Wings of Wrath (16 page)

Lazaroth snorted. “Hardly. You forget his damnable religion. Lord and Lady Kierdwyn have asked me to steer clear of him as much as possible . . . thus I am passing the time in such
delightful
company as this.” There was a dry edge to his tone that came up just short of being overtly insulting. Lazaroth was not in a good mood.

“Yes,” Tamil said, “and what is all that about, anyway? I must admit I don't pay much attention to morati religions. What exactly is the problem with this one?”

“The Penitents believe there is one god,” Colivar said, “who acts as both Creator and Destroyer to keep the world in balance. Mankind offended him during the First Age of Kings, so he created the demons we call the Souleaters to teach him a lesson in humility. Civilization collapsed as a result, the First Kingdoms fell to ruin . . . you know the rest. Presumably that was enough to satisfy this god, for he eventually allowed the demons to be driven off. And so here we are today. Man's duty on earth now is to acknowledge the sins of his forefathers and do penance for them. While trying not to offend again.”

Tamil raised an eyebrow. “Well that seems rather . . . depressing. But what is the issue with Magisters?”

“We are tools of the Destroyer,” Colivar said quietly. “The embodiment of Pride.”

Lazaroth chuckled darkly. “Our sorcery is unclean. It corrupts the human soul. Etcetera, etcetera.” He took a deep drink from his cup. “Of course, to be fair, the Penitents are not so very far from the truth in that, are they?”

They are not far from the truth in any of their beliefs,
Colivar thought darkly. Shadows of memory stirred in the deepest recesses of his brain, fleeting images of things and people that were better left forgotten. “It will be interesting to see what happens to their faith when it is confirmed that the Souleaters are returning. Will they believe that their Creator has rejected them? Or that he is testing them once more? The latter could prove . . . unpleasant.”

“Fanatics are strengthened by adversity,” Tamil pointed out.

“Aye,” Tirstan agreed, “and meanwhile Salvator seems to be doing well enough with only witches to assist him. A king can afford the cost of such service.”

“And what do you all think of the rumor that he has made a secret contract with one of us?” Lazaroth asked them all.

Colivar's eyes narrowed. “I doubted it myself, before I arrived. But now . . .” An expansive gesture took in the whole of the land surrounding them. “Let us say this place is a lot greener than it should be.”

“Witches can make the grass grow,” Tirstan pointed out.

“Aye, but it's unlikely that a Penitent monk would order a man to shorten his lifespan for such a prideful purpose.” He scuffed at the thick grass by his feet; the blades were so closely packed that it was impossible to get a clear look at the ruined earth beneath it. “This is a Magister's work, without question. The only question is, whose? And what has been asked in return?”

Lazaroth chuckled. “So now we all have a mystery to occupy our minds when the morati festivities grow dull. Well done, Colivar. I shall invite you to all my parties.”

“At any rate you have lost your wager.” Tirstan grinned. “If Salvator has agreed to a contract with one of us, then no sorcery can touch him.”

“That is assuming everyone plays by the rules,” Tamil pointed out.

“True enough.” Lazaroth's dark eyes were fixed on Colivar. “Though the price for breaking the Law is considerable, is it not?”

Colivar's expression was unreadable. “As it should be,” he said quietly. He put his cup down on the table and with a short wave of his hand bound enough sorcery to clean it for the next user.

“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a few errands to run for my own patron . . .”

He started toward the door of the tent, but Lazaroth's voice stopped him.

“She is here, you know.”

Colivar looked back at him. “Who?”

“The one you all doted on, while she had something you wanted. And now have abandoned to face death alone.” He smiled; it was a dark expression. “How she must hate you for that! As I might myself, if I had a woman's heart.”

Colivar's lips tightened. He said nothing.

“Of course, the morati have no more value to us than maggots. Aye? But this one was allowed to believe she was something more. How cruel, to learn the truth at last! From queen to maggot, all in a handful of days.”

Tirstan snapped irritably, “That's enough, Lazaroth.”

“At least I did not use her as some others did.” Lazaroth's eyes glittered coldly. “So doubtless her resentment will not focus on me. That's some kind of comfort, isn't it?”

For a moment there was silence. Colivar considered all the responses he might make, and found none of them up to his standards. Finally he left the pavilion without answering, leaving the Magisters that remained behind to discuss the question to death in his absence.

Such words should not bother him. They should not bother any Magister. Such men left their human instincts behind with their first transition, and with it all compassion. Surely he, Colivar, knew that better than anyone.

We have done her no wrong,
he told himself.
Her days were numbered from the start, and not even we can change that.

But Lazaroth's words echoed in his brain for many hours, and not until sleep came at last, deep in the night, was he able to let them go.

“Your Majesty?”

Siderea smiled as she turned to greet the young woman who was addressing her. It took some effort. Although she was standing in the middle of the grand pavilion at the campsite provided for the Free States, surrounded by a bevy of rich young men who would be all too happy to shower her with compliments and attention, her mind had been elsewhere.

Three times now she had passed by Magisters in one place or another, all of them men she would once have called her lovers. Each had been fastidiously polite, and one had even asked after her health. Her health! Did the idiots think that she didn't know the truth about her own condition? Or did they believe that engaging her in petty social repartee as if nothing were wrong would somehow make the situation better for her?

They could save her if they wanted to. She believed that with all her heart. Oh, they made grand speeches about how no woman could join their sorcerous society; she'd heard enough of those arguments to write a book on the subject. Feminine nature was too weak, or too unstable, or else just too
unmasculine
to master “true power.” But that didn't mean they couldn't do anything else for her. They had preserved her youth well past its normal limits already, hadn't they? Surely they had some other trick up their black sleeves that could buy her a bit more time.

The truth was, they had chosen to let her die. And not one of them had the decency to admit to it. Or even to offer her a moment of honest sympathy. Gods, how she hated them all!

But the moment's business called for a convincing smile, and so she fixed one dutifully on her face as she offered her hand to the young woman who had approached her. She was a pretty young thing, who curtseyed very nicely, touching her hand briefly with her own, as if not quite sure how much formality was called for. A charmingly sincere moment.

“Forgive me for bothering you,” she said. Her cheeks flushed slightly (a delightful pink!) but her gaze was steady and strong. “I was hoping you might be able to spare a moment for a question or two? I do not mean to impose . . .” She looked about at the men surrounding them, several of whom winked suggestively or raised their glasses as her gaze fell over them.

Siderea caught her meaning immediately.
Women's business
. The thought brought a genuine smile to her face, for the first time in many hours. “Of course, my dear. Here, come with me. You gentlemen will all excuse us, won't you?” She beamed at the peacocks surrounding them, while steering the young woman toward a quieter corner of the tent. “In the meantime, you are . . . ?”

“Petrana Bellisi, Your Majesty. Of House Bellisi.”

Bellisi. Of course. That was one of the names that had been raised as a possible marital prospect for Salvator. Duke Bellisi ruled one of the smaller Free States, but he was well connected by treaty and marriage to just about all the others, which meant that his eldest daughter possessed an impressive political dowry. If Salvator wanted to conquer the Free States by alliance rather than by warfare, marital ties to House Bellisi would be a good first step.

Intrigued now, Siderea took stock of the young woman's assets while they walked. She was a lovely young thing, with the sort of creamy white skin that men loved to write songs about, and a natural rose hue to her cheeks and lips that other women might pay a fortune to imitate. Her figure looked pleasing enough, but it was currently laced into a sober gown of dark brown wool that did her no service. Far too conservative for this sort of setting, and the color did nothing for her complexion. No doubt a man had picked it out for her, Siderea thought. No woman with eyes in her head would ever have picked out such an unflattering shade for herself.

It's a monk's color,
Siderea realized. Shaking her head in amazement, at how little men understood about . . . well, about anything.

Grateful to have something to focus on other than her own brooding thoughts, she directed the girl to a pair of unoccupied chairs. “So what can I do for you, my dear?”

The girl sat down carefully, smoothing the folds of her gown as she did so. Then she smoothed them again, delaying the moment of revelation. Clearly she did not know how to begin. “I find myself in need of advice,” she said at last. “And I am told you are the best one to ask.”

Siderea smiled her most charming smile, trying to put the girl at her ease. “How could I resist such flattery? Tell me what it is you seek.”

“My father means to introduce me to King Salvator after his coronation. He says that I should do my best to make a positive impression, even though I will not have very long to do so.”

“Indeed.” Siderea nodded in agreement. “Every young woman that imagines herself a High Queen will be doing exactly the same. All week, no doubt. I imagine Salvator will be quite overwhelmed.”

“But you see, that is my question.” Her slender hands twisted in her lap. “I do not know . . . that is, what sort of. . . .” She looked pleadingly up at Siderea. How dark and wide her eyes were, and how lustrous! Brush a bit of kohl about the edges, and courtiers would scribe poems to praise them.

Siderea reached out gently and took the girl's hand in her own. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And you did right in coming to me. After all, I too have a vested interest in seeing a daughter of the Free States win Salvator's hand.”

“They say that no one knows men better than you. That once you have set your eyes upon a man, he cannot possibly resist you.”

“And you wish me to teach you that art?” she asked. “In a handful of hours?”

Petrana blushed. “I would never ask so much of you. Of course.”

Perhaps not, but the concept was intriguing. Siderea could not engage in marital politics on her own behalf, being well past the age of fertility, but directing a pawn in that game could be delightful sport. Of course, Petrana would have to become a proper pawn for that to work out properly. But that would not be so very hard to manage, would it?

“I am not averse to teaching you my art,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl's cheek. “But it will require more privacy than we can manage in this place. Perhaps you will visit me sometime after we return home? So that we can devote some proper time to it?”

“I—I would be honored, your Majesty. Thank you.”

“In the meantime, how to make sure Salvator has the proper impression of you this week . . .” She steepled her fingers thoughtfully. “He is a man, you know. He may have been a monk in the past and he may soon be a king, but he is still a man. Too many forget that.”

“He has lived as a sworn celibate for four years,” Petrana said. “My father says that is what matters most.”

Siderea chuckled. “Yes, it matters, though few will understand how to take advantage of it.” She leaned forward intently. “Shall I tell you what mistakes your rivals will make? They all assume that is Salvator is defined by his celibacy. That after four years without a woman, he will so vulnerable to games of desire that he will forget about everything else. Some of them will wear their most suggestive gowns, far more daring than their normal attire, hoping that he will be so blinded by the sudden upwelling of lust that all other things will cease to matter. In this they forget that he is an Aurelius, raised by a powerful monarch, and suckled on politics at his mother's breast. He will want a wife worthy of sharing his throne with him, and whatever lust he feels will be in that context. A woman who is too blatant with her temptation, who goes too far in catering to his lust, may appeal to him as a concubine, but he will never place the crown of the High Kingdom on her head.