Chapter 2

IT WAS raining by the time Salvator reached the monastery, which did not make his entourage very happy. The servants had managed to get a traveling canopy unpacked when the rain first began, and four of them now carried it high over Salvator’s head so that he and his horse could remain dry, but other riders did not have such protection. The guards dealt with it well enough—they never expected to be pampered anyway—but the various courtiers who had come along on the journey in the hope of winning Salvator’s favor were less than pleased. Out of the corner of his eye the High King could see one of them struggling to make sure that his cloak covered every single inch of his precious silken garments, lest a drop of water discolor them. Yes, he thought, God alone knew what the state of the kingdom would be if one of the High King’s advisers got his clothing wet!

The young monarch was tempted to urge his horse to greater speed, to ride out into the rain ahead of them all, but he knew that the servants carrying the canopy would be mortified if he did so. Besides, he did not need Cresel lecturing him later on all the reasons he should bear himself with proper royal dignity. Or his mother. Even though the sensation of rainwater pouring down upon his head would refresh him body and spirit, washing away the suffocating formality of the royal court, that did not matter. Some things simply could not be allowed.

As the company made its agonizingly slow approach to the monastery gates, Salvator felt a pang of longing for the life that he had once lived within these walls, and for the utter simplicity of his former existence. His soul ached for the familiar rhythm of monastic duty, the moral clarity of a life devoted to spiritual ideals. It seemed like a lifetime since he had left those things behind. How long would it be before his spirit finally accepted the change, so that he no longer felt as if he were playing a part in some bizarre play, reading the part of a High King while everyone applauded dutifully?

Evidently the monks had seen his entourage approaching, for the heavy wooden doors opened before the first rider reached them. A robed brother came up to Salvator as he entered the courtyard, holding his horse steady while he dismounted, then leading the animal away. No words were needed, nor were any offered. Other monks tended to his entourage with equally wordless efficiency. Their silence was clearly disturbing to Salvator’s courtiers, who were accustomed to a stream of incessant chatter. A few of them even asked the brothers pointless questions in a vain attempt to get them talking, but they received no more than a nod in response, or perhaps a single word at most. Finally the silken magpies settled for prattling amongst themselves, wondering aloud when the current weather might improve, commenting upon how miserable it was to be traveling on such a day, expressing concern that the rain might damage a particular garment. So at least the bad weather was keeping them occupied.

How unlike these chattering birds the brothers of the monastery were! An observer might have guessed them to be from a wholly different species. Nor did they offer up any more deference to their visitors than the absolute minimum that protocol demanded. Such behavior probably would have enraged Danton, who had insisted that all men bend to humble themselves before the Royal Presence. But to Salvator it was refreshing. The Penitents honored and obeyed mortal kings, but they refused to glorify them; true humility was reserved for the Creator alone. Not all rulers were comfortable with such a philosophy, but it suited Salvator well.

“I have come to see the abbot ,” he told one of the monks. The brother nodded and gestured for him to follow him into the heart of the monastic complex. A handful of royal guards moved to follow the pair, but Salvator waved them back. There was no danger for him in this place.

As he left the courtyard, he saw one of the brothers leading his courtiers to a cloistered walkway where they might escape the worst of the rain. The monastery would be hard pressed to accommodate so many visitors, he mused. Normally there were no more than a handful of pilgrims here at any one time. Well, at least his court peacocks would have something to complain about while he was gone.

He was led past herbal gardens, all too familiar; the fresh scent of rosemary and sage was muted by the rain but still discernable. A bouquet of memory. Salvator let the smells seep into his skin as he walked, and he welcomed the rain that was falling on him as though it were a ritual cleansing bath. There was power in this place—not the kind of power other princes would covet, perhaps, but a subtler thing, a quiet transcendence—and he wanted to drink it all in while he could. God knew, his usual environment was not conducive to meditation.

The abbot was waiting for him in the main cloister. He was a man of advanced age, his face as finely wrinkled as a crumpled sheet of parchment, with a fringe of short white hair balanced on the edge of his skull like an afterthought. Though he was in charge of the monastery and responsible for the spiritual well-being of its community, he had always refused to set himself apart from his charges in any way, and was indistinguishable in dress and manner from the other monks. We are all brothers in the eyes of the Creator, he had once told the local primus, disdaining to wear the special robes he had been offered. Humility was the most important lesson for him to teach others, he explained, and how could he do that if he did not embrace it with a full heart himself?

“High King Salvator.” The abbot bowed his head stiffly, a formal acknowledgment. “You do us great honor by your visit.”

“And you honor me by your hospitality,” Salvator responded with equal formality. Suddenly he found himself at a loss as to how to interact with this man, whom he had worked with and prayed beside for four years of his life. His recent change in station had put them on different planes of existence, and he was not sure how to bridge the gap.

“Your people were well received?” the abbot asked.

“Indeed they were.”

The abbot coughed into his hand. “And are you sure you brought a large enough company with you? Because I wouldn’t want the High King to run short of servants.”

The knot in Salvator’s gut loosened. He chuckled softly. “I can’t even take a piss these days without a hundred people watching.”

“And I am sure that such a custom contributes to the welfare of the nation. Though it is beyond the ability of a simple monk to understand how.” A smile spread across his face, refreshing in its easy warmth. “It is good to see you, my son—excuse me, Majesty—though I worry about what sort of business might bring you to this place. I suspect this is not merely a social call.”

“No.” Salvator’s brief smile faded. “Not a social call. But you don’t need to call me by title when we’re alone, Father. The priest who tamed a wild young prince, and brought him to know and love God, deserves better than that.”

The abbot nodded solemnly. “Again, you honor me.”

“Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”

He looked about in surprise. Neither the cloister nor its courtyards had anyone else in it. “We are alone here, are we not?”

“No. I mean . . . where we cannot be interrupted.”

The abbot looked deep into his eyes, searching for clues there. Could he sense the burden that had driven Salvator to come here, could he guess at its name? If so he showed no sign of it, but merely nodded. “Come, then.”

Salvator followed him out of the courtyard, falling into step behind him as naturally as he had back when he had lived here. It would take some time before the habits of those years began to fade, he reflected; in the meantime, it was strangely comforting to let another man lead the way, if only for this short distance.

Very few rooms in the monastery had doors. The abbot led him to one of them, ushered him inside, and shut the heavy oak door behind them. There were a few chairs set neatly along the wall, flanking a narrow window, but Salvator chose to remain standing. If not for the aura of serenity that permeated the entire monastery, he might have started pacing; as it was, his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides as he considered how to broach his business. The abbot waited patiently, his own hands folded inside his sleeves, the living embodiment of tranquility.

“I require counsel,” Salvator said at last.

“A king has many counselors,” the abbot said quietly. “I am sure they know more about ruling a country than I do. Have they all failed you?”

“This is not about royal business. It is about . . . spiritual matters.”

The abbot raised an eyebrow.

“My court advisors are not Penitents,” Salvator continued. “They cannot speak to the needs of my soul.”

“There are scions of the Church ready and willing to attend upon you,” the abbot pointed out. “I would imagine a Penitent king could snap his fingers and the local primus would drop everything to accommodate him.”

“Aye, the local primus has come to me,” Salvator said dryly. “As have a number of his peers. In truth, I did not know there were so many primi with an interest in my kingdom.”

“Your ascension is a significant event for our faith,” the abbot said. “They wish to celebrate it.”

Salvator nodded tightly.

“So what better counsel could you possibly seek than that which a primus of our Church might offer you?”

A faint smile played upon the High King’s lips. “Do you doubt your own capacity, Father?”

The abbot almost rose to the bait—almost—but instead drew in a deep breath and said, “I am what I am, a simple monk, whose experience has been limited to affairs inside this monastery for decades. If you want me to talk about the Creator and man’s duty to him, I will be happy to do so. But a High King needs someone who understands the complexities of his office, his secular responsibilities. And I fear I may not be the best choice for that purpose.”

Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then turned away from the abbot. Walking over to the narrow window, he looked out upon the rain-soaked gardens beyond. It was a minute before he spoke.

“The primi are . . . ecstatic to have a Penitent king at last. Intoxicated by dreams of what the Church might become in time, if I would only help them make the most of this opportunity. That is their mission, you see. To determine how my reign can best serve the Church’s interests, and to make sure I follow that path.”

“You think they would not be objective in counseling you?”

He sighed. “I think that to ask them to be objective would dishonor their calling.” Salvator turned back to him. “You may not have their worldly knowledge, Father, but I know you will speak to me from your heart. And that is what I need right now.”

For a long moment the monk was silent. His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. Finally, very slowly, he nodded. “Very well. I will do my best for you.”

It was the moment Salvator had been waiting for, but suddenly he found that he did not know how to begin. He had rehearsed his words a hundred times at least, yet all those preparations now deserted him.

Drawing in a deep breath, he struggled to gather his thoughts. “What have you been told about the lyr?”

“You mean the recent correction to Church doctrine? That they are now revealed to be an ancient line of witches with some measure of immunity to the Souleaters’ power, part of the Creator’s overall plan for mankind rather than an unnatural race set apart from it. That the barrier called the Wrath of the Gods is not a curse, nor anything associated with false gods, but simply an ancient spell, imbued with the power of human self-sacrifice.” The abbot blinked. “I admit I was. . . . surprised . . . but then I heard that you had played a part in that revelation.” He smiled faintly. “You have always been full of surprises.”

“I was but a spectator,” he said with genuine humility. “My mother risked her life to gain access to an ancient artifact that revealed the truth. At the cost of her own faith, I might add.”

The abbot nodded. “That is the unfortunate risk of worshiping false gods. One single note of truth and the whole tower of lies collapses.” He sighed. “I am glad to learn that the heritage you were so ashamed of has been exonerated. Such shame was never necessary in the first place, but I know it weighed heavily upon your soul.”

“The Creator gives us puzzles sometimes,” Salvator responded. “To test us. If we mistake their nature, our own error can then becomes a test in its own right. I do not understand the purpose of all He has done to my mother’s family or why He left them in spiritual darkness so long, but I do understand that they are being tested now. What the end game will be, only God Himself can say.”

“Do they see their past error now? Or cling to their ancient gods still?”

“Hard to say. Only a handful of lyr received my mother’s revelations with any clarity; others experienced only misty visions, easily misread. The Lord and Lady Protector of Kierdwyn—my grandparents—were among those who received the strongest images, but I am not sure how much of that they communicated to their people. They struggle now to find a way to reconcile these new discoveries with their ancient faith, so that when the truth is made public their people will be able to accept it. Whether that will be possible or not I do not know. It must be a terrible thing to suddenly discover that the legends you dedicated your whole life to have no more substance than a minstrel’s romance, that your most sacred artifacts were erected by simple stonemasons, and that the greatest miracle of your faith was no more than a mundane witch’s spell.” He paused. “That said, their purpose has not really changed, has it? The lyr have spent a thousand years preparing for the day when the Souleaters would return. They believe they are fated to do battle with them, so that the Second Age of Kings will not collapse in ruin as the First did. Does it really matter who gave them those orders in the first place? The demons are in fact returning. The lyr will soon be tested. That much seems indisputable.”

The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “Has it been confirmed that the Souleaters are back? We’ve heard rumors that one was seen up north, but no more than that. The Primus Council has made no official statement on the matter.”

For a moment Salvator did not answer. There was a black weight upon his soul, and giving its name to another man might lend it more substance.

“Aye,” he said at last. His voice was solemn and quiet, the way one might speak at a graveside. “They have returned. We are sure of that. And I think there may be one in the High Kingdom itself—at least one—thought I do not know exactly where.”

The abbot breathed in sharply. “I have heard nothing of such a creature in our lands.”

Salvator nodded. “I may be the only one who knows about it.”

The abbot raised an eyebrow.

Salvator ran a hand through his short black hair, a nervous gesture. “I seem to be . . . aware of its presence. As one might be aware of something just outside the limits of one’s vision. Sometimes I awaken at night with a strange scent in my nostrils, as if the thing has actually been inside my chamber—a sweet and smothering scent, that my very soul reviles—yet even though I tell myself it was only a dream, I know deep inside that it was more than that. With the same sure instinct that my mother knew her visions at the Throne of Tears were true, I know that mine are as well.” His hand fell back down by his side. “You see now why I have come to you.”

“Does your mother know?” the abbot asked quietly.

Salvator shook his head.

“How long has this been going on?”

“I first sensed its presence the night of my coronation. Though I didn’t know what it was at the time. Nor did it seem a particularly significant event back then; I thought I was just having bad dreams.” He laughed shortly. “I was having a lot of nightmares in those days.

“But night after night the feeling persisted. It would come to me most often in that moment between waking and sleeping, when the soul is most vulnerable to supernatural powers. Something was in the High Kingdom that should not be, I was sure of it, and its nature made my skin crawl. Yet why had I become aware of its presence so abruptly? I had not developed any special powers between one day and the next. All I could think of was that the High Kingdom had become mine that day. No longer my father’s territory, or my mother’s, but my own. The thing that I was sensing might have been present in it for some time already, but that night it became a threat to me, personally. And so I had become aware of it. Without any idea of what it truly was or what its presence signified.” He paused. “I was afraid that if I revealed such thoughts to others, they might deem me mad. I was afraid that I was mad. I dared not confide in anyone.

“Then came the Alkali campaign. I traveled up north and met with the Guardians, and they showed me the relics that Rhys had collected. Pieces of an actual Souleater.” He shuddered, remembering that day. “As I touched them, as I felt their texture beneath my fingertips, I suddenly smelled that same sweet and foul odor that had come to me so often in the night. And it was as if that scent pulled aside a veil that had been blinding me. Suddenly I knew, with utter certainty, that the presence I been sensing for so many nights was one of these ancient demons.

“So now I know it for a fact: There is a Souleater in my territory. It seems that I sense its presence as surely as a solitary predator can sense when a rival enters its territory. Animal instinct, visceral and pure.” Again he paused. “You understand, Father, I have shared this with no one. Until today.”

The abbot nodded solemnly. It was clear from his expression that he did not think Salvator was mad, which was at least a step in the right direction. “If the lyr are witches,” he said thoughtfully, “then you bear the touch of their witchery in your veins. Given what we know about their history, one should not be surprised by such a manifestation.”

“My mother’s blood is especially powerful,” Salvator provided. “I don’t really understand all the details of that, but it’s the reason they chose her for the Alkali mission. Apparently she has some special capacity that the other lyr don’t, a gift that allows her to connect with any descendent of the Seven Bloodlines. That’s how she was able to channel the visions from the Throne of Tears to all the other lyr.”

“And you have inherited her blood. Perhaps her special capacity as well.” He paused. “Maybe it’s time you talked to her about your visions. She may be able to tell you more about them than I can.”

For a moment Salvator shut his eyes. Then he said, very quietly, “It is not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Salvator sighed heavily. “After I returned from Alkali, I asked my witches to search the High Kingdom for any Souleaters that might be there. They came up empty-handed. I know the Magisters have been searching for the creatures as well. One of them is bound in contract to my mother—she thinks I don’t know that, by the way—and I’m sure she has asked him for help. Yet she is not aware of any Souleater in my Kingdom, so that means Ramirus has not found one either. This demon’s mesmeric power protects it from discovery.”

“But you sense its presence.”

Salvator nodded tightly.

“Which implies . . . .”

“That I am resistant to its power,” he said solemnly.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Steepling his hands upon his chest, Salvator stared down at them in silence for a moment. “When I came to this monastery four years ago, it was because I believed with all my heart that if enough of us did penance for the sins of mankind, the Souleaters would not return to us. That the Destroyer would be appeased by our sacrifice, and spare mankind His wrath. But we failed.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “We failed, Father. And now the ancient demons have been sent to us again, to bring down the Second Age of Kings as they did the First.

“So what is our duty as Penitents now? To stand aside and watch the world be destroyed, offering nothing better than lamentations from the sidelines? Are we permitted to hide away the contents of our libraries, so that when human civilization finally collapses our knowledge will be preserved for future generations? Or would that be deemed blasphemy, an attempt to lessen the impact of divine justice? Are we allowed to do battle with these creatures in any way? Or is it our duty to stand aside in the name of the Destroyer, and watch as the most terrible prophecies of our faith are fulfilled?

“These questions are not addressed in our scripture. And I cannot ask the primi for answers. There is too much power in such questions for me to entrust them to any man who cares about power.” He spread his hands wide. “So I have brought them here. To you, Father. To hear your thoughts upon these matters.”

For a long time the abbot was silent. Finally, very quietly, he said, “I am humbled by your faith in me. But I cannot provide you with answers, you know that. Those you must find for yourself.”

“I have not come for answers,” he responded. “Only your wisdom, to shed light upon the questions.” When the abbot said nothing, he pressed, “The Creator once led me to this place, to become a man of peace. Now He has placed a sword in my hand, such as no other man can wield. If I take it up, will I betray my faith? I know that if I turn away from it, I may betray my kingdom.”

The abbot turned away from him. In silence he stood, still as a statue, a beam of late afternoon sunlight washing over his sandaled feet. Though he did not speak aloud, Salvator knew that he was praying, and he waited.

“The Church has declared that the lyr are not abominations,” the abbot said at last. “The power in their veins is a natural force, provided by the Creator. Or so we are now told. Would God have provided mankind with such a power if he did not mean for him to use it?”

“The Magisters have power as well,” he pointed out.

“The power of the Magisters is an unclean thing, ripped from the heart of Creation and crafted into a foul form that goes against God and nature. Only the blackest of souls wield true sorcery, and any man who is touched by it will share in their corruption.”

He turned back to Salvator. “I have read the ancient scriptures. Not only the Book of Destruction, which you know of, but other records as well. Forgotten texts, scribed on fragments of parchment so fragile that the touch of a breeze would render them to dust, or incised into clay tablets that have been shattered into a thousand bits, which generations of monks have struggled to reassemble. In all those records—in all the prayers of our ancestors—there is not one word of condemnation for those who fought against the Souleaters in the Great War. I have even seen fragments of an ancient psalm that praised their sacrifice. It is clear that although their mission was doomed, their courage was celebrated. So . . . such actions are clearly not condemned by our faith.”

Salvator nodded tightly.

“Whether that is the same answer your primus would give you, I don’t know. As you have said, his perspective may be more . . . complex. But for as much as a humble brother may offer you his personal opinion . . . that is mine.”

“So now I have two paths before me,” Salvator said. “If my highest duty is to God, then which path is the proper one?”

A faint smile flickered across the old monk’s face. “Salvator. My son. Why did you set aside your priestly robes when you claimed your father’s throne? Remind me.”

Startled, he said, “A monk cannot be High King. His vows do not permit it.”

“That’s not what I asked. You could have remained a priest of our faith, though not a monk. There have been priest-kings before. Why did you give that up, as well?”

“The High Queen required it, as a condition of my elevation.”

“And you could have argued with her over the point. Perhaps in time convinced her to change her mind. Yet you didn’t even try to do so. Why not?”

Memories stirred in the back of Salvator’s mind as he recalled the turmoil of that time. So much uncertainty. So many doubts. “A man cannot serve two causes with equal passion,” he said finally.

The abbot reached forward and put a hand on his arm. “Then you did not come here to choose between two paths, Salvator Aurelius. You came to make your peace with what you have already decided.”

Salvator shut his eyes for a moment, then nodded.

“The counsel you need now is God’s, not mine,” the abbot said. “So why don’t you join me in the chapel, and unburden your soul to Him? I am sure He can give you more insight into the questions that remain. And perhaps He will quiet the torment in your soul somewhat . . . at least until the next trial begins.”

Salvator drew in a deep breath, then nodded.

The abbot walked to the heavy door and opened it. Silently, then, with only the distant patter of rain for accompaniment, the two of them walked side by side toward the chapel.