Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  “Not a clue.” A shadow passed over her face as she put the last of her equipment aside. “But given the nature of the message, it’s not likely to be good news, is it?”

  “That depends on what you call good news,” he reminded her. “In wartime the distinction is not always so clear.”

  She set the last pieces of practice equipment aside, leaving them for servants to clean and store, and they headed back toward the keep.

  The High King was in his study when Gwynofar came to see him. Danton’s study. There was no longer blood on the floor, but he could sense where it had once been splattered across the wooden planks, and where it had pooled beneath his father’s body. And his brothers’ bodies. So much death that day, due to one man’s treachery. It tested his Penitent spirit to the utmost, trying not to imagine what he might do to Kostas if he had him in his hands right now. What it would feel like to wring that lizard’s neck with his own bare hands, to slowly choke the life out of that unholy creature.

  Hatred corrupts the soul, he reminded himself.

  But vengeance heals the spirit, his father would have countered. Embrace your rage. Give it outlet. Self-denial is a vampire that bleeds a man of strength.

  And there was the reason his father could never have become a Penitent, in a nutshell.

  “Excuse me, Sire.”

  Salvator looked up from his papers to acknowledge his servant’s presence.

  “The High Queen Gwynofar wishes to speak to you.”

  Surprised, Salvator nodded, and he gestured with the quill in his hand for her to be brought to him. This early in the day he would have expected her to be training with Favias. Was that not the schedule they had set? What news could not wait until later?

  It was clear from her appearance that she had indeed been practicing with Favias. Thin strands of blond hair were plastered to her face, and her coarse soldier’s clothing had long creases in it from where the practice armor crushed it against her body. But the sweat on her face was dry now, and she was not breathing heavily, as she was wont to do when her lessons had just ended. So she had not come straight to Salvator. Stranger and stranger. His brow furrowed in concern as he put the quill down atop his work, and stood to greet her.

  She drew in a deep breath, trying to settle her spirit. Clearly something had shaken her badly.

  At last she said, “There is a Souleater in the High Kingdom.”

  He could feel his heart skip a beat. Suspecting such a thing was one matter; having it finally confirmed was another. “How do you know?”

  “Ramirus brought us word.” There was a shadow of defiance in her tone, as if she were daring him to question her source. “Another Magister picked up the trail. They think it may be a queen. A female of the species.” Her clear eyes fixed on him, and he could sense her trying to read his expression, but he made sure that his face was composed, controlled, and offered her no clues. “They think the Witch-Queen herself may be involved.”

  “We knew she was somewhere,” he said quietly. Trying to keep all that emotion out of his voice.

  “You are not surprised.” It was a question.

  “I have . . . suspected. “

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Tell you what? That I had dreams the enemy was in my realm? That sometimes late at night I imagine I can smell the creature herself —”

  He stopped himself, but not in time.

  “How would you know her scent?” she demanded “The one that served Kostas was long gone by the time you returned home. There haven’t been any other Souleaters around for you to smell.” She paused. “Have there?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then how . . . . ?”

  What was he to tell her? That their scent came to him in dreams? That Siderea had appeared to him once, soaked in some strange, disturbing perfume, and he had sensed without knowing how he did so that the source of that smell was not human?

  “Dreams, Mother. I’ve had dreams. Nothing more.” He waved away the question. “Where is this Souleater hiding?”

  “North in the Spinas Mountains.”

  He drew in a sharp breath.

  “What is it, my son?”

  He did not answer her, but turned back to his desk. Leafing through the pile of correspondence on top of it, he sought a particular letter, from one of his Penitent informants. He scanned it once more, his eyes narrowing as he did so, then began to read aloud.

  . . . as you have commanded us to report to you any oddities we observe, I must report a series of events for which no one here has any explanation. Children have been disappearing from this area, and no human cause can be found. Most often it is babies that disappear, but a few older ones have gone missing as well. They are stolen from different locations, at different times of day or night, with no clear pattern. One infant was stolen out from under the watchful eye of his mother. No man can say how or why it is happening, but they are sure it is not the work of common slavers. One witness described a dirty and disheveled young girl who appeared just before her child disappeared, but her identity is unknown, and even the most powerful witches cannot seem to establish a link to her. As far as their spells are concerned, it is as if she does not exist.

  Families have taken to keeping their children locked up inside the house, but even that is no sure protection; one man returned home to find his wife in a coma-like sleep and his infant daughter missing.

  There is some speculation that the child thieves are operating out of the Spinas, for all the towns that suffered losses are clustered about the northern branch of that range, the so-called “dragon’s tail.” But expeditions into the mountains have turned up no sign of human activity, or anything else that would explain the attacks . . . .

  He stopped reading. His expression was grave.

  “You think these two things are connected somehow,” she said.

  “The coincidence would be remarkable if it were otherwise, don’t you think?” He put the letters back in place. “Is she gathering food, do you suppose? But no, why bother doing that? The Souleaters don’t require physical proximity to drain men of life, and if a queen wanted human flesh . . . there are surely easier ways to get hold of it.”

  Memories flickered faintly in his brain. He shut his eyes, trying to bring them into focus. “There was some trouble in that region during my father’s reign. Cresel told me about them when I first returned. Something about a town where all the people disappeared, or died . . . I don’t remember exactly . . . . I’m pretty sure that was in the same region. So whatever is out there, it may have been there for a while.”

  “Favias says that they think the Souleater invasion began some time ago. Early spring, at least.”

  “Just after the skies turned red,” he mused. “Do you recall that? The clouds to the north turned deep crimson when the sun was setting, as if the sky itself were bleeding. Our priests declared it to be a sign from God, but they could not come to any agreement on what it meant. So now you say that these creatures may have arrived in the human kingdoms about the same time. Souleaters would certainly fit the omen.” He shook his head in frustration, unable to make the puzzle pieces fit together. “But why? Why children? Nothing in the ancient legends even hints at something like this.”

  Gwynofar drew in a deep breath. “Ramirus might know.”

  Salvator stiffened. “A Magister? No, thank you.”

  “He knows a lot about these creatures. And there are others of his kind who know even more. He is ancient, Salvator, he was alive when men still told stories from the time of the Great War—”

  “No, Mother.” His tone was firm. “I agreed to be polite to him for your sake, even to allow him in my house, but please don’t mistake that for true acceptance.”

  “It’s foolish to turn away a source of useful information because of religious prejudice.”

  Anger stirred within him. “It’s more than prejudice, Mother. His power is corrupt, and a man who wields such power is doubly corru
pt. All that he touches is unclean.”

  “That’s your belief.”

  “It is fact.”

  She glared. “Like the ‘fact’ that the lyr gift is nothing more than idolatrous fantasy? Your Church was wrong about that. Perhaps it is wrong about this.”

  His jaw clenched tightly. He said nothing.

  “Salvator, please.” She walked up to him and took both his hands in her own. How tiny her fingers were, how delicate! Yet he knew they were possessed of a strength that could crush men’s bones. The abomination of it made him sick to his stomach. “I know you’re a rational man, deep inside. I know that you don’t accept anything blindly, even in matters of faith. Our world is threatened now, and these Magisters are offering to help us. Explain to me why it’s so important that we shut them out. Help me to understand.”

  He sighed heavily, squeezed her hands, and then pulled free of her. Steepling his hands before his face, he shut his eyes for a moment, struggling to find the right words for what he needed to say. She had never asked this of him before. She might never ask again. He had to do this right.

  Help me, oh, God, to open her eyes, that she might see the truth and accept it.

  “Witchery is God’s most sacred gift to mankind,” he said at last, “not only because of what it can do for us, but because of what we must become in order to wield it. A selfish man is not able to access such power directly, because he will not sacrifice his own life to do so. Thus are the ambitions of tyrants held in check, and men of greed forced to bargain with men of conscience. This was all part of God’s plan for us, which He wove into the very fabric of our nature upon the day of Creation.

  “Sorcery defies that plan. Not only because of what it is, but because of who can use it. It places unlimited power into the hands of the cruelest of men and rewards human callousness. Witchery ennobles us; sorcery corrupts. And where men are corrupted, society is corrupted.

  “Do you understand now, Mother? This isn’t about any individual Magister. It’s about how their power defies God’s will and threatens to alter the balance of human society.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “So where does this power come from, that spits upon the natural order? There were no Magisters during the First Age of Kings, we know that. Nor do we have records of any that existed during the Great War. It was only later that they first appeared, during that barbaric period we now call the Dark Ages. Creatures of darkness, spawned in an era of ignorance and violence. Their power is not a human thing, one early Penitent wrote, but rather a bestial corruption, that revels in bloodshed. I believe—”

  He stopped suddenly.

  “Salvator?”

  Go on. Tell her. It is time she knew the truth.

  It is time the world knew the truth.

  “I believe—my Church believes—that mankind would have recovered from the Great War much sooner if not for the Magisters. Not only because of the power they wielded, but because of the influence they had upon human society. The earliest Penitent writings attest to this. In fact, my Church . . . .”

  He hesitated. Wondering how much he dared say to her and how she would receive it. The air in the room suddenly seemed charged with energy, which the wrong words might spark to conflagration.

  Or perhaps the right ones.

  “My Church was founded because of the Magisters,” he told her. “Because of the burden of sin that they brought into the world. Do you understand, Mother? When a Penitents fasts, or denies himself sexual concourse, or scourges his flesh with leather straps . . . he is not doing that just to offer penance for the sins of mankind. He is doing that because of the Magisters. God decreed that penance must be offered for all earthly power, so since they will not offer it themselves, we do so for them. Without such penance the world cannot remain in balance.”

  “You do penance for Magisters?” She blinked. “Truly?”

  “Yes, Mother. I do penance for Ramirus being in this house and for any corruption he manifests while he is here. I do penance for every act of sorcery he performs at my behest.” And at yours, he thought.

  “What a cruel god you serve,” she whispered.

  His expression was cold. “He is harsh with us as a father is harsh with his children when they stray. Not because He wants to see us in pain, but because He wants us to become stronger.” He paused. “Do you doubt my strength, Mother?”

  “No.” She said it softly. “Never.”

  “I will lead an expedition into the Spinas Mountains to find this Souleater. Ramirus may come along because he knows the way. This other one that you speak of, the one who discovered the Souleater’s lair, he may come as well if you feel it’s necessary. For his information alone. But no Magister will use any sorcery on my behalf. That condition is not open to negotiation. If any Magister wishes to be part of this, he must give me his oath on that.”

  ‘You will go yourself?” she asked, startled. “Is that wise?”

  He hesitated. Was it time to tell her what he suspected, that he might be unusually resistant to this creature’s power? That his people might not be able to find the ikati without him? But no, he would rather test that theory first, before sharing it with others. Even her.

  This was the perfect testing ground.

  “My father rode to battle at the head of his army,” he said brusquely. “Should I do less?”

  “Your father had a Magister to protect him,” she pointed out.

  “And I have witches who are just as powerful. Never forget that, Mother. There is nothing sorcery can do that witchery can’t, if someone is willing to pay the price. So my condition stands. If it is acceptable to your Magisters, then they may come with us.”

  “With us?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you going to ask to come along, Mother? Weren’t you going to demand it of me, if I said no? Would you not argue that your lyr blood has special significance, that your lyr rank has special responsibilities, and besides, I had already given you permission to play a Guardian’s role? Not to mention that perhaps there is a power in you that we don’t yet know about, which might prove useful in such an endeavor? All of which is perfectly true.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I thought I would save us both some time and just cut to the chase.”

  And I need to test your part in this, as well, he thought grimly. Though I will not speak of that either until the testing is done.

  The lines of tension across her brow eased a bit. “You are truly your father’s son, Salvator.” She shook her head. “In more ways than you will ever know.”

  He leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “Have Ramirus come to me at noon, if he accepts my terms, and we can discuss the parameters of the expedition. Favias as well. Cresel can oversee matters here and spread whatever rumors are needed to keep noses out of our business. I’m sure he did it often enough for Danton. For now, if you will excuse me . . . .” His expression darkened somewhat. “I have prayers to offer.”

  She did not ask what those prayers would be about. Which was a good thing for both of them, he thought. There were some things a mother did not want to know.

  Chapter 13

  T

  AKING A deep breath, Salvator stepped through the portal.

  It was as if he had suddenly been immersed in a turbulent ice-cold river. Frigid black currents closed over his head, and he had to fight the instinctive panic that overcame a man when his environment was suddenly out of his control. Attending that was a rush of guilt, for he knew the cost of this witch’s trick. Every current of power that swirled about him represented a moment of someone’s life, sacrificed just in order to save him travel time. The fact that such a service had been offered up voluntarily, by Penitents who believed that in serving him they were serving the will of the Creator, was of little comfort. It should not have been necessary in the first place.

  An instant later—an eternity later—he stepped through to the other side. Blinking, he looked around, trying to get oriented. He was standing on a small platea
u surrounded by steep and forbidding mountains, their tips highlighted by the cool, dim light of morning. At the far end of the plateau a small retinue was waiting, some local lordling and his cadre of personal guards. They wore the colors of Lord Cadern, but Salvator didn’t know the local rank markings well enough to evaluate the status of any individual. Off to the side were two dozen horses, saddled and ready, attended by liveried grooms. Salvator wondered if Lord Cadern himself was present. Normally it would have been an insult for the local lord to fail to receive the High King himself, but Salvator hadn’t told Cadern he’d be coming in person, only that he was sending out a small expedition. So there had been no reason for any special ceremony. Looking about now, Salvator could see that Cadern had supplied all the things the High King had asked for, and that was what mattered.

  The men who were present recognized Salvator the minute he stepped through the portal, and the guards bowed their heads low in obeisance. Their leader’s face went white, which answered any question about whether or not Lord Cadern was present. Clearly he wasn’t. The man glanced sharply at one of his retainers, who shut her eyes briefly in concentration. A witch, most likely. Salvator imagined he could hear her spell crackle in the air as an invisible message was launched: The High King is here! How much panic would follow in the wake of that message? he wondered. Was Cadern even now scrambling to find a witch to transport him to this field so that he could offer proper obeisance in person? Or was it too early for that, and he was still asleep? If so, he was likely to have a few bad dreams before rising.

  Flanking the field where the portal spell had manifested, two Magisters stood like vultures on opposing hillsides. On the right was Ramirus, stiff-backed and regal, his long black robes devouring the newborn sunlight. Salvator nodded to him briefly, coldly, acknowledging his presence without any sign of approval. The fact that the High King had agreed to let Ramirus accompany them on this mission didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Opposite Ramirus was a less formal vulture, a thin man, tall and sharp-featured, with long black hair caught up in a queue at the nape of his neck. That must be Colivar, Ramirus’ rival. This one’s garments were black, but it was a mundane color, dull and imperfect, and they were cut in the manner of simple morati clothing. A curious affectation. Did he think that such a show of unpretentious attire would lead men to mistake him for something less than he was? Colivar affected a casual pose as he waited, leaning against a tree, a half-eaten apple in his hand. But the intensity of his gaze belied any suggestion of casual purpose. Much was on the line today, not only in the coming war between men and Souleaters, but also in that cold, knife-edged rivalry that was the Magisters’ favorite sport. Salvator might not understand all the details of that game—or care to—but he knew that nothing else, not even the business of saving the world, would be allowed to interfere with it.