Legacy of Kings (40 page)

Spheres of black crystal.

With a trembling hand she touched one of them. There was nothing mystical about the feel of it, but there hadn’t been that first day, either, until her sacrifice had awakened the Throne’s power. Rubbing off a layer of crusted blood that had dulled the crystal’s surface, she saw its sharp facets catch the light, reflecting back Ramirus’ candle flames in a thousand broken bits. At first glance it reminded her of a Souleater’s eye—an eerie confluence—but looking more closely, she could see that the facets were random in size and shape, as if a thousand shattered fragments of black glass had been glued together and attached to a spherical base. Her fingers explored the upper edge of the thing, as far as the design of the chair allowed. Only half of the sphere was visible, she realized; the upper half was obscured by the sculpted claw.

If it was there at all.

With sudden determination she dug her nails under one of the claws and tried to break it off. But she couldn’t get a good enough purchase on the polished surface, and her fingers slid off with no more than a broken nail to show for the effort. Behind her she could hear one of the men moving toward her, alarmed by her assault on the artifact. But she knew that the gods had brought her this far for a reason, and they would not let anyone stop her now.

Reaching up to her head, she removed the circlet that Ramirus had conjured for her. It was thin and flat, and it slid easily under one of the claws. Grasping it tightly with both hands, she twisted it with all the strength that her altered muscles possessed, trying to force the thing from its mooring. The circlet bent but did not break, and after a moment the claw snapped free; she could hear it skittering across the floor as she attacked the next one. And the next. Four claws had to be removed before the crystal could be loosened in its mooring, and two more before she could pull it free.

When she did so, she sat back on her heels, breathless, and stared at the thing in her hands. It was hemispherical, just as the crystals in her dreams had been. The flat portion was irregular, and bore the scars of some sharp instrument having been driven through it.

“What is it?” her father asked, moving to her side so he could see it more clearly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. The crystal was warm in her hand and seemed to thrum with unnamed energies, but she lacked the skill to interpret them. “We need a Seer. Someone with
lyr
blood, if possible.”

He nodded sharply and went to summon one. Gwynofar turned her attention to freeing the other crystal. This time Ramirus helped, bracing the chair so that it did not move as she attempted to yank the claws free. She noted that he hadn’t questioned why she had asked for a Seer rather than accepting his aid. Which was good, because she couldn’t have answered him. She was running on instinct now, trusting to the gods to direct her.

By the time Kierdwyn returned with a Seer, Gwynofar had released the second crystal from its setting. Like the first, it showed signs of having been struck from some larger piece. Breath held, she put the two pieces together, and found that they fit perfectly together. Two halves of a whole. But what was its purpose?

She turned to the Seer—a young woman who had clearly been dragged out of bed for this meeting—and held the crystal globe out to her. The Seer took it into her hands, keeping the two halves pressed together as she turned it over, studying it. Except for the place where a long, thin chip was missing—presumably where some sort of chisel had been applied—it was perfectly spherical. Sparks of candlelight danced along its facets as it moved, giving it a strangely animated aspect.

When the Seer seemed satisfied that she had gleaned all the information she could by physical inspection, she closed her hands over it, shut her eyes, and began to incant softly. Gwynofar muttered a prayer of thanksgiving under her breath for the sacrifice of life that was being offered, and she could see that her father was doing the same. Ramirus alone watched impassively, immune to such sentiments. The concept of sacrifice meant little to a Magister.

“So many souls,” the Seer murmured, her eyes still closed. “Each one an offering. So much death! Blood and ash and tears pour in the offering bowl, overflowing. Never alone. Never alone. Give our prayers to the others. Bind our souls to the others. Anchor us to the earth, until the final battle has been fought . . . .”

The Seer fell silent. It seemed to Gwynofar that she shuddered slightly, and her hands tightened about the crystal sphere. Then, slowly, she looked up at them. Her eyes, which had been cool and clear only a few minutes before, were now bloodshot from the strain of her spellcasting. Whatever secrets this thing contained, it had not surrendered them easily.

“It’s an anchor.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, tinged with awe. “The people who were bound to it are long gone, and their spirits have expired, but their resonance remains affixed to it.” She shook her head in amazement. “So many people! It would be impossible to give names to them all. This sphere . . . .” She turned it over in her hand; the pieces shifted as she did so, the two halves separating slightly. “It was conjured from their flesh. Their blood. Collected from men and women who fell in battle, offered up by those who knew they were about to die . . . each drop of blood was an anchor to its owner . . . so many of them . . . .” Her voice trailed off into awestruck silence.

“This is the essence of our people,” Lord Kierdwyn said reverently, “preserved against the ravages of time.”

“And no doubt why the Throne had the effect it did,” Ramirus provided. He was staring at the grotesque chair, his eyes narrow; unlike the Seer, he did not require incantations to focus his power. “The spells that were woven into it were simply meant to link the messenger to the message. It must have been the traces contained in this funeral crystal that allowed her Majesty to connect to its ancestral memories, providing a means whereby all the
lyr
might be connected . . . .” There was a strange tone to his voice that Gwynofar had never heard from him before. Awe?

The Seer looked at Gwynofar. “Do you wish me to repair it?”

Another sacrifice, offered freely. Not for power’s sake but to honor the dead. Gwynofar thought about what elements of this matter were important enough to merit such a sacrifice and finally said, “Fasten the two halves together again. Don’t repair the other damage.”

The woman nodded and muttered a soft incantation, summoning her power. When she handed the sphere to Gwynofar, it still bore the chips and chisel-marks of its fracturing, but it was whole once more.

This was the flesh and blood of a lost generation, she thought. And a fulcrum point for the current generation. It was impossible to hold such a thing in one’s hand and not feel a sense of reverence, as one did on holy ground.

The centuries are entrusted to you,
Anrhys had said. Now she held them in her hand. But for what purpose?

“I need to take this with me,” she said softly.

She half expected her father to object, but he did not. He just stared at the Throne for a moment and then asked, “Why?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. The vision that brought me here said that I was meant to guard it. I don’t know if that means it needs to be kept safe or . . . or used for something.”

“You are connected to it,” Ramirus told her. “Ever since the day you awakened the Throne. You are as much a part of it now as the martyrs for whom it was crafted.”

“We’re all part of it,” she whispered.

Slowly Lord Kierdwyn crouched down before her. He took her hands in his, folded her fingers over the sphere, and waited until she met his eyes before speaking. “Gwynofar, I don’t know where this path will lead you, but clearly it’s your destiny to follow it. And anything the gods have so clearly ordained, it is our duty to facilitate. So take this anchor with you, if you feel you need to. Guard it as you see fit. And remember, if it is true that our enemies have no dominion over the blood of the
lyr
, then this may be the one thing on earth that cannot be corrupted by their power.”

Gwynofar nodded solemnly. Her father stood, then offered her a hand to help her to her feet. “Do you need to return home immediately? I can summon Lazaroth to provide transportation, though I’m not sure where he is right now. He said he had some personal business he needed to attend to. I have the means to contact him, but it may take some time.”

“I will see to her transportation,” Ramirus said.

“No,” Gwynofar said abruptly.

She held up the crystal. Its strange, irregular facets burned with reflected firelight. Did the number and shape of the facets have any meaning? Or had the thing just been sculpted with mad abandon, reflecting the chaos of its age? “Sorcery must never touch this,” she whispered. She didn’t know why that was important, but something inside told her that it was. Very important.

Ramirus’ white brow furrowed. “It will be a good week’s journey without a portal.”

“The weather is good,” she said stubbornly. “I’ll enjoy the ride.”

“Pardon, your Majesty.” It was Kierdwyn’s Seer. “There’s no need for that. I’m sure my fellow Seers will be willing to offer up a spellsong for you.”

Gwynofar nodded regally, accepting the offer. Transportation was costly magic, and the etiquette of the Protectorates required that she not ask her father’s witches to make such a sacrifice unless it was absolutely necessary. But it didn’t surprise her that they would volunteer their efforts. The spellsongs of the Guardians allowed a group of witches to pool their power so that the cost in life-essence was divided among them. Spread out among a dozen souls, the sacrifice was minimal, and there was great honor in offering such a service. Especially to Gwynofar, who had sacrificed her own child in the name of their cause.

“It will take time to gather them,” Lord Kierdwyn said. “Will you have breakfast with us, in the meantime?” A corner of his mouth twitched. “Your mother will never forgive me if I let her sleep through your visit.”

Gwynofar smiled faintly. The expression felt strange to her. “Well,” she said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. So I suppose we’ll have to stay.” She turned to Ramirus. “I do need to get word to Salvator. If he wakes up to discover that I disappeared from the palace with no explanation . . . he will not be pleased.”

A corner of the Magister’s mouth twitched. “I have already seen to that, Majesty.”

She smiled faintly. “You care for me well, as always.”

The ice-blue eyes glittered. “It is my duty. “

But he was not even curious about why she had forbidden the use of sorcery on the crystal, she noted. Was there meaning in that?

Curiosity is second nature to a Magister,
Danton had once told her.
He can no more resist its summons than a man can resist the urge to breathe.

Disquieted, she waited in silence for her father to shut and lock the heavy door, then she turned to follow him back to the heart of the keep. While Ramirus banished the candles he had conjured, leaving the Throne of Tears in darkness once more.

Chapter 22

T

O SAY that the royal palace of Anshasa was visible from miles away would be an understatement. Its vast, gold-plated dome reflected the light of the sun with blinding brilliance, providing a beacon so powerful that even at midday it was visible from well across the city. As one drew closer, it was possible to see that the pillars of the building were richly carved and painted, their designs celebrating various sacred events. Over the main doors, a colorful frieze depicted the sigil of Hasim Farah’s family line as the central point of Creation, from which all other royal houses descended.

Compared to the stark beauty of Colivar’s white temple this place was . . . well, no one would accuse King Hasim Farah of being too tasteful. Yet Colivar himself might have built the place, Kamala mused. It wasn’t the kind of project Magisters usually got involved with, but no doubt there were dozens of Magisters who had conjured monuments on this scale for one monarch or another. What was the life of another unknown peasant, when measured against the pride of a monarch?

But Colivar’s white temple no longer existed. She had gone to the place where it once had stood and had found only impressions of it, without any traces of the man himself. She had gone to the all the other places where he had said she might search for him, and he had not been there, either. She had even returned to the tree they had once used as a meeting point, and found no note, nor any recent trace that might offer insight into his whereabouts.

She even tried to find him with sorcery, which would have been a risky venture on a good day. But she had no anchor to work with, and either his defenses were too strong for her, or . . . .

Or what?

Gazing at the royal palace, she was aware of a knot of fear forming in the pit of her stomach. Maybe all of this meant nothing. She was hardly a trusted confidant of Colivar’s, after all. He was under no obligation to report to her.

But now she had to find him. And she had tried all possible options save one.

She walked toward the palace with what she hoped was a show of confidence. Power was wrapped so tightly about her that not a whisper of soulfire could possibly peep through, but that did not mean that her nature would go undetected. The defensive spells surrounding the palace would detect any use of magic, even if they could not identify its exact nature. Sulah would know that someone of power had entered his domain.

Unless the power of an ikati queen could shield her from his scrutiny.

How did one conjure a power like that? she wondered. Was it something she could tap into consciously? Or would she need to join her mind to a Souleater’s to do that?

And an even bigger question: Would such an attempt strengthen the Souleater essence that hid in the dark recesses of her soul?

The guards at the palace gate received her as they would any unknown visitor. She was wearing robes in the local style, flowing layers of striped linen, and while it might have raised a few eyebrows when she lifted the hems up above her knees to climb the stairs, apparently she looked mundane enough to pass muster.