Legacy of Kings (55 page)

No one liked to bring bad news to a king.

In the distance, to the south, one could hear the sounds of Farah’s camp being struck. The Anshasans were working quickly and efficiently, and soon all his people would be gone, leaving nothing in their wake but trampled tufts of grass stubble and a line of earthen mounds where the cesspits once had been. Salvator’s men seemed to be having trouble with their work and were well behind schedule. With as many grand and complicated tents as the High King had brought with him, some of his people would probably be at the site long after the last of Farah’s men had departed.

She felt a tightening in her gut at the thought that within a day or two—as soon as Farah’s people were all gone—they would be moving out to Jezalya. And because of her failure, a key element of the campaign could not be brought into play.

The thought of delivering that news to Salvator made her sick inside.

The two men looked up when she entered, and they seemed genuinely pleased to see her. For some reason that made it worse. There was a camp table between them with papers they had apparently been going over. She did not look down to see what they were.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her respect. “Master Favias.”

Then she drew in a deep breath and said, “I bring news from the witches.”

“Ah, good.” The High King pushed the papers away and picked up a metal cup that had been sitting beside them. “Let’s hear it.”

Shina had always found the High King intimidating. They had put her in charge of the witches because she was the most skilled of all the Seers, but her life in Kierdwyn had not prepared her for the frenzied world she was suddenly part of, or for the battle-scarred priest-king who lorded over it.. The three deep claw marks running down his face gave his expression a fearsome aspect even when he was smiling—which he did not do often—and while the clarity of his faith was a thing to be praised, its intensity unnerved her. She was not used to dealing with fanatics. Or with giving them bad news.

“Majesty,” she said, “We have been unable to teach our spellsong ritual to the Penitent witches. It appears . . . .” She paused. Did she look as nervous as she felt? “It appears they are incapable of learning it.”

The silence that followed her pronouncement was not what she’d expected. It was worse.

Salvator turned to Favias. “How important is this ritual?”

“Important.” Favias’ expression was grave. “This is very bad news.”

Salvator turned back to Shina. “Most of the witches in the world know nothing about this trick, and they seem to function well enough. The witches of the Great War didn’t have it, and they dealt with the Souleaters quite effectively. I understand why it would be a good addition to our arsenal, but what makes it such a pivotal element?”

Shina looked to Favias to see if he would take the burden of explanation from her, but he nodded for her to continue. With a sigh of resignation, she turned back to the High King, “The spellsong ritual allows a number of witches to pool their efforts, so that all their energy can be combined into a single spell. We use it mostly to share the cost of witchery amongst ourselves, but there are other advantages, which we’d hoped to apply here . . . .” How much did he already know, how much did she need to explain? Neither man was giving her any kind of clue. “Normally, if a dozen witches wanted to raise a barrier about Jezalya, each one would have to conjure a section of that barrier by herself, then all the segments would be joined together. The problem is that if one witch were killed, her section would then collapse. But if those same witches were to pool their efforts as the Seers do, then the entire barrier would become a single spell, drawing its strength equally from each of them. Then, if one witch were killed, the spell would grow weaker overall, but there would be no single point at which it failed completely. And the whole of the barrier would be stronger, also . . . but that is not the part that matters most.” She shook her head. “Without this we are very vulnerable, your Majesty. A single well-placed arrow could break the barrier wide open. We might compensate through redundancy, erecting several barriers . . . “ She let her voice trail off, certain they could fill in the rest themselves.
Time lost. More witches needed. More life-essence sacrificed.

Salvator nodded; it was clear from his grim expression that he was beginning to grasp just how serious the problem was. “You say the Penitent witches can’t learn this trick?”

She bowed her head. “It appears so, your Majesty.”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “None of us have ever seen anything like this before. We had anticipated that maybe the two groups would turn out to be metaphysically incompatible, given that they draw their inspiration from two such different paradigms, but that should have resulted in two unified collectives instead of one . . . not an unlimited number of people who can’t connect to each other at all.”

“Are there prayers involved in this ritual of yours? Or any religious references? The polytheism of most
lyr
is anathema to our faith. References to such beliefs might keep Penitents from making the kind of spiritual commitment that would be required.”

Shina shook her head. “The incantations that we use rely upon metaphors of unity and common purpose. Nothing that should give offense to any god.”
Even your infamously intolerant Creator
, she thought. “But we did ask the question anyway. So one of your Penitent witches translated our incantations into the language of your own faith, glorifying your god, so that the ritual would be a true Penitent undertaking. And then they tried it among themselves, without any of us in the circle. But even that didn’t help.” She hesitated. “I’m told that several of your people offered up penance to the Creator, whatever that means. Just in case they had been sinful enough that their god was displeased by them, and that’s why he wouldn’t let them master the ritual. But that didn’t help either. Something about the Penitents simply makes it impossible for them to learn this technique, and we don’t have a clue what it is. I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

Salvator stared at her in silence for a moment. His gaze was daunting. Then he turned back to Favias. “Do we have enough Seers to conjure the barrier without Penitent assistance?”

“Minimally,” Favias said. “We had counted on linking them up to your people. It will be a much weaker construct without then.”

“But we can get the barrier up. That’s the most important part, yes?” He turned back to the Seer. “Keep trying,” he ordered. “Up until the minute that we leave for Jezalya, keep trying. And if you come up with any clue as to why this problem exists, come talk to me. If it’s something connected to the Penitent faith, perhaps I can help you figure out how we can compensate for that. Meanwhile . . . .” His lips tightened into a hard line. “Time is too precious here. Once the fifth day arrives and our people don’t show up at Farah’s training camp, it will be clear to all what’s really going on.” He shook his head tightly. “We cannot delay this. We move out at dawn as planned. Do your best to solve the problem before then.”

What if it is Penitent beliefs that have made your witches weak?
she thought
. What if they’re not strong enough spiritually—or magically—to do what’s being asked of them?

But that was something she would never say to the High King. Not even in her sleep.

“Yes, your Majesty.” She bowed her head respectfully. “I will certainly do that.”

At dawn, she knew, she would probably be reporting her final failure.

“The Queen said you wished to see me.”

Salvator put aside the pen he was holding and waved for the servants to leave them alone together. “Yes, I did. I felt there was something we should discuss before we left Coldorra.” As the last of the servants left the pavilion, his expression took on a solemn air. “The question of sorcery in Jezalya.”

Ramirus’ expression did not waver, but Salvator could see a muscle along the line of his jaw tense slightly. “With all due respect, your Majesty, I’ve made a commitment to the Queen Mother, and I must protect her. If sorcery is required to do that, then I will use sorcery. Even your sovereignty can’t override a Magister’s contract.”

Salvator raised a hand to silence his protest. “Magister Ramirus. Please.” When he saw that he had silence, he lowered his hand. “It’s rare that a Magister comes up against anything that has the capacity to kill him. But these Souleaters undoubtedly can do that, and Siderea may be able to as well. Yet you and Colivar have offered your support in this venture, and shortly you may risk your lives to assure its success.
He
certainly is risking his life. That’s the kind of thing no man does lightly, and for one who can hold death at bay indefinitely if he’s careful enough . . . it’s an extraordinary act.

“It would be ungrateful of me—and unreasonable—to expect you to do that with both hands tied behind your back. Would it not?”

Ramirus’ expression was wary. “I would not presume to judge your character, Majesty.”

“No.” He smiled faintly. “Not while I’m around to hear it, anyway.” He shook his head. “Understand, I do expect you to respect the beliefs of the Penitents and not use your power upon myself or my witches. Death with honor is preferable to corruption, in our eyes. And since the gift of the
lyr
shows signs of being incompatible with sorcery, you should refrain from using your arts on them as well, lest their power be compromised. A purely practical matter. Other than that . . . .” He paused, then said quietly, “I will not place restraints upon your actions. Or Colivar’s. So you can concentrate on the matter at hand without worrying about my sensibilities.”

Ramirus just stared at him for a moment. Salvator could not recall any other time when he had seen the Magister look surprised; it was oddly satisfying. “Majesty, I . . . don’t know what to say.”

“There is nothing to say, Ramirus.” Salvator picked up his pen again and focused on it, not wanting to meet the Magister’s eyes any longer. “Send the servants back in on your way out, please. And let Colivar know.”

When Ramirus was gone he put down his pen and sighed.
You will do whatever you want once the battle starts, and so will Colivar. Don’t you think I know that? This way, at least you may respect my prohibition when you can, as opposed to writing it off entirely
.

Maybe if he repeated that often enough, he would believe it.

Gwynofar found Salvator at the edge of the field, almost alone. Now that Farah’s people were finally gone, he was allowed to walk more than ten feet away from his guards without them protesting, but they were still watching him, albeit from a respectful distance. She felt a pang of sympathy in her heart, knowing how much he valued the quiet solitude of meditation. But until they went home again, this was as close as he was going to get to being alone.

“Salvator,” she said gently.

He turned to her.

“I heard about the witches,” she said.

He sighed and shut his eyes for a moment. “Why would their love of God make them incapable of learning?” he whispered. “Is it my fault? Have I offended against the Creator somehow? Is this His punishment for me, to send me into battle with my forces hamstrung?”

“Surely he wouldn’t do that to one so faithful.”

“I vowed obedience to His will, and I have fallen short. Time and time again I’ve compromised His law for political expediency, or else just to please others.”
You being one of them
, his expression reminded her. “Now I sit at a table with Magisters and listen to how they will play a part in this war, as if they were no more than morati marshals. Not all the penance in the world is enough to cleanse that stain from my soul,” he said bitterly.

“Salvator. You are a king. A Penitent king. If your god wants such a creature to exist in the world, then He must make allowances for the things a king has to do.”

He sighed heavily. “I told Ramirus I wouldn’t forbid him from using sorcery.”

She said it softly: “I heard that too.”

“What other choice did I have? He’s not going to restrain himself for my sake, if he perceives that his life is at stake. So I can play the fanatic and pretend that isn’t the case, insist that he go into battle on my terms rather than his, and then watch as he blithely disregards my authority . . . or I can put on a show of compromise and hope that the few conditions I do insist on—the ones that really matter—will be respected.”