The guards did not know who he was, of course. All they had seen was a stranger in a uniform attacking their king. They had never seen his face. And they had to strike him down to protect their queen. Of course. He understood that. The assassin had to die so that Gwynofar might live. It all made perfect sense.
Then those thoughts left him, along with any others. Death, who had dogged his footsteps for so long, finally stepped forward to claim his due. It was almost a relief, Andovan discovered. No more pretending to be strong. No more fear of being unmanned by his final incapacity. He had fought to the end. Now it was time to quit the field of battle in honor.
Take care of the kingdom, my mother.
In his last moment of consciousness he was dimly aware of Lianna. It was almost as if they were connected, somehow.
Then that connection snapped, and all that was left was darkness.
Black, black, the universe is black, and so cold that thoughts shatter like ice even as they are formed.
Andovan is dead! the darkness screams. Life is gone! Find more!
Regret is lethal! the darkness warns. Do not mourn, do not mourn, DO NOT MOURN!
Bright shining prince, so full of honor
Blue eyes
Hope
Such resolve
Such strength
Willing to die for a cause
Are you?
Cold, cold, the place where a Magister’s soul goes to die. Warm, the world surrounding. Latch onto that warmth. Infect it with cold, with death. Suck the life from its veins until your own veins are full. If a whole world must die to sustain you, then you must kill it.
Never regret.
Mourning is death
Do you care enough to live, knowing the cost?
Is this the existence you want, for the rest of eternity?
Decide!
Gwynofar knelt by Andovan’s body. Slowly she turned it over so that she might see his face one last time . . . and in that moment the guards knew what they had done.
She heard their whispered prayers and curses, but it was as if they were a great distance away from her. There was nothing in Gwynofar’s universe save her and her child—her children—and the husband she had tried so hard to save.
Dead. All dead.
She wept.
One by one, with silent solemnity, the guards knelt before her, awaiting her word as High Queen, prepared to submit to whatever judgment she saw fit to pronounce.
She did not even know they were there.
Colivar saw the hawk fall. It dropped like a stone from the sky, and he realized as it did what must surely have happened . . . and what that would mean to the Magisters, if the hawk was indeed Lianna.
Transition.
Thus far he had avoided giving a name to what she was, but if it really was Transition that had just snuffed out her consciousness, there was no longer any question about that. Only whether she would survive the next few minutes or not to face the Magisters who would judge her.
He summoned up a whirlwind to break the bird’s fall, and while he could not bring the hawk down perfectly he did manage to divert some of its downward velocity into lateral movement. It rolled violently as it hit the ground, crashing into the charred remnants of fallen trees with all the force of a speeding boulder, snapping more delicate bones in its wings at every turn. When it finally stopped, Colivar’s sorcery assured him that the hawk was still alive, though not much more than that. It did not seem to be stirring, which was a bad sign. For all that Transition was terrifying when it came on at such moments, it did not usually last more than a few seconds. If she had taken enough damage in the fall that she was now genuinely unconscious, her life was still very much in danger.
But though he could save the bird from being killed by its fall, he could not save it from the ikati. The creature clearly had no intention of letting its attacker go free, and began its descent before the body had stopped its movement. Even on a good day Colivar would have been hard pressed to stop it. Given that he could not seem to attack the Souleater at all, he was forced to back away helplessly as it descended to claim the unconscious Magister.
She would not have lasted long anyway, he told himself. Not after breaking our Law. Nevertheless he regretted that a genuine mystery should be destroyed at the very moment he had begun to unravel it. There were few enough diversions worthy of his attention these days, and the loss of one as promising as this was something to be mourned.
Suddenly there was a cry from behind him. It was a strange sound, human and inhuman all at once, and it stirred memories in Colivar so ancient, so compelling, that for a moment all present concerns faded from his awareness. The sound played like fingers along his spine, it made the blood rush hotly to his loins, it made him want to cry out in response with all the volume his lungs could muster, until his very soul was exhausted from screaming . . . and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone.
Shaken, Colivar turned back to locate the source, and saw a man standing atop a nearby rise. He was a tall man, pale and blond in the manner of the northern races, and well armed. As Colivar watched he raised his hands to his lips and made the strange noise once again. Its effect upon the Souleater was immediate and dramatic. The creature no longer had an interest in the fallen Magister, but wheeled in midair to head directly toward the stranger instead.
Colivar watched in amazement as the man went down on one knee, bringing up a crossbow to bear upon the beast. He was so still then that Colivar thought the Souleater’s power of entrancement had overcome him. Closer and closer the beast came—and then the stranger let fly his quarrel, and to Colivar’s amazement he managed a well-aimed shot into one of the wing joints. The Souleater screamed in pain, and though its wings remained extended, it began to lose altitude. Of course, Colivar thought, admiring the move. Bring it down first. Deny it mobility. Whoever this stranger was, he appeared to know what he was doing.
Given how long it had been since any man had last fought an ikati, that in and of itself cried out for explanation.
With a cry of bestial frustration the ikati hit the ground, beating its damaged wings upon the earth. The motion raised a thick cloud of black dust that spread quickly on the wind, and would have set Colivar to coughing had he not summoned a breeze to keep it away from him. Now one must concentrate even harder to see it clearly, which meant that its power would be more effective. This was becoming an interesting contest.
Knowing how dangerous it still was, Colivar watched with interest as the man took up his lance and approached the thing. Certainly he seemed unaffected by the creature’s mesmeric power, and that was half the battle. He appeared to be chanting something as he walked forward, low enough that Colivar could not make out the words. Perhaps it was some kind of protective spell, he mused. It was something to ask about later if the man survived.
As he approached the beast drew itself up to its full height, trying to intimidate him into retreat. It was a mating display pure and simple, and little wonder; the man’s strange cry, Colivar realized, had been a mating challenge. The ikati bared a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, stretching its jaw in the same odd, disjointed way that a snake might, and the stranger watched it closely. Too closely. Evidently for all his knowledge of such creatures, he was not prepared for reality of what was in its arsenal.
The long tail whipped about, low to the ground, and cracked with stunning force against his side. If he had been a few steps farther away the sharp plates on the tail’s end would have gutted him like a fish, but as it was, the ikati merely broke a host of bones and sent him reeling to the ground. Give the man credit for being well-trained enough that he did not drop the spear, Colivar mused. The man was lying still now, and it was very possible that the creature had knocked him unconscious. Either that, or the blow had stunned him hard enough that the ikati’s power could finally take hold of him.
The Souleater opened its jaws and stretched forward, clearly intending to claim its enemy as dinner—
; And the man moved suddenly. Bringing up the spear in both hands, he thrust it into the creature’s mouth and upward, into the brain beyond. The ikati let out a bellow of rage and pulled back, snapping the spear free of the stranger’s hands, but it was too late. Blood gushed out of its mouth and the great wings spasmed against the ground as it struggled to save itself. Its tail whipped about wildly, with no conscious control behind it; once by sheer luck it hit the blond man again, and Colivar could hear his cry of pain as it connected.
Then, slowly, the great beast stopped moving. Its glassy wings fell limp from its sides and lay upon the ground, black against black, all their colors gone. The ground beneath it was soaked with blood, as was the man who lay before it. Everything was still.
Colivar found that he could breathe again.
With one glance at the hawk that lay behind him, to assure himself that it was still alive, he moved to the side of the fallen warrior. The man’s wounds were severe, but nothing sorcery could not heal. He knit the broken ribs back together and repaired the bruised organs, including one collapsed lung. The stranger said nothing through it all, just coughed up blood now and then as he struggled to get enough air to remain conscious to the end of the treatment.
When at last his breathing steadied, and nothing inside his body was about to fail him, Colivar stood back and looked at him. A dry, pained smile spread across the warrior’s face. “Well, I see the legends did not exaggerate, anyway.”
Colivar helped him to his feet. “I take it this is the first time you have seen one?”
“Oh, yes.” He brushed at the dirt on his clothes out of habit; in fact there was way too much blood and ash adhering to him for any simple gesture to dislodge it. “First time anyone has seen one, as far as I know.”
Colivar said nothing.
“Well.” The voice came from behind them. “That was quite impressive.”
Colivar did not turn around. “You could have helped.”
“And miss the chance to see a Guardian tested? I think not.” Ramirus looked over the body as he joined them. “Besides, I am a scholar, not a warrior. But introductions are in order, yes?” He nodded toward the blood-stained Guardian. “Rhys nas Keirdwyn, Guardian of the Wrath, this is Colivar, Magister Royal of some little state down south, I forget the name of it.”
“Anshasa,” Colivar muttered. He nodded a curt greeting to Rhys. “May I say you have . . . remarkable timing?”
“Serendipity,” Ramirus assured him. “Rhys is Queen Gwynofar’s brother, and perhaps her most trusted confidant. I was bringing him here to see if he could inspire her to the task required, when we saw this . . . thing.”
He stepped over to the side of the great creature and put his hand upon its flank. “Is it what it appears to be?” he breathed. “Truly?”
“I am afraid so,” Colivar said.
“Then they have returned?”
Rhys cursed softly under his breath as Colivar joined Ramirus at the ikati’s flank. Its skin was cold and smooth, like a serpent’s. Down its spine ran a series of sharp spikes, many longer than a man’s hand. Colivar pulled the heavy body toward him, to where they could see a place where several of the spikes had been removed. The hide where they had once been anchored was covered over with scars; the surgery had taken place long ago.
“This one is from the north,” he said quietly. Even speaking the words made a shiver run up his own spine. “Beyond the Wrath. So . . .” He looked at Rhys. “They have found a way through it.”
The warrior’s expression was grim. “Then we must discover a way to repair the breach before more can follow.”
Colivar did not say what he already knew, that the move would come too late. Ikati were already nesting in the human lands, which meant that sooner or later there would be a flock of them to deal with. But the warrior who had just defeated a Souleater deserved his moment of hope. For now.
The world is at war, he thought grimly.
He wanted more than anything to ask Ramirus if he had felt the creature’s power himself, as Colivar had. The Magisters must know if they were stronger than morati in resisting these creatures, or perhaps doubly susceptible for being such choice prey. But he could not ask that question without inviting others that he himself was unwilling to answer, so he kept his silence.
Rhys stroked the wings in wonder. “I have heard they once made armor out of layers of this stuff,” he said, “and from the hide as well.”
“They did once,” Colivar confirmed. “There are few substances that can protect a man as well. But it requires special treatment in the first few hours after death, and I suspect you did not come here prepared for that.” He nodded toward the end of the tail, where it lay some yards away from them. “There are sharp plates in the tip, there. Take them as trophy. Make blades of them, and spearheads as well. They will pierce the hide of these creatures as nothing man-made can.”
Rhys nodded and began to walk down the length of the tail, pulling out his knife as he went. Colivar was about to speak to Ramirus when a commotion sounded in the distance behind them. Glancing that way, he could see a small phalanx of guards leaving the palace, no doubt to investigate what had just occurred.
“There was a hawk,” Ramirus said quietly.
“A witch,” he answered, equally quietly. “I tracked her from Gansang, where she killed one of our kind. Apparently she was particularly susceptible to the beast’s power. Which should come as no great surprise, given how much hatred that species must have for witches.” He shrugged. “Justice is done, if not by our hand.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, if you will excuse me.” He nodded toward the coming crowd. “I really do not think it the best thing if I stay around to wait for the reception committee. Nor should you, for that matter.”
Ramirus looked toward the palace; his white brow furrowed as he concentrated. “Danton is dead,” he said finally. “And Rurick also. And . . . and Andovan.” His thin mouth tightened. “Not a good day for the throne of the High Kingdom.”
“That is your affair, not mine, Ramirus.” Colivar’s tone was dry. “I rule over sand dunes and tents, remember? Take control of the whole continent if you like, I have no plans for it.”
Ramirus put a hand on his shoulder. He waited until Colivar met his eyes. “We will have to cooperate on this matter. All of us. Anything less than that could get us all killed.”
And trying to work together could get us all killed even faster, Colivar thought. But he merely nodded.
He made himself the body of a red-winged falcon and took off across the field, low to the ground, hoping that Ramirus did not take note of his direction. He wanted to collect the fallen hawk before the palace guards reached that spot, preferably without Ramirus noticing. He had no desire to share his precious mystery with anyone.
But the hawk was gone. Traces of sorcery clung to the ground where it had rested. Apparently she had left under her own power.
Keening his frustration into the air, the falcon circled higher and higher . . . then the air surrounding it shimmered, and it was gone.
Halfway across the world, in a field being readied for harvest, one of the workers paused.
“Liam?” another worker asked him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, just . . . just a moment of dizziness. But it’s gone now.”
He waited a moment longer to see if the strange feeling of weakness would come over him again, and when it did not, shrugged and returned to his work.
Chapter 42
THE FIELDS in the monastery had just come into bloom, and a half-dozen monks in coarse linen robes were picking the precious medicinal blossoms and gathering them into wicker baskets. In the distance several others had tucked up their long shirts into their belts in order to wade among close-set rows of gosberry bushes, and their bare legs were splotched with juice. Farther still, the hum of bees resonated in the warm summer air.
The messenger pulled up his horse at the main gate and dismounted. He was a young m
an, well dressed, and he walked with the stiffness of one who had been in the saddle too many hours for his liking.
“I seek the one you know as Father Constance,” he called out to the first monk that noticed him. A hand waved him toward the stone cloister beyond the fields, then the monk went back to his work.
The messenger walked toward the building as fast as his stiff legs would carry him. His somber expression caused several of the monks to look up from their work long enough to take his measure, but none asked him any questions, and he did not stop to invite any.
Inside the building he had to ask two more times after the one he sought, and at last was directed to a small chamber in the back of the cloister, a plain cell with minimal furnishings in which a young man sat reading.
“Are you the one they call Father Constance?” the messenger asked.
He shut his book. “I am. What is your business?”
The messenger pulled out a flattened scroll from his doublet and went down on one knee to read from it. “Prince Salvator Aurelius, son of Danton Aurelius, I bring to you the words of the Queen Mother Gwynofar, called the Fair. She informs you, with great regret, that the High King has passed from this earth, and his firstborn son and heir has also, and thus by our customs the throne of the High Kingdom falls to you. She bids you come as priest to preside over their funerals, and then if you will, set aside your priestly robes and take your rightful place at the head of Danton’s empire, that you may guide her people in their time of mourning and provide them with justice and leadership afterward.”
The messenger rolled up the scroll again, and waited.
Bells tolled in the distance, signaling the end of one task and the beginning of another.
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