She released a breath she had not realized she was holding and felt some unnamed tension ease its grip on her heart. She had used the power since leaving Ethanus, but that had been in private. This was the first time she’d actually used it to fool someone.
Minds are easier to manipulate than matter is to conjure, he’d taught her. Learn the art of illusion and you lower the risk of Transition in an unfriendly place.
She leaned back and sipped her ale. It wasn’t terrible. Neither was the meat pie, though it had seen fresher days. From her shadowy corner she watched the men who jostled and argued over the rough plank tables and remembered the days she’d been afraid of such men. Back then, their size and strength meant power. Now the real power was hers.
At whose cost? The words slid into her brain as she drank the warm ale. What manner of man is fueling my petty thieveries? Giving up his life so that I can eat a warm meal?
She shook her head, trying to shake lose the tenacious thought. Ethanus had warned her time and time again about such meditations. A Magister cannot afford to care about his consort, he taught her. The moment he does—the moment he doubts his right to claim that life for his own needs—the bond between them will snap and the Magister will become what he rightfully should have been at the instant of his first Transition—a shell of flesh without the spark of life inside. A corpse.
I do not “care,” she thought stubbornly. I am just . . . curious.
A sudden rise in the volume of the male voices caught her attention. Apparently two men had had too much to drink, and were now indulging in what men always did when they were drunk—fighting. This argument had something to do with which of them a serving girl preferred, though judging from her frightened eyes and the way she’d just pulled her shift back in place over her chest, she’d be happy if both of them forgot she even existed.
Should I do something to help her? Kamala thought. The fact that she even had such an option was novel in and of itself. Usually she had to sit back and watch while women were abused, with nothing but the angry heat in her veins for comfort. But even if she chose to act, could she do anything that would matter? She could lay these men flat on the table with her power, and ten minutes later a new pair would take their place and be grabbing at the same woman, expecting that their penny’s worth of ale had brought them the right to treat anything with breasts like a whore. The cause was not something sorcery could fix in a night; it had to do with poverty and frustration and the fact that when a man’s blood rushed to his loins it left his brain empty.
So it was in the First Age of Kings, she thought darkly. So it will always be.
At least they were fighting with each other now, and seem to have forgotten the woman. Kamala winced as one of the scuffed wooden tables overturned with a bang—judging from its condition, this was not the first time—and decided that she’d had enough dinner. Others were joining in the fight now, as men often did when they had nothing useful to do with themselves. Bloodshed as entertainment. Kamala pushed her chair back and stood, seeking a safe path out through the fracas. Something small came flying in her direction but she deflected it reflexively, and then skirted the nearest wall to head towards the door. She had to push her way past a few patrons who were too intent on watching the skirmish to notice her trying to get by them. Some of them were even placing bets on the fight . . . not on who would win—that was too simple—but who would come out most bloodied, most bruised, or most humiliated.
She hated them all in that moment. She hated them and the world they came from, the tangle of alleys and slums that had made them the wretched creatures that they were, the reeking foulness of the place of her childhood and all the people who inhabited it. She hated them so much that the power stirred within her like a venomous snake uncoiling, and she had to choke it back with all her strength to keep it from breaking loose and devouring them all.
This is not my world anymore.
The thought was an ache inside her as she made her way out into the warm night air. Not that this putrid city was anything to pine for, and not that she would desire a place among its inhabitants . . . she had become something that was not quite human any more, and had less in common with the thieves and whores of the Quarter than they had with the rats who scoured the filthy streets, but it was disconcerting to suddenly realize that she belonged nowhere. Ethanus’ woods had been peaceful, but they were not hers. This place had become an alien thing. There was a restlessness inside her that she did not even have a name for, something born of power and pain, that was too vast for these simple environments. She hungered . . . for what? What manner of home would satisfy her? What kind of people could she call kin in her new and transformed state?
This was her reverie when the door to the tavern suddenly slammed open behind her and a knot of men stumbled out into the muddy street. A wave of drunken breath spiced with stale sweat preceded them in a powerful gust, and for a moment it was all she could do not to vomit. Had she truly never smelled such things in her youth, or had she simply been so accustomed to the odors of men that she never thought to notice them? She had to bind a bit of athra to keep from being ill as she turned away from the tavern, thinking that what she needed right now was to get as far away from this place as she could—
—but a hand fell on her shoulder and turned her around, yanking her doublet and shirt open as it did so. Precious metal buttons went flying as the garment tore open down her chest, baring the inner curve of one breast.
“See?” The man who had grabbed her gestured unsteadily toward those watching. He was a burly man whose clothing smelled faintly of urine; a fuller, most likely, who’d be up to his elbows in piss whenever he stopped drinking long enough to work. “I told you it was a girl!”
Kamala felt the snake uncoil a bit more in her gut. Dangerous, very dangerous. These men did not have a clue what manner of fire they were playing with.
Exerting all of her self-control, she put out a hand and called the lost pieces of her costume back to her. The buttons flew up to her hand. A couple of men gasped at the display of power but the majority were too drunk to recognize the move for what it was. A warning. She turned to leave but a meaty paw yanked her back, this time almost hard enough to pull her off her feet.
“What’s the matter, witch? Our company not good enough for you?”
One of the younger ones snickered. They were starting to surround her now, some deliberately, some blindly following in a drunken haze.
Apparently one of them still had a bit of gray matter left that had not been saturated by alcohol. “You don’t want to fuck with a witch . . .”
“Hell we don’t! Haven’t you heard where the power comes from?”
“I hear they can fry a man’s rod with their nether parts.”
“I hear they won’t, ’cause it costs them in life force. Isn’t that true, witch-girl?” A grimy hand caught her under the chin; she batted it away with a sharp blow. “Witchery’s safe enough to do little things, but the big things aren’t worth dying for, are they, sweets?” He smiled, a grotesque expression that bared a mouthful of broken teeth. “You don’t want to waste all that life force, do you?”
One of the men grabbed her from behind. He pulled her hard, intending to knock her off balance. She knew the move well and instinctively braced herself, even while the serpent within her gut screamed to be set loose.
Control the power. Don’t let it control you.
A man at her side grabbed at her arm. She wrenched herself free with the help of the power, but barely in time. Another reached for the neck of her doublet, his grin reeking of rotten teeth and alcohol. Too many, too fast! Too many hands, too many directions to focus! The power only worked as fast as she could give it form, and even as she drove back one attacker another moved forward, all part of a tidal wave of stinking, leering male flesh that threatened to engulf her—
And then, without warning, the power surged up inside her, raging with such force that it left her breathless. It was wild
fire that roared through her veins, fear and defiance and hatred searing her flesh as it burst forth from her, enveloping the drunken crowd. Hot magma rage, twenty years in the making. A child’s terror. A youth’s pain. A woman’s outrage. Kamala shook as it poured through her, but it was more powerful than anything she had ever conjured before and she could not control it. The force of it blinded her, turning everything in her field of vision a bright red—blood red—and as the athra burned through her veins she thought she could feel the pulse of the distant heartbeat that was driving it. Laboring now, as the life poured out of her consort like blood from a wound. No man could lose so much athra and not feel it. Was he dying? Was Transition going to take her here in this filthy street, with enemies surrounding her? For the first time since leaving Ethanus’ home she felt fear gripping her. How much was too much? What did a man’s life translate to when measured in such doses as this?
And then, after what seemed like an eternity of burning, the roaring flames of power quieted and went still. The knot in her chest loosened and she found herself able to breathe again. Blinking, she forced the redness from her vision and struggled to focus on what was around her, not yet sure if the power had actually done anything, or simply been the magical equivalent of a scream of rage.
The street was silent. The men weren’t standing around her any longer. She blinked, struggling to see clearly.
There were things on the ground. Man-sized. She must have struck them down with the power, all of them.
Hearing a gasp behind her, she whipped around and saw a young boy staring at her. His eyes were wide in fear—or horror?—and as soon as she looked at him he turned and ran from her, stumbling as he did so.
What . . . ?
Then she turned back, and her eyes focused at last.
She saw.
Bodies. Crushed bodies. Parts of bodies. Bodies like broken dolls that some giant’s hand had smashed. One man had been frozen in the act of screaming; his countenance was charred black as if burned by hot cinders, surreal. Another lay twisted in ways no human body should ever be twisted.
You must never let the power rule you, Ethanus had warned.
She ran. Sickness welled up inside her with numbing force as she stumbled away from the carnage, not caring where she went as long as it was somewhere far away from that terrible place. All the fire that had been in her veins was gone now, replaced by an icy terror. What have I done? She could hardly think straight. Getting away from those bodies was all that mattered to her. Getting to a place where the walls weren’t spattered with blood and the reek of drunken terror didn’t hang in the air. Where the serpent of destruction inside her didn’t hunger for yet more death, so palpably she could taste it.
At last, exhausted, she stopped running. Her legs were so weak they could barely support her weight any longer and she lowered herself into a trembling half-crouch, gasping for breath as she tried to absorb what had just happened to her. Images of broken bodies crowded about her like ghosts, even when she closed her eyes. What had she done? What was she now, that she was capable of doing such a thing? She knew what Ethanus’ answer would be, but imagining it spoken in that utterly calm voice of his drove home by contrast the meaning of the words on a level she had never really understood before.
You are a Magister.
Shaken, exhausted, she lowered her face into her hands and did something she had never allowed herself to do before, not in all the years she had lived in this city as a child.
She wept.
Chapter 13
THE DAY was stormy and black, which suited High King Danton’s mood perfectly. He had been that way ever since throwing Ramirus and his black-robed vultures out of the domain. In the outer world, of course, sunshine occasionally managed to creep through the clouds and brave the narrow windows of his castle. In his inner world there was no such light.
Right now the sky outside was almost as dark as twilight, and rain pattered on the outer walls in irregular patterns that promised to drive him mad. It was just another irritant in a long list of many. The tithe from Corialanus was days late, which had fostered the usual rumors: insurrection, a sickness of the gut was working the rounds of the castle soldiery, the Inamorand succession had been put in doubt by accusations of infidelity, making the whole western border potentially unstable—the list went on and on.
All of which would have been no more than that, simply annoyances, had he had a Magister to help him deal with them.
He had interviewed five Magisters to replace Ramirus. He had not been happy with any of them, not enough to make them Magister Royal at any rate, though he had accepted three into his service for distant regions. A Magister Royal for a High King must have more than witchery at his fingertips; he must understand the way of politics, he must comprehend the ebb and flow of human aggression and be adept at manipulating men’s passions, and above all else he must share the High King’s hungers, his dreams, his hopes. Thus far none had proven himself by those standards and Danton was growing more frustrated each day. Who would have thought that the traitor Ramirus would be so damned hard to replace?
It was one thing to throw all one’s Magisters out of the palace in theory, but it was another thing to actually have to do without them day after day. He was discovering that the hard way. If he wanted a letter sent to the far border of his kingdom these days he had to send the damn thing by mounted messenger, no matter how important it was, or how much speed mattered. Or he could try to use birds, stupid brainless things that they were, hoping they would deliver their messages to his agents and not to the enemies that surrounded them. So it was with all the other conveniences that Ramirus had offered and which Danton had taken for granted. He was a Dark Age king now in all but name, limited to the reach of his own flesh and the power of his voice, just like it had been in those barbaric days.
Which would have been all fine and good if all his rivals had to suffer the same deprivations, but of course they didn’t. The most pitiful domains on his border had their own Magisters Royal, and no matter how incompetent those men were as sorcerers, they were still better than what Danton had right now. He could not move against his enemies or discipline his vassals or even flex his royal fist in warning without knowing he was out-powered by the weakest of his rivals . . . and his subjects knew it, too. It was only a question of time before someone took advantage of that and moved against him.
Curse the gods of the First Age of Kings for this wretched luck, and all the damnable Magisters with them! Had ruling an empire been this complicated back then?
“Your Majesty?”
He looked up, dark brows scowling. “Yes? What is it?”
His servant bowed. “A visitor has arrived. He gives his name as Kostas. He says you will wish to see him.”
“Kostas? I don’t know the name.”
The servant said quietly, “He wears black, Majesty.”
“A Magister?”
“So it would appear.”
Interesting. Perhaps the storm had swept in something useful after all.
He nodded curtly. “Very well. Send him to my audience chamber. I will meet him there.”
He must be from far away, if Danton had never heard of him. The High King prided himself on knowing all the local Magisters and their peculiarities. Or perhaps Kostas was simply a new name taken by some sorcerer who was thinking of leaving his current master for better employ. If so, Danton would allow him the anonymity for the time being. A rival’s Magisters were always worth courting.
The audience chamber was a room that Danton maintained especially for such meetings. It was a cold and comfortless chamber walled in rough-hewn stone, whose dark floor and shadowy vaulted ceiling always gave off the impression of being damp, no matter how dry the day was. To mortals and Magisters alike it was a challenge, albeit in different ways. Mere humans were forced to present their petitions in the midst of that cold, unwelcoming space, while the High King peered at them from his throne like a hawk staring down its prey.
It was amazing how much could be learned about a man in such a setting. As for Magisters, most of them worked their sorcery upon the space as soon as they entered, subtly or otherwise. One of them had actually dared to conjure himself a chair—a chair!—to mirror the High King’s own. In this manner they no doubt thought they would please him, or—in the case of the last—at least make a clear statement about what they perceived the proper relationship between king and Magister to be. Instead of missing the very obvious point about what manner of relationship he expected.
He had but a minute to settle onto his reception throne—a heavy wooden piece built at the start of the Second Age, now so heavy with paint and reapplied gilt that he sometimes wondered if any of the original wood still existed—before the wide doors opened and his servants ushered in his black-clothed visitor.
He was a curious-looking man, which sparked Danton’s interest immediately. Magisters might reshape their flesh in accordance with any desire, and therefore one could learn much from the body they chose for themselves. Usually it was something dramatic, or at least memorable. Some chose young faces, unmarked by any human hardship; others, aged ones so wrinkled with experience that to gaze into their hooded eyes was to step into ages past. Some chose horrific forms, as a warning to others that access to limitless power had made them something other than human; others sculpted themselves masks of such beauty and perfection that the gods themselves must surely be jealous.
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