Legacy of Kings (32 page)

“Outside Danton’s palace.”

“Yes.”

Fadir folded his arms over his chest. “If killing one can destroy the other . . . that may prove useful.”

Colivar stiffened.
Be wary of what knowledge you give them,
he warned himself. But Ramirus was right. They needed to understand what the ikati were. They need to know what
they
were. The time had come.

“There was one witch whose ikati consort was destroyed,” Colivar continued. “The sudden loss of half his soul was more than he could bear, more than any man could bear. He went mad. And in his madness, he managed to do what no one had thought possible. He crossed the Wrath and reentered the southlands. Maddened by his loss, starving for athra, he struggled to find a way to feed on the life-essence of others without a Souleater to help him”

He could see comprehension dawn in their eyes now, as one by one they realized just where this tale was heading. A black and terrible revelation, to be sure. It pleased him perversely to see how much it surprised them.

“He was the first Magister,” he pronounced. “The source of our kind, the seed of all our power. He believed that his Souleater had been fully excised from his mind, but in truth it had not been. Once merged, man and ikati are never wholly separate again. A spark of the ikati essence still remained within this man, and in time he learned how to draw upon it, to feed as the Souleaters did. It was the only way to stay alive.

“In time his mind became stable enough that he could interact with other human beings, and he passed that spark on to another witch. Along with all his memories.” Colivar paused. “That is what we pass on to each new Magister, when we guide him through First Transition. Without that spark, no man can manage the transformation. Oh, there have been witches down through the ages who guessed at the truth in their dying moments, and who tried to reach out and steal the life-essence of others so that they might survive. But such independent efforts always fail. Because knowledge is not enough. Power is not enough.
Humans
are incapable of feeding on their own kind.”

He gave that statement a moment to sink in, along with its chilling emphasis. Then he turned to Ramirus. “You’re old enough to remember what it was like in the beginning. The constant wailing of the beast in the back of your head. The fire of its rage coursing through your veins. The hatred for your own kind, so intense that at times it threatened to overwhelm all human thought. You remember the fear we lived with back then, of what would happen if we let our guard down, even for a minute. The constant struggle we faced, to find a way to deny the beast outlet so that we could continue our pretense of being human.

Ramirus said nothing, but he nodded.

“That was the Souleater in us. Our second nature, struggling to manifest. Even now we still feel its hunger, we are still driven by its instincts . . . but we’ve learned to call those things by other names. We make excuses for them, inventing mantras of comfort.
Powerful men naturally distrust one another. Sorcery requires a callous and ruthless soul. Longevity dulls the conscience.
We want there to be
human
reasons for what we do. We don’t want to believe that something less than human is driving us. That we are, ourselves, something less than human.”

“I remember,” Ramirus said quietly.

“That is why our Law has the power that it does. Because it is an expression of human intellect, not ikati instinct. That is why we’re driven to bind ourselves to morati. Serving those who are fully human helps shackle the beast within us. Every human lover we take, every royal contract we establish, every restriction we observe that helps keep the morati world safe . . . they are all investments in our own humanity. Without them . . . .”

His voice threatened to break. He shut his eyes for a moment. A cold wind stirred his long black hair.

“Without them we are lost,” he said at last. Emotionless once more.

Silence fell upon the circle. Colivar kept his eyes shut, not trusting himself to look at the others.
I have borne this secret alone for centuries,
he thought.
Now it is your burden as well. May you handle it better than I did.

“So we are Souleaters,” Lazarus said. Testing the words as he voiced them.

No confirmation was required.

“Is that why we can’t locate them?” Sulah asked.

Colivar nodded. “Most likely. As far as your sorcery is concerned, they’re not a separate species, but kin to us. You may even be seeing them, and simply mistaking them for Magisters. Search with that in mind, and you may have better success.”

That is, if their queen—and Siderea—allows you to find them.

“So the Penitents were right after all,“ Ramirus mused.

Despite his mood, a dry smile flickered briefly across Colivar’s face. “Yes. Ironic, isn’t it? Salvator and his mad faith. All those tales of damnation and corruption, that seem so ridiculous on the surface . . . his people are the only ones who see us for what we really are. Corrupted souls, no longer human, whose very life-essence is now monstrous in nature. And, yes, our corruption is contagious. They’re right in that as well. If First Transition is some kind of grand supernatural infection, might there not be lesser infections, whose nature we don’t yet recognize? Far better for a man to live without benefit of sorcery at all than to invite an ikati into his soul. All things considered . . . perhaps his is not so foolish a faith as we make it out to be.”

He shut his eyes for a moment. There were other things he could say to them, other truths to reveal, but he did not want them to learn too much. Some secrets should never be shared.

And how clear was his memory of those secrets, anyway? Down through the centuries he had woven false memories for himself, so that if others used sorcery to investigate his past, they would garner nothing but lies. But such a practice had its price. With so many false identities layered over his own, it was possible to forget which parts were real. Now fate was demanding that he peel all those false memories away, like the layers of an onion. If he did that, would he even recognize what was at their core?

Too many questions. Too many emotions, rooted in things he did not want to talk about. He could not afford to let other Magisters see him in this state.

“Now you know the truth,” he said shortly. “Share it with the others, as you see fit. Or spare them such a terrible revelation, and let them live on in ignorance. Which path is preferable?” He spread his hands. “The choice is yours. I have played my part.”

He turned to leave.

“Colivar.” It was Ramirus.

Colivar turned back halfway, just far enough to meet his eye.

“The traitor. The first Magister. How was he able to cross the Wrath?”

Colivar drew in a sharp breath, and almost refused to answer. But he knew that if he didn’t do so now, the question would surely come up again. Better to get it over with.

“The essence of the Wrath is death,” he explained. “It inspires mortal fear in all living things that approach it, on that visceral level where survival instinct reigns supreme. The ikati are creatures of instinct, and so they have no defense against it. Human intellect is more resilient, but we, too, are subject to instinct, and approaching the Wrath is as difficult for us as walking off the edge of a cliff would be. The mind may accept the necessity of such an act, but the spirit rebels.

“But if a man
wants
to die . . . if he is ready to embrace death with every fiber of his being, to invite it to devour him body and soul, exulting in the thought of his own destruction . . . then the Wrath has no power over him. None at all.”

A corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Not a path I recommend, Ramirus. But do let me know if you decide to try it.”

And then he turned from the circle of Magisters and walked quickly to where the shadows were waiting for him, before any more questions could be asked.

The mountainside was cold and windy, even by northern standards. But Colivar was not in the mood to change it.

He climbed down to a place where the rock face leveled out into a sizeable shelf and stood there, the wind whipping his long robe about his legs. The stinging bite of the frigid air against his face suited his mood, and he did nothing to blunt its edge.

Several yards above him, something stirred in the shadows. A snow lynx moved out from its hiding place amidst the rocks, then worked its way down to the ledge where he was standing. No sooner had it reached the granite shelf than sorcery began to ripple through its flesh, transforming it. The skeleton became upright, paws became hands, fur became skin. Soon Kamala stood before him, her red hair blowing wild in the wind. The dying rays of the sun lent her a golden halo, making her seem more like some strange mountain spirit than a woman of flesh and blood. Strangely appropriate.

“You heard it all?” he asked her.

“Yes.” She nodded solemnly. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He shrugged. “You have as much right to know the truth as any of us.”

There were other things he could have said to her, but he did not. He didn’t trust his own words, or even his feelings. The fact that he had invited her here would have to be enough.

Wordlessly he turned from her, meaning to take on wings and depart. But she put a hand on his arm, stopping him. The moment was jarring; he was not used to other people touching him uninvited.

He turned back to her.

“What am I?” she whispered.

He hesitated. How wide her eyes were, how hungry! She was as starved for understanding as he had been, many years ago. He wished that he had more to offer her than shadows and mysteries.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That spark of supernatural contagion that makes us Magisters, which we’ve passed down from generation to generation, was originally derived from a male ikati. Clearly it imbues us with all the instincts and passions of that sex. Which is perhaps why women have found it so hard to adapt.” He saw the look of surprise on her face, and a faint, dry smile flickered across his lips. “Yes, my dear. That’s the real reason all the Magisters are male. The question of a nurturing spirit—or lack thereof, in your case—is secondary. The ikati can only bind themselves to humans of the same gender. So the spark of the ikati that we carry within us simply follows the same rules. That’s my theory, at least.”

He put a hand out to touch her face; she did not move away, but allowed his cold fingers to caress the warmth of her cheek. “But now you are here,” he murmured. “And I don’t have a clue why. The Magisters themselves have changed over time, so perhaps our darker half is changing as well, and the spark that we pass on to our students has simply lost its edge. So that whatever qualities were once so incompatible with a female host have faded over time, until the remaining soul-shards can be absorbed by anyone. If so, then you will not be the only woman to join our ranks . . . you are merely the first. Or perhaps . . . .”

He hesitated.

She put her hand over his. Her fingers were soft and warm, and they stirred feelings in him that he was not ready to confront. Not yet.

“Tell me,” she murmured. There was a faint air of seductiveness to her tone, as if she sensed the energy between them and wished to harness it. It affected him more deeply than he would have expected.

“What if the spark that set all this in motion was not merely the essence of a male ikati, but rather . . . what if each Magister carries within him the imprint of the entire species? So that the spark you absorbed from your mentor was not merely the watered-down essence of a single male, weakened by so many centuries of transmission that a woman could finally absorb it, but something more significant. What if that seed contained within it the essence of the
entire
species, in every variety that it might manifest . . . including the one variant that would prefer a female host.”

“The soul of a queen,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It’s possible that has manifested in you. If so . . . your powers may be different from ours. As well as the instincts you absorbed.”

“That is why you wanted me to search for the Witch-Queen. Why you thought I might be able to find her, when the rest of you could not.”

He nodded. “And you still may be able to, especially now that you understand more about the powers involved. Only be forewarned: If a Magister’s ikati instincts gain enough influence over him, he may instinctively recognize you for what you are. And if that happens . . . .” He drew in a sharp breath. “There is great power in such things, Kamala. But also great danger.”

“They will desire me.”

Despite the gravity of the moment, he almost smiled.
What man would not desire you?
“That’s a rather tame word, given the nature of ikati passion. These are creatures who will rip each other to pieces in courtship. Even the call of a Guardian, which mimics their mating challenge, can be enough to drive a male into a frenzy. So I strongly suggest you avoid awakening those instincts in us. And in yourself.”

He gazed at her for a moment in silence, then moved a step toward her. Close enough to feel her warmth radiating against him and to catch her scent upon the wind. As if from a great distance, he watched himself raise up a hand to her cheek again. Her eyes were wary, but she did not back away. The touch of her flesh was warm, despite the frigid air surrounding them, and it awakened memories of another heat, all-consuming, that he had struggled for too long to forget. The beast within him stirred in its confinement, sensing weakness; he withdrew his hand quickly, as though her flesh had burned him.