Wings of Wrath

  “Aye, but the body forgets. Age is a thief that robs a man of his vital energies in secret. One morning he wakes up and realizes he is not the same creature he was ten, twenty, thirty years ago. If he is fortunate, that does not occur in a place where his life depends upon the strength of youth. I do not want you discovering too late that while Gwynofar the girl might have handled this task with ease, Gwynofar the woman should have considered another approach.”

  “You were at the same meeting I was, Ramirus. There is no other way. And no better qualified candidate than I.”

  “That we have yet found. There may be others.”

  “Time matters. You said so yourself.”

  He shook his head. “You know I cannot go with you. Not to this place. Sorcery will not function that close to the Wrath. Nor can I protect you from a distance, once you are within range of its power. There is no telling what my sorcery might become by the time it reached you. We cannot take that chance.”

  She said it quietly. “I understand.”

  With a heavy sigh he reached out and took her hand in his own; it was such an uncharacteristic gesture that she turned back to face him, surprised. “I can make you stronger,” he told her. “Strength is a function of form, and your form can be altered. I can enhance your perceptive senses in the same manner, and even add to your endurance, because those are also qualities of the flesh. But you must understand, every change that I make to your body will entail some new risk. Your limbs may not respond as you are used to. The world may look different, sound different. Distracting. Under normal circumstances it would not matter so much. You would get used to it in time. But clinging to a cliff face hundreds of feet above the ground, with enemies on all sides of you . . . it is a risk.”

  “But less so than physical weakness, I think.” She nodded soberly. “You are quite correct in your assessment, painful though it is to hear. It has been a very long time since I have tested my physical capacity in anything other than childbirth.” Suddenly it seemed that something fluttered inside her. She put a hand to her stomach, surprised. Was it possible that her child was stirring? Surely it was too early for such things. “My son—”

  “He will not be harmed,” the Magister promised. But something in his tone hinted at unvoiced reservations. Clearly her pregnancy concerned him more than he was going to admit. Was he simply concerned about how much it might tax her body and perhaps distract her at a crucial time? Or was he wondering about the prophecy he had once uttered, when divining the child’s future?

  He will not be a hero himself, though he will help bring a hero into existence. His strength will never be measured, but he will test the strength of others. He will attend upon death without seeing it, change the fate of the world without knowing it, and inspire sacrifice without understanding it.

  It was all too much for Gwynofar to process right now; she would go crazy if she tried.

  Squeezing the Magister’s hand in what she hoped was a confident manner, she forced a smile to her face. “Then give me a man’s strength if you can, Ramirus. And a man’s endurance to match. Those are the things that will matter most, I think. The rest . . . the rest is not worth the added risk.”

  He did as she asked. Wielding sorcery that turned key muscles to fire, remolding them as a master sculptor might remold clay. Pouring liquid sorcery into her heart until her body took it up, beat after beat, driving it into her veins, her flesh until she shook from the force of it and tears came to her eyes.

  But it would not hurt her child. He promised her that, before they began.

  All the rest could be endured.

  “You don’t have to go,” Rhys said quietly.

  He stood with his back to the bedroom window, moonlight casting a halo about his shoulders. With his pale hair glimmering like liquid fire, he looked like one of the angels Kamala’s mother had told her about, who lived in a place where everything was perfect and beautiful. Children who obeyed their parents might go there someday, her mother had said, to play among the clouds and eat candies made of sunshine.

  Empty fantasies. She hadn’t believed in them even back then.

  She forced a smile to her face. “You really think I’m going to let you go to the Citadel without me? Look what happened the last time.”

  The angel stepped forward suddenly and took her face in his hands; she could feel the tremor in them. “Last time you didn’t know what the place would do to you. You told me that. This time you know. All your witchery will be gone.”

  Her gaze hardened slightly. “And without it I will be helpless? Was I such a helpless woman when I rescued you?”

  Now it was his expression that grew stern. “That isn’t what I meant.”

  He was trying to protect her. How strange it felt. How . . . intimate.

  “I will only watch,” she promised him. “From a height, to scan the countryside for danger, but out of range of any battle. Is that acceptable? You will need such surveillance. I can warn you if any danger approaches.”

  “And if a Souleater comes?”

  She could not help the shiver that ran through her body at the thought. And she knew from the narrowing of his eyes that he was aware of it.

  “Then may the gods help us all,” she whispered. Wasn’t that what they said in this place, whenever the demons were mentioned? Leave fate to the gods so men do not have to feel responsible for it.

  He kissed her suddenly. Tentatively at first, and then, when he sensed that his advance was not unwelcome, more hungrily. Fiercely. Was there any kind of love in that kiss, or only desperation? The fire of life was burning inside him, demanding an outlet, she understood that. She felt it herself.

  The door to the chamber was open. She didn’t care. Let them watch. Let them all watch.

  He lifted her up and carried to her over to the curtained bed and world outside simply ceased to matter.

  The portal spell shimmered in the air before them, rippling slowly, like waves of heat over a sun-baked desert. Kamala could feel its power prickling her skin from several yards away; even by Magister standards it was an impressive piece of work. Ramirus had bound enough soulfire into the spell that it would be able to transport all of them halfway across Alkali without his needing to summon more athra. That was the safest option when other Magisters were watching, because it did not require that he cast a new spell for every individual he was transporting, but it was a costly one. She had no doubt that last night some distant consort had parted with the last meager fragments of his life as Ramirus cast that one aside in favor of fresh blood. Even a brand new consort would have to give up many years of life to power this kind of spell; it would not be unreasonable for Ramirus to cast that one aside as well, as soon as this enterprise was over. Paranoia was a powerful master.

  The Lord Protector stood to one side of the portal, watching the preparations with grim approval. His wife was not with him. She had not been seen by the company since the prophecy had been translated. She is unwell, her husband said. His tone was sympathetic, but his eyes were cold. She has asked me to beg your forgiveness for her absence and to offer you her prayers.

  One by one he went to them now, clasping a hand to each man’s shoulder, gazing into each man’s eyes. One by one the soldiers and Guardians saluted him, each as his rank required. They were dressed in the uniforms of Anukyat’s men, with more concealing clothes in their saddlebags. Lazaroth had cast a spell to allow them to move unnoticed through enemy territory, but there was no telling until they got there whether or not it would work. All manners of subterfuge had been prepared, just in case.

  Finally the Lord Protector came to where Kamala stood, dressed once more in her Alkali uniform. Kierdwyn’s sempstresses had fitted it to her lean form, and provided suitable undergarments to hide her sex, so this time the disguise was not quite so haphazard. The Lord Protector nodded as he studied her, then bowed his head ever so slightly in formal appreciation. “House Kierdwyn is grateful for the service you have rendered us thus far, and th
e risks you accept this day in order to serve us still. Know that for as long as you walk this earth you will be welcomed as a friend in our halls.”

  Startled, she nodded, and muttered something about being honored. Her life thus far had not prepared her for such moments.

  Finally the Lord Protector came to where his daughter stood. Gwynofar was dressed in male costume as well, but it was not nearly as effective a disguise on her as it was on Kamala. Her slight frame and delicate features made a lie of any masculine identity and she did not bear herself with the kind of casual arrogance that befit armed and uniformed men. But she stood up straight and proud as her father looked her over, and once more Kamala had a sense of hidden strength inside her.

  The Lord Protector embraced his daughter and held her tightly for a long, solemn moment. “Be careful,” he whispered. “Come home safe when you are done.”

  “I will,” she promised him.

  Stepping back at last, Lord Kierdwyn signaled to his men. The soldiers began to move forward in single file, each man leading his horse through the sorcerous portal. The animals were clearly not happy about the situation and snorted nervously as the shimmering air engulfed them, but they had been well trained, and ultimately all allowed themselves to be walked through the portal. Watching the sorcery take hold of them was like watching them enter a pool of water: one moment the surface was rippling as it engulfed them, the next they were gone from sight.

  Finally it was Rhys’ turn. Kamala stepped forward and took his hand. Looking up defiantly at Ramirus, she thought she saw a spark of amusement in his eyes. Perhaps even appreciation. Not that he would necessarily have made the portal fail as she passed through it, but she had felt it best not to tempt him.

  Bracing herself for the cold shock of another man’s sorcery, she shut her eyes, squeezed Rhys’ hand, and stepped through.

  Alkali awaited.

  Chapter 25

  ANUKYAT REMEMBERS: The Seers were leaving.

  Anukyat could not stop them. Gods know he had tried. He had shaken duty in their faces like a pennant of war, seeking to stir the fire of their conscience. It made them humble. It made them silent. It had even made a few of them weep as they abandoned their posts, for they knew that in doing so they were abandoning the task that the gods once gave them.

  But.

  He could feel it in his sleep now. A pounding in his brain, so fierce that it threatened to crack his skull in two. A sense of foreboding so black and terrible that it twisted all his dreams into nightmares. An awareness of human screaming, just below the threshold of his hearing, that made him dread the moment it would finally break through and be heard.

  He could shut such torments out by sheer force of will if he had to; he’d been doing so for some time now. But the Seers were more vulnerable to mental disturbances, and keeping protective spells in place constantly would simply cost them too much power. Not even the gods would ask them to throw away their lives like that. Or so they had argued when they finally told him they were leaving. All the orders in the world meant nothing, they told him, if they died before they could fulfill them.

  They had counseled him to leave as well. The Wrath was expanding its influence, they said, and no man seemed able to stop it. Today its dire power was lapping at the feet of the smallest Sister; tomorrow it might well swallow the Citadel whole. Did Anukyat expect to stay here when that happened? What would he do when the sanity of his Guardians began to slip away and there were no witches left to help them recover?

  I must stay here, he told them stubbornly. Duty demands it.

  Soon the last of them would be gone.

  The sky to the north was no longer red. Was that a good or a bad thing? Several seasons ago the sunsets had been a deep, bruised purple and crimson clouds, the color of fresh blood, had gathered about the northern horizon. The Seers had suffered from dreams of fire and ash for much of that winter and some had awakened screaming. Bodies burning! they had gasped, their bedclothes drenched in sweat. Skies smoking! Night after night the visions had grown worse, but no one could make any sense of them. Whatever event or artifact the Seers needed to draw upon for knowledge was locked away on the far side of the Wrath, where no witch could access it. All they had on this side were dreams and confusion.

  Anukyat had sent Guardians to the north to make an offering to the Spears. They never returned.

  He had sent out yet more Guardians, to find out what had happened to the first group.

  They never returned either.

  Maybe he should have called for help at that point. Someday soon he would probably have to, informing the other Masters that something in Alkali had gone terribly wrong and that he could not handle it alone. But not yet. Not until he could put give a name to what they would be fighting. That was his pride speaking, but it was the same pride that had given him the courage to stand his ground as long as he had, the same pride that he lent to his men to keep them strong. He would not abandon it lightly. The Master of Alkali’s Guardians would discover the source of this phenomenon and learn what had happened to his missing men, and if he had to call upon outsiders for help after that he would do so as a Master Guardian should, commander to commander. No foreigner would look down upon the Guardians of Alkali—or their Master—for being too weak to do their job properly.

  Was it pride that motivated him now to put on his own armor and set out after his missing men? He handpicked men to accompany him, eight of his fiercest Guardians, as proud and as determined as he was. Men of Alkali blood who had proven themselves by the harsh measure of the north for many seasons now, braving blizzards in the depth of winter to perform the rituals needed to repair the Spears, braving bloody battles when war was called for, to protect them. Anukyat had Guardians of mixed heritage as well, but he was leaving them behind. Nothing was fiercer or more determined than a true Alkali warrior.

  The ride north turned out to be a nightmare, even by the measure of men whose normal duty was to guard the source of all nightmares. In the end the horses would go no farther and the men were forced to dismount and continue on foot. Would the animals be strong enough to hold onto their sanity until the men returned? There was no way to know.

  The ground was frozen and slick with ice and snow still guarded the mountain heights; the going was slow, the men’s breath frosting in the still air. No one said a word now; moving forward against the force of the Wrath required every available ounce of energy. This close to the barrier there was no denying that something was seriously wrong; the curse that had always been tightly bound to its markers was now leaking out across the landscape, poisoning the very air they were breathing. Every step required a monumental effort and there were many steps left to go. Even the most determined spirit wavered as they drew inexorably closer to their goal.

  I should have come here earlier, Anukyat thought grimly. But how could he have known that his Guardians—carefully chosen, mercilessly tested—would have proven inadequate to the task?

  Soon they would reach the Spear. Then they would know the truth.

  The valley floor they had been following for hours began to slope upward, and Anukyat knew that they would have to climb over a sharp ridge to reach the plateau where the nearest Spear was located. He hoped that one would give them some clue as to what was going on. If not, well, there were other Spears in Alkali, and if he had to visit them one after another to unravel this puzzle, he was ready to do so. He owed his missing men that much—and it was his duty to the gods.

  Suddenly, without warning, a man stepped out from the shadows of the valley ahead of him directly into his path.

  He heard the whisper of steel blades being drawn behind him even as he pulled his own sword free of its scabbard. The presence of his archers was like a cold prickling on the back of his neck, and he heard the frozen ground crunch as they positioned themselves for combat. The spirit of every Guardian was on fire, despite the cold; whatever had struck down the previous expeditions, these men were determined not to fall pre
y to it.

  The newcomer was clearly of Alkali blood, with little or no foreign inheritance. He wore his hair in long braids, tangled and filthy; ornaments of wood or bone had been thrust into them so long ago that time and dirt had fixed them permanently into place. His garments were strange, some sort of close-fitting armor that had the texture of waxed leather, but not its color. At first glance it appeared a deep black—almost the Magisters’ black—but then as he moved, as shadows and sunlight moved across its surface, Anukyat could make out glimmering blue highlights, utterly unlike any fabric or hide he had ever seen. Each garment was pieced together out of irregular scraps, like some strange, mad quiltwork, then molded to the human form; the result fit its owner like a second skin. A strange smell arose from the stranger, sweet and musky and sour all at once, strong enough to taint the chill air between them. It was like an odd cross between the rankness of human sweat and the pungence of a stag in rut.

  “Who are you?” Anukyat demanded, hefting his sword suggestively. If this man had anything to do with the disappearance of his Guardians, he would have much to answer for.

  A strange, twisted smile crossed the stranger’s face. “I am the conscience of Alkali.” He spoke the regional tongue well enough, but with an accent that Anukyat never heard before; it was clipped and coarse and gave the impression that its owner did not spend much time practicing the fine art of conversation. “You may call me the ‘voice of the lost.’ ”

  Anukyat snorted. “Well, I am Master Guardian of Alkali and I do not care for riddles. You are in my lands and will identify yourself now. Or must I seek that information by other means?”

  A brief, black hatred stirred in the depths of the stranger’s eyes. For a moment Anukyat thought the man was about to strike at him and his hand tightened reflexively on the grip of his sword. He was dimly aware that some dark and terrible power was coiled inside this man and knew that if they came to blows, he might wind up fighting something that was more dangerous than a mere human being. But that was fine with him. As a Guardian he was trained to fight supernatural creatures, and if this creature was the one responsible for the disappearance of his men, he would take personal pleasure in hacking him to bits, human or otherwise.