Legacy of Kings: Book Three of the Magister Trilogy
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"C.S. Friedman makes fantastic things-and frightening things-seem very real." -New York Times bestselling author Tad Williams.
The young peasant woman Kamala has proven strong and determined enough to claim the most powerful Magister sorcery for herself-but now the Magisters hunt her for killing one of their own. Her only hope of survival lies in the northern Protectorates, where spells are warped by a curse called the Wrath that even the Magisters fear. Originally intended to protect the lands of men from creatures known only as souleaters, the Wrath appears to be weakening-and the threat of this ancient enemy is once more falling across the land.
Jezalya was to distract Siderea, then he must somehow draw her attention to him. And he must know that he was drawing her attention, so that the next stage of the plan could be set in motion. What better way to do that than to have her seek him out? He watched as a small blue bird appeared, its bright coloration incongruous against the dull sandy hues of the surrounding architecture. It circled the plaza twice and then dipped low over the place where his portal had appeared. He found himself
Flying in icy skies, drunk on the scent of the queen . . . tasting the enemy’s blood in his mouth . . . this, this is my offering, this is my strength, this is my worth . . . I have killed for you, my queen! Kamala’s eyes shot open. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The images being channeled from Colivar had been so powerful that it was hard to focus on anything else. Then she realized why that was happening. She turned to Salvator. “He’s with her.” She could taste the
expressed in human terms, but in the formless animal instincts of its winged source. It was her own mind that translated the thought into more familiar terms, adorning it with the trappings of civilized understanding, until it manifested in her head as a quasi-human voice. The process was still new to her, and was sometimes a bit unnerving, but the moment of direct contact with her other half always brought with it a sense of soul-deep satisfaction. What a miserable, incomplete creature she had
garments that ranged from the finest silk to the coarsest hemp, in styles she did not recognize. Sorcery might net her an identification or two, picking out names and aspects from among the crowd—Sekmenit the Bloodthirsty or Utark, Lord of the Dead—but it could not tell her why they were there. The mysterious images just stood by in silence while she searched, offering neither help nor hindrance, then dissipated like the wind soon after her efforts were concluded. If she could somehow get them
assessed. As he came up to her, he bowed his head slightly, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, reached out for her hand. She allowed him to take it. In the back of her mind the ikati queen grew agitated. Shh, Siderea soothed her. I know what I’m doing. But there was very real danger in inviting any of the riders to touch her, she knew that. If his Souleater believed it to be a more significant invitation, things could turn bad very quickly. She watched as he raised the hand to his lips in a