Legacy of Kings Read online

  The fact that the Sleep had nothing to do with gods, and everything to do with the male Souleaters who circled restlessly about Jezalya, feeding upon everything outside its borders, was a secret no one but Siderea needed to know. Like dogs on a leash, the great beasts circled restlessly about their mistress, sucking Jezalya’s enemies dry. As more tribes flocked to Nasaan’s banner, Siderea would expand the border of her little empire, and though the males might beat their wings in fury to be ordered still farther away, they would obey her. Anyone who did not might find himself in disfavor when the new queen began her first flight, and such a fate was unthinkable.

  Why do human politics matter to us? Siderea’s ikati consort wondered. We do not answer to their rules.

  Because the First Kings turned against the ikati, she thought. Because we must have a base of power from which to operate, if we are to keep that from ever happening again.

  But was that the only reason she cared so much about Jezalya’s expansion? Or did the dream of carving out a desert empire from scratch, and eventually laying siege to Anshasa itself, speak to a more primal hunger? There had been a time when she had not been mistress of her own fate, much less that of other men. How long ago that had been! She had spent so many years in Sankara since then, having every need attended to, every whim indulged, that it was easy to forget she had begun her life in a very different mode. Easy to forget the desperation of those early years. Yet it still played into her psyche, and no doubt it fueled the hunger for power that sang in her veins now. And the fact that it was desert kingdoms that she was marking for conquest added a piquant irony to the situation.

  You were not a queen back then, thought the ikati, responding to her thoughts.

  How many questions went unvoiced in the wake of those words! Thus far Siderea had chosen not to reveal all of her personal history to her winged consort. Would there come a time when such decisions were no longer a question of volition, when she would lose all mental privacy, and holding back secrets would no longer be an option? Perhaps. Until then, there were some memories the young ikati might not be able to deal with, and so she had not yet shared them with her.

  No, she thought solemnly. Answering all those questions at once, while not really answering them at all. I was not a queen back then.

  Footsteps were approaching. The rhythm was strong and purposeful, as befitted a newly crowned prince. Nasaan’s meeting with the city elders must have gone well.

  She smoothed the fine silk layers of her gown down over the curves of her body. Such fabrics cost a fortune here, but what did that matter to her? Even if royal sycophants had not laid the wealth of nations at Nasaan’s feet, including bolts of silk and cloth-of-gold from empires halfway across the world, she still would not have to pay the Anshasan merchants a single coin for their overpriced wares. All she needed was a scrap of the most miserable mottled wool to work with, and she could transform it into whatever manner of elegant fabric she desired. Or with a little more effort (and a lot more stolen athra) she could simply conjure whatever she needed, as if from the air itself.

  Casual, thoughtless magic. What a heady indulgence it was! No wonder the Magisters were drunk on their own power. It was a wonder they ever appeared sane at all.

  The double doors opened for Nasaan’s entrance and closed soundlessly behind him, maneuvered by unseen servants. He was a solid man, hard-muscled and confident, with battle scars that stood out whitely against the sun-baked leather of his skin. Not unhandsome, in his own way, but a man whose charisma was wholly dependent upon the fierce warrior persona that he projected. No amount of silk or perfume could ever soften the edge of such a presence.

  He had chosen to wear a leather cuirass, perhaps to remind the city’s elders that war was sure to follow if they displeased him, and as he entered the chamber, she moved forward to help him remove it. His eyes watched her like a hawk’s as she did so, taking in every movement, seeking meaning in every breath. Since the day of the conquest she had served as his companion at public events, and her polished beauty had lent him a kind of social legitimacy that a rough-hewn warrior alone might not have had. The fact that she was rumored to be some kind of desert spirit—or at least a powerful witch—had bolstered his reputation as well. What kind of man did it take to earn the loyalty of such a creature?

  In all that time, they’d had little chance to be alone together. So they had not yet discussed what their real relationship would be, away from the prying eyes of priests and politicians. She had orchestrated that dance with care, making sure that he never suspected she was behind it. Now, as she unbuckled the short straps that held his cuirass in place, she could feel the tension coiled hot within him. Such a man did not deal well with uncertainty.

  He was so easy to play, this one. No unexpected elements. Almost no sport at all.

  “You are to be Royal Consort,” he said, without greeting or preamble.

  She looked up at him.

  “Some of the elders argued with me about it. The ones that weren’t peeing their britches, that is, for fear I’d cut off their heads.” He snorted. “They said you were a foreigner, and they didn’t know who you were, so you shouldn’t be sitting on Jezalya’s throne in any capacity. When what they really meant was that they don’t know what you were . . . and I didn’t enlighten them.”

  She nodded. Enough of Nasaan’s men had caught sight of a strange woman on the battlefield, or had sensed her ikati’s presence overhead, that some rumors were inevitable. Channeled properly, they could be useful.

  “There’s no reason for them to know,” she said quietly, as she lifted the heavy cuirass away from his body. The thick, battle-scarred leather was heavy in her hands, and her ikati-sharpened senses could pick up the scent of past battles that clung to it: blood and horses and the fear of captives, overlaid by splashes of celebratory ale. The tunic Nasaan wore beneath the leather was soaked with sweat, and it clung damply to the muscular curves of his body. He was a warrior, no doubt accustomed to being in such a state, but there was no mistaking the look of pleasure on his face as a stray evening breeze wafted into the room, chilling the moisture on his skin. Tiny goosebumps rose along his shoulders, and she reached up to smooth them with her fingertips. The casual intimacy of the gesture made his breath catch in his throat.

  She was his consort now. Was that role to be a public convenience only, or a private reality as well? She could see that he was considering the question now, could feel the tension rising in his body as she reached up to his neck to untie his tunic, then lifted the garment up over his head, peeling the fabric away from him like the skin of a moist fruit. He wouldn’t reach out and touch her without some sort of official permission, she knew that. He thought she was djira, so until she declared what the rules of this game were, he would not make the first move. One did not risk angering demons.

  The sense of power was intoxicating.

  “You understand,” he said, “it’s a ceremonial title only. You will have no power in your own name.”

  She dropped the shirt to the floor beside her. Until this moment, she herself had not decided what path their relationship would take. There was advantage to be had in keeping him at arm’s length while subtly stoking the embers of his desire; unrequited lust was powerful stuff if one knew how to channel it properly. But consummating the relationship would forge a powerful bond between them, especially if he believed that it was a demon who was serving his pleasure.

  Besides, lust and fear and the reckless arrogance of a warrior made for a heady brew, and it was not one Siderea often had the opportunity to taste.

  She moved close to him, close enough to feel the damp heat that was radiating from his body. She put a hand to his cheek, tracing the ridges and valleys of ancient battle scars, savoring the texture of coarse bristle along his cheek and chin.

  “I do not need power in my own name,” she murmured. “Do I?” Moving close enough to him for their bodies to touch, her intentions unmistakable.

  He reach
ed out to her, hesitantly at first, and then, when she made no sign of protest, more deliberately. Strong hands, calloused from the sword, drew her into a rough embrace against his sweat-slicked chest. The scent of his body filled her nostrils as he reached down to caress her thighs, gathering up the silk of her gown beneath his hands, baring her legs. How long the heat must have simmered in him, to reach this intensity! And how long it had simmered in her, as well. She had not had a man since leaving Sankara, and her body ached to break its long fast.

  Coarse, strong hands moved up to her breasts, rubbing the damp silk against her skin, agonizingly pleasurable—

  No! came the protest from within.

  His mouth was hot and tasted of dates and ale.

  This one is male, she reassured the ikati. She remembered the disaster that her seduction of Petrana had become. A lifetime in the past. Now that she was more accustomed to this strange symbiosis, she understood why that effort had failed. He is not competition to us.

  He is not worthy!

  Nasaan’s rough caress was awakening a hunger too long denied. It was hard to think clearly, much less navigate the issue of her divided consciousness with that hunger raging through her flesh like wildfire. But she knew how dangerous it was to ignore the Souleater’s protests. She remembered the night she had tried to seduce Petrana, when she had first learned that lesson.

  He is a prince, she thought to the ikati. Powerful. Strong. I need him bound to me. And beneath that thought teased another, unvoiced: I have my needs as well.

  He has not flown for us! The thought was accompanied by a rush of bestial emotion so powerful that it took Siderea’s breath away. Sheer indignation. How could she allow a man to possess her body, when he had not yet proven himself by the only measure that mattered? When he had not yet flown in pursuit of her to the point of exhaustion, been bloodied by the claws of his rivals, been maddened by the taste of their blood upon his tongue? What was his courtship worth if he had not yet offered her the bodies of lesser suitors as a nuptial gift, if she did not have the screams of the wounded to seduce her?

  The warm masculine scent that had filled her nostrils began to take on a sour edge. The taste of Nasaan’s skin turned bitter on her tongue. The caress that had so thrilled her flesh suddenly seemed harsh and repellent—

  NO! This time it was she who screamed the word out, deep within the recesses of their shared mind. Sharing the ikati’s instincts was one thing, but having them drown out her human consciousness was another. She would not surrender that much of herself to their union.

  Somewhere in the distance Nasaan looked up suddenly, as if sensing that something was wrong. Somewhere in the distance her body, so well versed in the art of seduction that barely a thought was required to guide it, encouraged him to overlook it. Drawing his mouth down to meet her own, wrapping her legs around his hips, encouraging him to lose himself inside her. Sensations of what should have been pleasure shuddered through her flesh, but her mind could not connect to them. She was lost in a maelstrom of internal conflict, primitive and compelling, and she struggled to find some way to impose order upon it so that she might regain control of the situation. But the ikati was equally determined. No man should have access to her until he had proved himself, according to the patterns of courtship that ruled her species.

  So Siderea cast herself back into memory, remembering the night of Nasaan’s conquest, grasping at shadows of confluence.

  All about her the battle rages. Warriors with their lances and horses and swords sweep past her, each one fighting for his own life as well as for a cause. The sound of it is deafening: cries of challenge from all directions, weapons crashing against shields, the squealing of horses in pain. The violence surrounds her like an ocean tide, and she holds it at bay with a single thought, allowing the energy of battle to envelope her but not allowing the warriors themselves to come near.

  Not far away is Nasaan. How fierce he is, and how fearless! She watches as his sword thrusts into the side of an enemy warrior, releasing a gush of steaming blood. Never mind that her power has weakened the enemy warriors so that they stand no chance against him. He did not know that would be the case when he first charged headlong into their ranks. It is the offering, the intended sacrifice, that matters.

  He is fighting for us, she thinks to her consort. Not that he thinks of it in those terms, of course. To his mind this is just about winning a city, a piddling desert kingdom that could have fit inside Sankara’s walls with room to spare. But Siderea has made herself into a greater prize. He is fighting for her. All of these men are fighting for her, allies and enemies alike, and blood will flow in rivers as proof of their passion, while she looks on. Feeling their energy flow into her from all sides, heating her blood, stirring instincts the young ikati mind does not know how to respond to—

  Somewhere in the distance the young queen keened in pleasure. The vision that Siderea had summoned clearly resonated within the ikati. Oh, yes, it resonated. Blood was being shed for her. Males were fighting over her. The blood of the weakest would water the earth, while the offspring of the strongest would hatch. It would all begin at her call, and no male would be allowed to touch her who had not felt the madness take root in his flesh, who had not run that terrible gauntlet—

  Nasaan has, Siderea thought to her.

  The statement hung suspended in the air for a moment, as a wave of sensation that should have been pleasure crested in Siderea’s flesh. Her fingers grasped Nasaan’s hair, encouraging his ardor, but her mind was elsewhere.

  And then the response came, at last.

  He is worthy.

  And her wings beat in pleasure against the sunlight as surrenderd herself to the moment.

  Chapter 8

  G

  WYNOFAR ARRIVED just as Karmandi’s ambassador was heading out the door of the audience chamber. The High King had ordered a flagon of ale to wash the stale taste of politics out of his mouth, and he was going over the maps his visitor had left behind when a servant announced his mother’s entrance.

  He could tell immediately from her expression that some weighty issue was on her mind. Or perhaps it was from something other than her expression. He had developed an uncanny ability to read her mood lately, and he suspected that was because of the mystical connection they’d shared the day she sat upon the Throne of Tears, the day she had acted as a metaphysical conduit for all those of lyr heritage. That connection had never completely faded.

  Which would explain a number of strange things.

  “Mother.” He nodded a greeting to her and gestured for a servant to collect the maps and then leave the chamber. He had never become completely comfortable with the royal habit of allowing servants to overhear his personal business.

  “Are you busy?” she asked. Always polite.

  “Never too busy for you.” He brushed a stray lock of hair back from his face. “Not that I wouldn’t have welcomed a distraction five minutes ago.”

  “Karmandi?”

  He nodded.

  “Territorial dispute?”

  He chuckled darkly. “Nothing that burning down a forest or two wouldn’t solve.”

  “Your father would have done that in a heartbeat, were it necessary.”

  “As will I, if it becomes necessary.”

  “Yes.” A strange, guarded smile spread across her face. “I do believe you would.”

  He picked up his flagon as the servant gathered up the last of the maps. “I am not as soft as you feared, then.”

  “You are not as soft as anyone feared, my son.”

  He took a deep drink of the ale, shutting his eyes for a moment as he tried to open himself up to the emanations of power surrounding her. Ever since her return to the palace he had sensed them about her, though they never took concrete enough form for him to give them a name. Sometimes late at night, on the edge of sleep, he thought he could detect them seeping out from her bedchamber, like dreams that had gone astray. Shadows of forgotten memory, hints of half-form
ed visions. Trying to grasp hold of the ephemeral images was like trying to capture the breeze in one’s hand. Was it a significant phenomenon, worth the time and effort that would be required to decipher it? Or was he simply sensing residual impressions from the Throne of Tears, a dying echo of the power she had once channeled to his entire bloodline? He had not yet managed to sort it all out in his mind. And he was not comfortable discussing it with her—or with anyone—until he did.

  “I never did thank you for maintaining my shrine,” she said.

  Her words startled him back to the present moment. My shrine. By that she meant the bloodstained monstrosity in the courtyard. Not that it was bloodstained any longer. The first thing he’d done when she left for Kierdwyn was to have the thing scrubbed down, ten times over, until all evidence of her idolatrous offerings had been erased. It was the least he could do to ease his religious conscience. He’d really wanted to remove the thing entirely, but respect for his mother had overridden Penitent tradition. The mere knowledge that such an idolatrous thing existed within his home was a constant thorn in his side . . . but she was family. And besides, the faith of his forefathers was not entirely delusional, as the Penitents had once believed, but had turned out to be anchored in ancient truths. That deserved some kind of respect, didn’t it? Never mind that he hadn’t yet figured out how much respect was appropriate.

  Did the Protectors in the north still make blood-offerings to the Spears, he wondered? Or had the discovery that their sacred spires were no more than ancient torture chambers dealt a death blow to that tradition? He kept intending to ask her that, but the words always caught in his throat.

  “For the moment it may remain.” His voice betrayed no emotion. “Not because I value it, but because it is yours.”