Chapter 4

THE LAND stretches out in all directions as far as the eye can see. Dry earth, cracked and gray, crumbles to dust beneath Colivar’s feet. Here and there a tiny sapling has taken root, but only precariously; the narrow leaves, thin and dry, curl defensively beneath the blazing sun.

Kneeling in the dirt, he struggles to tend to the saplings. Now and then he pours water over one of them from the wooden bucket by his side, but it is never enough. The ground soaks up the precious stuff within seconds, entrapping it too deeply for the saplings’ shallow root system to access. And there are so many of them! Even if the water were able to do them any good, he hasn’t got enough to supply them all. Some of them are clearly going to have to die so that the rest might live.

A shadow passes overhead. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirt-stained sleeve, he looks up at the sky. The southern sun is a cruel thing, and its heat drains the strength from a man’s body in a manner that he will never get used to. It takes him a moment to focus his eyes against the blazing light and to see what is up there, silhouetted against the sun.

Wings.

Jeweled panels of living glass filter the sunlight, sending shadows of blue and green and violet shimmering across the parched earth. When they pass over the saplings, the slender plants seem to tremble in response. Then, one by one, the plants wilt and fade, shrinking down into the ground until there is nothing of them but desiccated skeletons, crumbling in the hot wind.

The sweat of utter frustration films Colivar’s skin as he watches. His exhaustion is physical, but also spiritual. For he was the one who planted these saplings, so long ago, and each one that dies now takes a part of him with it.

You knew back then that they would probably die, he tells himself. You promised yourself you would not come to care about them. Remember?

One of the violet shadows is headed his way. He throws himself down over the nearest sapling, shielding it with his body. But when the shadow has passed and he rises again, he sees that he has crushed it beneath his own body. Killed it.

What a fool he was, to think that a creature such as he could nurture life!

A Souleater has landed on the ground before him. Its long neck undulates like a serpent as its head seeks out the remaining saplings, and it begins to yank them from the earth. It is one indignity too many for Colivar. Rage lends new strength to his aching limbs as he braces himself to confront the creature, to drive it away or die trying.

And then its form shifts. Colors shimmer in the sunlight, blue-black hide and jeweled wings rippling as they transform into . . . something else.

A woman.

Siderea.

“Forget this place,” his ex-lover whispers. “Forget all that you have become since you cheated death so long ago. Let go of your human half,, and I will make a place for you by my side. You know that is what you really want. It’s the same thing you’ve always wanted. I can give it to you now.”

The human part of his brain recognizes the trap for what it is, but the other half, the forgotten half, does not care. His blood is stirred by the sound of her words, the scent of her flesh. Suddenly the saplings do not matter to him anymore. Memories are taking over now, of a life he has struggled for centuries to forget. The agonizingly beautiful downstroke of jeweled wings. The cold, fierce wind cutting into his skin. The anguish of his rivals as they spiral down into blackness, to be shattered on the rocks far below.

No! His human self cries out a warning, but he no longer speaks its language.

Stumbling, he begins to move toward her.

And her body shimmers again.

And changes.

It takes him a minute to recognize what form she is taking now. When he does, the shock of it stops him dead in his tracks.

The red-headed witch smiles at him. “Hello, Colivar.” Hearing her voice, the Souleaters overhead wheel about and begin to head toward her. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

Colivar awakened with a start.

For a moment he just lay there in bed, his heart pounding. Then, with a quick gesture of conjuration, he lit the lamps on the far side of the room. Amber warmth filled the space, soft and reassuring. He drew in a deep breath and bound enough athra to quiet his pounding heart. But mere sorcery could not quiet his spirit.

It was a dream, he told himself. Nothing more.

Of course, even his dreams were suspect now. If Siderea had found a new source of power, she might well be playing with the minds of her ex-lovers. Courtesy had stayed her hand in the past—or perhaps just the thought of what the Magisters would do to her if they caught her using witchery on them—but there were no limits in her world now. And Colivar knew from examining the emotional traces she had left behind in Sankara just how much she hated the Magisters. True, his dream had contained some references to things Siderea could not possibly know about, so the whole of the dream had not been sent by her, but that didn’t mean that some part of it hadn’t been, and his own mind had dressed it up with additional details.

And then there was the matter of the red-headed witch.

He remembered how casually Kamala had used her power in Kierdwyn. As if it cost her nothing. And he remembered the chill echoes of sorcery that he had detected in her abandoned room in Gansang. They’d assumed at the time that those had been the mark of some unnamed Magister who was acting as her patron, but now that he’d had a chance to observe her more closely, he was willing to bet that she walked—and worked—alone. Which left only one possible conclusion.

Call her a Magister, he dared himself.

There was so much power in that title! And, of course, one’s own identity was revealed in how one applied it. If Ramirus were to name Kamala a Magister, he would merely be stating that she had mastered sorcery and now lived as a parasite, robbing morati of their lives in order to sustain her own. But Colivar understood more about the Magisters’ true nature than Ramirus did. For him, the title resonated with myriad forgotten secrets, fears and failures and betrayals that the others of his kind were not even aware of. If he called a witch by that forbidden name, he would be declaring that she was a part of a complex tapestry they did not even know existed . . . and that she carried the seed of Colivar’s own personal torment within her veins.

How strangely arousing that thought was! It stirred his blood in ways he had not felt in some time. And it raised all sorts of questions about his own nature, questions he’d thought were settled long ago. A heady combination for any Magister.

But most important of all, it gave him something to think about other than Siderea’s palace and the presence that he had detected there. Which had caused him many a sleepless night already, and would doubtless continue to do so.

Sorcery had yet to find a cure for nightmares.

By the time Colivar arrived at the meeting, the others were already there. He could sense their presence before he entered the room, and for a moment he hesitated, wondering if he really wanted to join them. The presence of other sorcerers was disturbing enough on a good day, and the fact that he had detected the scent of a Souleater queen at Siderea’s palace was not helping matters. It was one thing to find a nest full of eggs and speculate that at some point a queen might have passed through the area, but it was another to drink in that intoxicating scent with every breath, to feel the magical traces of a queen’s presence vibrate beneath your fingertips, and to know that a former lover might now be bound to her, sharing that ultimate intimacy.

All things considered, he would much rather go home right now and isolate himself with his thoughts than have to face others of his kind. But he needed the information that would be shared in this meeting; there was simply no way around that. And so, drawing in a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered the chamber, trying to look more composed than he felt.

Lazaroth, Ramirus, and Sulah stood respectfully as he entered. They had positioned themselves on three sides of a heavy trestle table, using the piece of furniture as a shield between them. At one time Colivar might have been amused by that, but these days even the most casual gesture seemed ominous to him. The beast that lay coiled at the heart of each Magister understood what its relationship to its own kind was—even if its host was not consciously aware of it—and was perpetually bracing itself for combat.

“Magisters.” Colivar acknowledged Lazaroth’s role as host with a brief nod of respect, then took the place that had been prepared for him, at the fourth side of the table. Power rippled between the Magisters in the warm Kierdwyn air, tendrils of sorcery testing, anticipating, exploring. There was a time when so many Magisters could not even have been in the same room together, much less shared any kind of civilized conversation. Colivar glanced at Ramirus, and saw by the furrowing of his brow that he was remembering that time, too. Sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Should they have taught their apprentices more about that part of their past? For Colivar that would have required too much explanation, too much vulnerability. He had secrets that required forgetfulness. And doubtless Ramirus had made a similar choice. So now the younger Magisters were defined by their ignorance, just as the older ones were by their memories. Colivar thought he knew which category Lazaroth fell into, but with sorcerers you could never be sure; a man might change his flesh and play the role of a newcomer just for the novelty of it. Only when you brought a man through First Transition yourself did you know for certain just how old he was.

“Ramirus, Colivar, Sulah . . . I thank you for coming.” Lazaroth nodded to each of them in turn. “Back when you all assisted with the Alkali campaign, I promised to keep you informed of what we discovered there. Today I will make good on that promise. Please feel free to ask any questions you like, and if you have information to offer in return, it would certainly be welcome.” A corner of his mouth twitched: the fleeting hint of a cold smile. “Admittedly, our kind are generally more disposed to hoarding information than sharing it. But I think you will agree that the return of an ancient enemy calls for new strategies.

“Kierdwyn’s Seers have investigated the breach in the Wrath. Independent witches from Alkali were also brought in, to confirm their findings. I would not have chosen to trust the Alkali in this matter had I been the one making that decision, but the breach took place inside that Protectorate, so Lord Kierdwyn felt they could not rightfully be excluded.”

No doubt the delicate Seers would have preferred to march straight into Hell itself rather than get within range of the Wrath, Colivar thought. The willingness of the Guardians to sacrifice themselves never ceased to amaze him. Then again, were they not descended from the same witches and warriors who had offered up their lives centuries ago, to save the world from ruin? Sacrifice was in their blood. They sucked it in along with their mothers’ milk.

Yet even such a heritage can be corrupted, he thought soberly. Even a hero may do terrible things, if circumstances drive him to it.

“Apparently a number of ikati have already crossed into the south,” Lazaroth continued. “As we feared might be the case.”

“How many?” Sulah asked.

He shook his head. “Unclear. The impressions are hard to detect, for obvious reasons. Very few of the creatures made physical contact with the terrain—at least in the places we have searched—so there are few anchors to focus on. Most of the traces that do exist appear to have been left by a single Souleater, apparently connected with Nyuku.”

“Nyuku?” The color drained from Colivar’s face so quickly that he could not stop it. The sorcerous tendrils surrounding him began to prick at his mental armor like a thousand tiny spears, seeking insight into his reaction; it took all his skill—and emotional composure—to fend them off. He could not afford to let these Magisters see how much that name stirred his blood, lest they guess at the cause.

Nyuku is here. In my world. The name sent emotions surging through his veins that he thought he’d conquered long ago. Deep inside, where none of the other Magisters could see, he trembled.

But if Lazaroth noticed his guest’s discomfort, he showed no sign of it. “Aye. The name was cited several times in Anukyat’s records, as that of the Kannoket who negotiated with him. He may have played a leadership role in the invasion or simply been left behind to guard its flank. Either way, he left his mark all over the terrain, as did one particular Souleater. The fact that those two traces were almost always found together would seem to imply there was some kind of working relationship between them, though we haven’t yet determined its nature. When Nyuku left Alkali, after Anukyat’s death, apparently the Souleater did so as well.” He paused. “All in all, my witches estimate that approximately three dozen Souleaters crossed through the breach. A guard has now been established to watch for any new arrivals, but I suspect that plan will amount to . . . “ He sighed. “I believe the applicable phrase is, ‘shutting the barn door after the horse has left.’ ”

Most of the colony must have come south, Colivar thought. He was stunned by the revelation. How could they all have managed the crossing? Even with one of the Spears damaged, the Wrath still remained a formidable barrier. Only the strongest individuals should have been able to cross it.

Or the weakest.

Cold. The memories were so cold. Colivar felt an urge to wrap his arms about himself, as if that could somehow ward them off. Cursing silently, he forced himself to relax his body instead. But it was too late. Ramirus had clearly taken note of his fleeting disquiet, and his eyes were fixed on Colivar now, trying to determine its cause. Though direct sorcerous inquiries would net him nothing, human insight alone was a powerful tool. Colivar would rather face a hundred sorcerers on the battlefield than try to keep secrets from this one.

“You know this Nyuku?” Ramirus asked him quietly.

Colivar knew that he would have to choose his lies carefully; he could not afford to make a mistake with this many Magisters present. “Long ago . . . as you know . . . I lived in the north. There were rumors back then of someone who had crossed the Wrath and lived to talk about it. I heard the name Nyuku mentioned. Whether that was the same man I do not know.”

“What else did you hear about him?” Lazaroth asked.

You mean, what else that I am willing of speak of? He drew in a deep breath, his mind racing as he tried to decide just how much information to offer up. Too little would just convince them that he was hiding something important. Too much would lead to questions he dared not answer. “It was said that north of the Wrath there were men who had established some sort of partnership with the Souleaters. Each man was allied to a particular ikati in a sort of . . . spiritual union. Supposedly the creatures were willing to carry these men upon their backs. They had to be mutilated in order to make that possible—some of the dorsal spikes had to be removed—but I guess the ikati found that acceptable. Or so legends claimed, back then.” He glanced at Ramirus. “The one that Rhys killed had been mutilated thus. That is why I guessed what I did about its origins.”

“Aye,” Ramirus said thoughtfully. “I remember that.”

Sulah’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Tradition says that any man who comes too close to a Souleater will be drained of life. But that can’t be the case if men are using them for transport.”

Colivar shrugged stiffly. “These were only tales that I heard, many centuries ago.” Would his tone sound truthful enough? This was dangerous ground. “I cannot even vouch for their source, much less their accuracy.”

“So it may be that this Nyuku and his Souleater were such a pair,” Lazaroth said thoughtfully. “That would certainly explain the traces we found.”

“And I think possibly we have seen another one,” Ramirus said.

“You mean Kostas?” Sulah asked. “That was Danton’s Magister Royal, yes?”

“Perhaps,” Ramirus said. “Or perhaps he was something else, that simply posed as a Magister. Do not mistake me: He did have real power at his disposal. Enough to convince Danton that he was one of us. But according to my investigations, all his spells were small ones. Showy on occasion, but always limited in scope. So he might have been using some kind of witchery rather than true sorcery.” He paused. “Or perhaps there is a third variant of power that we do not yet know about, which these invaders wield. At any rate, the appearance of a Souleater within minutes of Kostas’ death certainly suggests they were connected. And if the stories Colivar heard are correct . . . then the mutilation we saw would imply that both of them were from north of the Wrath.”

“If Kostas and Nyuku were working together,” Lazaroth said, “then I think we can guess at their intentions. Nyuku used Anukyat to manipulate the Alkali Guardians, and through them an entire Protectorate. Kostas sought a position as counselor to one of the most powerful men on the continent. They seek control over morati society.”

“Predators with political aspirations,” Ramirus mused. “Interesting.”

“How many do you think are playing that game?” Sulah asked. “Passing themselves off as locals—or Magisters—as they quietly move into positions of authority?”

Ramirus shook his head sharply. “Not many are likely to be successful at that game. Remember, this Nyuku kept to the shadows for as long as he could. He never tested his disguise at court. And Kostas, who lived more openly, was peculiar enough in his demeanor that even Danton’s servants took note of it. Such men are easy to pick out once the full light of day shines upon them.”

“Aye,” Lazaroth mused, “I remember hearing rumors that Danton’s new Magister was not a human being at all, but rather some kind of malevolent spirit. Perhaps even a demon.” He shrugged. “Magisters collect rumors about them the way whores collect trinkets, so I didn’t bother to investigate. But perhaps these invaders don’t play the human game as well as they think they do. If so, that’s a factor we can exploit.”

“When did the Alkali invasion begin?” Colivar asked him. “Do we have any idea?”

“All the traces we could find appear to be recent,” Lazaroth told him. “Our best guess is that the crossing began earlier this year. Master Favias says that the Alkali Guardians stopped visiting the other Protectorates a few months ago, and disturbances in the Wrath were also noted about the same time. We are guessing that is the most likely time frame.”

Colivar nodded. “Which means that Kostas was a newcomer to our world when he first appeared at Danton’s court. His people had been isolated for centuries, trapped in one of the harshest regions on earth, with beasts as their closest companions. Our entire world was alien to him. Sorcery could have provided him with the raw knowledge he needed to walk among us, to speak our language, and not to make major gaffs, but internalizing all that knowledge would have required time and practice. He might have planned to put more time into training before making his public debut, had Ramirus not forced his hand by leaving Danton’s service prematurely. An opportunity that could not be missed. Under the circumstances, it’s to his credit that he managed to appear as human as he did.

“But those who follow after him will not necessarily suffer from the same handicaps. The longer these invaders are in our world, the more time they will have to perfect their masquerade. And even if there are still signs that give such men away, how do you propose we seek them out? With Magisters it is easy to say ‘all new faces are suspect’ and investigate anyone who made his first appearance among us in the past few months, but there are far too many morati in the world to support that kind of strategy. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if the human hordes found out that any stranger in their midst might be the vanguard of an invading army? The streets would run red with blood.”

Ramirus’ deep-set eyes fixed on him. “Do you really believe that a man from such an alien world could adapt himself perfectly enough to this one to become indistinguishable from . . . say . . . you or me?”

Colivar drew in a sharp breath. Did Ramirus mean that question to be the double-edged sword it was? Or was it just an accident of phrasing? He kept his voice carefully neutral as he responded, “Human beings are extraordinarily adaptable. In time . . . with sorcery and sufficient practice . . . yes, I believe such a man might be able to pass as human. A normal human, that is. “ He looked at Ramirus and added, “Well enough to fool even you.”

“And such a masquerade may not be necessary for all of them,” Lazaroth pointed out. “Not if they have allies in the southern kingdoms.”

For a moment there was silence. The name of Siderea Aminestas hung in the air between them, unvoiced but not unacknowledged.

“Ramirus. Sulah.” Lazaroth leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table before him. “You, like myself, never patronized the great whore. Colivar . . . I’ve heard that she collected tokens from her lovers, to serve as anchors for her witchery. But that she no longer has yours. Is that true?”

“She used it to call me to her in Corialanus,” Colivar responded. “And I did not replace it. So yes, that much is true.”

“Is there anyone else for whom that is the case?”

Colivar hesitated. “Fadir was summoned the same day that I was, so his token was also destroyed. I don’t know if he ever replaced it. Or how many other Magisters she might also have summoned the same day, who chose not to respond. But matters with Siderea went downhill very quickly after that; I would be surprised if any Magister would have been willing to give her a new token once he saw what was happening to her.”

Lazaroth nodded. “So five of us know for a fact that we are free of her influence. How many others can say the same?”

Colivar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The tokens you speak of are destroyed by even the most casual use. The owner’s trace is tenuous at best, and will not support a spell of any significance. Such items would not have been given to a morati if they had any real power.”

“I credit you with believing that,” Lazaroth said coldly, “though I am sure you would tell me the same story even if you didn’t. That said, I also credit Queen Siderea with being intelligent enough to know how to leverage those bits of power to greatest effect.”

“Without doubt,” Ramirus muttered.

“A man’s purpose can be swayed by a single dream, his plans undermined by a single well-placed doubt. The men who gave her tokens were her lovers, her companions, her advisers—which means that she knows them as well as any morati can. Are you going to tell me now, with absolute certainty, that she would not know how to conjure such a dream, or insert such a doubt? Or that such tokens could not help her target Magisters with an even greater act of witchery, by circumventing their normal defenses?”

For a moment Colivar said nothing. Even the thoughts in his head were still. “No,” he said at last. “I can’t tell you that.”

Lazaroth leaned back in the chair, his expression darkly triumphant. “From what I hear, her ex-lovers are scouring the world to figure out where she has gone. They want their toys back. Yet it seems that no sorcery can find her. Nor can it locate the Souleaters. Three dozen demons may be loose in our world, and the most powerful men in existence cannot conjure up so much as a piddling clue as to where they went. That worries me, Magisters. It worries me a lot.” He paused, then suggested quietly, “Perhaps we should be worrying about it together.”

Ramirus raised an eyebrow. “You are proposing some kind of cooperative effort?”

“You know as well as I do what will happen if we fail to get this situation under control.”

“That was not my question.”

Lazaroth nodded. “Then, yes, I am suggesting we four pool our efforts. And we could invite Fadir to join us, if you think he would be an asset. But no others. For the reasons already discussed.”

“Others could not be trusted,” Colivar said. The irony of the concept amused him.

“Precisely.”

Colivar looked at Ramirus. The expression on the Magister’s face was neither surprised nor derisive. In fact, Ramirus had told Colivar a while back that some kind of cooperative effort might become necessary in time. Doubtless he was contemplating whether this particular effort was the one he’d been waiting for.

If Ramirus is still working for House Aurelius, Colivar mused, then we serve rival monarchs once more. Will he commit to becoming my ally in one war while we are still enemies in another?

But of course he knew the answer to that. Ramirus lived for this kind of challenge. The fact that it might prove genuinely dangerous only added spice to the game. How many things were there in the world that could threaten a Magister in any meaningful way?

The white-haired Magister nodded slowly, his fingers stroking his long beard as he spoke. “Your argument is a bit unorthodox, Lazaroth, but there is no denying its merit. I am skeptical about how well the details will play out, but it’s clear we’ve come to a crossroads here, and we cannot just stagger blindly forward.

“I for one am old enough to remember the Dark Ages. I do not wish to return to that time. Ever.” He nodded shortly. “So yes. I would be willing to share information with this company, as it pertains to the Souleater invasion. To see what our common resources can make of it.”

“As would I,” Sulah offered.

Lazaroth looked at Colivar. There was a challenge in his eyes.

“I will do the same,” Colivar said quietly.

How carefully you crafted that promise, Ramirus! Promising the world but committing to nothing. Was that for my benefit? Did you fear that I would shy away from a commitment to share everything I knew? Or were you just wary of making such a promise yourself?

You have always hungered after my knowledge, and now you have a context in which to lay claim to it. How pleased you must be that Lazaroth’s’ plan serves your agenda so well!

Of course, he mused, that was probably not a coincidence. Ramirus was not the kind of Magister who left things to chance. The only question was whether he had actually conspired with Lazaroth or had relied upon more subtle means to manipulate him into doing what he wanted. Knowing Ramirus as well as he did, Colivar guessed the latter was more likely.

My ancient and esteemed rival, he thought soberly, you are more dangerous to me than all the Souleaters put together.

Given his personal history, that was a truly daunting thought.

Standing on the walkway that edged the roof of Kierdwyn Castle, observing how the late afternoon sun shimmered on the snow-capped mountains to the north, Colivar waited. Normally he would have left the Protectorate as soon as Lazaroth’s meeting was over, but he still had one more piece of business to take care of.

Then the iron-banded door opened, and a Magister stepped through.

Ramirus.

Colivar nodded as the other man came to where he stood and gazed out at the view by his side. Colivar said nothing immediately, just ran his finger along the edge of the parapet, pausing to note where a dark stain marked the coarse stone. “I gather there was a suicide here once,” he said in a companionable tone.

Ramirus glanced down at the mark. “Almost. It was interrupted.”

Colivar bound enough sorcery to identify the blood’s owner. “Rhys.”

Ramirus nodded. “The despair of a man who suddenly discovers that he has betrayed someone he cares about can drive him to desperate extremes. It also makes for an interesting study.”

“A death wish that strong is never completely overcome,” Colivar said quietly, “though it may take on other guises. Sometimes the thing we call ‘courage’ is simply its public face.”

Ramirus raised an eyebrow. “You think Rhys’ courage was no more than that? A death wish?”

“No. I researched his history, and I’m satisfied he was a genuine martyr. Rare as that breed may be. But I wonder . . . had he hungered for life in his final hours, the way men naturally do, might it have made a difference? Might he have made different choices at key moments? Leading to different paths, different options, and ultimately a way to accomplish his goal without dying?” He shrugged. “I was not at the battle, so I don’t know all the details of what went on there. But it’s an interesting question to contemplate.”

Ramirus snorted softly. “You wax philosophical tonight.”

Colivar shrugged. “Perhaps the current state of the world brings out the philosopher in me.” He wiped his finger on his shirt, leaving a streak of dust behind. “The Alkali campaign was interesting, at any rate. With some interesting participants. I was especially intrigued by the witch who helped us out. The red-headed one. What was her name?”

“Kamala?”

“A curious creature. What did you make of her?”

Ramirus shrugged. “She is very skilled. She knows her art. She also knows Magister customs better than outsiders usually do; I would not be surprised to learn that she served as companion to a Magister at one point.” He stared out at the mountains once more. “I found it easy to read her emotions, impossible to read her soul. Sorcery slides right off her —but I am sure you know all that.”

“She used her power very freely,” he suggested.

“A woman in love does foolish things, sometimes. And a man, for that matter. I have seen witches burn up their final athra for less.” He looked at Colivar curiously. “You have a special interest in this woman?”

“I have a special interest in any witch willing to expend her life-essence for a cause. If we can find enough of them, the Magisters can keep to the sidelines in this war.”

Ramirus chuckled. “The Magisters will keep to the sidelines anyway. You know that. Men cannot fight against a common enemy when they are more interested in fighting each other.”

“But now we have an alliance,” Colivar reminded him. A faint smirk attended the word.

“Ah. Yes.” Ramirus smiled dryly. “We shall see how much that accomplishes.”

“You think Lazaroth really believes in it?”

“I think Lazaroth wants to know where Siderea Aminestas is, and everything else he said was merely to distract us. Why he would care so much about her is a question for another day. However, even an imperfect alliance can prove useful. War is indisputably on the horizon, and having us each do reconnaissance separately is a waste of time and resources. Now, how much information will be shared between us . . . that is another matter.” His cold gaze fixed on Colivar. “But you know that, of course.”

“I have provided a good deal of information already,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Ramirus’ blue eyes glittered in the moonlight. “And when I get home I shall work on figuring out which parts of it were true, and which were no more than artful diversions.”

Colivar hesitated. For a moment he seemed to be considering how much to say. At last he offered, “Here is a bit of truth for you. I will be severing my ties to Anshasa.”

Ramirus’ smile faded. Colivar knew him well enough to catch the sudden spark of interest in his eyes and to feel the cold touch of his power as it probed his defenses, seeking even the faintest hint of his true motivation. But Colivar had woven multiple layers of sorcery about himself to ward off just such an inquiry. Some subjects were significant enough that they merited powerful protection. “You think this matters to me. Why?”

“You and I have served warring monarchs for a generation. It’s been good sport, Ramirus. But I don’t think Salvator hungers for power the way his father did. Which means that King Farah no longer needs to worry about Aurelius aggression . . . or yours. A lesser Magister can take care of his needs now, so I am free to focus on more important things.” His black eyes narrowed as he studied Ramirus intently, aggressively casting out nets of sorcery to pick up any stray trace of emotion that might slip past that flawless mask. No doubt his old rival sensed the effort, though his expression revealed nothing. “So you see, one long-standing barrier between us will soon be removed.”

For a moment Ramirus just stared at him. No doubt he could sense the sorcerous tendrils Colivar was using to prod at his soul, seeking more information on the subject. “I think you mistake me,” he said at last. All emotion had been deliberately stripped from his voice; and his expression was unreadable as stone. “I have no contract with the High King. So your political machinations are . . . irrelevant.”

And then, without further word, he turned and walked back the way he had come, commanding the iron-bound door to open for him as he approached, then closing it behind him as he passed into the castle. He spared no parting word for Colivar, or even a parting glance.

Colivar chuckled softly. He was not surprised by his abrupt exit. Clearly Ramirus had been less than certain he could mask his emotions on the level required to fend off Colivar’s sorcery. He’d wanted to get out of range before some stray wisp of emotion could be captured and analyzed. That was fine with Colivar. That Ramirus had sensed his inquiry in the first place, and knew how much Colivar wanted information pertaining to his contract with House Aurelius, was really all that mattered. Now Ramirus would deduce that the first part of their conversation had been meaningless small talk, designed to put him off his guard. What Colivar had really wanted to know, he would tell himself, was which Magister was allied to the High King; all the rest had been a distraction. Colivar had already given himself away with his protective spells, wrapping them so tightly around his own thoughts when discussing the Aurelius situation that it was clear that was his true interest.

Lies within lies within lies. Ramirus would spend the next few hours teasing the threads of the exchange apart, trying to determine which words had really mattered, versus which ones had been intended just to throw him off the scent. Did Colivar care more about learning who Salvator’s Magister Royal really was, or about Anshasa’s political standing in general? Colivar had layered his every word with sorcery, suppressing all hints of genuine emotion, so that Ramirus would have to fall back upon the mundane sorts of clues that came from a man’s tone of voice, his expression, his posture . . . and of course, the knowledge that a Magister only guarded his privacy that fiercely when there were secrets he needed to protect.

Meanwhile, the one piece of information that Colivar had really cared about—the reason he’d invited Ramirus here to talk to him in the first place—would be categorized as trivial misdirection and disregarded.

Which had been the plan all along, of course.

He does not know what Kamala is.

Ramirus had clearly not made the connection yet between the woman who’d helped them in Alkali and the one who had killed Magister Raven in Gansang. Which meant that Colivar’s earlier speculation that Raven’s murderer might have been a Magister was not something Ramirus yet connected to Kamala. He had all the puzzle pieces regarding her, as Colivar did, but he did not yet know how to assemble them.

Which left Colivar free to do as he pleased with Kamala . . . at least for now.

Satisfied, the Magister shapeshifted at last into his preferred form—an oversized red-tailed hawk—and headed off toward the west, to where a particular tree awaited his attention.