Legacy of Kings (64 page)

She could sense the fear rising in her consort, and she knew if she did not find a way to ameliorate it she would quickly be overwhelmed.

Be steady,
she thought.
I will come to you.

She glanced at Colivar—who had not moved—and then Nasaan. “See to them,” she ordered the prince. There was no saying what he would make of that order, but she had no time to stay and explain things to him. She summoned her power and created a portal, so that she might join her queen in the mountains and comfort her—

And nothing happened.

Stunned, she tried again.

Nothing happened!

Ikati panic was pouring into her brain now, making it impossible to think clearly.
There cannot be another queen here! No other queen exists!
Siderea ran to the window and jerked open the heavy shutters, letting outside air pour into the room. Maybe the spells she had placed in the chamber had backfired and were inhibiting her power as well. But the air carried with it a scent that made every hair on her body prick upright. Once more she tried to summon a portal . . . and once more she failed.

She whirled back to confront Colivar. He had risen to his feet and looked considerably more composed than the last time she had looked at him. “What have you done?” she demanded, and when he did not answer she repeated, with increasing fury, “
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!”

“I invited some friends,” he said quietly. A corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She struck out at him blindly, channeling her ikati’s rage as well as her own into one blazing, unstoppable wall of power. It slammed into him with so much force that she could hear his bones snap, and it threw him across the length of the room, directly into a stone wall. Then, drawing in a deep breath to steady her spirit, she reached out into the desert with her supernatural senses, to see what was happening.

She saw witches.

Armies.

An unknown Magister.

Salvator!

She tried to strike out at them, but they seemed to be protected from her direct assault, so she reached out past them, into the tribal encampments that were loyal to Nasaan. Their own scouts must have spotted the foreigners already, for their warriors were armored and getting ready to move out. She relayed to their witches the information they would need to locate the invaders and one simple order: Kill them all. Then she returned her attention to the invading forces and addressed herself to finding a way around their protective magics, so that she could crush them all like insects.

“Not bad for a slave.”

The words broke her concentration. She returned her awareness to the room, where she saw Colivar standing once more. Whatever damage she had done to his body had been repaired.

“Given your origins,” he continued, “I would never have expected you to get this far. Quite impressive, really.”

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. She took a few steps toward him without thinking, then stopped herself. “What do you know of my origins?” she whispered.

“Not much,” he admitted. “It was hard to research. You covered your tracks well. But I did find records that spoke of an Elanti slave who had been working her way north, owner by owner, just about the time you showed up in Sankara.” He glanced at Nasaan. “The Elanti were a line of slaves especially bred and trained for sexual service. Very popular in some regions. This one was supposedly quite skilled.”

“This is of no interest to him!” she exclaimed, shaking with a new sort of rage now. “The curious thing about this slave,” Colivar continued, “was that her owners all died mysteriously. Reasons were always offered, of course—one had an unfortunate accident, another died of a lung ailment, a third was killed by bandits while traveling—and the slave was invariably purchased by someone more affluent after that. So I suppose it was just good luck.”

“This is of no concern to anyone now,” she hissed. Fingers flexing as though they had claws at their tips.

“Eventually one of them became enamored enough to free her, and he brought her to the Free States on his arm as a free woman, intending to make her his wife . . . what a pity, though. He died also. Touch of summer fever, I hear.” He shook his head. “That slave seems to have disappeared about the same time you arrived in Sankara. There wouldn’t happen to be a connection, would there?”

For a moment the rage was so hot inside her she could not speak. Her ikati did not comprehend what was wrong, but she could not spare the time to explain it to her. Focusing inward, she drew forth her power again—

—and heard the whisper of steel through the air one instant before the sword hit her neck—

—and darkness.

The two men stood there for a moment in silence, staring down at Siderea’s headless body. Then Nasaan reached down and wiped off his sword on her gown. Returning it smoothly to its sheath, he looked at Colivar. “If I’d known she was just human I would have done that a while ago.” After a moment he added, “Thank you.”

Outside the window the cries of Souleaters could be heard, fading into the distance as Kamala led them away. Colivar had not heard the ruckus when it first began. The game he had been playing with Siderea had been a delicate one and had consumed all his attention. But his final gambit had paid off. Her sudden realization that her past history was known, in all its murderous glory, was enough to break her concentration on whatever she’d been trying to do. Long enough for Salvator’s people to do what they came here to do. And long enough—unexpectedly—for Nasaan to kill her.
Foolish woman. I uncovered your secrets years ago. Mysteries are a Magister’s greatest passion; did you forget that?

Colivar looked about the room, now splattered with blood from one side to the other, and caught sight of Nyuku lying in a heap by the weapons rack. Not dead yet, despite Siderea’s assumption. Fresh hatred welled up inside him, and with it the atavistic desire to rip out the man’s throat with his teeth. But he still had unfinished business with Nyuku.

He looked at Nasaan. “Don’t kill him. Not yet.”

The prince raised an eyebrow, then nodded.

Colivar leaped up onto the windowsill. Outside the palace a crowd had gathered, drawn by the sound of combat, but they were keeping a safe distance. Or what they thought was a safe distance. He stood for a moment on the broad stone sill looking down at them, knowing what a sight he must be to them in his bloodsplattered clothing, his long black hair unbound and whipping free in the wind. He found it perversely pleasing.

Are you sure you want to do this?
he asked himself. For a moment he shut his eyes. and a shudder ran through him, and he was not certain at all. In fact, this was possibly the stupidest thing he had done in his life. Only a madman would even consider it.

Then looked back, saw Nyuku lying there, and he remembered the night the man had killed his ikati. He remembered walking into the Wrath, his arms held out as if inviting its embrace, tears frozen on his cheeks as the screaming voices of murdered witches filled his head, as he begged them for death . . . and the last vestige of his doubt disappeared, drowned out by a hunger for vengeance more primitive and powerful than any human doubt could possibly be.

The gods have given you this opportunity,
he told himself.
You cannot pass it by.

Bolstering his courage as best he could, he stepped off the sill, into the open air. A few of the spectators gasped, but he shapeshifted so swiftly that he had no chance to hit the ground. It was not a difficult transformation; his soul remembered this form as though it had actually been his own. All he had to do was shut down every part of his mind that was human and let the ancient memories possess him utterly. Surrendering everything he had become in the last few centuries and returning to the one state he feared—and hungered for—the most.

Those few locals who hadn’t run screaming in terror when they first saw him change now watched as a large and powerful Souleater rose up over their city. It flew one wide circle above the desert plain surrounding it, then headed out to the west, following the scent trail of its brothers. And soon was out of sight.

Two dozen Souleaters screeching their mating challenges overhead was a sound piercing enough to bring pain to human ears. The creatures seemed oblivious to the human presence beneath them, and occasionally one even dropped down low enough that the turbulence from its wings rippled the sand at their feet. Ramirus saw some of the witches cringe when they got that close, but the Guardians were eager to do what they had come here for, and they kept looking at Salvator and Favias, hoping to get permission to fire. But no one was going to sanction an attack on the ikati until Kamala had made her attempt to draw them away from Jezalya; a wounded Souleater might well focus his attention on his attacker and thus get left behind.

Much to all their relief, the Souleaters did follow Kamala when she finally reappeared, and she led them off on a chase to the west; their cries of lust and fury echoed across the landscape with decreasing volume until they could be heard no more.

After such painful cacophony, silence was welcome.

Ramirus had conjured a spell of his own to supplement that of the witches, using Siderea’s scarf as a focus. It hung about the barrier like a thin mist now, ready to detect any spell of Siderea’s that was sent out into the desert. Now, even as Ramirus watched, his sorcerous construct responded to something. Apparently many small spells had been sent out at the same time, and they pierced the witch’s barrier—and his own creation—simultaneously. He could see his spell ripple briefly as they passed through it, like water into which a handful of pebbles had been cast; by the time the surface settled down again, he had determined what the spells were and the purpose behind them.

His expression was dark as he turned to Salvator. “The tribes have all been alerted. They’ve been told to head in toward Jezalya immediately, and to kill anything in their path that doesn’t belong there. In short, us.”

Favias cursed under his breath. “How far out are they?”

Ramirus shook his head. “Don’t know yet. I got a mental impression that she expects them to be able to move in pretty quickly, so we should assume the worst until reconnaissance says otherwise.”

“They’ll be coming from all directions at once,” Salvator muttered.

It was not an unexpected development. In fact, it was the reason that they had brought so many common soldiers with them, just in case something like this happened. But that did not mean that an attack by the tribes wouldn’t put their people in danger, not to mention complicate the portions of this operation they had yet to launch.

We must find the Souleater queen quickly,
Ramirus thought, frustrated by the new complication.
This is all a wasted effort otherwise.

Salvator opened his mouth to speak . . . and then closed it. A dark shape was rising up from Jezalya, and the sudden realization of what it must be appeared to have banished all other concerns

The queen was rising.

Ramirus could hear the Guardians preparing to fire at her, archers nocking their arrows while witches prepared to lend added velocity to their fire. But something was wrong. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but when he did, he called out
“Hold!”
with all the power his voice could muster. Apparently Salvator trusted him to make such a call, for the High King held up his hand and nodded his approval of the termination. Shina shut her eyes, presumably to began to pass the message along to the Seers at all their relay points. Thus far not a single arrow had been fired.

“It’s not a female,” Ramirus said.

It wasn’t a real Souleater, either. Its body looked proper enough, but its presence lacked that disquieting power that was a hallmark of the species. And he could see that the Guardians were having no trouble focusing their attention upon it, which would not have been the case with a real ikati.

The false beast circled low overhead, following the circumference of the witch’s barrier. Ramirus held his breath, hoping he had not made the wrong call. Then, just as it passed over the royal party, a wind whipped up about Ramirus’ feet, raising enough sand to blind them temporarily. But his sorcerous senses still functioned, and he was able to catch a glimpse of the power that had conjured the wind, as well as the metaphysical signature of the man behind it.