Legacy of Kings (49 page)

“You said that Colivar must come to me. That he cannot help but come to me. Is that still the case?”

“For as long as he lives,” Nyuku assured her.

She wanted to ask him why, but she knew he would not answer.
Later
. “We will wait for him here, then.”

He drew in a deep breath. “
We
, Lady Consort?”

A faint smile. “You will help me entrap him, won’t you, Nyuku? I do so value your assistance.”

There was no mistaking the mix of emotions that flashed across his face. Surprise. Relief. And of course, suspicion. He had failed to bring Colivar back to her. Why would she want him to remain by her side now?

Because that is the key to controlling you,
she thought.
And I must have control of you by the time my queen declares her flight, so that if and when you establish your sovereignty over the Souleaters, we both understand who is really in charge.

“Of course,” he said. Bowing his head stiffly in obeisance. “Whatever you require of me, you know you have but to ask.”

Except to share your secrets, eh, Nyuku? But that will come, in its proper time.

You will surrender it all to me, in time.

Reckoning

Chapter 28

C

OLIVAR SAID, “Welcome to Coldorra.”

The plain spread out before them was vast but unimpressive. It was flat—simply flat—for nearly as far as the eye could see, with little variance in elevation that Kamala could discern. There seemed to be some hills far off on the horizon to both the north and south, but they were so mist-hazed and uncertain that they might have represented no more than wishful thinking on Kamala’s part. The plain itself was bare of any life save for scattered clumps of grass, which might once have looked passably green had something not eaten them down to the nub.

“So much blood was shed here in past ages it’s a wonder the grass isn’t bright red,” Colivar said. “Though most of that was before my time.”

“Doesn’t seem like the sort of place one would fight over.”

“Danton’s southern expansion stopped here. It’s the only place his ambitions were ever frustrated, so it has considerable symbolic value. At one time he and Anshasa were fighting over this stretch of land so often, it’s said that when the inhabitants woke up each morning, the first thing they did was check to see which king they owed allegiance to. Most of them eventually moved away. As would I. It will be interesting to see if anyone returns now that Danton is gone.”

“Salvator controls it now?”

Colivar nodded. “Farah hasn’t challenged him for it yet. I expect that he will some day. But he needs to learn what Sulah can do for him first. The parts of the Law that limit our participation in morati warfare are a veritable labyrinth for a Magister Royal to negotiate, and each sorcerer interprets them a little differently.”

Kamala noticed that his expression darkened slightly when he referred to his former student. “Sulah will be here?”

“I expect so. It would be odd if he weren’t.”

“Are you are worried about him and Siderea? That he might still serve her?”

Colivar shrugged stiffly. “Siderea tricked him to get to me. It failed. Now that he knows what she’s up to, he won’t be as easy a target. She’ll move on to other strategies.”

She said it softly: “You’re sure he didn’t betray you deliberately?”

Colivar started to answer—and then hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “No, I’m not. But that’s to be expected. We are what we are.”

In the center of the great plain there were tents. Large tents, small tents, plain and opulent tents: a veritable city of cloth. The ones to the north were much grander in scale, with a great peaked pavilion the size of a respectable manor house in the center of the field. The great golden finials that topped its support poles were shaped like double-headed hawks, and long silk pennants were clutched in their talons. The tents to the south were simpler in structure, low and broad in the desert style, with tasseled ropes that could be used to gather up the walls if ventilation was required. Farther out on both sides of the field were the strictly functional tents of a military encampment, rows and rows of them in perfect alignment, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Salvator and Farah had agreed to a limit of a thousand troops on each side, but there were at least that many servants and attendants present as well, some of whom might be soldiers in disguise, so the entire encampment was immense.

Gods forbid any king should ever travel without an army of retainers at his back,
she thought.

The situation was a powder keg, and she knew it. One wrong word and the two men for whom this whole spectacle had been arranged might suddenly find themselves in the midst of a pitched battle.

“Come,” Colivar said. “They’ll be starting soon.”

But not without us,
she thought. It was a heady concept. Of all the thousands of men and women who had come to attend this meeting, she and Colivar were two of the most important. True, it was unlikely their input would be needed today—they’d been asked to attend as witnesses so they could offer their counsel later—but if these negotiations went well, Kamala might wind up playing a much larger role in what was to come. Possibly even a public role.

I’m officially part of this now,
she thought. Not quite sure if that should please her or frighten her.

Colivar had summoned horses for them so that they could approach the encampment in morati fashion. That was one of the conditions that Salvator had insisted upon. No sorcery was to be used on this plain for as long as the meeting between the two kings was taking place.

Did that mean that Salvator himself had come here on horseback, traveling hundreds of miles like a common morati? Unlikely. Supposedly he had a hundred Penitent witches who were ready to expend the last drop of their life-essence in his service, and any one of them might have transported him here. Apparently Penitent witches went straight to heaven if they died in the service of their faith.

Convenient for the kings who ruled over them, Kamala thought dryly.

Urging her horse into motion, she set off across the great plain with Colivar, heading toward the center of the encampment.

Deep breath, Salvator.

It was hard to shut out the bustle of the camp, but he knew he had to in order to prepare his mind for this meeting. Shutting his eyes, he struggled to turn his thoughts inward, using a passage from the
Book of Meditations
as a focus.

Savor the quiet voice of your soul, for the spirit of man knows its Creator. The truth shall come from within you.

“They are ready for you, your Majesty.”

Drawing in a last deep breath, he nodded. Overhead two pennants snapped in the wind: one with the arms of House Aurelius emblazoned upon it, one with the arms of House Farah. Identical in height, identical in size, they answered to the wind in perfect unison. Hopefully, it would serve as an omen.

Farah was waiting for him. He was a husky man of swarthy complexion, with dark, piercing eyes that reminded Salvator of his father’s. He was dressed in a curious combination of plain tribal garments and heavy gold jewelry, with so many rings on his hands that he might be carrying enough gold on him to cast a new crown for Salvator. A strange amalgam of opposites, but he was clearly a man of consequence.

It was clear from the Anshasan’s expression that he had serious doubts about this whole event, but he nodded to Salvator in a manner that was respectful, if not warm. Good enough. It had been decades since the leaders of their two warring nations had last tried to meet face to face, and that attempt had been a disaster. Given the weight of history, every positive gesture today was significant.

They fell in side by side, entering the grand pavilion together as a herald announced them. Farah’s name was offered first, because Salvator had the honor of being the host of this meeting. Thus had their diplomats arranged, after much wrangling, in order to make sure that when the day’s tally was finally figured, neither monarch would have been given preference over the other. It was a delicate dance indeed, with so many subtle nuances that it made Salvator’s head spin.

The interior of the great tent was shadowy and cool; it took Salvator’s eyes a moment to adjust. The interior had been outfitted like a formal reception hall; it even had a set of stained glass windows set into frames in its cloth walls. But none of that really mattered. There was only one thing here of consequence: the heavy table set dead-center in the room, with throne-like chairs of perfectly equal opulence at either end. Behind the table eight people now stood in formal silence, waiting respectfully as the two kings approached. Favias, Ramirus, Colivar, Kamala . . . Salvator didn’t recognize the people Farah had brought, but the man standing nearest the Anshasan’s chair was dressed in the unnatural black robes of a Magister, so he guessed that to be Sulah, the new Magister Royal.

There were uniformed guards, of course, flanking both royal chairs. A token presence. Any Magister here who wanted to kill Farah—or Salvator—could do so before guards would be able to lift a finger. But they wouldn’t do that, of course. Their quixotic Law didn’t allow it.

Salvator felt a pang of guilt, knowing that the only reason Sulah was prohibited from killing him was his mother’s contract with Ramirus. He hadn’t sanctioned the contract, but he was benefiting from it.

Forgive me, my Creator, for profiting from the corruption of others.

The kings took their seats with formal solemnity. The rest of the attendees lined up along the two sides of the table as their choreographers dictated, Salvator’s people on one side and Farah’s on the other. Colivar and Kamala stood with the former as counselors to Ramirus, who was in turn counselor to his mother . . . an indirect tie to Salvator, to say the least, and of course those two owed him no particular loyalty. Gwynofar had convinced Salvator to include them despite his misgivings; Salvator had yet to decide whether that was a good decision.

When everyone was properly settled, Salvator turned his attention to his royal guest. “King Farah. You do my House great honor by your presence.”

There was a brief pause before Farah spoke. It was possible he didn’t speak the northern tongue—or didn’t speak it fluently—in which case someone had clearly provided a spell to assist him. That was standard practice among monarchs. What was not standard practice was using a witch to provide that spell, instead of a Magister Royal. Yet, judging from the pace of his speech, that was exactly what Farah had done. A Magister could have placed knowledge directly into Farah’s brain as he spoke, and translated the man’s own thoughts into suitable language as soon as he wished to voice them. Such a spell was undetectable when it was well performed. But it was also a complex undertaking, and a mere witch couldn’t afford to waste power on that scale. Farah’s witch had probably provided him with a external spell, perhaps something that conjured whispers inside his ear, which he had to listen to and then repeat. The fleeting pause before each statement was noticeable.

He respected my request not to use sorcery,
Salvator thought,
even though I might not have detected it.
The gesture pleased him.

“Your invitation does me equal honor,” Farah responded with formal gravity. “It has been a long time since the High Kingdom evinced any desire to
speak
with my people. I am curious to know the reason for it.”

Salvator sat back in his chair, trying to look more relaxed than he felt. So much was riding on this meeting that it was hard for him to hide his anxiety. “Our countries have been at war for a very long time, King Farah. Sometimes openly, sometimes covertly . . . but ceaselessly, for decades now. It drains both nations of energy that could be used for other things. Things that might be more important in the long run than who owns what piece of land along our common border, or who controls what port in the Sea of Tears.”

Farah’s eyes narrowed briefly at the reference to a common border; his unspoken message was clear:
Easy words for you, as Coldorra is yours.
But his tone remained congenial as he responded, “Are you interested in some sort of peace treaty between Anshasa and the High Kingdom, then? That would be an interesting experiment. I am not sure how successful it would be, given our history. Of course, that is something we would likely have years to work out, as it would probably take our negotiators years just to work out the starting details.”

Salvator allowed himself a faint smile. “A year begins with a single day, your Majesty.”

“Indeed it does,” Farah allowed. “For which reason, I am open to hearing your proposal.” Despite his casual tone his eyes were sharp and alert, Salvator noted. Cold steel in a velvet glove. “So is that what you wish us to discuss today? Terms for a possible peace treaty? Your messenger hinted at some pressing interest. Peace, while admittedly desirable, is hardly a pressing need, given that we are not currently at war.”