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over slowly in her hand, she drew in a deep breath, then worked loose the leather thong that
held it shut. Teasing out the tightly rolled piece of paper that was inside it, she held it in her
hand for a few moments before finally unrolling and reading it.
Sorcery detected where none should be. Inform our allies and send help immediately.
Slowly, silently, she rolled the paper up tightly once more and slid it back into its tube. Then
she cast it at the funeral pyre. Up it sailed, high over the blazing wood, until it landed in the
center of the conflagration, on what was left of the funeral platform.
Not until the fire had burned down to embers, and all the offerings to ash, did she leave finally
leave the site.
In the shadows at the far end of the field, the Lord Protector and his family watched the fire
burn. Colivar stood beside them, enjoying the vague discomfort his presence was causing
Ramirus. Unless he missed his guess, the white-haired Magister had struck some kind of deal
with the Aurelius household, or at least with Gwynofar. If so, then the two of them were
serving rival monarchs once more. Just like old times.
Not that it was likely to stay that way for long. Colivar had been so busy tracking down hints
of the Souleaters' presence in recent days that he'd hardly had time for his royal duties. King
Farah had been understanding about it—the Souleaters were a global threat, after all—but in
the end, an absent Magister Royal wasn't all that much better than not having one at all. Soon
Colivar would have to give up his position if he meant to go on with his investigation.
Why were the creatures so important to him? Was it because their return threatened the world
he lived in, the civilization he had come to take for granted, or was the reasons more intimate,
more personal? Certainly the mere thought of them flying free in the skies again awakened
memories that he was not entirely ready to handle and hinted at personal weaknesses that until
now he had not realized he'd possessed. Better to search those things out now, he thought,
than be surprised by them later.
Looking out over the crowd, he saw that Salvator was approaching. Now that was interesting.
Apparently he'd had a witch transport him here, preferring—as always—to sap the living
strength of morati rather than trust to the seemingly endless power of the Magisters. Not that
there was much difference between the two in the end, of course. Someone,
somewhere, had to provide the life-essence for such a spell. It was only a question of whose
athra it was, and whether the donor was willing.
The new High King came to where the Lord Protector was standing, nodding his head
respectfully to Kierdwyn and Gwynofar. Not to the Magisters, though. They might as well be
stone monuments for all Salva-tor seemed to care. It seemed a foolish move, but at least one
had to admire the man's consistency. Colivar could see the displeasure in Ramirus' eyes, and
Lazaroth's expression was as warm as a glacier.
Colivar chuckled to himself. Careful, Magisters. Your pride is showing.
"Your son was greatly loved," Salvator said to his grandfather. "This funeral does him honor."
In the distance Guardians were stepping forward now to stir the embers of the funeral pyre,
making sure that every bit of flammable material was properly burned. By the time the sun
rose, there would be nothing left but bones and ash.
"My people honor Rhys' mission as well as his person," Kierdwyn responded solemnly. "It is
the way of the lyr."
Salvator nodded respectfully. "Such a mission is worthy of honor."
The Lord Protector raised an eyebrow. "That is a different sentiment than one normally hears
from you."
"We have all learned much of our natures these past few weeks. Some of those lessons were ..
. surprising."
"Indeed." A shadow passed over the Lord Protector's face. "I would think a Penitent would be
pleased by all this. Legends of the ancient gods proven to be no more than a seductive fantasy,
the mysterious 'gift of the lyr no more than a natural resistance to the Souleaters' power.
Granted it was useful, but hardly supernatural."
Salvator spoke quietly. "On the contrary, the hand of the Creator is now evident in this matter.
Was it not he that created mankind to begin with, along with all the talents and proclivities
that make us human? If so, then it is he who seeded that immunity among us in the first place,
anticipating our need. By proving the lyr gift to be a natural power, part and parcel of
mankind's creation, you have in fact confirmed it as a divine endowment." He paused. "But
what of your people? How are they dealing with this?"
Kierdwyn shrugged stiffly. "Most received only fragments of Gwyno-far's visions and arc
relying upon the priests to sort things out. I am not
sure where it will lead. Certainly our duty is not altered, and with the Souleaters returning I
suspect there will be little time to worry about anything else. For myself..." He bit his lip for a
moment. "I wonder, if we had known the truth from the beginning, if we would have been
quite so meticulous in preserving the lyr bloodlines. It is the legends that kept us committed to
that cause through all the centuries. Repairing the Spears, preserving ancient lore,
concentrating the gift that is in the blood of the seven great families ... a man will do things in
service to his gods that he would not do for himself. So perhaps the legends we believed in for
so long were part of the gods' plan all along, to keep us properly focused. Perhaps."
Colivar could not resist the opening. "And the Magisters? What is our part in all of this
supposed to be?"
Salvator's expression was chill. "In light of what has just been revealed, I find it noteworthy
that there has never been a Magister of lyr blood. Perhaps when we understand why that is so,
we may be able to answer your question as it deserves."
Hardly a mystery, Colivar thought dryly. The lyr exist for a purpose. A Magisters only
purpose is to ensure his own survival. The two philosophies are incompatible.
"So you accept your heritage now?" the Lord Protector asked his grandson.
"I do. In fact..." He looked over at the three Magisters, perhaps considering whether he really
wanted to hold this discussion in front of them. Finally, with a grim nod of acceptance, he
turned back to Kierdwyn. "I had a dream, while our armies were gathering. It seemed rather
straightforward at the time. Now, in light of the visions that Gwynofar provided, I must
wonder."
"The one with the Witch-Queen?"
Salvator nodded tightly.
"You said that she tried to convince you to withdraw your troops from the north."
"Indeed. The political implications seemed clear at the time, so I did not question it further.
But she tried to use witchery to drive her message home. And could not. I would like to take
credit for her failure and claim that my soul is so well guarded against spiritual assaults that
she
could make no headway. But in light of what the Throne has revealed, I must now question
that assumption. Especially as . .." He hesitated. "In the dream's final moments, I saw her
change. Her eyes became black, and faceted. For a moment I thought I saw wings.
Nightmares often have such imagery. But now I wonder if these were perhaps more
significant."
Colivar could feel the color drain from his face; words came out before he could stop them.
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