Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  “The Creator gives us puzzles sometimes,” Salvator responded. “To test us. If we mistake their nature, our own error can then becomes a test in its own right. I do not understand the purpose of all He has done to my mother’s family or why He left them in spiritual darkness so long, but I do understand that they are being tested now. What the end game will be, only God Himself can say.”

  “Do they see their past error now? Or cling to their ancient gods still?”

  “Hard to say. Only a handful of lyr received my mother’s revelations with any clarity; others experienced only misty visions, easily misread. The Lord and Lady Protector of Kierdwyn—my grandparents—were among those who received the strongest images, but I am not sure how much of that they communicated to their people. They struggle now to find a way to reconcile these new discoveries with their ancient faith, so that when the truth is made public their people will be able to accept it. Whether that will be possible or not I do not know. It must be a terrible thing to suddenly discover that the legends you dedicated your whole life to have no more substance than a minstrel’s romance, that your most sacred artifacts were erected by simple stonemasons, and that the greatest miracle of your faith was no more than a mundane witch’s spell.” He paused. “That said, their purpose has not really changed, has it? The lyr have spent a thousand years preparing for the day when the Souleaters would return. They believe they are fated to do battle with them, so that the Second Age of Kings will not collapse in ruin as the First did. Does it really matter who gave them those orders in the first place? The demons are in fact returning. The lyr will soon be tested. That much seems indisputable.”

  The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “Has it been confirmed that the Souleaters are back? We’ve heard rumors that one was seen up north, but no more than that. The Primus Council has made no official statement on the matter.”

  For a moment Salvator did not answer. There was a black weight upon his soul, and giving its name to another man might lend it more substance.

  “Aye,” he said at last. His voice was solemn and quiet, the way one might speak at a graveside. “They have returned. We are sure of that. And I think there may be one in the High Kingdom itself—at least one—thought I do not know exactly where.”

  The abbot breathed in sharply. “I have heard nothing of such a creature in our lands.”

  Salvator nodded. “I may be the only one who knows about it.”

  The abbot raised an eyebrow.

  Salvator ran a hand through his short black hair, a nervous gesture. “I seem to be . . . aware of its presence. As one might be aware of something just outside the limits of one’s vision. Sometimes I awaken at night with a strange scent in my nostrils, as if the thing has actually been inside my chamber—a sweet and smothering scent, that my very soul reviles—yet even though I tell myself it was only a dream, I know deep inside that it was more than that. With the same sure instinct that my mother knew her visions at the Throne of Tears were true, I know that mine are as well.” His hand fell back down by his side. “You see now why I have come to you.”

  “Does your mother know?” the abbot asked quietly.

  Salvator shook his head.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “I first sensed its presence the night of my coronation. Though I didn’t know what it was at the time. Nor did it seem a particularly significant event back then; I thought I was just having bad dreams.” He laughed shortly. “I was having a lot of nightmares in those days.

  “But night after night the feeling persisted. It would come to me most often in that moment between waking and sleeping, when the soul is most vulnerable to supernatural powers. Something was in the High Kingdom that should not be, I was sure of it, and its nature made my skin crawl. Yet why had I become aware of its presence so abruptly? I had not developed any special powers between one day and the next. All I could think of was that the High Kingdom had become mine that day. No longer my father’s territory, or my mother’s, but my own. The thing that I was sensing might have been present in it for some time already, but that night it became a threat to me, personally. And so I had become aware of it. Without any idea of what it truly was or what its presence signified.” He paused. “I was afraid that if I revealed such thoughts to others, they might deem me mad. I was afraid that I was mad. I dared not confide in anyone.

  “Then came the Alkali campaign. I traveled up north and met with the Guardians, and they showed me the relics that Rhys had collected. Pieces of an actual Souleater.” He shuddered, remembering that day. “As I touched them, as I felt their texture beneath my fingertips, I suddenly smelled that same sweet and foul odor that had come to me so often in the night. And it was as if that scent pulled aside a veil that had been blinding me. Suddenly I knew, with utter certainty, that the presence I been sensing for so many nights was one of these ancient demons.

  “So now I know it for a fact: There is a Souleater in my territory. It seems that I sense its presence as surely as a solitary predator can sense when a rival enters its territory. Animal instinct, visceral and pure.” Again he paused. “You understand, Father, I have shared this with no one. Until today.”

  The abbot nodded solemnly. It was clear from his expression that he did not think Salvator was mad, which was at least a step in the right direction. “If the lyr are witches,” he said thoughtfully, “then you bear the touch of their witchery in your veins. Given what we know about their history, one should not be surprised by such a manifestation.”

  “My mother’s blood is especially powerful,” Salvator provided. “I don’t really understand all the details of that, but it’s the reason they chose her for the Alkali mission. Apparently she has some special capacity that the other lyr don’t, a gift that allows her to connect with any descendent of the Seven Bloodlines. That’s how she was able to channel the visions from the Throne of Tears to all the other lyr.”

  “And you have inherited her blood. Perhaps her special capacity as well.” He paused. “Maybe it’s time you talked to her about your visions. She may be able to tell you more about them than I can.”

  For a moment Salvator shut his eyes. Then he said, very quietly, “It is not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  Salvator sighed heavily. “After I returned from Alkali, I asked my witches to search the High Kingdom for any Souleaters that might be there. They came up empty-handed. I know the Magisters have been searching for the creatures as well. One of them is bound in contract to my mother—she thinks I don’t know that, by the way—and I’m sure she has asked him for help. Yet she is not aware of any Souleater in my Kingdom, so that means Ramirus has not found one either. This demon’s mesmeric power protects it from discovery.”

  “But you sense its presence.”

  Salvator nodded tightly.

  “Which implies . . . .”

  “That I am resistant to its power,” he said solemnly.

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  Steepling his hands upon his chest, Salvator stared down at them in silence for a moment. “When I came to this monastery four years ago, it was because I believed with all my heart that if enough of us did penance for the sins of mankind, the Souleaters would not return to us. That the Destroyer would be appeased by our sacrifice, and spare mankind His wrath. But we failed.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “We failed, Father. And now the ancient demons have been sent to us again, to bring down the Second Age of Kings as they did the First.

  “So what is our duty as Penitents now? To stand aside and watch the world be destroyed, offering nothing better than lamentations from the sidelines? Are we permitted to hide away the contents of our libraries, so that when human civilization finally collapses our knowledge will be preserved for future generations? Or would that be deemed blasphemy, an attempt to lessen the impact of divine justice? Are we allowed to do battle with these creatures in any way? Or is it our duty to stand aside in the name of the Destroyer, and watch
as the most terrible prophecies of our faith are fulfilled?

  “These questions are not addressed in our scripture. And I cannot ask the primi for answers. There is too much power in such questions for me to entrust them to any man who cares about power.” He spread his hands wide. “So I have brought them here. To you, Father. To hear your thoughts upon these matters.”

  For a long time the abbot was silent. Finally, very quietly, he said, “I am humbled by your faith in me. But I cannot provide you with answers, you know that. Those you must find for yourself.”

  “I have not come for answers,” he responded. “Only your wisdom, to shed light upon the questions.” When the abbot said nothing, he pressed, “The Creator once led me to this place, to become a man of peace. Now He has placed a sword in my hand, such as no other man can wield. If I take it up, will I betray my faith? I know that if I turn away from it, I may betray my kingdom.”

  The abbot turned away from him. In silence he stood, still as a statue, a beam of late afternoon sunlight washing over his sandaled feet. Though he did not speak aloud, Salvator knew that he was praying, and he waited.

  “The Church has declared that the lyr are not abominations,” the abbot said at last. “The power in their veins is a natural force, provided by the Creator. Or so we are now told. Would God have provided mankind with such a power if he did not mean for him to use it?”

  “The Magisters have power as well,” he pointed out.

  “The power of the Magisters is an unclean thing, ripped from the heart of Creation and crafted into a foul form that goes against God and nature. Only the blackest of souls wield true sorcery, and any man who is touched by it will share in their corruption.”

  He turned back to Salvator. “I have read the ancient scriptures. Not only the Book of Destruction, which you know of, but other records as well. Forgotten texts, scribed on fragments of parchment so fragile that the touch of a breeze would render them to dust, or incised into clay tablets that have been shattered into a thousand bits, which generations of monks have struggled to reassemble. In all those records—in all the prayers of our ancestors—there is not one word of condemnation for those who fought against the Souleaters in the Great War. I have even seen fragments of an ancient psalm that praised their sacrifice. It is clear that although their mission was doomed, their courage was celebrated. So . . . such actions are clearly not condemned by our faith.”

  Salvator nodded tightly.

  “Whether that is the same answer your primus would give you, I don’t know. As you have said, his perspective may be more . . . complex. But for as much as a humble brother may offer you his personal opinion . . . that is mine.”

  “So now I have two paths before me,” Salvator said. “If my highest duty is to God, then which path is the proper one?”

  A faint smile flickered across the old monk’s face. “Salvator. My son. Why did you set aside your priestly robes when you claimed your father’s throne? Remind me.”

  Startled, he said, “A monk cannot be High King. His vows do not permit it.”

  “That’s not what I asked. You could have remained a priest of our faith, though not a monk. There have been priest-kings before. Why did you give that up, as well?”

  “The High Queen required it, as a condition of my elevation.”

  “And you could have argued with her over the point. Perhaps in time convinced her to change her mind. Yet you didn’t even try to do so. Why not?”

  Memories stirred in the back of Salvator’s mind as he recalled the turmoil of that time. So much uncertainty. So many doubts. “A man cannot serve two causes with equal passion,” he said finally.

  The abbot reached forward and put a hand on his arm. “Then you did not come here to choose between two paths, Salvator Aurelius. You came to make your peace with what you have already decided.”

  Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then nodded.

  “The counsel you need now is God’s, not mine,” the abbot said. “So why don’t you join me in the chapel, and unburden your soul to Him? I am sure He can give you more insight into the questions that remain. And perhaps He will quiet the torment in your soul somewhat . . . at least until the next trial begins.”

  Salvator drew in a deep breath, then nodded.

  The abbot walked to the heavy door and opened it. Silently, then, with only the distant patter of rain for accompaniment, the two of them walked side by side toward the chapel.

  Chapter 3

  T

  HE WEATHER was cool when Hedda started toward the river, for which she was grateful. The summer thus far had been a blistering one, which even the thick stands of pine trees surrounding the manor house had been unable to ameliorate. No doubt the Lord and Lady of Valza had scores of servants working to cool them off right now—fanning them with feathers the length of a man’s arm, blotting the sweat from their noble brows with silken handkerchiefs, bringing them drinks mixed with ice shavings from the underground storehouse—but for everyone else, work just went on as usual.

  She made her way along the twisting path slowly, carefully, not wanting to drop the basket that she carried. Not because her Ladyship would really care if her fine silken garments fell onto the loam—well, she would care if she knew about it, but Hedda wouldn’t tell her—but because a far more precious item was bundled on top of the pile, nested deep in the laundry like a rabbit in its burrow.

  A baby.

  Bands of white linen were wrapped tightly around the tiny body, so that only his head was visible, and the curious but unfocused eyes danced with patterns of light and shadow as he tried to make sense of what was going on around him. He was Hedda’s first child, and while the first few weeks after his birth had been difficult—especially with her Ladyship’s rule about new mothers not flagging in their duties—Hedda had now passed beyond the phase when every new morning brought on a fresh wave of panic, and into a euphoric sense of connectedness. It would have seemed unnatural for her to go anywhere without her child now, or to sleep at night without him nestled securely against her side. He was a part of her, as firmly connected as if the blood-filled cord that had once bound them together had not been severed. When he cried, she could feel the sound resonating in her flesh, his distress channeled straight into her heart as if the two of them shared a single body.

  She had never known such intense love in all her life.

  Humming a child’s tune to herself, she finally reached her destination, a place along the riverbank where a flat expanse of rock jutted out over a pool of calm, clear water. Her Ladyship must have her best garments washed in the river, of course. It wasn’t good enough that they should be scrubbed in a washbasin along with all the other household linens. No, that water might contain a fragment of dirt from some other garment, that had touched the flesh of another person. Perhaps even (perish the thought!) dirt from a common person. One could not allow that to mingle with the sweat of her Ladyship, even in the washwater! Only the pure, running water of the river, cascading down from the distant mountains, was good enough for her linens.

  It was rumored that even his Lordship found his wife’s excesses a bit odd, but she’d brought him a generous dowry and was attractive enough to make him the envy of other men of his station, so he wasn’t about to complain.

  Putting down the basket, Hedda worked a few garments out from under the baby, kissed him once on the forehead, and headed toward the water with her washboard. If her Ladyship knew that her fine garments were serving as blankets for a peasant child, she’d no doubt have a fit. Another thing not to tell her.

  Hedda had been at work a few minutes and was starting on her second garment when she suddenly became aware that there was someone else present.

  Turning back, she scanned the surrounding landscape with a wary eye. This was a safe area, to be sure—his Lordship tolerated no lawlessness in his domain—but you never knew when some local fool might decide to test the boundaries of that governance. Her hand went instinctively to the small kni
fe she wore hanging from her leather belt as she moved closer to the laundry basket, ready to protect her son with all the fierceness of a mother wolf.

  And then a child stepped out of the wood. No. She was not a child, though her slight build had caused Hedda to mistake her for such at first. Rather a young girl, somewhere in her early teens, dirty and hollow-eyed. Whoever she was, it appeared to have been some time since she’d had a good meal, for her face was thin and the joints in her bony limbs jutted out like burls. Her long black hair was matted into twisted ropes, in which small bits of forest detritus had become lodged. A wild child, perhaps, lost in the woods at a young age and left to fend for herself. That would explain much about her. It would even account for the one piece of clothing she wore, a relatively clean shift that had clearly been cut for a larger frame. Stolen from someone’s laundry basket, no doubt. She’d torn off the bottom of it at knee-length, leaving her dirty feet and legs bare.

  But while the rest of her appearance was somewhat odd, it was her eyes that Hedda found most arresting. Almond-shaped, exotic, they stared out at her from under hooded lids with an intensity that was unnerving. Not young eyes, Hedda observed. There was power in that gaze, and also terrible emptiness. The combination was both fascinating and repellant, and she felt drawn to it as one might be drawn to the sight of a mysterious animal lying dead by the roadside, wondering whether it was dead or alive.

  “Who are you?” she asked her, trying not to sound as uneasy as she felt.

  The girl did not answer. She did not stir. Even the breeze seemed to pass by without touching her, and her flesh might have been carved from stone for all the vitality it possessed.

  “Do you want some food?” Hedda offered. Wanting to make the girl speak, or move, or . . . do something. Her left hand remained on her knife as she indicated the small bundle of provisions she’d brought with her, tucked into the basket beside her son. Thank the gods, the little one was sleeping quietly right now, nestled so deeply into the layers of laundry that it was unlikely the strange girl could see him. “I have enough to share.”