Read on for an advance preview of book 2 in Celia Friedman’s Magister trilogy

PROLOGUE

The gods were coming.

The boy pressed himself down against the hot ground, clinging to the mountain with blackened hands. Broken bits of lava and clumps of ash came loose beneath his fingertips, searing his skin like hot coals, but he hardly noticed. His attention was fixed upon the view overhead, in particular those few places where the thick clouds parted and the sky itself was visible.

They were coming soon. They must be. They would not refuse the offering.

Beneath his vantage point, in the vast gray bowl of the caldera, a half dozen girls whimpered in pain and terror. They were small things, his age or younger, and bright red blood streamed from cuts on the backs of their legs. The priests had decreed they should be hamstrung before being cast into the caldera, lest they do what the last group of sacrifices had done: flee to the lava pit at its far end to throw themselves in, rather than embrace their destiny. The gods were not pleased when the offerings died too quickly. And when the gods were not pleased the Sleep came, and children died, and crops stood untouched in the fields until they rotted for lack of strong men to harvest them.

The girls were terrified, of course, and the boy winced as one of them screamed, unable to see which one it was, trying not to wonder about it. The Land of the Sun was a small place and he knew the name of everyone in it . . . but once a girl was chosen to be sacrificed she gave up her former name and identity and became only Tawa, a handmaiden of the gods. It was too terrifying to think of them as anything else now, to remember that the girls who had once run with him, jested with him, and played “show me yours and I will show you mine” in the shadow of the great mountain, were set out like lambs for the slaughter, awaiting the gods who would devour them.

Food. The priests never called them that, but that was what they were. Everyone in the Land of the Sun knew it, though no one ever said it aloud. A man could offer up his daughter to be a bride of the gods and feel there was honor in the act, but once he admitted that she was little more than a herd animal being staked out for slaughter, that honor died a cold and miser-able death. The flowers woven into the girls’ hair ceased to be bridal circlets, no longer crowns of communion but simply a macabre garnish; their cries were no longer the songs of welcome a virgin bride might offer to a majestic and powerful bridegroom, but simply squeals of primitive, overbearing terror.

Little wonder none of the villagers ever stayed behind to see if the sacrifice was accepted, the boy thought. The illusion of sanctity might not survive such close inspection.

Suddenly the clouds overhead seemed to stir. The boy drew his breath in quickly, which made the sulfurous smoke burn his nostrils and set him coughing. He shut his eyes tightly as his chest spasmed, tears streaming down his soot-blackened cheeks as he struggled to keep silent, lest the gods who were surely approaching turn their attention to him before he was ready. And perhaps mistake him for a sacrifice.

Then the fit passed, and the last cough was swallowed, and he opened his eyes again.

And they were there.

They clean were—so clean!—cool, clear colors against a blazing sky, ice against fire. Their wings were like the finely veined wings of insects, but broad beyond measure, and so strong that every stroke raised whirlwinds of dust and ash from the ground beneath. Their bodies glistened like the ocean at moon-rise, with sparks of blue and purple and colors that the boy did not even know the names of playing across their skin. Their wings were sheets of blue sea ice that cooled the smoky wind with every stroke, and they slid through the filthy sulfurous air like seals through water, poisonous clouds frothing in their wake.

The priests taught that any man who looked upon the gods directly would perish. The boy stared at them despite that warning, naked in his hunger to witness the magnitude of their power, to understand it, to possess it.

One by one the vast creatures dropped out of the clouds, banking low beneath the hot smoke as they glided over the caldera. The girls had stopped screaming now. They still trembled in fear, and one moaned softly in pain as the broad wings beat the smoky air into whirls and eddies all about her, but otherwise they were eerily still, transfixed by the sight of their winged bridegrooms. Even from where the boy crouched he could feel the sheer power of the gods’ presence, and it made his blood run cold with fear . . . yet at the same time it stirred his flesh—strangely, uncomfortably—as if he were watching those same girls bathe naked in a hot spring. Unable to move, he watched in silence as the creatures swooped low over the girls, one after the other. The young brides appeared to have forgotten their pain now, and lay back to the last one upon the hot earth, arms reaching out to welcome the creatures as one might welcome a lover. It was a grotesque scene to be sure, but also fascinating, and he could not look away from it.

None of the gods had noticed him yet, or if they had, they did not deem him worthy of their attention. Had any of the boy’s people ever seen the gods like this, ever been this close to them without being offered as sacrifice? For the first time since leaving home, he began to think he might really live long enough see his plan through to the end.

And if it worked . . . if it worked . . .

He didn’t even dare think about that.

One of the girls was dead now, it seemed, but he could not tell what had killed her. A great god with wings of cobalt and amethyst had swooped down low, as if it intended to strike her, but then pulled up suddenly to join its fellows in the sky, letting out a cry as it did so that filled the caldera. There had been no physical contact; he was sure of it. Yet the girl was strangely still now, motionless in the way that only dead things are motion-less, as if all the living strength had been sucked from her limbs. So silent had her death been that the other girls did not even realize she was gone. Or perhaps, in their efforts to offer them-selves up to their bridegrooms, they simply did not care.

And then the boy saw what he had been waiting for.

It sat astride the back of one of the gods, a rider more insect-like than human at first glance. Its limbs were sheathed in a blue-black substance not unlike the skin of the great beast itself, making it hard to distinguish where one creature began and the other ended. Lesser wings from the god’s upper body were wrapped backward around its rider, creating the illusion of a glistening chrysalis. Even as he watched, the surface of that cocoon slowly parted, its occupant revealed like a locust in season.

The boy’s heart skipped a beat. For a single moment the world seemed frozen in time.

So the legends are true.

The creature seated on the back of the god was a man. Not one of the boy’s own people, no, but similar enough that he could not mistake it for anything but a human being. The rider’s skin was pale, unlike his own, a strange and unwholesome hue that reminded him of clotted milk. His hair was long and matted with dirt and oil, and his close-fitting armor appeared to be slick with oil as well, so that every beam of light that fell upon him caused dark rainbows to dance across its surface. It was a chilling image to be sure, but it was also undeniably a human one. And that was what mattered most.

Girding his courage, the boy drew in a deep breath. Now, he thought. Now is the time.

He stood.

His legs were shaking, more than they should have been even from his strenuous climb. For a moment he thought he would not manage to stand at all and the landscape swirled dizzily about him; then, by sheer force of will, he made the world stand still and forced his shaking legs to bear his weight. What other choice was there? The gods were watching now, and if he showed any sign of weakness in front of them he might as well just cast himself into the caldera along with the other sacrifices and let them devour him.

When he thought that he had his legs securely under him he drew in as deep a breath as his constricted lungs could manage, shut his eyes for a moment to focus his spirit, and then let out a cry no living creature could miss. Wordless, it echoed across the caldera, and into the fuming clouds beyond it.

The gods did not stop their circling, but he knew that they had heard him.

Opening his eyes once more, he looked for the one that had a man astride its back. That one alone had not come low to feed, but was circling high above the others. Had it seen him? If he cried out to it, would it hear his words? The volcano beneath him rumbled and the fragments of pumice beneath his feet seemed to shift slightly in response. Did the gods speak in sounds, like animals and men, or did they use volcanoes as their mouthpieces? So little was known about them!

Then the rider’s eyes fixed on him—undeniably human, maddeningly scornful—and he knew that he must seize this moment or lose it forever.

“Take me with you!” he demanded. “I would serve the gods!” For a moment it did not seem that either the human or his mount had heard him. So he yelled the words again, even louder. The  mountain  rumbled  again  beneath  his  feet. A  whiff  of hot sulfurous smoke stung his nostrils.

“I’m strong!” he cried out. “I have survived the cold of the ice and the heat of the testing stones! I’ve have hunted the sea lion and faced down the snow bear! I am brave enough to face the anger of the earth—”

To come here, he wanted to say. Brave enough to climb the Mountain of Sacrifice and stand here before you with no weapons, no armor, nothing at all to protect me from the gods’ wrath save my own stubborn belief that I can be of value to them.

The man’s eyes were cold, unblinking. Like a lizard’s. Then he turned away.

The boy howled in rage. It was an animal sound that welled up from the primitive part of his soul without human urging or sanction. One of the girls looked up to see what the source of the noise was, then quickly turned her attention back to the winged bridegrooms. Did she recognize him as a boy she had run with, played with, shared secrets with? Or did she see only a soot-blackened animal howling hoarsely at the sky, as a seal might howl while some predatory beast crushed the life out of it?

Then the talons of one of the gods closed around her and she was jerked off the ground, her neck snapping backward with an audible crack. Apparently the gods did want fresh meat after all.

Not one of them acknowledged the boy’s presence. Not one.

“Take me with you!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with frustration. “I belong with you!”

The gods were rising now, heading back toward the clouds. Several held small girls clasped in their talons, dangling like broken dolls. The sacrifice had been accepted.

The single rider glanced back at the boy, then turned away. His mount circled higher and higher as the glassy wings folded back around him once more.

“TAKE ME WITH YOU!!!”

Then the breath was knocked from the boy’s body as some-thing hit him hard from behind. He would have plummeted down into the caldera had not sharp claws grabbed hold of him; with a suddenness that left him reeling, he was jerked off his feet and into the air. Fragmented images from the world below swam in his field of vision, disconnected, unreal. Whirlpools of poisonous smoke. Blue-black wings that beat the air above his head, driving the ground down and away, stroke by stroke. In the distance, beyond the Land of the Sun, he could now see a vast field of white stretching from horizon to horizon. It had no end. It knew no mercy.

I will serve you, he promised the gods. Better than any other. You will see.

The gods did not answer.

THE BEGINNING

Chapter One

 IT HAD been cool that afternoon in the pine-clad mountains, and no sorcery was needed to forecast that the coming night would be a chilly one. In the open plains to the west the summer  heat  was  relentless  and  clouds  of  dust  could  be  seen rising up from acres of dying crops, staining the sunset russet. But  the  mountains  were  another  world  entirely.  In  the  cool, pine-scented shade it was a rare nightfall that did not bring a cooling  breeze  in  its  wake, even  in  the  worst  of  the  summer season, and this evening was no exception.

Both moons could be seen overhead now, a slender crescent to the west and a nearly perfect orb just above the eastern horizon; their light filtered down through the thickly layered branches, mottling the ground with shadows. Peaceful. Timeless. Ethanus paused for a few minutes to watch the shadows creep slowly eastward, then turned back to his work, the collecting of canthus leaves. With night falling it was getting harder to see, and for a moment he was tempted to conjure light to aid him in his work. Then the moment passed. Such things were no longer reflexive for him, as they had once been. Lighting a lamp took far less effort and no one need die for it.

The plant’s sharp, minty scent filled the clearing as he worked. It was strange how much pleasure a simple smell could provide, he thought. Once his life had been full of all the riches and power that morati men could dream of . . . yet nothing then had been quite so satisfying as this simple smell and the sweet peace of a mountain evening.

Finally he had gathered all he could and he rose up, stretched, and then followed the faint glow of lamplight back to his house.

The girl who lay upon a makeshift bed in the far corner of the small house was asleep, as she had been for many days now. He had set her broken bones with care, in the morati manner, not because sorcery couldn’t have cured her wounds faster, but because he did not believe in waste. Besides, he’d thought it would be a good lesson for his young student to heal slowly and painfully, like the morati did. Maybe it would teach her something about caution.

Would that it was ever so easy with her, he thought wryly. As he walked by to add a few leaves of fresh canthus to the teakettle over the fire, he suddenly noted that she had shifted position. Then he saw that one of her the bandages he’d wrapped about her arm had been severed down the middle as neatly as if it had been scored by a knife, to free the limb beneath; the flesh that had once been bruised and broken now looked whole again. So she had been awake while he was gone, for a few minutes at least, and coherent enough to be wielding sorcery. That meant that all her broken bones had probably been repaired, and all other signs of her near-fatal confrontation would like-wise have been banished from her flesh. Patience had never been her forte.

He dropped a few canthus leaves into the pot, set it aside, and watched the pattern of steam rise from the hot water as he waited for the herb to steep. Giving her a chance to say something first, if she wanted to. Finally, when the color of the water was a deep golden brown and the smell of it had filled the small cabin like perfume, he poured two cups full, blew on them softly, and walked over to where Kamala lay.

Her eyes were half open but not quite focused; alert, but not yet oriented.

“Here,” he said. He gave her a moment to fix her sight on the cup of canthus tea and struggle to a sitting position. As she took the cup from him—her hands trembling slightly as she used them for the first time in days—he reached out and took up a piece of paper that had been lying on the nearby table. “And here,” he said, giving it to her, as he pulled up a chair to sit next to her.

She tried to sip from her cup, but her expression made it clear the tea was too hot for her taste. He could see a faint glimmer of power dance upon the surface of the liquid as she bound a bit of soulfire to cool it. How casually she drained a man of life, he thought, to save herself the trouble of a single cooling breath! Yet he knew deep inside that it was anything but casual. The action was deeply significant to her, for it was made possible by her triumph over the limitations of her sex. Killing a morati to cool a cup of tea was a luxury reserved for a precious few.

Thank the gods for that, he thought.

He could see the color come slowly back into her cheeks as the tea warmed her blood; the minty herb would help her clear her head as well. There was a dusting of pale freckles across her brow, he noticed, souvenir of a sunnier clime than his own. For a brief, disconcerting moment he was jealous.

Of what?

She put the cup aside then, her hand still shaking slightly, and turned her attention to the paper in her hand. For a minute she stared at it blankly, as if she had forgotten how to read.

Then her brow furrowed as the writing on the paper came into focus. “What is this?”

“A list of all the unpleasant things I might have done to you while you were asleep. Assuming I did not immediately turn you over to the other Magisters for past crimes. Call it a reminder to you of what the consequences might be the next time you show up half dead on a Magister’s doorstep with a death warrant on your head.” He sipped briefly from his own cup as he watched her look over the list. To his surprise, she did not answer him with defiance or excuses but just asked quietly, “Are there that many hunting me? Truly?”

“There have been at least a dozen sorcerous queries focused on you since you came here, and some even found their way to this forest. That is not to say that my defenses weren’t up to the task, but I would like to know who and what I am defending you against. And why I should do so.”

She lowered the cup and shut her eyes. A tremor seemed to pass through her flesh. “They hunt me for killing that Magister? Or something else?”

“Do they know you were the one responsible for that?” “One Magister knows. I think. He might have told others.” With a sigh he sat back heavily in his chair; the aged wood creaked beneath his weight. “Which one?” “Does it matter?”

“It might.” “Colivar.”

He muttered something under his breath. It might have been a profanity.

“Bad?”

He got up from his chair and walked to the fireplace, pretending that the tea needed stirring. He didn’t want her to see his face. “Colivar holds his secrets close,” he said at last. “It’s not likely he’ll tell the others the truth about you unless he stands to gain from it. And he won’t hunt you down too quickly, if he thinks that doing it slowly will afford him more entertainment.” He looked at her sharply. “But he holds to the Law, the same as all the others. Never forget that. And if he means to keep you alive for a while, it is not for any benign purpose.”

She nodded solemnly.

He turned back to her. His expression was stern. “You know you’ve compromised me by coming here. Didn’t you once promise me you would never do that? There are Magisters who would call for my execution as well as yours if they knew that I had given you shelter.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I had nowhere else to go.”

If she’d argued with him he might have known what to say. But not like this. He was used to a fiery, defiant apprentice, not one with all the spirit leached out of her.

But then again, she wasn’t his apprentice anymore. He needed to remember that, even if she kept forgetting it. Once a new Magister was sent out into the world he was his own man— or woman—and no one else of that brotherhood was expected to aid him, shelter him, or even tolerate his company unless he had something to gain from it. And even then there was no guarantee that a so-called ally might not take advantage of a moment’s weakness to gain a more permanent advantage. Yes, according to the code they all lived by, she had done the most foolish thing imaginable, arriving on his doorstep the way she had. After breaking the one Law they all were sworn to enforce.

But you are without precedent to start with, my fiery little strumpet. So who is to say there will not be a host of other surprises? I knew that might be the case when I first took you in. So it’s my own fault if that gets me in trouble now, yes?

With a sigh he sat down again beside her. Her wild red hair was longer than it had been when she’d left him, he noted. It was almost a feminine length now, falling in bright red wisps almost to her shoulders. No doubt she would cut it again as soon as she realized that.

Ironically, her repeated efforts to deny that she had any concern with her appearance only added to her allure. With her hair grown long, neatly brushed, and plaited in a feminine style, she might have been an attractive woman, but only that. In this state she was something more. Something primal and elemental, he thought. A force of nature.

“It may be that not all of those queries knew what they were focusing on,” he said gruffly. He was trying to make his voice as unsympathetic as possible, but old habits were hard to break. “Anyone attempting to investigate your actions, even if he didn’t know exactly who was responsible for them, might send a bit of power questing in this direction to seek answers. And I might rightfully respond to such a thing as an invasion of my territory and drive it off. No one will question any of that.” He sighed and sipped his tea again. “So I gather you have done something else that others would want to know about? Besides the death of that Magister?”

Her lips tight, she nodded.

“Another breach of the Law?”

“No, Master Ethanus.” The words were a whisper.

“What, then? And please remember, I am no longer your Master.”

In answer she held out her hand to him, palm up. Sparks of light gathered above it and slowly coalesced into an image of a strange creature with a body like that of a long, dark snake and wings like those of a dragonfly.

Recognition was like a blow to the chest. For a moment Ethanus could not find his voice.

She said, “Prince Andovan called it a Souleater.”

He had never seen one before, but he had heard enough of the old tales to recognize it for what it was. And the memory of how those tales ended made his blood freeze in his veins.

“What do you have to do with this . . . thing?”

“I fought it,” she told him. “I did as you taught me, and struck for the joints, where its armor was weakest. And it worked.” A bit of the old defiance was coming back into her voice. “Wasn’t that news worth bringing here? Isn’t such a report worth the risk of your harboring a fugitive, at least until she is strong enough to deliver it?”

“You killed this creature?”

“No. I might have, but . . .” She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to think back to what had happened. It all seemed a blur now, especially the last few terrifying moments. “Andovan must have died while I was fighting it. That is the only thing that could explain it.”

“Andovan?” “My consort.”

He exhaled in an exasperated hiss. “You learned your consort’s name?”

To his amazement, her face reddened. “A bit more than that, actually.”

“How much more?” he demanded. Fascinated and repelled by the concept. Could you kill a man whose name you knew? Drain him of his vital energy while gazing into his eyes? What would it do to a Magister’s soul, to experience such a thing?

“Enough to know that you were right,” she said, with rare humility. “We should never learn the names of those we steal life from, lest it weaken our resolve. A weaker spirit than mine might have failed such a test.” She met his eyes with a diamond-hard gaze; the flicker of pain in them was so fleeting he almost missed it. “But I’m still alive, yes? So I was strong enough to pass the test. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

Or selfish enough, he thought. Bloodthirsty enough. Callous enough. For our kind, there is no other measure that matters.

“You will not be alive for long if you do not keep away from Magisters. And that includes me.” His tone was harsh. “You did a foolish thing, counting on my sympathy when you came here. I would expect better understanding from you.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “And I would expect better from you. Do you really think that a Magister whom you trained would gamble so heavily on human sentiment? Maybe instead she decided to take a chance that your curiosity would be sparked by her confrontation with a creature out of legend . . . enough that you would shelter her until she could share what she had seen. Is that not in keeping with what you taught me? That information is the coin of the realm among Magisters? That a sorcerer will take great risks for the sake of novelty when nothing else will move him? Or did I mistake that lesson also, my Master?”

For a moment he said nothing. It took all his self-control to keep his expression impassive, so that she could not guess what he was thinking. Then he walked to his writing desk, picked up a sheaf of blank papers, a pen and inkwell, and brought them back to her. “Write down all you have seen.” He dropped the papers onto her lap and put the writing instruments on the table beside her. “And append a sorcerous image of the Souleater as well, that I might study it in greater detail later.” He did not meet her eyes this time; perhaps he was afraid of what his own might reveal. “In the morning, when that is finished, I will take you to the Magisters for justice. As is my duty.” He paused. “Do not attempt to leave this house before then, Kamala.”

“I will not, Magister Ethanus.” Her tone was one of unquestioning obedience. Of course. No other tone would be acceptable where the Law was concerned.

He ached to look at her again, to fix her in his memory one last time. But because it was an ache that came from his heart, he denied it.

“Should they choose to set you free,” he said “—unlikely though I think that is—beware of the northlands. Most especially of the sorcerous barrier that holds the Souleaters at bay, which locals call the ‘Wrath of the Gods.’ I have heard it can play havoc with sorcery, and few Magisters ever go to that region unless their business requires it.”

“I understand,” she said quietly, nodding.

“A Magister who learned the secrets of the northlands would possess something of value to our brotherhood. Something he might later trade for assistance in . . . sensitive matters.”

“I will remember that,” she promised.

I really should betray your trust someday, he thought. Just to remind you that such a thing is possible. Does it make me a bad teacher if I choose not to do so?

How he ached to have her stay here longer! To drink in her maverick beauty for a bit more time, to bask in her youthful, defiant energy in a way that he had not been able to do while she’d been asleep . . . but it was too dangerous now. If the ones that were hunting her ever got close enough to eavesdrop on her memories, they must not see such weakness in him. He was pushing the limits of the Law as it was; he dared not risk the other Magisters suspecting the depth of his attachment to her.

Not to mention he might then have to admit it to himself. “I will see you are given fair trial,” he said sternly. “That is the most I can do.”

And this is the closest I can come to saying good-bye.

“I understand,” she whispered. Not saying good-bye either. That was a good thing, he thought. Words could not always be trusted.

Silently he turned back to the door, taking a lantern from its hook as he did so. Behind him there was no rustle of parchment, no sound of an inkwell being opened, no soft scratching of quill on paper. If he had been given such a task he would have spent the whole night working on it, writing until his fingers ached, using the exercise as a chance to review what had happened to him, and perhaps derive some valuable lesson from it. She, on the other hand, would accomplish the assignment with a moment’s sorcery—a whisper of stolen life—and then move on to more important things.

Nothing is more important than knowledge, he thought. Self-knowledge in particular.

With a heavy sigh he headed out into the night, so that later, if asked, he might honestly say that he had not seen her leave.

*  *  *  * *