Wings of Wrath

  The woman rushed to get their supplies out of sight behind the solid portion of the wall, reaching as far as she could without taking a step so that the rustling of the straw underfoot did not betray her. He was impressed by how quietly she managed it. The instincts of a thief, no doubt. As for himself . . . he had gone too far in saddling the horse to be able to strip the tack off in time. All he could do now was remove the bridle and bit from its head and quickly throw a blanket over the rest of the animal, in the hope that whoever was passing by would not look too closely at the creature. He tried to get the horse to shift its position so its rear end was behind the solid portion of the wall and it moved a few steps in that direction—but then he heard the singing coming way too close for comfort, and he gave up the effort and pressed himself against the wall beside his rescuer, their hearts pounding in unison as they waited.

  This would be a good time for delivering that luck, he informed his gods.

  The singing came closer; a beam of light fell upon the adjoining stall, picking out the features of the horse inside it. Beside him Rhys could feel the woman trembling, but whether it was from fear or excitement he could not tell. He could sense the energy that was wound up tight inside her, ready to be released in an instant if required, and her knife was already in her hand, waiting for his signal. She clearly would not hesitate to attack, if that was required, and perhaps even to kill.

  Then the light passed into their stall. It flashed along the head and mane of the horse, then moved toward the forward edge of the blanket Rhys had thrown over it. The animal whinnied softly as it turned away from the light, and then the voice and the lantern moved past them.

  They waited a long while in the darkness, until they heard the man complete his rounds and leave the stable. And still they waited. There was no room for error.

  Finally the woman peered around the corner, and nodded. “All right,” she whispered. “He’s gone now.” But she did not put away her knife, and while Rhys resumed dressing the horse she remained at the gate, as alert as a mountain lion watching for signs of prey.

  Finally both horses were ready to go. He led them from their stalls, handed her the reins of the shorter one, and vaulted up onto his own. “We try to ride out as though we belong here, is that the idea? Trust in the fact that they don’t normally have any reason to inspect outgoing guards too closely?”

  She nodded. “If the gate is open we should have no problem. If it is not, then as I said . . . subterfuge and luck.”

  She place her foot in the stirrup and tried to mount. Her balance was wrong on the first try and she cursed softly as she landed back on the ground. Her second try was more successful . . . but far from graceful.

  He reached over and caught her rein, and waited until she met his gaze. “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

  She flushed angrily. “Of course.”

  “How well?”

  “Well enough,” she snapped. But the split-second of hesitation before she answered told another story.

  He muttered the names of several northern deities under his breath. Do you have any idea what kind of horsemanship is required to ride in these mountains by moonlight? There was no need to ask the question. Clearly she had no idea.

  The god of mischief must be laughing himself to death right about now.

  “The sentry will most likely be on the left side,” she said. “I look more like a native than you do right now, so I will take that side.”

  He said it simply. “No.”

  “You are too tall to pass for a native,” she pointed out.

  “Best to let me draw his notice.”

  “Height will not matter so much in the darkness if all else is right. Whereas a guard who does not ride like a guard will be recognized as a fraud by any light.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes again. She wanted to argue with him; he could taste it. But she didn’t.

  “Here,” she said at last. She reached out to hand him something. “You will need this.”

  It was a messenger’s tube made of beaten copper, the sort that documents might be placed in to protect them from the rigors of travel. He nodded, as the final piece of her plan fell into place.

  As suicidally insane plans went, it was not a bad one.

  Together they moved toward the stable doors. She rode well enough to keep pace with him, to his right and a few feet behind, a position that would make it hard for the sentry to see her as they approached his station. He hoped she would be able to keep up when things got more challenging.

  Rhys urged his horse into a canter as they left the building, and she followed suit. It was a risky speed under the circumstances, that gave them less than a minute before reaching the gate. But the alternative was a trot, and that was the gait most likely to betray an unskilled rider. Besides, they had to move fast enough to convey a sense of urgency, if this was to work.

  He focused his attention on their point of exit, and the uniformed man watching over it. The gate was closed, as he had expected it would be this late at night. Their current pace would take them right into it if it wasn’t opened in time. But that, too, was part of the plan.

  Courage and luck, right?

  The sound of hoofbeats approaching drew the sentry’s attention. When the man’s eyes met his own, Rhys held up the tube for him to see. Knowing that such men relied upon their instincts, he tried to exude a sense of urgency and authority: he and his partner were legitimate messengers, handling some business so urgent that there was no time to wait for the sun to rise before setting out, or even to pause while the gate was opened. Anyone in service to the same master would surely respect their need for haste and facilitate their exit. . . .

  For one brief second time seemed to stand still as the sentry considered. Was it dark enough to mask all those details of their appearance that might warn him that something was wrong? Apparently so, for he turned his attention to the gate, and with a short cry ordered forth servants from the shadows to open it.

  Just in time.

  The woman at his side reached up to adjust her helmet as they passed through, using her right hand to shield her face from the servant on that side of them, but the man was too busy getting out of the way of the thundering horses to be paying attention to fine points of her appearance. And the gods were indeed on their side, or so it seemed. The gate itself cast such a shadow in the moonlight that they were all but invisible as they passed through it.

  No one called for them to stop. No one raised an alarm. The massive doors swung shut slowly behind them, and Rhys could hear its iron bolts falling back into place, securing Anukyat’s Citadel once more.

  They didn’t dare slow down while they were still within view, but followed a well-worn path that probably served the regular patrols, leading southward. The path was much used, which served their need well; it would be nigh impossible come morning for anyone to pick out which hoofprints were theirs, or to know for certain whether a set of prints that broke off from the main path belonged to them or not. If they could put a few miles behind them before Rhys’ absence was discovered and get out of sight of the Citadel’s watchtowers, they might have a chance to get away safely.

  Southward.

  There was a monument to the right of them, similar to the one Rhys had seen at the Citadel, and another some miles to the west. The Three Sisters. Tradition said that the famous trio of landmarks was located too far south to be subject to the Wrath, but the words of his witch companion seemed to imply otherwise. If so, then the Wrath was expanding its area of influence. Weakened at the source, perhaps, less focused in its power, but bleeding out into the surrounding landscape. That was not a good piece of news.

  Something is wrong in Alkali, he thought stubbornly. And I am not leaving here until I find out what it is.

  Suddenly his companion reined in her horse, and he followed suit. They had come to a crossroads of sorts, where several freshly trod horse paths intersected the one they had been following. If they changed direction
now, it was unlikely any pursers would be able to detect it. Later they could leave the second path behind and set out across truly virgin landscape, with no one the wiser.

  This was where he must part company with his companion, then.

  He looked up at her, and to his surprise found her smiling. It was a subtle, secretive expression, replete with hidden meaning. For a moment he did not quite know how to respond. It seemed like he had been traveling by her side for weeks, rather than just a handful of hours. Facing death together made for a strange sense of intimacy.

  “You risked your life to free me, back there,” he said quietly. “And I don’t even know your name.”

  She seemed startled, somehow, almost as if his words had surprised her. But why should they? Surely she could not have entered the Citadel’s gates, much less contrived such complicated plans to get him out safely, without realizing the danger involved? Or had she just forgotten that her promise of proper introductions was still unfulfilled? “Kamala,” she said. No family name, no place name, no honorific. He could not even place the region the name was from. It was as much a mystery as she was.

  “Thank you, Kamala.” He wanted more than anything to question her further—where had she come from, how did she learn of his plight, why had she risked her life to free him?—but somehow the moment didn’t seem right for it. And besides, they were not out of danger yet. “I will repay you for all that you have done for me today. I swear it.”

  She did not answer him, but turned her horse around and started to ride once more. Instead of heading southward, as he had anticipated, she turned off down a side path that headed roughly east. Then stopped, and waited for him.

  Now it was his turn to be startled. “Change of plan?”

  “Not at all.” Her eyes sparkled like emeralds in the moonlight. “We’re heading north, aren’t we? Back up to the Spear, yes? Isn’t that what you wanted?” She indicated the well-scuffed earth beneath her feet. “We can follow this path for a while to confuse pursuit, then leave it later on to strike out in that direction.”

  “I thought . . . I thought you said you had to go south.”

  “So I did—while your jailer was listening. Did you not notice that he had stopped struggling, when I spoke of our plans? He didn’t want me to realize he had regained consciousness. Tomorrow morning, or whenever he is discovered, he will have valuable information to barter with to save him from his master’s wrath. So then the guards will know where to look for us. Good news all around, don’t you think?” The emerald eyes glittered. “That is, assuming we don’t spend the whole night here discussing it.”

  She smiled, then turned her attention back to the east and started riding. After a moment he touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and started after her.

  Courage and luck.

  You risked your life to free me.

  The words were strange, uncomfortable things. Kamala did not know how to absorb them.

  Had she really done that for him? Risked that same eternal life that she had once bartered her soul to possess, that might now be cut short by a single sword stroke in a place where the best sorcery was befouled, and could even turn against its maker?

  She had not even thought of her actions in those terms before. Had not analyzed her own motives, or the risk involved. All she had known was a flood tide of fury that the Guardian she had intended to use for her own purposes had been stolen away from her. Guilt, perhaps, that her own failure had allowed his capture. Frustration, that she had found a means to gather priceless knowledge, only to have it snatched from her grasp. Arrogance, that she refused to acknowledge there was any man she could not outthink, or—failing that—seduce.

  She had been foolish. She had taken chances. The risk had been high.

  Ah, but the prize is surely worth it, she told herself. Knowledge that even the Magisters do not have. Knowledge that can be bartered for greater things.

  Far to the north, the Wrath was waiting.

  Chapter 13

  MIDNIGHT.

  Siderea Aminestas awakened suddenly from a sound sleep. Her heart was pounding as if something had frightened her awake, but the shadowy bedchamber was peaceful and silent and the only other presence she could sense was that of her maid, encamped beyond the threshold of the room.

  So what was the cause? She focused her attention inward, trying to catch some hint or memory of what had disturbed her, but all she could remember were bits and pieces of dreaming, none of them helpful.

  Rising from bed, she wrapped a robe of fine gold silk around her, more out of habit than of need; the night was pleasantly warm with a balmy breeze blowing in from over the port, rich with the smells of summer. But she felt a need to wrap something around herself. To give her hands something to do while she tried to calm herself.

  But her heart would not stop pounding. Did her body know something that her intellect did not? Was there enough innate witchery left in her soul that it had sensed something amiss, something that should make her afraid—or perhaps excited—that her mortal senses could not detect?

  In another day, another lifetime, she would have called for guards to attend her. But that did not suit her current circumstances. She’d twice played host to a visitor who liked to circumvent normal protocol, and in case this had something to do with him, she wanted as few witnesses around as possible.

  Almost a month now. She went to bed each night wondering when he would come back to her. If he would come. If she would still be alive when he came. . . .

  Quietly she walked out into the corridor. A servant stirred sleepily, ready to serve her. “Shh,” she whispered, “there is no need.” The girl sighed and returned to whatever dream she’d been enjoying; judging from the smile on her face it was a pleasant one. At the entrance to the royal wing a pair of guards waited; they snapped to attention as they heard Siderea’s soft footfalls coming their way. “All is well,” she told them. They would not worry about her safety unless she gave some sign that they had to. Royal tradition might demand a retinue of guards to protect her, but who really expected a witch of her obvious power to be in danger in her own demesne? The one time she had been threatened, years ago, she had dispatched the troublemaker before her guards could take their first step. Word of that had spread quickly. No one had threatened her since.

  Of course, no one knew that the power that had once protected her was now gone.

  She would not give them cause to suspect it.

  Down the hall she walked, softly, the ends of her silk gown fluttering behind her like wings. She did not think about where she was headed, but simply walked; her feet seemed to know where they should go. At last she came to the place where a marble archway offered passage to a balcony overlooking the harbor. Of course. It was where Amalik had met with her the first time, when he had given her a ring and a promise. Now she understood.

  Her heart still pounding, she took a moment to compose herself before stepping out onto the balcony.

  He was there. Dressed in a tunic of midnight blue, with high leather boots of the same color. The color made his coarse skin look pale as moonlight.

  “It is time,” he said.

  She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she suddenly exhaled it. “Then . . . what? What is needed?”

  “Tomorrow you will come with me into the mountains.” He gestured toward the northwest, where the steep flanks of the Sentinel Mountains crowded Sankara against the sea. “Alone.”

  “Alone?”

  He bowed. “The secret is for your eyes alone, my Queen.”

  “We go by witchery, I assume?”

  “Not for this matter, I am afraid. You will understand why when we arrive. . . .”

  “So we ride? Like ordinary mortals? Is that your intent?”

  He nodded.

  She looked out toward the mountains. They rose abruptly from the fertile plain, with no gentle foothills as a prelude. They were steep, too steep for farming, and without a clear pass for miles; the t
allest peaks had snow upon them even at the height of summer.

  One could become lost in such a range, and no one would ever know it.

  One could hide secrets there, and no one would ever see them.

  “I cannot ride there alone,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed; there was a flicker of anger in their depths. “Are you setting conditions now?”

  “I am telling you the simple truth. If you do not think that my guards will follow me when I leave here, and watch over me secretly if I try to order them back—or that my people will not take note of me riding alone through the city without servants in attendance—then you do not understand the ways of royalty. We are never alone.”

  “I can shield you from their eyes so that none will see you. Until we reach the mountains.”

  “And will I be coming back here, after this . . . revelation?”

  “If you choose to.”

  “Then I cannot simply disappear. It would raise too many questions.” She silenced his protest with a wave of her hand. “You say you wished your business kept secret. Well, if so, that is not the way to manage it. Remember, all it takes is one Magister to catch the scent of mystery, and all your secrets will be revealed.” The word Magister curdled on her tongue as she spoke it. “Unless you and your allies are proof against sorcery, it is best not to draw their interest in the first place.”

  He scowled. “So what do you suggest?”

  She considered. “A special outing, to collect herbs of power from secret places in the mountains, that I can trust no one else to handle. If my people believe it is witch’s business they will not ask too many questions. I will come up with some reason for your attendance. You may lead that group as close to the mountains as you think appropriate, and we will worry about leaving them behind after that.”

  He clearly was not happy about her suggestion. No doubt it would bring her people closer to his secret destination than he wanted, but that could not be helped. Would he stand up to her, she wondered, give her orders, demand that his original conditions be obeyed? It was clear that he wanted to, and she knew from their previous dealings that he did not feel bound by the usual rules of protocol. There was a black fire inside this man, and she was willing to bet that being given orders by a woman, queen or no, was stoking it to greater and greater heights. What did he hunger for more right now—the masculine catharsis of dominance reasserted, or the more civilized satisfaction of effective cooperation? The answer would tell her much about how to manipulate him in the future.