. Whatever happened between him and Soltan would stand as precedent for every king who came after him.

You knew there would be a price to pay when you called them here
, he told himself.
He submitted himself to your authority when he answered that call. Did you think that would go unchallenged? You cannot deny him now.

Slowly Salvator reached out to take the primus’ hand in his own. He stared at the man for a small eternity and slowly, formally, lowered his head. His ritual kiss barely brushed the ring, but the carved ruby burned his lips like a hot brand. If he looked in the mirror now, would he see the sigil of the Primus Council seared into his flesh?

When he raised his head up again, the primus nodded solemnly. “The Church will give you what you need.” He put a hand on Salvator’s shoulder and squeezed it gently; coming from such a formal man, it was a disarmingly intimate gesture. “May the Creator look with favor upon your cause.”

Not my cause,
Salvator thought.
Ours.
But he simply whispered “Amen” and watched in silence as the primi filed out of the chamber.

Chapter 25

D

ARKNESS.

Throbbing heat.

Struggling toward the surface of a black sea. Black mirror surface, unbreakable. Suffocation. No air to scream.

Must breathe. Must think. Must breathe. Must breathe.

Pain.

Body out there somewhere. Must find it. Reconnect. Reconnect . . . .

After an eternity of failed efforts, Kamala finally opened her eyes. The darkness that surrounded her was thick and hot, but a trickle of light coming from somewhere at least confirmed that her eyes were really open. It seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Where was she?

She tried to move, but could not. A limb trembled somewhere in the distance, but she wasn’t sure which one. Sweat trickled down her inner thigh. Otherwise, her body would not obey her.

What had happened?

She tried to draw upon her athra, to craft a spell that would help her comprehend her situation, but the mere effort sent pain lancing through her head, and the light began to spin around her. Bile welled up suddenly in the back of throat. She tried to bend over to vomit, but she found that she could not move, so she had to fight back the nauseating wave lest she choke on it.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the sickness receded a bit, and the light grew more steady. It was not a real light at all, she realized; she was seeing the residual power in this place, made visible by her Sight. Whispers of forgotten spells too subtle to notice in the full light of day became visible in such darkness, and also told her where she was. Still in Tefilat, apparently.

She was not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

What in the name of all the gods had happened to her?

Shutting her eyes, she tried once more to summon forth sorcery. But the power slid from her mental grasp like a hagfish in slime. It was as if her very mind had become incapable of organizing anything more complex than a simple thought. Sorcery required much more than that.

She was hungry, she realized. And thirsty. And her arms hurt. A lot.

She dreamed of a woman chained by her wrists, suspended naked from a ceiling high above. Her wrists were covered in blood from where the iron shackles had cut into them. She was hung with her toes barely touching the ground, so that if she strained with all her might she might be able to shift enough weight to take some of the pressure off her arms. At least for a few minutes. But the effort was exhausting, and she couldn’t keep it up for long.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was something worse.