Chapter 26

THE TRANSPORT spell manifested with a deafening crack, vomiting the three of them out upon a gritty sandstone surface. Debris spewed forth as Ramirus and Kamala stumbled through the doorway between here and there, Kamala falling to her knees as they landed, Ramirus nearly dropping Colivar. Shards of rock followed them, hurtling like crossbow bolts on all sides—and then suddenly ceased to fly, as the portal vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

And then there was silence.

With a grunt, Ramirus lowered Colivar to the ground. Several rocks had struck him during their exit, and thin lines of blood were trickling down from his forehead. He raised a hand to the wounds, healing and cleaning them with a touch, then did the same for his abraded palm. Kamala checked her own body for damage, repairing what was necessary. It was clear from the nature and the number of their wounds that the three of them had barely made it out in time.

“You certainly don’t do things by halves,” Ramirus muttered.

Blinking her eyes against the sudden intensity of full sunlight, Kamala saw that they were now atop a narrow mesa, formed of the same reddish stone as Tefilat itself. A sigil had been carved into its surface, presumably as a focus for transport. For all his concerns about conjuring a portal in Tefilat, Ramirus had apparently prepared an escape route in advance. In the distance Kamala could see a plume of dust rising, and she guessed that it was coming from Tefilat . . . or what remained of Tefilat. The ground seemed to tremble beneath her feet, and she could hear a sound like an explosion in the distance. A new plume of dust gushed up into the air, spreading out over the desert. Collateral damage from her assault, no doubt; the weakened cliff face was giving way piece by piece, as each collapse triggered a new one. There would be little left of Tefilat once it was all over.

Ramirus knelt down by Colivar’s side. If he had hoped that getting him out of Tefilat would improve his condition, it was clear that was not going to happen. The black-haired Magister lay still, insensate, his eyes gazing into nothingness. Periodically they shifted focus, as if he were struggling to see something clearly, but whatever he was focusing on was invisible to Kamala. His face and chest had been protected from the explosion by his position over Ramirus’ shoulder, but thin rivulets of blood trickled out from under where he lay. How strange it was, to see such an ancient and powerful creature rendered as helpless as a newborn child. How unnerving.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kamala asked.

“Some sort of containment spell,” he said, a grave expression on his face. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Rising up from her knees, trying to clear her head enough to walk steadily, she came over to join him.

Ramirus had his hand on Colivar’s chest, and it was clear he was summoning power. She watched with her Sight as tendrils of sorcery, refined and delicate, began to explore Colivar’s body. She tried to still the queasy feeling she got as she watched, remembering the feel of Ramirus’ sorcery invading her own person. No sorcerer capable of resisting would ever allow another to do such a thing to him. But Colivar was helpless now, much as she had been back then. Gods help him if Ramirus took advantage of that, as he had with her.

As last the Magister sat back on his heels, his white brow furrowed in thought.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There’s a barrier between Colivar and the outside world. Not like the one that Lazaroth was trying to conjure, which would block only a particular type of spell; this one was meant to block them all. An impermeable shell through which no sorcery can penetrate.” He gazed down at his rival with a strange expression on his face. Pity? “Obviously, it was not entirely successful, or he would no longer be alive.”

For a Magister to be cut off from the outside world meant being cut off from his consort. From the very source of his life. A witch could exist in such a state, but a sorcerer could not. Kamala’s skin crawled just thinking about it. “You think they were trying to kill him?”

“No. I think they wanted to neutralize his sorcery so that they could take him prisoner. I’m guessing that he’s been fighting it ever since, struggling to keep at least a minimal conduit open. Like a drowning man struggling for air . . . .“

The words trailed off into silence. Why? He had talked to her in Tefilat about her calling in his Oath. Only a Magister could do that. So he knew what she was now, and discussing such sensitive matters should not be an issue. Did he still have doubts? Or was he just having problems internalizing the fact that the woman he was talking to was one of his own kind?

Looking down at Colivar’s prone form, the red dust of Tefilat turning the sky to blood behind him, Kamala thought, We’re past the point of playing this game.

“If he loses contact with his consort,” she said, “he’ll die. So no doubt he’s shut down all outside awareness, to focus on the internal struggle. It’s what I would do.” She met Ramirus’ eyes defiantly. I am what I am. Come to terms with it. “So the question is, can the spell be removed from him?”

Ramirus hesitated. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t appear to be an external conjuration, as one would expect. Rather, it seems to bear his own resonance, which makes no sense at all. Why would a man do such a thing to himself?”

“Lazaroth told me that Siderea wove the trap from the substance of his own body, whatever that means. He said that no one could banish it without killing him.”

“Aye. It appears to be part of him, not something separate. How that was managed I have no idea. ‘His own body?’ Colivar isn’t the sort to leave parts of himself lying around.” Lips tight, he shook his head; it clearly frustrated him to have gone through so much effort recovering Colivar and still be unable to free him. “I see no way to remove it from him. And I don’t think I can get into his mind to gather information. Even if I could break through by sheer force . . . “ Though he did not complete the sentence, Kamala knew what he was thinking. Any act that might distract Colivar from his immediate struggle for survival might prove fatal to him. His tie to his consort was a thin, fraying thread right now. They dared not do anything that would stress that connection further . . . and attempting to break into his mind would certainly do that.

Lips tight, Ramirus raised a hand over Colivar’s body, to conjure what information he could from the spell itself. Power flowed forth from his fingertips and swirled in the air over the prone body. Colors gathered together in the still, hot air, but they were slow to coalesce; whatever the spell was that was wrapped so tightly around Colivar, it was not going to give up its secrets without a fight.

Finally hazy images began to take shape. Not as substantial as with a normal conjuring, but clear enough for them to make out some general details. Kamala saw Colivar moving through an underground passage, then coming out into a chamber with richly carved walls. Her Sight could pick out the glimmer of power that lay hidden in the deepest portions of that relief, and she leaned forward, trying to get a better view of it. But all she could make out was that something was clinging to the walls that was not supposed to be there, something far more organized and malevolent than the normal resident energies of the place.

And then that something whipped forth from the walls—all the walls at once—assaulting Colivar from every side. For a moment she thought she could detect its form—some sort of net or web, made of filaments so thin that the light passed through them. A spiderweb of power. It wrapped itself about Colivar as if it were a sentient creature, and she saw him cry out in surprise and pain as it adhered itself to all the visible portions of his skin. Where the sorcerous strands fell upon his clothing, they seemed to pass through it, or perhaps they were absorbed into it. The vision was not clear enough to tell.

She watched as Colivar fell. His body shook violently as he began to wrestle with the power, struggling to keep open a channel through which the life-essence of his consort could continue to pass. A lifeline to the outside world. While that battle was being waged, it would not be possible for him to do anything else.

Ramirus’ vision faded. “So that’s the trap he walked into. Designed for him.” He shook his head. “He should have seen it coming. That much power . . . you can’t disguise such a thing. He should have known walking into that room that something was amiss.”

“Tefilat is a metaphysical mess,” she pointed out. Not wanting to tell him that Lazaroth’s sorcery might be uniquely undetectable, because then she would have to explain why. “The signs of a single spell could get lost in all that.”

Leaning down close to Colivar, Kamala studied the portions of skin that were visible. Her Sight could pick out faint remnants of the original web, lines of power from which the spell emanated, crisscrossing his body. There must have been some physical structure to give it that shape originally, she thought. A material anchor that Siderea had imbued with power, which had affixed itself to Colivar’s skin. Normally such a thing would have a different resonance than his own flesh did, which is what you could use to remove it. But if she had really made it out of his own body somehow, that would explain what Kamala was seeing. The webwork shimmered against his skin as if it had grown there organically, as much a part of him as his hair or nails, indivisible from his flesh. How did you remove such a thing without destroying the man himself?

Reaching up to the neck of his shirt, she parted the material to see what lay beneath. Colivar flinched reflexively as she touched him. So he was at least peripherally aware of what was going on, even if he could not respond to anything. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign. The pale skin beneath his shirt appeared at first sight to be unblemished, but as her Sight came into focus, she could see that it, too, was crosshatched with the same mysterious patterns of power. She reached out a finger to touch one of the lines; it seemed to vibrate beneath her fingertip.

“You have the Sight?” Ramirus asked, watching her closely.

She nodded.

“What can it tell you that sorcery does not?”

She narrowed her eyes, considering the question. “I can see where the anchor lies. It has merged with his flesh, but its power hasn’t dissipated into the rest of his body. It’s still localized.”

“You’re talking about the web we saw.”

“Yes.” She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to process all that she had seen. Testing solutions in her mind. “Destroy the web, and it might be possible to banish the spell that is anchored to it.”

“If it has become one with his flesh, how do we destroy one without the other?”

She opened her eyes again. “We destroy that portion of his flesh it is anchored to and spare the rest.”

Ramirus drew in a sharp breath. “You can make out its shape clearly enough to do that?”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“You know that such an assault on his person may well disturb his focus. If there’s any delay in banishing the spell after that, he may die.”

“He’ll have a few seconds,” she reminded him. “A Magister who goes into transition doesn’t die immediately. Hopefully that will be enough time.” She looked up at him. “How quickly can you banish the thing, once I detach it?”

How strange it felt, to talk about transition in front of him like this! As if there were nothing at all remarkable about the fact that she knew the Magisters’ darkest secret.

“As quickly as is needed,” he told her.

Sitting back on her heels, she prepared to gather the full force of her power. So your life is in our hands now, Colivar. Can you hear what we’re planning? Would you advise us not to try this, if you could?

Drawing in a deep breath, she focused her attention inward, to where the source of her own power lay. Cold, stolen athra, which had been robbed of its living heat long ago. She must mold it into a force that could not only destroy the flesh surrounding the invasive anchor, but cauterize the area as well. Otherwise Colivar might bleed to death from a thousand wounds before he could summon enough power to heal himself.

She knew of no gentle way to begin.

Forgive me, Colivar. You’ve always treated me well, even if your motives weren’t altruistic. I wish there were a better way to do this.

When she thought she was ready at last, she opened her eyes. The web that had melded itself into Colivar’s flesh seemed to blaze in her Sight, silver lines shimmering like mercury as they rippled across his skin. She could feel the power rising up from the thing, like heat lapping at her face. Not sorcery, but not simple witchery either. Something hot and poisonous and boiling with hatred, that was a twisted amalgam of the two.

“Now,” she whispered.

She released her power into the web. Sorcerous flames blazed to life, searing all flesh that they touched. She heard Colivar scream as they traveled down the lines of power, until they engulfed his entire body. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air as he convulsed in pain, his back arching with such force that it seemed his spine must surely snap. Still the fire raged on, hungry to devour the alien anchor in its entirety. Channels were seared deep into his flesh, their walls cauterized by fire. Now that the anchor was being destroyed, she sensed Ramirus adding his own sorcery into the mix, struggling to banish the containment spell before it could attach itself to some new part of Colivar’s body. If it did that, then it would not be the spell that killed him; Kamala’s own sorcery would spread across every inch of his body in pursuit of it, frying him to a cinder.

But at last the fire seemed to run out of fuel, and after a final few sputtering flares, it was extinguished. And then there was silence. The body lying before them was a gruesome spectacle now, with charred and bloody lines cross-hatching every visible surface. Even Colivar’s face had deep channels running across it, and where one of his eyes had once stared into space there was now only an empty hole with blackened edges. Spasms of pain rippled through his body as wild, unfocused sorcery flickered in fits and starts along his skin. Was he trying to heal himself? Or was he fighting off remnants of Siderea’s spell, that they had failed to banish? Beads of sweat appeared on the few patches of skin that were still undamaged, and tremors ran through his body as his soul wrestled with unseen enemies.

Then: “It is done,” Ramirus told her.

Perhaps it was his pronouncement that quieted Colivar, or perhaps it was some more private revelation. Either way, the tremors finally subsided, and for a moment the wounded Magister lay still on the ground, barely breathing. And then, slowly, he began to heal himself. The edges of charred skin curled in on themselves and began to take on living color. Channels that had been gouged deep into muscle filled with blood, then with strands of spongy wet flesh, and finally with solid meat. The empty eye socket shed its lining of black cinders, revealing a newly formed lid beneath ash. And that in turn opened, revealing an eye that was shot with crimson, but clearly functional.

When the healing was done, Colivar lay still upon the sandstone surface, too exhausted to even try to get his bearings. Ramirus and Kamala waited in silence. Finally the bloodshot eyes seemed to focus on Ramirus, then on Kamala, then on Ramirus again.

“Why?” he croaked.

“You are useful,” Ramirus told him.

Colivar shut his eyes. The crusted detritus of his healing turned to dust and a strong breeze swept it away. “What the hells happened?” he whispered.

“You walked into a trap. One that appears to have been designed especially for you.” He paused. “It seems you underestimated your enemies.”

Raising himself up on one elbow, Colivar looked about the mesa. Then, slowly, he got to his feet. Kamala could see how hard he was struggling not to let his ancient rival see just how weak he was, but it was a losing battle; his legs trembled as he forced them to support him.

“Sulah betrayed me,” Colivar said hoarsely. “Perhaps not deliberately. Perhaps he was just a fool. Siderea is adept at manipulating fools. Either way, she played him like a puppet.”

“He’s the one who alerted me to your disappearance.”

“That may have been part of the game.” He paused. “What of Lazaroth?”

“Dead. We believe.”

“We hope, “ Kamala said..

Colivar glanced at her. A spark of black amusement flickered in his eyes. Have you killed another Magister, my dear? He was about to speak when Kamala spotted something in the distance, circling the dust cloud that was Tefilat. She stiffened.

“I believe your transportation has arrived,” she told Colivar.

The two men turned to look. As he saw what she was pointing at, Colivar growled in his throat. It was not the sort of sound one expected to hear from a human being, but it seemed strangely appropriate.

In the distance was a Souleater. It banked toward them as they watched, its wings catching the sunlight. Jeweled colors glittered against a backdrop of red dust, beautiful and deadly. Even from this far away they could feel the creature’s mesmeric power lapping over them, and Kamala could feel the same sickening sensation she had experienced at Danton’s castle, the desire to surrender herself to this creature and allow it to feed upon her.

Then the creature turned in its flight and began to head directly toward them.

“If he sees us . . . .” Colivar began.

“He won’t,” Kamala assured him.

How little effort it took now, for her to wrap the power of a Souleater queen around them all! A witch might be able to see through it, if she tried hard enough, or Siderea herself, but no male Souleater would be able to do so. Nor any man bound to a Souleater.

And indeed . . . . this Souleater did not see them. It circled the area twice as they watched, but it did not come any closer to them. Colivar never took his eyes from the creature, Kamala noticed, but Ramirus . . . Ramirus kept his eyes on Colivar. Lips tight, eyes narrow, icy blue gaze drinking in the other man’s every motion, every expression. Every breath.

Then the glittering wings finally turned south, and within a few minutes the Souleater was out of sight. Kamala let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“Colivar.” Ramirus’ voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the cold strength behind it. “The time for secrets is over now. Do you understand? We can no longer afford to play these games.” When Colivar did not respond, his expression darkened. “It’s time for you to surrender your secrets. And remember, I’m old enough to guess at just how many you have, so don’t think I will be diverted easily.”

Still Colivar said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon as he ignored the request . . . and its speaker.

Stepping forward suddenly, Ramirus grabbed Colivar by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. The movement was so unexpected that Kamala instinctively took a step backward.

“You failed, Colivar.” Ramirus’ expression was black with scorn. “Do you understand that? Failed! Your prize student set you up, and you never saw it coming. Your morati lover laid a trap for you, and you walked right into it. A Magister of half your power and less than half your intelligence held you prisoner, and you could not muster the strength to raise a hand against him. And finally, yes, your greatest rival had to carry you away from danger, like a helpless baby in his arms.” The disdain in his voice was palpable. “You are weak, Colivar. Weak. Unfit to lead others. It’s time to stop pretending you are otherwise.”

He stepped back two paces, making room between them. Then he pointed to the ground before him. “Kneel to me.”

Colivar did not move. His dark eyes narrowed—fury blazed in their depths—but he said nothing.

“Acknowledge your weakness before it consumes us all,” Ramirus insisted. His voice, his expression, were merciless. “Kneel.”

Sensing the storm that was about to break, Kamala began to step forward. “Ramirus, don’t—”

“Silence!” A cold and terrible fury was in his eyes as he turned to her. “You have brought us to this pass, as much as he has! Fool! What did you think our Law was? A simple legal code? A fancy written contract, perhaps, with pretty illumination about the edges?” He drew in a sharp breath. “It was sorcery, woman! A grand conjuration that we all submitted to, in order to safeguard our human souls. So what did you think would happen when you trampled upon that compact? That we would just erase a clause and move on?” He shook his head sharply. “Your actions have compromised our security more than any mundane treachery ever could. And any Magister who fails to prosecute you for your crime—including myself—helps to undermine it. The reasons one gives for it won’t matter. Sorcery doesn’t give a damn about reasons. The compact that kept us all human has begun to crumble, and it will continue to crumble for as long as the Law remains compromised.” He turned back to Colivar. “Am I wrong?” he demanded.

“No,” Colivar whispered. “You’re not wrong.”

“We have played by human rules for a very long time, you and I,” Ramirus told him. “But now that game is falling to pieces, and we must fall back upon more ancient rules. The alternative is chaos.” He drew in a deep breath. “So you tell me if I’m wrong about what all that means, Colivar. You tell me if I am wrong about what is required of us now.”

For a long moment the black-haired Magister just stared at him. Powerful emotions blazed in the depths of his eyes: Indignation. Defiance. Hatred. The energy between the two men was so charged that Kamala could feel it raise hairs along her skin. She stepped back from them, fearing what might happen if any of that energy were channeled into sorcery.

Then a terrible exhaustion seemed to come over Colivar; the worst of his emotion seemed to dissipate. “No,” he whispered. “You’re right.”

And to Kamala’s amazement he lowered himself to one knee before his rival. And then lowered his eyes as well, in a gesture of formal submission.

Ramirus gazed down at him in silence. There was no sense of triumph in him, she observed. No pleasure in finally besting his rival. The very necessity of this whole scene seemed to repel him. But that didn’t mean he was any less determined to get the answers he sought, and his voice was harsh as he demanded, “Who was it that first crossed the Wrath? The traitor you spoke of, who brought us this power, and with it the curse of ikati madness. Who was it, Colivar?”

Kamala held her breath. For a moment it seemed that time itself was suspended, as Colivar considered the question. Under normal circumstances he would never have answered it, she knew that. But these were no longer normal circumstances.

“I am the one who flew through the clouds of ash and poison,” he said at last, “hunting my rivals. I tasted the bite of the arctic wind against my face and felt their hot blood bathe my consort’s talons. I battled them in the wake of a queen’s flight and claimed my reward over the corpses of my conquests. And in the end I lay on a bier of bloodied snow, with all the ghosts of the Wrath screaming inside my head, and begged the gods for death.” Slowly he raised up his eyes to look at Ramirus; his gaze was hollow and terrible. “Is that the confession you wanted?” he demanded. “Yes, I sought obliteration, and I returned to this world instead. Now you know. For what good it may do you. May the gods curse you to the vilest of hells for awakening those memories in me.”

“Who is Nyuku?” Ramirus demanded.

Colivar shut his eyes. “He’s the one responsible for my exile,” he said. “Though he didn’t think he was doing that at the time. He just thought he was leaving me for dead.” He paused, then whispered, “The gods can be cruel in their hunger for amusement.”

“An enemy, then.”

“We were all enemies,” Colivar said. “No other relationship is possible when one is bound to an ikati.”

“And now?” Ramirus pressed.

Slowly, Colivar stood. It was obvious as he did so just how weak he was. It was also obvious how hard he was trying not to let that weakness show.

“Now he’s in my world.” His voice was hard and cold. “The advantage is mine.”

“How so?”

“He’s a Kannoket upstart by birth. Not a witch. And once he claimed his consort, he had no reason to become a witch. The ikati are concerned with eating, killing, and mating. Nothing else matters to them. And there’s very little power to spare in that wasteland. One doesn’t expend precious resources just for sport. So while he always had the potential for great power, he never learned how to channel it properly. He may be many things, but he is not a Magister.”

“Much time has passed since you left,” Ramirus pointed out. “You changed. Siderea Aminestas changed. Perhaps he did also.”

“Perhaps,” he whispered.

“What is she to you, Colivar?” But the man did not answer. After a moment Ramirus asked, “Why did you come to Tefilat alone?”

“I’ve always walked alone,” he said quietly. The walls were back up.

“It was foolish.”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe the fact that there’s a queen involved has something to do with it? You’re closer to the ikati than any of us. Maybe Siderea’s situation speaks to you in a way it doesn’t to the rest of us. Maybe you hunger for her in ways we can’t understand.”

A muscle along his jawline tensed. “I’m human now, Ramirus.”

“But you were once something else, were you not? Let’s not pretend those memories have no power.” He paused. “The best way for you to get back at Nyuku would be to claim the Souleater queen for yourself. Would it not?”

Colivar’s expression darkened; a dangerous edge entered his voice. “I know what the Souleaters mean to do to this world, Ramirus. Unlike you, I saw what they did to it the first time. Do you think I would allow that to happen again?”

“You allowed it to happen the first time,” Ramirus said bluntly.

Colivar stiffened. Fury blazed in his eyes—and then transformed itself into sorcery, a whirlwind of raw, unfettered emotion that poured forth from him in waves, red-hot in Kamala’s Sight. For a moment she wondered whether he was going to strike out at Ramirus. But he turned away, took a few steps away from them, and directed his rage at the mesa instead. The ground in front of him exploded with a roar, sending huge chunks of rocks flying out over the mesa’s edge. For a moment the air was so thick with dust that she could not make anything out; then, as it cleared, she saw that a whole section of the mesa had been blown away, leaving Colivar on the edge of a newborn escarpment, open air lapping at his feet.

“Things were different then,” he growled.

“You were human back then,” Ramirus pointed out. “Since then, you’ve been other things. And the madness in you was always stronger than in the rest of us. It’s probably what gave you the strength to cross the Wrath and to find a way to survive in this world once you returned, but it’s also what makes you vulnerable. The spirit of the ikati speaks more powerfully to you than it does to the rest of us. The ancient instincts have a firmer grasp upon your psyche. That may have been your strength once, but it is a weakness now. Your judgment is compromised. You must trust to others to lead the way.” He paused. “And to invoke our ikati heritage when they must, in order to establish their authority. Or was I wrong about that heritage, Colivar? Did I mistake what was required in order for us to work together?”

A hot wind blew across the mesa. It left a film of dust on Kamala’s lips.

“No,” Colivar whispered. A terrible emptiness had come into his voice. “You were not wrong.” He paused. “Will you tell the others?”

Ramirus shrugged. “Lazaroth is dead. Sulah is a fool. Whom else would I trust with such knowledge?” He looked at Kamala. “This witch, however . . . .” His mouth twitched slightly. “This Magister is your problem. Though clearly she knows how to keep secrets when she needs to.”

“And will you keep my secrets?” Kamala demanded “Or will you tell the others about me?”

Ramirus walked a few steps toward her. Though her first instinct was to back away, she stood her ground. The fact that Colivar had offered him submission didn’t mean that she had to.

“An interesting question,” he mused. “Any Magister who learns what you are—and who you are—must then bear the burden of either killing you or violating the Law himself. Which weakens the Law even further. Considering how important it is that we all remain human,” he said, glancing back meaningfully at Colivar, “I think that would be a bad idea.”

His expression was grave as he turned back to her. “I am bound by my Oath, which is also part of the Law. It would defy the spirit of that Oath for me to pay it off by saving your life and then take that life myself a few minutes later. So you’ve put me in an awkward position, where no matter what I do, I will wind up offending against our compact. Given that . . . .” He paused. “You seem to be useful. He thinks you are useful.” He nodded toward Colivar. “And in that, I do trust his judgment.”

He took a step back from her. “Sometime in the future we must have a chat about how you became what you are. Assuming you survive this war, of course. And the wrath of the other Magisters. Though the fact that you killed a man they all despised will certainly play in your favor.”

He bowed his head ever so slightly in formal leave-taking. A shadow of a dry smile played upon his lips. “Until we meet again . . . Magister Kamala.”

Then a dust cloud gathered around him, and she had to shut her eyes to protect them from the flying grit. When she finally opened them again, he was gone.

She and Colivar were alone.

She walked to where he stood by the mesa’s edge—the mesa’s new edge—and took up a place beside him. Sharing his exhaustion and his silence. Were he morati, she might have offered some words of comfort. But neither of them were morati, and she knew it was not appropriate. That same part of her that recognized the necessity of what had just taken place also understood the part she must play in it. Offering her support to Colivar right now would compromise his submission. Among ikati—and therefore Magisters—such things were sacrosanct.

But she was also human, and so she stayed by his side until the sun set, and the first moon rose, and then they began the long flight home.