Legacy of Kings (22 page)

“Sorcery defies that plan. Not only because of what it is, but because of who can use it. It places unlimited power into the hands of the cruelest of men and rewards human callousness. Witchery ennobles us; sorcery corrupts. And where men are corrupted, society is corrupted.

“Do you understand now, Mother? This isn’t about any individual Magister. It’s about how their power defies God’s will and threatens to alter the balance of human society.”

He drew in a deep breath. “So where does this power come from, that spits upon the natural order? There were no Magisters during the First Age of Kings, we know that. Nor do we have records of any that existed during the Great War. It was only later that they first appeared, during that barbaric period we now call the Dark Ages. Creatures of darkness, spawned in an era of ignorance and violence.
Their power is not a human thing,
one early Penitent wrote,
but rather a bestial corruption, that revels in bloodshed
. I believe—”

He stopped suddenly.

“Salvator?”

Go on. Tell her. It is time she knew the truth.

It is time the world knew the truth.

“I believe—my Church believes—that mankind would have recovered from the Great War much sooner if not for the Magisters. Not only because of the power they wielded, but because of the influence they had upon human society. The earliest Penitent writings attest to this. In fact, my Church . . . .”

He hesitated. Wondering how much he dared say to her and how she would receive it. The air in the room suddenly seemed charged with energy, which the wrong words might spark to conflagration.

Or perhaps the right ones.

“My Church was founded because of the Magisters,” he told her. “Because of the burden of sin that they brought into the world. Do you understand, Mother? When a Penitents fasts, or denies himself sexual concourse, or scourges his flesh with leather straps . . . he is not doing that just to offer penance for the sins of mankind. He is doing that because of the
Magisters
. God decreed that penance must be offered for all earthly power, so since they will not offer it themselves, we do so for them. Without such penance the world cannot remain in balance.”

“You do penance for Magisters?” She blinked. “Truly?”

“Yes, Mother. I do penance for Ramirus being in this house and for any corruption he manifests while he is here. I do penance for every act of sorcery he performs at my behest.”
And at yours
, he thought.

“What a cruel god you serve,” she whispered.

His expression was cold. “He is harsh with us as a father is harsh with his children when they stray. Not because He wants to see us in pain, but because He wants us to become stronger.” He paused. “Do you doubt my strength, Mother?”

“No.” She said it softly. “Never.”

“I will lead an expedition into the Spinas Mountains to find this Souleater. Ramirus may come along because he knows the way. This other one that you speak of, the one who discovered the Souleater’s lair, he may come as well if you feel it’s necessary. For his information alone. But no Magister will use any sorcery on my behalf. That condition is not open to negotiation. If any Magister wishes to be part of this, he must give me his oath on that.”

‘You will go yourself?” she asked, startled. “Is that wise?”

He hesitated. Was it time to tell her what he suspected, that he might be unusually resistant to this creature’s power? That his people might not be able to find the ikati without him? But no, he would rather test that theory first, before sharing it with others. Even her.

This was the perfect testing ground.

“My father rode to battle at the head of his army,” he said brusquely. “Should I do less?”

“Your father had a Magister to protect him,” she pointed out.

“And I have witches who are just as powerful. Never forget that, Mother. There is nothing sorcery can do that witchery can’t, if someone is willing to pay the price. So my condition stands. If it is acceptable to your Magisters, then they may come with us.”

“With
us?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you going to ask to come along, Mother? Weren’t you going to demand it of me, if I said no? Would you not argue that your
lyr
blood has special significance, that your
lyr
rank has special responsibilities, and besides, I had already given you permission to play a Guardian’s role? Not to mention that perhaps there is a power in you that we don’t yet know about, which might prove useful in such an endeavor? All of which is perfectly true.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I thought I would save us both some time and just cut to the chase.”

And I need to test your part in this, as well,
he thought grimly.
Though I will not speak of that either until the testing is done.

The lines of tension across her brow eased a bit. “You are truly your father’s son, Salvator.” She shook her head. “In more ways than you will ever know.”

He leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “Have Ramirus come to me at noon, if he accepts my terms, and we can discuss the parameters of the expedition. Favias as well. Cresel can oversee matters here and spread whatever rumors are needed to keep noses out of our business. I’m sure he did it often enough for Danton. For now, if you will excuse me . . . .” His expression darkened somewhat. “I have prayers to offer.”

She did not ask what those prayers would be about. Which was a good thing for both of them, he thought. There were some things a mother did not want to know.

Chapter 13

T

AKING A deep breath, Salvator stepped through the portal.

It was as if he had suddenly been immersed in a turbulent ice-cold river. Frigid black currents closed over his head, and he had to fight the instinctive panic that overcame a man when his environment was suddenly out of his control. Attending that was a rush of guilt, for he knew the cost of this witch’s trick. Every current of power that swirled about him represented a moment of someone’s life, sacrificed just in order to save him travel time. The fact that such a service had been offered up voluntarily, by Penitents who believed that in serving him they were serving the will of the Creator, was of little comfort. It should not have been necessary in the first place.

An instant later—an eternity later—he stepped through to the other side. Blinking, he looked around, trying to get oriented. He was standing on a small plateau surrounded by steep and forbidding mountains, their tips highlighted by the cool, dim light of morning. At the far end of the plateau a small retinue was waiting, some local lordling and his cadre of personal guards. They wore the colors of Lord Cadern, but Salvator didn’t know the local rank markings well enough to evaluate the status of any individual. Off to the side were two dozen horses, saddled and ready, attended by liveried grooms. Salvator wondered if Lord Cadern himself was present. Normally it would have been an insult for the local lord to fail to receive the High King himself, but Salvator hadn’t told Cadern he’d be coming in person, only that he was sending out a small expedition. So there had been no reason for any special ceremony. Looking about now, Salvator could see that Cadern had supplied all the things the High King had asked for, and that was what mattered.

The men who were present recognized Salvator the minute he stepped through the portal, and the guards bowed their heads low in obeisance. Their leader’s face went white, which answered any question about whether or not Lord Cadern was present. Clearly he wasn’t. The man glanced sharply at one of his retainers, who shut her eyes briefly in concentration. A witch, most likely. Salvator imagined he could hear her spell crackle in the air as an invisible message was launched:
The High King is here!
How much panic would follow in the wake of that message? he wondered. Was Cadern even now scrambling to find a witch to transport him to this field so that he could offer proper obeisance in person? Or was it too early for that, and he was still asleep? If so, he was likely to have a few bad dreams before rising.

Flanking the field where the portal spell had manifested, two Magisters stood like vultures on opposing hillsides. On the right was Ramirus, stiff-backed and regal, his long black robes devouring the newborn sunlight. Salvator nodded to him briefly, coldly, acknowledging his presence without any sign of approval. The fact that the High King had agreed to let Ramirus accompany them on this mission didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Opposite Ramirus was a less formal vulture, a thin man, tall and sharp-featured, with long black hair caught up in a queue at the nape of his neck. That must be Colivar, Ramirus’ rival. This one’s garments were black, but it was a mundane color, dull and imperfect, and they were cut in the manner of simple morati clothing. A curious affectation. Did he think that such a show of unpretentious attire would lead men to mistake him for something less than he was? Colivar affected a casual pose as he waited, leaning against a tree, a half-eaten apple in his hand. But the intensity of his gaze belied any suggestion of casual purpose. Much was on the line today, not only in the coming war between men and Souleaters, but also in that cold, knife-edged rivalry that was the Magisters’ favorite sport. Salvator might not understand all the details of that game—or care to—but he knew that nothing else, not even the business of saving the world, would be allowed to interfere with it.

Colivar knows more about the Souleaters than any man alive,
Ramirus had told Salvator. Secrets within secrets. Ask a Magister to shed light on one of them and you put yourself in his power. Salvator had refused to take the bait.

At least Ramirus had given his oath not to use his sorcery on Salvator’s behalf. Supposedly Colivar had agreed as well.

And what if your life is endangered by this Souleater?
Ramirus had demanded.
Shall I stay my hand even then?

Yes,
Salvator had responded. Staring into the eyes of that ancient unclean soul without hesitation or doubt.
I would rather be torn to pieces by a Souleater than submit to your sorcery.

No doubt both Magisters thought him a fool for that. A shortsighted religious fool who would put his own life at risk for the sake of a whimsical and outdated prejudice. But if so, then they did not understand the nature of his faith, or the spiritual value of religious martyrdom. If he, the High King, chose death over corruption, might not others come to question their casual acceptance of sorcery? If his death inspired men to throw off the shackles of the Magisters and turn their eyes to their Creator instead, would not his duty on earth have been well served? Would not his life have been well lived and properly ended?

Gwynofar seemed to understood that much. She mourned his dedication to such a path, but she understood the passion that drove him, and seemed to respect it.

A gentle but respectful touch on his arm urged the High King to move forward; others needed room to follow him. Salvator nodded and moved off to one side. Half a dozen Guardians emerged from the shimmering portal behind him, led by Favias himself. Then came a small contingent of royal bodyguards—God forbid the High King should ever go anywhere without them!—and behind them, flanked by two of her personal guards, the Queen Mother.

How like some barbarian goddess she appeared in that moment, as she stepped through the witch’s portal! The royal armorer had crafted a fitted steel breastplate especially for her, investing the best of his art into the effort. The upraised wings of the Aurelius hawk curled gracefully about Gwynofar’s breasts in damascened glory; and her golden hair flowed down over her shoulders like a brilliant waterfall, spilling out from beneath the matching half-helm. All her years seemed to fall away from her in that moment, along with all her ties to the mortal world. She seemed the living embodiment of the Maiden Warrior: pure, eternal, unconquerable. The embodiment of myth, sent to earth to inspire men. Was this how Danton had seen her?

Then the witches who had conjured the portal stepped through it themselves, and the spell collapsed behind them.

Penitent custom required that he kneel before the witches and thank them for the sacrifice they had just made. Royal custom required that he avoid any act of submission while in the presence of . . . well, anyone. He settled for a solemn nod of respect, and he knew from their expression that they understood what it represented. Never before had there been a Penitent king, so there were no precedents to guide them.

“Your Majesty.”

The leader of the local delegation stepped forward; the look of guarded embarrassment on his face confirmed Salvator’s guess that Lord Cadern was not going to be showing up anytime soon. The man bowed deeply. “We are humbled and honored by your visit. If his Lordship had realized you would be coming in person . . . .”

Salvator waved off the apology. “Too much ceremony would only have delayed our business.” He looked toward the horses, now made restless by the sudden arrival of so many strangers. “These are for my people?”

“Yes, Majesty.” The man bowed again. “His Lordship has provided a local guide as well, as requested.” He waved forward a man who had been standing to the side of the local retinue, a tall, wiry northerner dressed in the coarse woolen garments of a trapper. “This is Herzog. He knows the region better than anyone else.”

“Your Majesty.” Herzog knelt ungracefully before Salvator, clearly uncomfortable with all the fuss. Judging from his personal hygiene, he was rarely in the presence of civilized men, much less men of rank. “I am at you service.” For a moment he looked as if he expected to be given a ring to kiss, but of course Salvator offered none. Acts of reverence should be reserved for the Creator.

“We are glad for your service, Herzog. You know the place we’re looking for?”

“Aye.” He rose to his feet. “It’s near one of the landmarks trappers use, though lately no one seems much interested in that stretch of woods.”