Legacy of Kings

by C. S. Friedman

  “Welcome, Sulah.”

  Startled, he turned around to find the Witch-Queen reclining on a couch at the far end of the tent. She was dressed in a sleeveless white gown that made the copper tone of her skin seem to glow. Bronze ornaments worked with tribal patterns adorned her neck, her bare arms, and her hair. She was, as always, exquisitely beautiful, and at one time he’d found her attractive, but now that he knew her for what she was—what she had become—it put a damper on any attraction he might have felt for her.

  He took a step backward, looking around the tent for hidden dangers as he readied his power in case of possible assault.

  “Hush, my love.” Her voice was liquid silver in the darkness. “It’s only a dream. I wanted to talk to you, and this seemed the best way to do it. Safest for both of us, yes?”

  She rose from the couch, the fine silken layers of her gown flowing like water over the smooth curves of her body. Sulah remembered the night she first seduced him—the unexpected smoothness of her flesh, the warmth of her tongue against his skin—and it took effort to turn his thoughts away from those memories, even as they heated his flesh. But whatever her purpose had been in creating this dreamscape, he needed his wits about him to deal with it. “What is it you want?”

  She tsk-tsked. “Such cruelty, Sulah. Such suspicion. You were nicer to me in Sankara.”

  You were human in Sankara, he wanted to say. But he bit his lip and did not respond.

  She walked over to the table and leaned down to fill the two goblets with wine. The loose neck of her gown fell partway open as she did so, revealing breasts that were full and firm. It took effort not to look at them.

  “Here.” She walked to where he stood and offered him one of the goblets. When he hesitated, she smiled. “It’s just a dream, Sulah. I can’t poison you here.”

  No, but if you have the power to draw me into your dream, then who is to say where that power ends?

  Slowly he took the goblet from her, lifted it to his lips, and sipped from the contents. It was wine. Good wine, but simply wine. What else had he expected?

  “You really are far too suspicious,” she said. She was close to him now. The human scent beneath that strange perfume stirred memories that made his flesh tighten. “Have the others been telling you stories about me?”

  “What is it you want?” he repeated. Fighting the urge to take a step backward.

  “You mean that for all your power you can’t guess?”

  “I prefer to be told.”

  She shrugged lightly. “Perhaps I need a Magister’s assistance.”

  “You know many Magisters. Some are used to doing you favors.” Do you think me weaker than they are? he wanted to demand. Easier to manipulate? “Why me?”

  He had shared her bed once. Only once. It had been a strange whim, motivated as much by the pleasure of keeping secrets from the other Magisters as by any physical desire. She had proven skilled and passionate, and he did not regret that night, but the scent of too many sorcerers clung to her bed for his liking.

  “That is why, Sulah.” She ran a featherlight finger down his chest, more a suggestion than a caress. “The others have taken me into their confidence, they have shared their secrets with me, some have even given me tokens of their personal essence. You have not. If I were to approach one of the others, he would have to question whether or not I had done something to sway his mind in my favor. But you . . . you have no need to be suspicious. Because you know that I have no power over you.” She chuckled softly. “No more than any woman does.”

  A cool breeze moved through the tent’s interior, stirring Sulah’s hair. No witch would waste athra on such a superfluous effect in the real world, but in a dream it cost her nothing.

  “So what is it you need help with?” he asked.

  Her smile faded; a more sober expression took its place. “You know what has happened to me. You know the power I now have at my disposal.”

  “I have heard rumors,” he said carefully.

  “I won’t defend the Souleaters. They’re a brutal species, and the men who control them are little better. Mortal kings are wise to fear them. But it doesn’t have to be that way, Sulah. Their fury can be tempered, their passions controlled. Their power can be harnessed. Such power! You cannot even imagine the raw potential of it. And all that would be required to make that happen is the right leadership.”

  “Which is you?”

  She shook her head. “A woman can’t lead them. Not directly. But a woman can be the one who decides which man wears the crown.” She cocked her head to one side. “Which offers some interesting possibilities, don’t you think? Perhaps even . . . interesting alliances.”

  Sulah drew in a sharp breath. Was she suggesting what he thought she was?

  Careful, Sulah. You know her reputation. No woman wields the kind of political power she once did without an arsenal of manipulative skills that would put the First Kings to shame.

  But there was no denying that her suggestion stirred his blood. And now that Colivar had explained what the Magisters were really about, he understood just where that sensation was coming from. Deep within him, the seed of something that was not human wanted what she was offering. Wanted it badly. And for a brief moment, the force of that desire seemed to take on a life of its own. In that moment it seemed to Sulah that he could feel the Souleater inside him, hungering for power over its own kind in a way that no mere human could understand. The sensation of it was sickening, but it was also strangely exhilarating. He did not know whether to run from the feeling or embrace it.

  Did she know the truth about the Magisters? he wondered suddenly. Given this woman’s reputation for collecting secrets he wouldn’t put anything past her.

  “There are other Magisters who owe you no debt,” he pointed out. “They would be better suited to such an arrangement. Why not send your dreams to them?”

  She chuckled softly. “Because you’re young, Sulah. Still very human, as Magisters measure such things. Capable of a kind of passion the others lack. And passion is needed for this.” She paused. “The Souleaters don’t respond to intellect. I can’t rule over them by the side of a man who understands nothing else.”

  He drew in a long, slow breath. For a moment, no words would come.

  “You are surprised,” she murmured.

  “It was . . . not what I expected.”

  “That I would seek a man to share my throne with?” A hint of dark amusement flickered in her eyes. “Or that it would be you?”

  “Yes.”

  She brought her goblet up to her lips, not quite masking her smile, and sipped from it. He could see her nostrils flare delicately as she did so, like a predator on the trail of its quarry. For some reason that image disturbed him more than all the rest put together.

  “The Souleaters can’t be controlled by a woman,” she said. “Not by a woman alone. A couple is required.” She put a hand on his cheek. Warm, so warm. The scent of past indulgences rose from her fingertips. “Lovers,” she whispered.

  He wanted to push her hand away, but that would be giving her a kind of victory. “You’re asking a lot of me.”

  “I offer a lot in return.”

  “Why seek out a Magister for this at all? Aren’t there men who ride the Souleaters? Don’t they have enough passion for you? Why bring in an outsider to rule over them, when you know they are sure to reject him?”

  “Because those men are not my equals,” she said quietly.

  She let her hand fall away from his face; her touch left fire in its wake. “Centuries of isolation in the north have shaped them into something less than men. Life for them has been reduced to fighting bloody battles with tooth and claw until someone comes out on top; nothing else matters in their world. True, they speak our language, they wear our clothing—a few even bathe—but at heart they are simpleminded barbarians, so drunk on the bestial passions of their consorts that they can barely think straight. Is that who I should take as my mate, and entrust half
my new empire to? I think not.”

  Do you know that sorcerers are hunting you? he thought. Do you know that you are feared now, as much as you once were loved? That the Magisters would rather work cooperatively—against all tradition and instinct—than let you expand the territory of these creatures one more inch?

  Of course she knew that. That’s why she had created this dreamscape.

  “So you offer me a throne among beasts,” he said, “at the cost of a world’s destruction.”

  “Ah. So is it saving the world you want now? Is that the new goal of the Magisters?” Again she chuckled. “Well, then, what’s the best way to do that? Not with a war you’re destined to loose, against an enemy that can suck the life out of your very soul—yes, even out of a sorcerer’s soul—but by more subtle means. Political means.

  “You can’t destroy the Souleaters, Sulah. Not with all the Magisters of the world allied against them . . . which you don’t have. But you can, perhaps, control them. I’ve set the stage for that already. I need a man by my side whom I can rely on to help me. That man will gain access to a kind of power no Magister has ever known before.” She paused, giving those words a chance to sink in. “The kind of power any Magister would covet.”

  Did she know just how tempting those words were? As one of the youngest of the Magisters, he had lived in the shadow of ancients like Colivar and Ramirus since the night of his First Transition. What would it be like to reverse that situation, so that the ancients envied him instead? Perhaps even feared him?

  Gods, this woman was dangerous! He had been right to be wary of her. Yet could anyone less dangerous hope to take control of these creatures? Was there not a terrible kind of logic to her plan, and did it not offer a better chance of success than his current precarious alliance, which the touch of a feather might shatter?

  It is right that one of us should rule over the Souleaters. The words came welling up from the depths of his soul as if from some outside source. Seductive and chilling. How much could he trust his own thoughts right now?

  The Witch-Queen was silent. Watching him. Waiting.

  “I need time to think about this,” he said at last.

  “There’s not a lot of time left, Sulah. Events are moving quickly now. The longer the Souleaters go without proper leadership, the harder it will be to bring them under control in the end. ”

  “I understand that.”

  She considered, then nodded. “A few days, then. After that I’ll be approaching other candidates. You understand.”

  “I understand.” Another will rule over the Souleaters. Another will become the envy of the Magisters. He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. “How will I reach you with my answer?”

  “I will reach you. Like this. If we seal a deal . . . then we will meet on more solid ground. Agreed?”

  He nodded.

  She put her goblet aside, then took his face in both her hands and drew him down to her lips. He did not resist. Her kiss was warm and moist and tasted of wine. The perfume of her skin filled his nostrils, and it seemed to him that the dark presence within him stirred, aroused by the scent. Heat stirred in his loins, but it was a strangely distant heat, without urgency; his mind was focused on other things.

  “Think well, my Magister,” she murmured.

  And then one by one the elements of the dream faded away, until there remained only sand and sun . . . and then darkness.

  Chapter 18

  I

  T WAS a strange feeling for Colivar, entering Farah’s palace as a guest. Stranger still for Farah’s servants, who didn’t know quite what to make of his sudden arrival. How deeply did one bow to a visiting Magister? Weren’t the sorcerers at war with one another? Should they be worrying about that? Colivar had never been visited by Magisters while he had lived in the palace, so Farah’s servants had no experience with this kind of thing.

  He should have warned them he was coming. Or Sulah should have warned them he was coming. Oh, well.

  Finally one flustered guard offered to bring Colivar to the king. Then he became even more flustered when Colivar said it was not the king he had come to talk to. Finally they got it all sorted out, and with a pair of guards flanking him—presumably to do him honor, since it would have taken an army of guards to do anything more meaningful—he made his way to Sulah’s apartments.

  Farah had set aside one wing of the palace for the use of his Magister Royal. Since Colivar had rarely made use of it, and accordingly had never invested any time or energy in its appearance, he was curious to see what Sulah had done with the place. It was certainly not what he’d expected. The border between Farah’s realm and that of his sorcerer was all but indiscernible; even the gauze curtains were of the same cut and color in both parts of the building. Sulah’s main chamber was appointed with classic Anshasan furniture and art, and Sulah himself was dressed in the long flowing robes of a desert chieftain. It was a strange juxtaposition with his pale northern features. The robes were black, in deference to Magister custom, but bands of different textures suggested the broad stripes of tribal fashion: a subtle homage to his new homeland.

  “Colivar!” He rose from his chair as Colivar entered; the book he had been reading vanished from his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “No request of yours has ever wasted my time, Sulah.” He studied the younger man’s attire with a bemused expression. “I see you are going native.”

  Sulah shrugged. “I thought if I was going to do the Magister Royal thing I should get into the full spirit of it.” His tone was light, but his expression was solemn. “Wine?”

  Colivar nodded. He wasn’t thirsty, and he might have turned down the offer if it had been voiced anywhere else. But Anshasans took their hospitality seriously, and some of the locals would view a refusal to drink as an insult. He didn’t want to try to second-guess just how native Sulah had gone.

  And, in truth, he mused, it was genuinely refreshing to fall back into his old patterns of behavior. He had served in Anshasa for a very long time, and there was a curious kind of comfort in the familiar rituals of southern life.

  He waited until the wine had been poured, tasted, and praised, with all the appropriate social trappings, then said, “I’m sure you didn’t call me here just for a wine tasting. What’s on your mind?”

  Sulah sighed and put his cup aside. For a moment he just stared at it, running his finger around the rim. Then he said, “Siderea came to me.”

  Whatever Colivar had expected from him, that certainly wasn’t it. “When? Where? Do the others know?”

  “She came in a dream. And no, no one else knows. You are the first I’ve told.”

  To say that such a confession startled Colivar would be an understatement. The fact that Sulah was offering him this kind of information was nothing short of remarkable. Of course, Sulah had always valued Colivar’s counsel—perhaps more than he should—and now that the four Magisters had their “alliance,” it was not inconceivable they would share information with one another. But rivalry and mistrust still ran strong in their blood, rooted as it was in their ikati heritage. If Sulah was revealing something like this to Colivar, it suggested that the situation was so disturbing to him that he felt he could not resolve it on his own. But that would hardly be something he’d admit to, and Colivar knew that if he pressed him for details he didn’t want to reveal, the man’s defensive instincts might kick in, and he’d close up like a clamshell.

  “What did she want?” he asked, trying to sound as if they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

  Sulah drew in a deep breath. “She wanted me to share her throne,” he said. “To join her circle of Souleater vassals and help her rule the world.”

  Colivar opened his mouth, but no sound would come. He was dimly aware that his own attempt not to show any emotion had just failed miserably, but he was not sure exactly what his expression revealed. Whatever he had expected to hear from Sulah, this was certainly not it. “I take
it you said no?”

  “I haven’t said anything yet. As soon as I turn her down, she’ll make the same offer to someone else. Yes? So my silence buys us time.” He sat down heavily in an upholstered chair and rubbed his temple wearily. There was an air of physical tension about him that was unlike anything Colivar had ever seen in his student before . . . but he had seen it in other Magisters, long ago, and he recognized its source.

  She spoke to the Souleater in him. And awakened its hunger. Does that mean she knows what we are? Has she guessed the truth? The thought of Siderea teasing Sulah’s nonhuman instincts to the surface and then playing them like a finely tuned instrument was disturbing on more levels than he could count. And the sudden surge of jealousy that attended the thought was surprising to him. Unnerving. Clearly the presence of a Souleater queen in their world was starting to break down the mechanisms Colivar normally used to hold his more primitive instincts at bay. The other Magisters might suffer a similar fate in time, but they were not vulnerable in quite the same way that he was; the breakdown would not come as quickly for them, nor was it likely to hit as hard when it did.

  Dark times were coming, to be sure.

  “Someone will say yes,” Colivar agreed.

  “Probably one of her past lovers. And when that happens, the Magisters may turn against one another, not in petty squabbling but as prelude to some greater conflict.”

  “Which is no doubt what she wants. Morati would be hard pressed to destroy us. Even Souleaters would have a hard time of it. Magister against Magister, on the other hand . . . .”

  Sulah looked up sharply “You think she wants us all dead?”

  “Whatever she felt about us before, we are rivals to her now, and a threat to the empire she apparently means to establish.”