This one . . . this one was remarkably ordinary, Danton thought. And that was an interesting choice.
He was a slender man, whippet-thin, and his black clothes fit close to his body, accentuating that slenderness. His frame was angular and everywhere that flesh showed, bone was plainly visible beneath it: in his face, where harshly angled cheekbones gave him a hungry aspect; in his neck, where lines of tendon and muscle stretched tautly from jawline to collarbone; in his hands, which had the aspect of coarse gloves fitted over a jagged armature. His face was weathered in the way that peasant skin became weathered after a lifetime of fighting the elements, the texture of it coarse and reddened. He reminded Danton of an arctic fisherman he had once seen, whose face had been scored by salt-laden winds and frigid ocean spray every day of his life. There were lines in this man’s face also, sharp lines, harsh lines, and it did not seem to Danton that they had been put there for any artistic purpose so much as earned through time, in a purely human manner.
Interesting.
The Magister took a few steps forward and spared a glance to take in the room. His eyes, Danton noted, were the gray of a storm-laden sky, and his hair a shade of brown so unremarkable it must have been natural. It was shoulder length, with ragged edges that said plainly he cared little for fashion. Most interesting of all were the scars that marked his face. That they were old scars was plain, and they had healed as much as scars ever did on their own: a few parallel sharp lines across one cheekbone, perhaps claw marks; a puckering below one side of his jaw. There was a scar right at his hairline from which the hair grew white and coarse, and he had braided it so that it hung down over his shoulder in a sharply defined streak. They all looked like natural scars, Danton noted, which was interesting; why would a man who was capable of healing any wound choose to bear the marks of past injury?
Then the gray eyes fixed upon him and for a moment they held him transfixed; he could sense the raw power behind them, and depths of an existence no single lifetime could contain.
“High King Danton.” The Magister bowed. “It has come to my ears that you seek a man of power for your court.”
“My last one displeased me,” Danton said bluntly. “I banished him.”
It was a challenge, plain and simple. Most kings lived in constant fear of displeasing one of the black-robed sorcerers, and spent as much time trying to keep their Magisters Royal content as they did ruling their kingdoms.
Which is why they were the weakling princes they were, Danton thought, and he was . . . something more.
Some of the others candidates he’d interviewed had dared to comment upon his actions. A few had not offered open response, but their eyes made clear their displeasure.
But this Magister nodded his acceptance of the order without hesitation or comment. The gesture was eloquent in its simplicity, and Danton did not fail to catch the message behind it: This is your kingdom. Not even a Magister may tell you what to do in it.
A good start.
“I have interviewed many,” he said curtly. “None pleased me.”
“The world is full of fools,” the Magister observed. “Having power does not make them otherwise.”
A faint smile quirked the corner of the High King’s mouth.
“I am called Kostas,” the Magister offered. “Though if it pleases you to call me something else, that can be arranged.”
“Humility is unusual in one of your calling.”
He shrugged. “Humility is when a man submits to those things which have value to him. Submitting to those things which do not have value is simply . . . expedience.”
“And your last royal position was . . . ?”
“Alas, I have not held such a post before.” The gray eyes shimmered darkly, like thunderclouds before a storm. “Is that a requirement?”
“No. But it is . . . unusual.”
“I have felt no need.”
“And you do now?”
He shrugged. Like all things about him it was a sharp gesture, all bones and angles. “My interests change. The politics of this region intrigue me.” He smiled slightly; it was a cold and predatory expression. “I am told there is no better seat to observe them from than beside the throne of a great king.”
Danton ignored the flattery. “And is that all you wish to do? Observe?”
The stormy eyes glittered. “That is the custom, is it not?”
It was a good answer. The five who had come before him had tried other ones and had been dismissed. Three had attempted to pretend they had no interest in “morati” politics. Two had been honest. Neither had a place in his court.
Of course any Magister who applied for this royal position had an interest in politics. Of course he hoped to manipulate the High King, and through him the fate of an empire. To pretend otherwise here, in this chamber, was to accuse Danton of being a fool. And that he was not. He was many things, many hateful things, things that men cursed and women wept over, but he was not a fool.
He was beginning to think this Magister might suit him.
“Tell me of my kingdom,” he challenged.
“Strong at its heart, as a lion’s heart is strong,” the man replied. He cocked his head slightly, like a bird regarding its prey. “But vast, and in its vastness, vulnerable. With a Magister’s art such a territory is easily maintained, but you have lacked that for a fortnight now, and the strain is showing.”
Danton’s dark brows gathered about their center like angry stormclouds. “Tell me about it.”
“What need I say that you do not already know, High King? It is no secret that the greater the size of an empire, the harder it is to safeguard its periphery. In times of prosperity it means little if there are mountains between one district and the next, or swampland that would hinder an army’s passage. The Magister’s art can overcome such obstacles with ease but without the hand of sorcery to ease passage, these are barriers that circumscribe armies. And nations.”
For a long, very cold minute Danton just stared at him. It was impossible to read the Magister’s expression, and that was a surprise; Danton was adept at reading men.
Finally he rose and strode to a sideboard. That he turned his back on the visitor was quite deliberate: I do not fear you or your kind. Beneath the narrow table, on the shelf beneath, handful of heavy scrolls lay waiting. He took one out, removed the ribbon that bound it, and unrolled it across the table.
The scroll unrolled fully and remained flat on the table afterward as if pinned down by weights; Kostas had not missed his cue.
Danton gazed down upon the map of his kingdom in all its vast, terrible glory. It was the single greatest empire since the Second Age of Kings had begun, or so his court historians had assured him. He had long since crossed barriers that his ancestors would have regarded as impassable, at least for armies; that was what the age of Magisters had brought to kings. Nations were unified under Danton Aurelius that had never been unified before, and if it took a strong and sometimes brutal hand to keep them unified, so be it.
There had been witches in the First Age, of course. But a witch only had so much life force to work with, and convincing one to part with all of his supply for a single military campaign was nigh impossible. Geographical features that were impassable in the First Age tended to stay impassable, unless you put knives to the throats of a hundred witches and forced them to serve your cause. Which might work for one project, but tended to leave you short of witches for the next one down the line.
Now things were different.
That was not to say that Magisters always applied their power as liberally as a royal patron might like. Apparently there was some sort of code governing how much they might exert themselves, and when, and more than once Danton had cursed a Magister who had refused to extend himself for a chosen project. They claimed it had something to do with the balance of spiritual forces in the heavens and the inherent stability of the universe . . . but rat piss to all that. He was sure there was something more to it, but apparentl
y no mere morati king could get it out of them.
He watched as the lean Magister moved quietly to the table and gazed down at the map before him. How like a lizard’s visage the man’s profile was, Danton noted, not with displeasure so much as curiosity. One could almost imagine a forked tongue darting out of that narrow mouth, testing the air for sound as well as smell.
“Defreest stirs,” the Magister mused quietly, “and the provinces beyond. Corialanus to the south, but you know that, I am sure. These . . .” He swept a hand across the small row of provinces that edged the kingdom on the west, some of whom had negotiated semi-independent status long ago. “These are agitated, but it means little. Unless they unify they are no real threat.”
“My father put their cities to the torch last time they tried that.”
“I am sure they have not forgotten.”
Danton looked up at him sharply. “So what would you advise, that you should become my counselor? What would you do, if all this was yours?”
There was a double challenge in the words.
They gray eyes narrowed. For a moment the Magister was silent, studying the map. “Prepare an army against Corialanus,” he said at last. “It stands between you and the Free Lands and as such will hamper your expansion into that region unless it is securely controlled. They will start testing you soon, to learn your limits—”
“They have already begun,” Danton muttered.
Kostas nodded. “Then move against them before they are ready for it, and give them your answer. Without mercy.”
“And to the north?”
“Distract them. Give them something to focus their attention on that will not require an army, nor divide your supply lines.” The stormy gray eyes met his; their depths were so cold that Danton shivered despite himself. “I can do that for you, High King.”
“How?” he demanded.
“Fearsome tricks. Legends of demons, and worse. Things that will have them arming against the shadows themselves, rather than turning their attention south to your border. Humans are easily manipulated through fear, High King . . . and my kind is adept at such games.”
“Few of them admit it so openly,” he said quietly.
“Yes . . .” A faint, cold smile flickered across his face. “You will find that I am . . . atypical.”
“So you favor my expansion?”
“It is the natural condition of a great state to expand, Your Majesty.”
Danton snorted. “Not all of my advisers agree with you. Some claim the kingdom has reached its natural limits—whatever that means. They warn me that any power spread too thin will, in time, collapse.”
The stormy eyes glittered. “All things collapse, High King . . . in time. The greatest empire of the First Age was no more than dust a millennium later. The greatest empire of the Second will someday be the same. Against such a heartbeat of existence politics are played out, the ebb and flow of human hungers driving them . . . no different than among animals, really, save that we clothe our instincts in prettier raiments, and sometimes use words in the place of teeth and claws. And sometimes . . . not.”
The gray eyes fixed on Danton; power stirred visibly in their depths. A lesser man might have quailed, but the High King knew the importance of standing his ground, particularly in such an interview; the statements made this night would establish what Kostas would be to him for as long as they both walked the earth.
He met the eerie gaze without flinching and said, “Go on.”
“We are beasts at heart, every one of us, though clad in more fragile flesh than most beasts. We play games of ‘civilization’ and pride ourselves on having created things like poetry and music, but inside we are as territorial as wolves. The desire of the ruling male to expand his hunting range, to control resources, to spread his seed as far as possible, are drives born of primitive animal hunger . . . whether he expresses it by pissing on trees that were marked by a rival or sending forth a royal army to rape the neighboring domain, the end result is the same.
“That the hunger is strong in you is clear from your history. That you are capable of doing it justice is equally clear. Few men can claim both.”
“Few Magisters speak in such terms.”
“As I said, I am not typical.”
“Those who are I have sent away.”
The gray eyes glittered. “Perhaps that was wise.”
Danton studied the man again, noting every feature of him, tasting his essence through the inspection. It was his gift to be able to read the hearts of men, even those of seemingly unlimited power. This one was . . . hungry. Just as hungry as the kings he spoke of, or the beasts that howled for blood within men’s souls. It was a dangerous hunger, to be sure, and rarely were a Magister’s true motives anything that a king might understand. But Danton had figured out Ramirus well enough to control him, and had manipulated his kind adroitly enough to insult two dozen of them and survive it—a feat most monarchs would not even attempt—and now, he thought, he would learn to control this one. For no matter what this Kostas had experienced, no matter what the taste of unlimited power had done to him, no matter what secrets immortality had whispered into his ear, he was, at his core, human. That, Danton had learned, was the secret of the Magisters that they tried to veil with mystery and legends. A tiger, no matter how powerful, could never become something other than a tiger. So it was with men. They might change their bodies at will, and even live forever, but they were still men.
He turned back to the map and regarded his territory once more. Finally he brought down a finger to rest upon the border of Corialanus. The bloodred ruby in his ring glittered darkly as he moved it along the River Kest to the heart of that troublesome state.
“So,” he said quietly. “Let me hear what my Magister Royal would advise. . . .”
Chapter 14
SHADOWS, SHADOWS are all around. At first Andovan cannot make out any shapes among them, only random patterns of mottled unclarity, and then they resolve, slowly. He sees trees, outlined darkly against the night sky. A woman, among the trees. She is wrapped in blackness, clothed in blackness, so that nothing of her is visible. Moonlight picks out cool highlights along the jagged evergreen branches, but it cannot reach her.
She is watching him, he knows that. She is always watching him. He can feel her gaze upon him and it tastes of death. He screams his protest with all his might. It is an empty yell, impotent, that leaves his body like smoke. He shuts his mouth but cannot stop the flow. More and more smoke follows, and as it leaves him he grows weaker and weaker. He struggles to turn away and run from her, but he cannot.
The woman waits, silent, eternally patient. There is no sign of emotion in her, but she puts out one pale hand and the smoke comes to her like a tame dog . . . and then she wafts it toward her mouth and begins to breathe it in, absorbing his strength, his life while the evergreen shadows watch all in silence. . . .
Andovan awakened suddenly. A cold sweat was upon his brow, and for a moment he just lay there, grateful to be back in the world of real things, freed from the harrowing nightmare.
It was not the first night he had dreamed of the shadow woman. In fact he had done so every night since Colivar first laid the spell upon him, that sorcery which would supposedly draw him toward the source of his illness. Toward his would-be killer.
He saw her every night, but he could not make out her face.
He screamed at her each night, but did not know her name.
The nightmare was worse each time he dreamed it, the pain of his dying more real. Did that mean that Colivar’s sorcery was working, and he was getting closer to her? Or was it a warning that the life was draining out of him like sand through an hourglass, and he had very little time left before all searches were ended?
I will find her, he told himself. It was his morning mantra. I will win my life back, whatever it takes, and make her pay for what she has done to me.
He tried to move, to get up out of bed, but a sudden blinding pain forced hi
m to fall back, gasping for breath. His limbs felt like lead, and his head felt as if it had been split in two. For a moment he just lay there with his eyes closed, trying to master the pain. Trying to remember what had caused it. But the memory would not come, and when he opened his eyes he saw a ceiling overhead that was unfamiliar to him. He turned his head painfully to one side—the motion took several long minutes, his head throbbing hotly with each new inch gained—and he realized the rest of the room was likewise unfamiliar. Some sort of crude log construct, artlessly patched with mud and straw, that he had never seen before.
Where in the gods’ names am I?
Then the throbbing gave way to a sharper pain at the side of his head, and he managed to raise up a hand to feel for the source, though it seemed to him his hand was made of lead. Bandages. There were bandages. Wound around his head. Coarse linen, from the feel of them, one or two layers, tightly wrapped. He pressed his fingers against the fabric, seeking more information. The source of the pain was a spot over his left temple, and fire pierced through his skull when he probed there. Over that spot, soaked into the bandages, was a thick paste. He thought at first it was half-dried blood, but when he drew his fingers away to look at them he saw crumbling bits of herbs in a white, vinegary-smelling paste. Some kind of healing salve, most likely. So . . . someone had taken care of him. But who? And where was he? What had happened to him?
He tried to sit up but his body would not respond.
So instead he tried to remember. That at least allowed him to shut his eyes, which was a small mercy. Even the small bit of light seeping through the small windows was painful to him.
There’s sour ale in his stomach, food too old for human consumption, peasant fare at its worst refusing to be digested. He walks back toward the woods, thinking he would rather make his bed in the wild tonight than rely upon the hospitality of strangers. One more night in an ill-kept hovel, with the smells of a chamberpot filling the place and the accumulated reek of a lifetime’s sweaty labors closing in about him, and he may well become sick with more than the Wasting. No, the forest is clean and fresh and the ground has provided a bed enough nights during his hunting expeditions that it will seem like home tonight. Perhaps he will even puke up his vile dinner and then can catch himself something fresh to take its place. The sunlight is not completely gone yet, which means the nocturnal animals will be coming out to look for forage or prey . . . if he is lucky he can find some deer . . . hunting would refresh his spirit, he thinks, and his stomach would certainly welcome the change of fare.
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