“Come back to me,” she whispered. Holding out her arms in invitation.
He bound his power without knowing it, molded it without conscious thought. The change that followed was uncontrolled, and pain shot through his limbs as they returned to their former shape in fits and starts, like a bird breaking out of its shell. Suddenly his wings were gone, and he dropped down onto the sand before her, the breath driven from his lungs by the impact. Two legs. Two arms. No more. That was right, wasn’t it?
He looked up. Close, she was so close, and so real. So human. He reached out to touch her, and she did not back away. Her flesh was like silk beneath his fingertips, agonizingly soft. He stood, and his hands slid up her body, following the curve of her thighs, her hips, moving upward to cup the fullness of her breasts. He wondered at how alien her body felt, even as it aroused him. Skin so smooth. So fragile. Where were the scales? Where were the wings? So much was missing!
She moved closer to him, pressing the full length of her body against his own, bringing her lips up to his. Images of pleasure rushed through his head, human and ikati intermingled, and he struggled to find his way back to her world. Then her hands found the focus of his desire and she stroked him, leading the way. They moved down to the sand together, her legs parting for him, and then there was only heat: wonderful, glorious, human heat, and a rhythm that had nothing to do with flying. When she cried out in pleasure, it was a purely human sound, and when his own passion crested, the heat of it was so intense that in a single instant it consumed all moments but this one, banishing every instinct and sensation that was not in perfect harmony with his current self.
And the memory of wings was gone from his mind.
And the memory of ice was gone from his soul.
And when it was over, he lay in the sand by her side, and he wept.
Chapter 36
T
HE SEA of black ink was viscous and bottomless. Salvator swam through it slowly, each stroke a monumental effort, knowing there was a surface somewhere but not knowing how to reach it. Voices murmured in darkness, black ripples of sound without identities attached.
Is he waking up?
I think so.
Call Gwynofar!
And then the surface of the black ocean parted at last. A sea of white assailed his eyes in its place, blinding him. White walls. White linen curtains. White bed. The brilliance of it burned his eyes, forcing him to squeeze his eyelids shut, but even that could not keep all of it out. He was drowning in light.
“Salvator?”
He followed the familiar voice like a lifeline, struggling to resurface. Finally, he managed to open his eyes again, squinting against the blazing light. He could make out the shapes of three figures by his bedside now: a small blonde woman who sat beside him, a middle-aged man with weathered features, and a tall man with a white beard whose long robes were as black as the inky sea Salvator had just escaped from.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no sounds would come out. His body had forgotten how to speak. Finally, with conscious effort, he managed to rasp out, “Is she dead?” The only question that mattered.
The three of them looked at each other. “He means the Souleater queen,” Ramirus said. “Yes, she’s dead. You killed her.”
Salvator closed his eyes for a moment. He felt as if he were floating in a sea of physical and mental exhaustion. But no pain. “Am I dead?” he whispered.
He heard Ramirus chuckle softly. “Does your faith allow for you and I to be sharing the same afterlife?”
Despite himself, Salvator smiled. The expression made his face ache. “How long?”
“Three days,” Gwynofar said. “The witches said they were going to keep you asleep until everything was properly healed. They said there was so much to repair . . . .” Her voice trailed off but he heard the words that were unspoken. They were not sure if you would make it. “The high court has been told you’re all right, that you’re busy seeing to the political aftermath of battle. Valemar has everything under control. I’m told you’re becoming something of a legend in Penitent circles. And soon will be outside of them, I expect.” She smiled. The strain of recent events was apparent in a host of new lines on her face. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be pleased by that or not.”
“As long as they credit God for our victory, and understand that I was but His humble tool.” He looked about the room. “Where am I?”
“Prince Nasaan’s palace, in Jezalya. He insisted on having his own witches tend to you. He credits you with freeing his city from a plague of demons, and he wants to express his gratitude to you in person as soon as you’re up to it.” She hesitated, “He said that the Penitent god must be very powerful, judging from what he has done here, and that Jezalya will honor him accordingly. He’s going to invite you to place his statue in the House of Gods, which is apparently where the local idols are worshipped.” Before he could respond to that, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “Be gentle, Salvator. He means it as an honor.”
He said nothing in response, just shut his eyes again. The room was so warm. He could feel it now. Desert heat, seeping into his skin.
“Tell me what happened,” he whispered.
It was Ramirus who answered. “None saw the queen but you, until you attacked her. Few saw her even after that, but some of the Guardians managed to focus on her and were preparing to attack. It looked as though she snatched you up to use you as a shield, to keep them from firing at her.”
Salvator opened his eyes and looked at Ramirus. “She could have used my mother for that, if all she wanted was a human body in front of her. I was farther away. Why me?”
It was Favias who spoke. “We believe she might have been observing us for some time and figured out you were the leader of the group. So your value as a shield was greater.”
Salvator blinked. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”
Ramirus nodded gravely. “We believe the strike on her Majesty was not a random act. The ikati picked the moment too carefully, waiting until all the rest of us were distracted enough that we were unlikely to notice Gwynofar’s departure. That was not an act of rage, but of calculated intelligence. She was hunting us, Salvator. And quite effectively, too. If not for your unique ability to resist her power, your mother would be dead now, and the ikati queen would be somewhere far away from here, preparing a nest for her first clutch.”
“But why my mother?” Salvator asked. “She wasn’t playing a visible leadership role. She hadn’t called the thing to her.” He stopped and looked sharply at his mother. “You didn’t call it to you, did you?”
Gwynofar smiled slightly as she shook her head. “You ordered me not to, remember?”
“Kamala said that her Sight could detect Gwynofar’s link to the Seers,” Ramirus told him. “We think that the queen may have had a similar ability. If so, she might have believed that your mother was responsible for the spell that bound Siderea. Possibly even for her death.” He shrugged. “There’s no way to know the truth, at this point. But I think we should all give thanks that this particular Souleater will never have a chance to reproduce.”
Salvator leaned back and shut his eyes. The strain of speaking for so long was beginning to tell on him. “So the world is a safe place now?” he murmured weakly.
He heard Ramirus chuckle. “The world is a place of chaos and warfare, rife with bloodshed, betrayal, and every conceivable form of human suffering. As it always has been and always will be. But thanks to you there will soon be no Souleaters in it, which is a noteworthy improvement.”
Salvator felt Gwynofar’s hand on his forehead, smoothing back sweat-dampened strands of his hair. “Rest, my son. Nasaan will want to talk with you when you feel strong enough.”
He nodded. Sleep was already edging its way into the corners of his mind as she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Then he heard her leave, and two pairs of heavier footsteps followed her to the door. He knew one stride well enough from his childhood
years to hear when its owner was the only one left in the room.
“Ramirus.”
The footsteps stopped. Salvator managed to raise the massive lead weights that his eyelids had become and looked at the Magister.
“Who saved me?” he asked him.
A white eyebrow arched upward. “Majesty?”
“No man could have survived a fall like that. Not with all the witches in the world to put him back together afterward. So someone must have intervened before I hit the ground. Yes? Someone who had been tracking the queen all along—following her scent trail perhaps, or the blood I was leaving behind—so that he’d be close enough to act when there was need.” He paused. “Who saved me, Ramirus?”
The Magister’s expression was unreadable. “The witches have asked that you not be given that information. They don’t want any one of them to be singled out for special attention, as they view the entire enterprise as a group effort.”
Salvator said nothing, but his gaze did not waver.
Finally Ramirus’ eyes narrowed slightly. “You told me that you would rather die than have your life saved by sorcery,” he reminded him. “I took you at your word.” He chuckled softly. “I trust you will be able to sleep peacefully now, your Majesty?”
“Yes,” Salvator whispered. Shutting his eyes once more. “Thank you.”
He listened to Ramirus’ footsteps leave the room, then slipped into those quiet depths where souls are healed, allowing sleep to claim him.
Epilogue
“T
HEY’RE ALL here,” Ramirus said.
Kamala nodded, and took a moment to compose herself before she responded to him. The pounding of her heart was almost under control now. “How many?”
“Nearly three dozen. That’s not all of them, but I think most of the important ones are here.” He paused. “I can’t say I recall so many Magisters ever being together in one place. The energy in the air is . . . interesting.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What about when the Law was first established?”
He chuckled quietly. “There weren’t that many Magisters in the whole world back then. Partly because we kept killing each other.” His expression grew somber once more. “You understand what is at stake here.”
She whispered it: “I do.”
“The Law is not something we can simply put aside, even if we want to. It has been strained already by the few of us who know your secret, but if this many Magisters were to openly deny its tenets . . . it would shatter, Kamala. And then we would become no better than the creatures we just fought. The Law is the only thing that protects us.”
“I understand,” she said solemnly.
“I helped you bring them here because I agree that your situation does need to be resolved. My name is respected enough among sorcerers that many came at my bidding who would not respond to any other summons. But understand, Kamala: My debt to you was paid in Tefilat. I owe you no support beyond that. You’re on your own from this point on.”
She nodded. “I understand. And I thank you for your assistance in arranging this.”
He pulled open the heavy door and exited the chamber, leaving it slightly ajar for her. It took her a moment before she could bring herself to step through it. So much was riding on this one meeting! But she was not going to run from these men any longer. Either she would win them to her cause, or the game would end here and now.
Finally she pulled the door all the way open and entered what had once been the greathall of a sizable castle. The building itself had fallen to ruins centuries ago, but the skeletal walls that remained had a surreal majesty, and the patina of age that clung to them suited the nature of her guests. She had reinforced a few of the walls and restored several items that time had devoured—such as the ironbound door—but otherwise she had left the place exactly as she found it. The ghosts of the First Kings seemed to hang about the ruined walls, a reminder both of mankind’s potential majesty and its mortality.
Three dozen Magisters turned to face her as she entered the room, and the quiet conversations that had been taking place subsided into silence. She could tell from the surprise in their eyes that Colivar and Ramirus had not told them why they had been called here; clearly, they had not expected a woman to address them. We are off to a good start, she thought dryly.
There was a low stone platform at the head of the room, and she stepped up onto it. The little bit of height she gained allowed her to see all the Magisters at once, even those in the back rows. So many of them! There was enough power in this room to lay waste to all of human civilization, if that was what these Magisters desired.
As they had done in the Dark Ages, before the Law was enacted.
Ethanus was there, she saw. The look of concern on his face brought a pang to her heart. And Colivar was standing in the middle of the crowd. He had helped make sure that all the Magisters who had once been Siderea’s lovers were present, without ever asking her why that mattered so much. He seemed to enjoy the mystery of it. Kamala recognized the two Magisters from Gansang as well, far to the back of the crowd, but most of the rest were unknown to her. Were any of them women? she wondered suddenly. If Lazaroth had been masquerading as a man for so long, surely others might have done so as well. It was disconcerting to think that any of the men staring back at her right now might have begun life as a woman, surrendering her sexual identity in exchange for membership in the insular brotherhood of sorcerers. Such a Magister might despise her as much as Lazaroth had, resenting the fact that she openly celebrated the same identity they had been forced to abandon.
She waited until all eyes were upon her and then inclined her head ever so slightly, as she had seen Ramirus do. A gesture of respect among equals, with no hint of submission about it. Thus did sorcerers greet one another.
“Magisters,” she said. Feeling their eyes fixed upon her, knowing that their magical scrutiny was focused on her as well. She wrapped her defensive spells tightly about her, hoping that her own power was up to such a test. “I thank you for coming. I trust you will find today’s business worth your journey.”
There was a part of her that was sorry to be ending this phase of her life. For all of her frustration with having been forced to hide her true nature, she had enjoyed moving secretly among these men and had savored the game of cat-and-mouse she’d played with several of them. Testing her wits and her sorcery against Magisters who had made an art form of ferreting out other people’s secrets had been a unique challenge. Given that men like Ramirus had invested centuries in honing their skills in that arena, she had not done badly.
Now that game was ending, and a new one would take its place. And only the gods knew for certain what it would be.
Drawing herself up to her full height, proud and elegant with only a hint of defiance, she spoke the words that would end this phase of her life forever.
“My name is Kamala,” she told them. “I am a Magister.”
Few of them evinced surprise at her announcement, but she had expected that. Any madwoman could make such a statement, and she knew it would take more than mere words to prove to these men that she was what she claimed, or even that she was worthy of their attention. A few Magisters glanced at Ramirus or Colivar to assess their response to the announcement, but most of them simply looked skeptical.
Eyes fixed upon her audience, a subtle smile upon her face, she ran her hands slowly down her body. Smoothing her clothing over her breasts, around her waist, along the curve of her hips, drawing their eyes to the very features that so obviously made her a woman. As she did so, she transformed the fabric that was beneath her fingertips, replacing its natural hue with the color that only magic could produce: the traditional black of the Magisters. And though she had taken great care to shield herself from their sorcery thus far, she allowed that one transformation spell to remain unguarded, so that they might inspect it at their leisure.
Witchery was warm magic, which vibrated with life. Sorcery was a cold, dead thing, athra
devoured and regurgitated: carrion magic. The difference between the two was not always apparent, as they functioned in an identical manner, but no skilled sorcerer who bothered to look closely would ever mistake one for the other.
She could sense their scrutiny upon her now, tendrils of their power licking at the substance of her sorcery, testing its nature. She felt as if the hands of three dozen strangers were roving all over her body, and the memory of past violations made it hard for her to just stand still and accept it. But she knew that this was something she had to do so they would know the truth of her words. No other proof would suffice.
When she thought they’d all had enough time to verify her true nature, she extended her defensive spells to protect herself once more. She found that she dared not look in the eyes of the Magisters directly, for fear that what she saw there might weaken her determination. Her next words would commit her to a path from which there would be no chance to withdraw. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice, seeking the courage to jump. Below her there was only darkness.
Now, she thought. Do it.
“Several months ago, a Magister named Raven was killed in Gansang. I am the one who killed him.” She could feel the shock of her pronouncement ripple through the crowd; she waited a moment for it to settle before continuing. “I did not intend for him to die, but the Law of the Magisters does not care about motive. I am the person who set in motion the series of events that ultimately cost Raven his life; hence, as far as our Law is concerned, I killed him.”
Now, finally, she looked at her audience. Magisters were well versed in hiding their true feelings from one another, but her words had shocked a few of them severely enough that some honest emotion was visible. Ramirus certainly looked surprised; whatever he’d expected from her, it had clearly not included a public confession. Colivar was staring at her intensely, as if trying to see through her air of defiance to see what lay beneath. As for Ethanus . . . she knew him well enough to read the message in his eyes: I hope you know what you are doing. The genuine concern in his expression made a knot form in her throat.
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