Wings of Wrath

  And because his gaze was elsewhere for a moment, she was able to alter some of the symbols without his noticing. Every third or fourth sign was changed by a stroke or two, or transposed with another figure. Whoever attempted to read this text, even if he knew what language it came from, would have a serious challenge ahead of him. Then she wove a spell about the scars to guarantee that that no one would be able to detect her tampering, nor summon a vision of the original writing without her consent. Rhys would not notice the change, of that she was certain. Now she had made sure that no one else would be able to detect the obfuscation either, even by sorcerous means. The secrets guarded by the sorcerous script had been veiled once more.

  I am sorry, my Guardian. I need to control this information. The right people will have it in time, I promise you.

  When she was done he rolled down his sleeves again and tied the front of his shirt closed. He seemed to be moving more easily now, and his color definitely looked a shade better than before. But he was a battered, bloodstained figure all the same, and she wondered what kind of reaction they would get when they suddenly appeared . . . well, wherever.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she focused her attention inside herself and began to summon power.

  The map on the table was old, as were the brass weights that pinned it down at the corners, solid nuggets with the Kierdwyn family crest inscribed on them. Smaller markers had been placed along the southern border of the Protectorate, near where the High Kingdom began. Seven in all.

  The Lord Protector Stevan Kierdwyn stood with his hands behind his back, studying each marker in turn, his expression growing more and more solemn as he absorbed each new bit of information. His advisers were accustomed to such thoughtful silence and waited patiently until he chose to speak.

  “These raids,” he said at last. “How sure are we of their true source?”

  The lord constable’s expression was grim. “You’ve seen the artifacts, Sire.” He gestured toward the sideboard, where a variety of items had been laid out for his inspection. A soldier’s short sword, such as troops in the High Kingdom carried. A leather supply pack, whose construction betrayed its martial origins. A bloodied pewter button cast with a double-headed hawk, torn loose from some anchoring uniform. “The Seer confirms they are all of military origin. Which means—”

  Stevan waved him to silence. “I know what it means,” he said sharply.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  They were from the High Kingdom. There was no way around that fact. Seven brutal raids had taken place along Kierdwyn’s southern border that appeared to be the work of mountain bandits—but those bandits had been outfitted with military weapons and supplies. And disguises. Good disguises. The people in the villages they had raided had believed themselves to be at the mercy of common outlaws. The women they had raped—

  Rage flared inside the Lord Protector; it took all his willpower to keep it from consuming him.

  Calm. Calm. Those who protect the civilized world must be calm.

  Why would Salvator sanction something like this? What did he stand to gain?

  Salvator would never order something like this. His faith would not allow it.

  But a prince could set things in motion without ordering them directly. A single comment overheard by the wrong overzealous minister might result in actions he himself would never have approved. Some kings, like Danton, used that to their advantage, manipulating men without ever seeming to do so. Others, less savvy—or perhaps simply less careful—might well find themselves having to pass judgment on men at a later date whose only crime had been the blind passion of their service.

  He did not want to think that the son of Danton Aurelius—his own grandchild!—could be so careless. But the only other viable explanation was that Salvator was losing control over his northern border, and that was not a good thing either. Gwynofar’s marriage had been meant to secure a lasting peace in that region so that both the Protectorate and the High Kingdom might focus their attentions elsewhere. On new conquests in Danton’s case, and ancient duties in Stevan’s. Salvator had sworn that he would honor that treaty. So what was happening now?

  Kierdwyn would have to move troops down to the trouble spot. There was no way around that. Whether the threat was from roving bandits or soldiers in disguise, his people had to be protected. And all of this was coming at the worst possible time, with their ancient enemy returning to the human lands. He could not attend to that threat properly with his soldiers having to spread out, ready for trouble anywhere along the border—

  “Sire!”

  Startled, he looked up just in time to see the air in the center of the room begin to ripple oddly. Sorcery! His lord constable moved forward quickly, putting himself between the Lord Protector and whatever unknown spell was about to manifest. Stevan moved back, giving his officer room to defend him if need be. Who would enter his home like this, unannounced? Magisters generally had better manners, and witches rarely used their power for transportation.

  Then two figures stepped through the rippling portal, and with a rushing sound the illusion vanished behind them. For a moment Stevan did not recognize either of them, then—

  “Rhys?”

  The Guardian was dazed and unsteady, and his shirt was streaked with blood. There was a woman by his side who the Lord Protector did not recognize at all, a fiery redhead dressed in a man’s raiment who met his eyes proudly—nay, defiantly—as he took her measure. Both of them were wearing matching uniforms of some kind, and both looked like they had just fought their way through the seven hells and back.

  Then the alarm came from his Seers, magical words lancing red-hot into his brain. There is sorcery in the palace! Were his Seers watching the castle right now, or had they set up some kind of magical alarm? Either way, he offered his mental reassurance. All is as it should be. Whatever was happening here, it was not cause for alarm . . . yet.

  “Sire.” Whispering the word, Rhys went down on one knee; the gesture seemed as much the product of sheer exhaustion as social courtesy. “Forgive us for the sudden intrusion.” The woman at his side said nothing, and offered no gesture of obeisance. Was she the witch that had brought them here? If so, that was a noteworthy sacrifice.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” the Lord Protector told his son. “You would not have come here without good cause. So speak.”

  Rhys raised up his head; the expression in his bloodshot eyes was an empty and terrible thing. “The Wrath has been breached,” he whispered. “In Alkali. The Guardians are corrupted.”

  A cold chill ran down Stevan’s spine. “Does Favias know?”

  Rhys shook his head. “I . . . we . . . came straight here. You are the first. . . .”

  And then the faint light in the Guardian’s eyes flickered and died. The strength bled out of his limbs as his lids fell shut, and he collapsed into a crumpled heap upon the floor.

  Alarmed, the Lord Protector knelt down beside him, pressing fingers against Rhys’ wrist to see if there was still a pulse. A servant stepped forward to help him.

  “His wounds are healing,” the witch told them. “But he has not slept in a very long time.”

  Rhys’ pulse was strong. Racing, in fact, despite his collapse. Stevan felt an odd ridge on the inside of his son’s wrist, and pushed up the sleeve to see what it was. Then further.

  “What are these?” he demanded. Strange, angular symbols had been crudely etched into Rhys’ flesh. They looked oddly familiar, as though he had seen something like this sometime in the past, but he could not place when or where.

  “It is a long story,” the witch said, “and one I am sure he would rather tell you himself. But give him a place to sleep for now, so that his spirit can restore itself, and I will explain as much as I can.”

  He nodded shortly and signaled for his servants to pick up the fallen warrior. “Put him in the finest guest chamber. Have food brought and a bath drawn for when he awakens, and see that he is attended at all times.” The servants
hurried to obey, one of them hoisting Rhys up onto his shoulder, while the other ran ahead to open the chamber doors ahead of him.

  Stevan turned to face the witch. She awaited his word politely enough, but he could see the spark of defiance in her eyes, and she offered him no greater obeisance than a stiff, measured bow of her head: the absolute minimum that his rank required.

  That was good. Witches should have spirit.

  “Send word to Master Favias,” he ordered his men, all the while never taking his eyes off her.

  Was she from the Protectorates? Did she understand the significance of Rhys’ warning? If so, she gave no sign of it.

  “My name is Kamala,” she said quietly.

  He nodded solemnly. “Kierdwyn is in your debt, Kamala. As is its Lord Protector.”

  Raising a hand to silence her for a moment, he looked to his lord constable. “I want an estimate of the manpower and supplies needed to secure the most vulnerable portions of the southern border. Assume that we may soon have two fronts to deal with.” There could not possibly be a worse time for this sort of trouble, he thought. Not if the Wrath is truly failing. “We will meet again after Rhys gives his report.”

  He held out a hand toward a small door at the back of the map room, gesturing for the witch to join him. “Come,” he said to Kamala. “We will talk.”

  Nightmare creatures with wings of slivered glass fill the sky. Ravenous monsters from out of legend, now manifested. Rhys stands in their shadow, naked and unarmed. Alone. No Guardians are left in all the world but him. No hope will be left in all the world if he cannot stand up to these creatures.

  An arctic wind sends a chill down his spine as the great beasts circle overhead, their black-scaled bodies devouring the sunlight. All around him on the ground lie the bodies of long-dead witches, frozen in the postures of their deaths. Did they struggle when they were first brought here? Did they have to be beaten into submission in order to thrust them into their cramped tombs? Did they comfort themselves with knowing that their suffering would serve a greater cause, or were they merely terrified?

  Wasted lives. Wasted dreams.

  All for nothing.

  Turning his face up to the sky, Rhys howls his despair into the wind. It is a terrible sound, empty and hopeless. Who will save the world after he is gone? Who will serve a cause that sanctions such atrocities?

  The gods, he knows now, will not help mankind. If they even exist—which he is no longer certain of—it is clear they do not care what happens. Perhaps they will even applaud when the last monuments of the Second Age of Kings crumble to dust, and the men who once worshiped them are reduced to the level of beasts. Perhaps that is what they intended all along.

  The power of the creatures circling overhead batters at his soul. He no longer has the conviction needed to stand strong against them. Life drains out of him like blood from an open wound; he falls heavily to his knees as the strength in his legs fail him. The ground beneath him is red with blood—

  But he is not alone.

  The realization comes to him in a sudden jolt. Who else would be here, in this terrible place? Who is so hated by all the living gods that they must share this horror with him?

  He twists about and sees a form some paces distant, wrapped in veils of darkness. Scattered bits of daylight play across the figure as the Souleaters circle overhead, filtering the sun through their wings. The light teases his eye with details: Sleek, pale skin. Green eyes. Hair the color of fire—

  Kamala?

  And then glittering wings unfurl from her shoulders, and a sound like rushing water fills his ears as the last of his living energy fails him—

  Rhys woke suddenly to find himself lying between linen sheets, drenched in a cold sweat. His head throbbed painfully. His stomach was a cold, hard knot. For a moment he could not remember where he was.

  “Welcome back.”

  Kamala sat beside him on the great bed, her hand only just now withdrawing from his. Her touch had brought him back from his dream, he realized. He shuddered as he remembered how she had appeared in it.

  Was it only a dream? Some lyr were said to have the gift of prophecy in their veins. What if this had been a true vision, brought on by the power of his blood? Some kind of warning?

  The glittering wings unfurl from her shoulders—

  He forced himself to sit up, trying to loosen the grip of the dream upon his soul. “How long has it been?” His throat was so dry that he could barely get the words out. That was good. Less likely she would catch the note of uncertainty in his voice that way.

  “Since our arrival?” She got up from the bed and went to pour him a cup of water from the sideboard then returned to hand it to him. She looked ready to help him sit up if need be, but he’d be damned if he would look that helpless in front of her.

  Glittering wings of slivered glass—

  He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to rid himself of the memory. It was only a dream, he told himself. Fragmented memories and random emotions, woven into a narrative that was horrific, but not truly meaningful. At least not in the way that the dreams of a Seer were meaningful.

  “Rhys? Are you all right?”

  He focused his attention on the cup in his hand, and upon the act of drinking. Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. . . . He could sense her watching him, clearly concerned, but he dared not look at her or that would break the spell.

  Slowly, his trembling subsided. Slowly, the images from his dream faded. For now.

  “So what happened?” he asked at last.

  She shrugged stiffly. “Healers have come and gone, attending to every wound three times over. Seers came to gaze at your soul, and declared it troubled. The Lord and Lady Protector have visited several times, asking the same questions of me on each occasion, as though hearing the same answers over and over again might give them some new insight.”

  He had to ask it. “What did you tell them?”

  “That we traveled to the Spear in Alkali. That we discovered it had been broken open. That there was some kind of writing inside, and you recorded it. They copied the figures from your arms, but said they did not recognize them. I also told them that the Guardians in Alkali probably no longer serve their original cause.” She bit her lip.

  “They wanted more details from me, but I said they should wait until you were awake and let you tell it. What do I know of Guardian politics?”

  “Thank you.” He handed the cup back to her; his hand was almost steady now. “I am surprised they let me sleep this long, considering all that.”

  “I told them you had been exhausted to the point where you could no longer remember things clearly, and would not be able to give them the information they wanted until you had gotten some sleep. They didn’t believe me, so they brought in some Seers who confirmed my diagnosis.” She got up from the bed and walked back to the sideboard. “The Lord Protector wasn’t happy about it, but he trusted their opinion and declared that you must be allowed to sleep until you awakened naturally.” For a fleeting moment her expression darkened; her eyes were hard and cold, like diamonds. Your father trusted the Seers, they seemed to say, but not me. “Do you want some more?”

  It took him a minute to realize what she was asking. “No. Thank you.”

  “I should go and tell them you are awake. No doubt they will want to bring in a score of Seers to confirm the fact.” She indicated the sideboard. “There’s some food here for you, and I’m sure they’ll set out a proper feast once they know you are up and about again.”

  He asked quietly, “Have you been at my side all this time?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “They didn’t know what had happened to you, so how could I trust them to watch for trouble? They wouldn’t know what to look for.”

  Trouble. Did she think that he might hurt himself again? That when he woke up he might grab a knife and start lacerating another limb? The others didn’t know what he had seen at the Spear, and thus would
have no reason to fear such behavior. As far as they were concerned he had simply used his flesh to record a valuable message in the absence of less bloody tools. A finite sacrifice for a finite purpose, gruesome but comprehensible. Only she understood that it was more than that. That in the madness of his despair, he might do something foolish.

  And she was right, of course. If he had awakened alone, with nothing to focus on but his memories, he might not have done so well.

  Once more I am indebted to you, he thought soberly.

  They had dressed her in a woman’s gown, though the way her hands kept fluttering down to her sides to pick at the fabric made it clear she was not really comfortable with the choice. It was a simple enough outfit, with a saffron-colored gown that fit her body closely and sleeveless surcoat of burgundy wool over it. The surcoat was laced down both sides, loosely enough that the color of the underlayer peeked through, along with a hint of the womanly curves it guarded. The whole of the outfit was a bit too short for her, with the result that the hem fluttered about her ankles as she moved. At first he was surprised that the Lady Protector could not have found something that fit her better, but no, this had probably been by her own choice. He couldn’t see her manipulating all the fashionable bits of feminine attire that normally dragged behind a lady, requiring that she flow across the floor rather than walk. This outfit was suitably practical.

  Someone had affixed a veil to her head, a thin piece of white gauze that had been probably been meant to fall softly about her face, disguising her short-cropped hair. Only she had pushed it back out of the way so that it dangled precariously from a single hairpin, utterly failing to accomplish its purpose. It was oddly appealing in its disarray, he realized. As was she.