Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  “Your service is worth far more than merchant’s gold,” he said graciously.

  “You owe me your victory,” she said bluntly.

  There was no way to deny it. Lips tight, he nodded.

  “Your entire tribe is in my debt as well.” The dark gaze was mesmerizing, merciless. “Had I not changed the course of battle, your men would have perished outside the gates of Jezalya. Your women would not have had warriors to protect them after that, when neighboring tribes moved in to claim their land, their wealth, their persons. Within a year your tribe would have perished, and within a generation all its proud history would have been forgotten. Do you not agree?”

  He stiffened. “I am the one who made a bargain with you. The price is mine to pay. Leave my people out of it.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “So the new prince is a man of honor. Little wonder that men are willing to die for him.”

  His expression tightened, but he said nothing.

  “Surely such a prince must hunger for more than a single conquest. Surely this one city, no matter how well appointed, would not be enough to satisfy him.”

  After a long day of battle and bloodshed, Nasaan suddenly found that he did not have the energy for riddles. Not even from a demon. “If you came to name your price, then do so. If not . . . .” A spark of defiance took root in his soul. “I have other business to attend to.”

  Was that anger in her eyes? For a moment it seemed he could sense the supernatural power that was coiled tightly within her, ready to destroy anything and everything in its path. But he was not going to roll over on his back for anyone.

  She needs me for something, he thought. Else she would not go to such effort to expand upon my debt. Still, he had taken a risk in confronting her. The gods alone knew where that would lead.

  “There are cities to the north,” she said to him, “even more prosperous than this one. Roads that lead directly to Anshasa and beyond. Bodies of water so vast that you cannot see the far side of them, even on a clear day.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and seductive, as her power wrapped itself around him; his flesh stiffened as if warm fingers were probing his manhood. “Do you not hunger for those things, my prince? Do you not dream of possessing them? I can help you establish an empire such as most men only dream of.”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “I imagine it would cost a man his soul to pay for such a service.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed. “For some. But I am a simple creature, with simple desires. I am content to ally myself with a man of power and bask in his glory.” Irony was a black fire in her eyes. “Is that too high a price to ask?”

  A shiver ran down his spine as understanding came to him. “You want to rule by my side.”

  “Every king must have a queen. Even if she is not openly acknowledged as such.”

  “And what will my people say when I give a creature that is not even human power over them?”

  “Your people will know only that you found a woman who pleased you and took her in to serve as your counselor. Whether I appear to be your wife, your concubine, or your queen is irrelevant to me. Only you and I will know the truth. As for having authority over them . . . .” A cold, dry smile flickered across her lips. “I offer you my counsel. Nothing more. Take it, and my power will be wedded to your ambition. Deny me, and you will fight your battles alone. That is my offer.” And my threat, her expression added.

  It was a strange offer, coming from a desert spirit. She could easily have demanded more. He was surprised she was not threatening him more openly . . . though the threat lurking between her words was no less powerful for being unvoiced.

  “This will satisfy you?” he asked. “Even without public acclaim? It is enough to satisfy my debt to you?”

  “To plant the seed of an empire and help it grow to strength? Yes, that will satisfy me.” With a smile she stepped forward, closing the space between them. Her strange perfume filled his nostrils as she reached out to touch his chest, slender fingers tracing a thin line of blood that had spattered across his breastplate. “Besides, I find a man of power . . . enticing.”

  A sudden rush of heat to his loins cut short his breath. Was it some djir spell that was stirring his blood, or just the female power of her presence? He had fought in enough wars to know that a man was quick to arouse in the hours following a battle. What if she adopts the role of a prince’s concubine? Will she play the part in private as well, in all its aspects? For a moment it was hard for him to think clearly. Then, very slowly, he brought his hand up and closed it over her own. And lifted her hand away from his chest, putting distance between them once more.

  “Your price will be met,” he said quietly. Feeling the blood pound in his veins, not sure whether desire or ambition was the greater driving force. Never mind that he had just sold his soul to a desert spirit, whose nature and motives were a mystery. She had stirred up more a more powerful desire in him than any simple lust. And proven, in doing so, just how well she knew him.

  No, he thought. Jezalya is not enough for me.

  Smiling triumphantly, she stepped back from him. “Then I will leave you to your other business. For now.” Her eyes glittered darkly, reminding him of his vision of her on the battlefield. Faceted eyes, black as jet. Such secrets in their depths! Hopefully he would learn their true source before they consumed him.

  It struck him as she walked to the door that he should have asked about the winged creature that was at the battle. Too late now. He would have to remember it for later.

  “Oh. One thing more.” She turned back to face him. “All the tribes that make their home within your territory and accept your rightful authority, I will protect as though they were my own kin. Those outside your borders, however, are mine to do with as I please.” She smiled coldly. “I trust that will not be a problem for you.”

  This time she did not ask for an answer, nor wait to hear one, but left him alone amidst the city’s gods to make his peace with the price of victory.

  Chapter 2

  I

  T WAS raining by the time Salvator reached the monastery, which did not make his entourage very happy. The servants had managed to get a traveling canopy unpacked when the rain first began, and four of them now carried it high over Salvator’s head so that he and his horse could remain dry, but other riders did not have such protection. The guards dealt with it well enough—they never expected to be pampered anyway—but the various courtiers who had come along on the journey in the hope of winning Salvator’s favor were less than pleased. Out of the corner of his eye the High King could see one of them struggling to make sure that his cloak covered every single inch of his precious silken garments, lest a drop of water discolor them. Yes, he thought, God alone knew what the state of the kingdom would be if one of the High King’s advisers got his clothing wet!

  The young monarch was tempted to urge his horse to greater speed, to ride out into the rain ahead of them all, but he knew that the servants carrying the canopy would be mortified if he did so. Besides, he did not need Cresel lecturing him later on all the reasons he should bear himself with proper royal dignity. Or his mother. Even though the sensation of rainwater pouring down upon his head would refresh him body and spirit, washing away the suffocating formality of the royal court, that did not matter. Some things simply could not be allowed.

  As the company made its agonizingly slow approach to the monastery gates, Salvator felt a pang of longing for the life that he had once lived within these walls, and for the utter simplicity of his former existence. His soul ached for the familiar rhythm of monastic duty, the moral clarity of a life devoted to spiritual ideals. It seemed like a lifetime since he had left those things behind. How long would it be before his spirit finally accepted the change, so that he no longer felt as if he were playing a part in some bizarre play, reading the part of a High King while everyone applauded dutifully?

  Evidently the monks had seen his entourage approaching, for the heavy wooden doors open
ed before the first rider reached them. A robed brother came up to Salvator as he entered the courtyard, holding his horse steady while he dismounted, then leading the animal away. No words were needed, nor were any offered. Other monks tended to his entourage with equally wordless efficiency. Their silence was clearly disturbing to Salvator’s courtiers, who were accustomed to a stream of incessant chatter. A few of them even asked the brothers pointless questions in a vain attempt to get them talking, but they received no more than a nod in response, or perhaps a single word at most. Finally the silken magpies settled for prattling amongst themselves, wondering aloud when the current weather might improve, commenting upon how miserable it was to be traveling on such a day, expressing concern that the rain might damage a particular garment. So at least the bad weather was keeping them occupied.

  How unlike these chattering birds the brothers of the monastery were! An observer might have guessed them to be from a wholly different species. Nor did they offer up any more deference to their visitors than the absolute minimum that protocol demanded. Such behavior probably would have enraged Danton, who had insisted that all men bend to humble themselves before the Royal Presence. But to Salvator it was refreshing. The Penitents honored and obeyed mortal kings, but they refused to glorify them; true humility was reserved for the Creator alone. Not all rulers were comfortable with such a philosophy, but it suited Salvator well.

  “I have come to see the abbot ,” he told one of the monks. The brother nodded and gestured for him to follow him into the heart of the monastic complex. A handful of royal guards moved to follow the pair, but Salvator waved them back. There was no danger for him in this place.

  As he left the courtyard, he saw one of the brothers leading his courtiers to a cloistered walkway where they might escape the worst of the rain. The monastery would be hard pressed to accommodate so many visitors, he mused. Normally there were no more than a handful of pilgrims here at any one time. Well, at least his court peacocks would have something to complain about while he was gone.

  He was led past herbal gardens, all too familiar; the fresh scent of rosemary and sage was muted by the rain but still discernable. A bouquet of memory. Salvator let the smells seep into his skin as he walked, and he welcomed the rain that was falling on him as though it were a ritual cleansing bath. There was power in this place—not the kind of power other princes would covet, perhaps, but a subtler thing, a quiet transcendence—and he wanted to drink it all in while he could. God knew, his usual environment was not conducive to meditation.

  The abbot was waiting for him in the main cloister. He was a man of advanced age, his face as finely wrinkled as a crumpled sheet of parchment, with a fringe of short white hair balanced on the edge of his skull like an afterthought. Though he was in charge of the monastery and responsible for the spiritual well-being of its community, he had always refused to set himself apart from his charges in any way, and was indistinguishable in dress and manner from the other monks. We are all brothers in the eyes of the Creator, he had once told the local primus, disdaining to wear the special robes he had been offered. Humility was the most important lesson for him to teach others, he explained, and how could he do that if he did not embrace it with a full heart himself?

  “High King Salvator.” The abbot bowed his head stiffly, a formal acknowledgment. “You do us great honor by your visit.”

  “And you honor me by your hospitality,” Salvator responded with equal formality. Suddenly he found himself at a loss as to how to interact with this man, whom he had worked with and prayed beside for four years of his life. His recent change in station had put them on different planes of existence, and he was not sure how to bridge the gap.

  “Your people were well received?” the abbot asked.

  “Indeed they were.”

  The abbot coughed into his hand. “And are you sure you brought a large enough company with you? Because I wouldn’t want the High King to run short of servants.”

  The knot in Salvator’s gut loosened. He chuckled softly. “I can’t even take a piss these days without a hundred people watching.”

  “And I am sure that such a custom contributes to the welfare of the nation. Though it is beyond the ability of a simple monk to understand how.” A smile spread across his face, refreshing in its easy warmth. “It is good to see you, my son—excuse me, Majesty—though I worry about what sort of business might bring you to this place. I suspect this is not merely a social call.”

  “No.” Salvator’s brief smile faded. “Not a social call. But you don’t need to call me by title when we’re alone, Father. The priest who tamed a wild young prince, and brought him to know and love God, deserves better than that.”

  The abbot nodded solemnly. “Again, you honor me.”

  “Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”

  He looked about in surprise. Neither the cloister nor its courtyards had anyone else in it. “We are alone here, are we not?”

  “No. I mean . . . where we cannot be interrupted.”

  The abbot looked deep into his eyes, searching for clues there. Could he sense the burden that had driven Salvator to come here, could he guess at its name? If so he showed no sign of it, but merely nodded. “Come, then.”

  Salvator followed him out of the courtyard, falling into step behind him as naturally as he had back when he had lived here. It would take some time before the habits of those years began to fade, he reflected; in the meantime, it was strangely comforting to let another man lead the way, if only for this short distance.

  Very few rooms in the monastery had doors. The abbot led him to one of them, ushered him inside, and shut the heavy oak door behind them. There were a few chairs set neatly along the wall, flanking a narrow window, but Salvator chose to remain standing. If not for the aura of serenity that permeated the entire monastery, he might have started pacing; as it was, his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides as he considered how to broach his business. The abbot waited patiently, his own hands folded inside his sleeves, the living embodiment of tranquility.

  “I require counsel,” Salvator said at last.

  “A king has many counselors,” the abbot said quietly. “I am sure they know more about ruling a country than I do. Have they all failed you?”

  “This is not about royal business. It is about . . . spiritual matters.”

  The abbot raised an eyebrow.

  “My court advisors are not Penitents,” Salvator continued. “They cannot speak to the needs of my soul.”

  “There are scions of the Church ready and willing to attend upon you,” the abbot pointed out. “I would imagine a Penitent king could snap his fingers and the local primus would drop everything to accommodate him.”

  “Aye, the local primus has come to me,” Salvator said dryly. “As have a number of his peers. In truth, I did not know there were so many primi with an interest in my kingdom.”

  “Your ascension is a significant event for our faith,” the abbot said. “They wish to celebrate it.”

  Salvator nodded tightly.

  “So what better counsel could you possibly seek than that which a primus of our Church might offer you?”

  A faint smile played upon the High King’s lips. “Do you doubt your own capacity, Father?”

  The abbot almost rose to the bait—almost—but instead drew in a deep breath and said, “I am what I am, a simple monk, whose experience has been limited to affairs inside this monastery for decades. If you want me to talk about the Creator and man’s duty to him, I will be happy to do so. But a High King needs someone who understands the complexities of his office, his secular responsibilities. And I fear I may not be the best choice for that purpose.”

  Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then turned away from the abbot. Walking over to the narrow window, he looked out upon the rain-soaked gardens beyond. It was a minute before he spoke.

  “The primi are . . . ecstatic to have a Penitent king at last. Intoxicated by dreams of what the Church mig
ht become in time, if I would only help them make the most of this opportunity. That is their mission, you see. To determine how my reign can best serve the Church’s interests, and to make sure I follow that path.”

  “You think they would not be objective in counseling you?”

  He sighed. “I think that to ask them to be objective would dishonor their calling.” Salvator turned back to him. “You may not have their worldly knowledge, Father, but I know you will speak to me from your heart. And that is what I need right now.”

  For a long moment the monk was silent. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. Finally, very slowly, he nodded. “Very well. I will do my best for you.”

  It was the moment Salvator had been waiting for, but suddenly he found that he did not know how to begin. He had rehearsed his words a hundred times at least, yet all those preparations now deserted him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he struggled to gather his thoughts. “What have you been told about the lyr?”

  “You mean the recent correction to Church doctrine? That they are now revealed to be an ancient line of witches with some measure of immunity to the Souleaters’ power, part of the Creator’s overall plan for mankind rather than an unnatural race set apart from it. That the barrier called the Wrath of the Gods is not a curse, nor anything associated with false gods, but simply an ancient spell, imbued with the power of human self-sacrifice.” The abbot blinked. “I admit I was. . . . surprised . . . but then I heard that you had played a part in that revelation.” He smiled faintly. “You have always been full of surprises.”

  “I was but a spectator,” he said with genuine humility. “My mother risked her life to gain access to an ancient artifact that revealed the truth. At the cost of her own faith, I might add.”

  The abbot nodded. “That is the unfortunate risk of worshiping false gods. One single note of truth and the whole tower of lies collapses.” He sighed. “I am glad to learn that the heritage you were so ashamed of has been exonerated. Such shame was never necessary in the first place, but I know it weighed heavily upon your soul.”