Wings of Wrath

  She drew a leg up about his hips and he pushed aside his own clothes, thrusting inside her with a force that drove the air from her lungs in a gasp. Copper hands reached for his hair, drawing him down to her lips as he thrust harder and harder into her engulfing heat. Soft moans of pleasure were offered for him to devour and he kissed her fiercely, claiming them. Not afraid of hurting her because he knew somehow, in that primitive part of him that had been unleashed, that she was as strong as he was. Worthy allies, equal in passion. How they deserved one another! Not like the weak creatures marching below them who pretended to be men. Vermin from Corialanus, all of them, who played at being wolves while they crept up upon his territory like rats, thinking he did not notice. But he would show them. He would show them! The molten heat of masculine pride filled his veins to the breaking point and he clutched the Witch-Queen to him as images filled his brain, accompanying each wave of pleasure. His armies waiting at the north end of King’s Pass. Surprising the enemy. Mountains drenched in blood. Sovereignty defended. His land! His empire! No man could take what was rightfully his! No enemy would dare to challenge him again once he had taught Corialanus the price of defiance!

  (a strange bitterness on her lips, not right)

  Strength proclaimed!

  (foul odor mixed with sweet perfume)

  Sovereignty assured!

  (slick and cold, beneath the heat)

  He knew something was wrong but he could not stop himself, nor rein in the beast that had been given control of his flesh. She cried out as he came at last inside her, not in pleasure but in triumph, and even as the waves of unbearable pleasure surged through his flesh he could feel her witchery taking hold of him. It was a cold and clammy thing that offered pleasure to the bestial parts of his brain if they would serve her will, and strangled those parts which might question what was happening. As the wild pounding of his heart began to subside at last he pushed her away from him, not knowing exactly what was wrong but knowing with certain instinct—human instinct—that he must fight it with all his strength.

  How cold her eyes were now, with all the illusion stripped from them! Black jeweled eyes, without iris or white. Her silken dress had taken on an unwholesome sheen, like that of a wet eel, and the chiffon strips of her sleeves spread out like wings behind her, snapping in the wind. And the smell! No longer an offense limited to the earth and sky, it now seemed to emanate directly from her, like some foul perfume. And now it was on him as well. Soaked into his velvet gown, lathered along his loins. His whole body reeked of it.

  “You have no power over me.” He tried to pour all his strength into the words, but they came out no louder than a whisper. “I will not allow you to have power over me!”

  “Salvator. Sweet Salvator.” She reached out to touch his cheek but he pulled away from her. She seemed surprised by his defiance. Did she not realize that he had seen through her mask? That he had somehow broken free of her spell and was seeing her as she truly was? Not human any longer, but something alien and evil that made every fiber of his soul scream out in revulsion? “You have no choice in this. Don’t you understand? The ancient drives are too strong to deny. Can’t you feel them now, simmering inside you? Too long denied. My poor monk.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper; she probably intended to sound seductive, but with his senses now alert to her corruption he could hear the echoes of baleful power behind it. “Forget the northern border,” she breathed into his skin. “The real danger is here, in King’s Pass. There is still time to redeploy. . . .” He could feel the words seeping in through his pores, wrapping themselves about his soul. So hard to think clearly. So hard to remember why Alkali mattered. . . .

  No!

  He jerked back from her. It took every ounce of strength that he had, and at first his legs would not even respond to him. He could feel her spells shattering like rotten silk as he struggled against them, the tapestry of their shared dream unraveling about them. Clouds shivered into nothingness overhead; the soldiers marching below lost their bodily cohesion and bled out into the surrounding scenery. Something wailed in the distance that didn’t belong in any world, and then—still nameless—was silenced.

  “You have no power over me,” he repeated. His voice was stronger now; control of his body seemed to be returning, and with it confidence. Did she think he had wasted his four years in the monastery? Did she think a four-year vow of celibacy was lightly sworn or easily maintained, a casual flirtation with self-denial that would not affect the kind of man he became? He had faced down the beast within his own soul and vanquished it before; he could do so again if need be. Even in the midst of this cursed dream and with the sweat of her passion still clinging to his skin.

  The smell in the air had changed now. No longer was it sweet, even in its undertones. Acrid fumes filled his nostrils and stung his eyes, making them water. He remembered what his mother had told him about the foul odor that had been in the palace when Kostas had lived there. Not a real smell, she had said, with a physical source that other men might notice, but something that only their family could detect.

  Then the fabric of his dream came crashing down about him. Dark images flooded his brain, choked off his breath. He struggled to break free of them and surface. Somewhere beyond all this was the real world, the Creator’s world, and he knew if he could just connect to it again this vile magic would lose its hold on him. Feverishly he prayed, using the familiar phrases to focus his mind and fortify his soul: Holy Father, who created the world that man might live in it, and placed within us all the things that he requires. . . . Slowly, oh, so slowly, the nightmare images began to fade. Black jeweled eyes. Amethyst wings. Soldiers marching north to claim his territory—

  And a sudden pounding on the door.

  He opened his eyes and blinked until they focused. The light of dawn had just begun to creep in through the windows, illuminating a chamber that looked jarringly normal. His bed was soaked with cold sweat, but it smelled refreshingly human. Whatever witchery had taken hold of his soul for a brief time, no trace of it remained.

  He whispered his thanks to his god.

  “Majesty! Are you all right?”

  Before he could find his voice the door swung open, and two of his guards entered the room. One had already drawn a sword, and he seemed quite startled to discover there was no one in the room but the three of them. He peered suspiciously into all the corners of the room as his companion bowed nervously. “Forgive us for disturbing you, but Your Majesty cried out—”

  Salvator waved him to silence. “I am fine. As you see. But I thank you for your concern.”

  They began to bow out of the room, but he signaled for them to wait. “I am done with sleeping for tonight,” he told them, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed so that he might rise. “Order a cold breakfast laid out for me. And a bath. Cold as well. And for after that . . .” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Order my council to attend me. We have much to discuss.”

  He wondered briefly what his mother would have made of his dream, but only briefly. In the end it was his faith in the Creator that had saved him, and his training among the holy brothers, not some mysterious gift that no man knew the name of.

  Such strength could be yours as well, he thought to Gwynofar, if you only would let go of empty legends.

  Chapter 28

  THE THIRD Sister arose from a sea of morning mist like a whale breaking through the surface of the ocean. Fog filled the low points of the landscape, rendering everything all but invisible, and wisps of it swirled like silken veils over all the rest. The sun was beginning to rise, the blackness of night just starting to drain out of the sky along the eastern horizon, and the first hint of morning light lent a ghostly glow to the edges of the fog drifts.

  Gwynofar’s company stood still for a long time, taking it all in. No doubt those who led the expedition were making precise calculations about how best to approach the Citadel in order to maximize their cover while not losing sight of necessary landmarks
, but to Gwynofar’s eye the view was simply magical, as if they were in some fairy realm and the object of their attention was rooted not in solid earth but in clouds and dreams.

  “A while longer,” the captain of the expedition ordered. “We need more light.”

  They were sheltered in the last sizeable patch of forest east of the citadel. They had reached it by moonlight alone, not daring to use any artificial light this close to their target. Fire could be seen from miles away in the night the captain had explained to Gwynofar. Even a single candle flame would be dangerous.

  Now they were waiting for the moment when dawn would provide enough light that they could be sure of their footing, but no more. The air itself would seem heavy and gray, then, and from a distance land and sky would appear to merge into a single entity. The company had dressed with such surroundings in mind, setting aside their brightly colored uniforms for garments of gray, layered pieces daubed with paint to match the colors of the monument. Hopefully it would be enough for Ramirus’ spell to be effective.

  They already knew that his sorcery was working from the contact they’d had with a company of guards the day before. The locals had saluted them in passing, apparently not noting the various details that might have put a lie to their disguise, not least among them the fact that several of Kierdwyn’s men had their hands on their swords, ready to draw them the instant there was any sign that they were not well received. But the meeting had passed without incident, Ramirus’ sorcery muting the locals’ suspicious instincts, making it seem that all was as it should be. Kamala’s analysis of the Wrath’s effect—and how the sorcerers might weave their spells around it—had apparently been accurate. They had all breathed a little easier after that.

  But this part of the journey would test Ramirus’ sorcery anew. It was one thing to pass for a guard when one looked like a guard, in a place where guards were doing what guards presumably were supposed to be doing. But no one should be traveling in this stretch of open land. No one should be climbing the tower. No mere disguise would convince Anukyat’s men that the invaders belonged here if they were sighted in this phase of their operation. Thus the captain had called for making the approach in the tenuous light of early dawn, so that they would have some cover from the darkness while moving in, then full sunlight soon afterward to facilitate their climb.

  When he thought conditions were right, the captain led them along a serpentine path, from one patch of mist to another. While they were inside the fog banks it was hard for Gwynofar to see any farther than the two men directly in front of her, and she had to trust to the column to keep its bearing and just follow blindly along. But that meant that from the outside they were all but invisible. Perhaps the gods were favoring this enterprise after all, she thought.

  Quickly but carefully the company moved, leather boot soles slick against the wet grass, bits and pieces of climbing gear slapping softly against the backs and thighs of the men who carried them. Overhead—nearly invisible against the predawn sky—Kamala flew in erratic patterns while she watched for danger, wary of adopting any configuration that might reveal her interest in a particular stretch of ground beneath her. But there was no sign of trouble . . . yet.

  As for the tower ahead of them, Gwynofar did not have time to look up at it yet. That was probably best. Fear would come in time, no doubt, but that did not mean she had to issue it a formal invitation. The magnitude of this undertaking was just starting to sink in. Even if fate favored them and they managed to get into the Citadel safely, climb it, and locate the so-called Throne of Tears—and channel its power properly—what were the odds they could withdraw safely after that and get home without incident? No one had ever asked the question aloud—at least in her presence—but she knew that they were all thinking it. Kamala in her bird form could carry word home of anything they discovered, but she could not carry people.

  One thing at a time, she told herself. Focus on what is before you.

  Finally they reached the base of the tower. The earth gave way to a rubbled slope and then to solid rock, cold and damp to the touch. The captain led the way up a short incline to a place where a jutting ledge overhead would block the view of any sentries above them. It was a larger protrusion than Gwynofar had expected it to be based on the images they’d studied in their preparations. In fact, all the sculptural features of the tower looked much larger up close than she had expected.

  Which led her to finally peek out around the ledge and look up to see the true size of the thing.

  Against the early morning sky it soared: majestic and arrogant, immeasurable. The first direct rays of dawn struck its summit even as Gwynofar watched, capping the tower in fire. The view was dizzying; it seemed to her that she could feel the weight of the massive monument looming over her, daring her to take its solidity for granted. Daring her to feel safe.

  Rhys put a hand on her shoulder, directing her attention back to the business at hand. The men were already stripping off their outer boots, and she began to do the same. Lazaroth had provided them with special shoes for climbing, designed to the Guardians’ specifications, as well as soft boots to wear over them while approaching the target. The leather of the tight climbing shoes was so thin that Gwynofar could feel the texture of the rock underfoot, and Lazaroth had added something to the soles that he said would give them a better grip. She tried to slide a foot forward along the dew-dampened rock, and it was surprisingly difficult. That discovery should have reassured her—it meant that one more bit of sorcery was working as it should—but in fact it did just the opposite. For the first time since their departure from Kierdwyn, the magnitude of their task suddenly struck home. She looked up at the monument again—its whole summit was glowing with golden light now, a blazing beacon against an ever-lightening sky—and thought, with a sudden wave of nausea, that’s where we are going.

  The first part of the climb would be along a series of angled formations, not much more challenging than some of the rock formations she had climbed as a young girl. But after that the monument became abruptly vertical with few handholds that she could see, and nothing to break a fall except the sharp rocks at the bottom. Ullar had decided that the best course of action was for his scouts to climb that part first, segment by segment, then pull her up behind them. Now that she saw the monument up close she was relieved to have such a plan. She remembered Ramirus’ words of warning about her enhanced strength, and how it might affect her coordination, and she knew that the last thing she wanted to do was maneuver on that steep rock face alone.

  Now Rhys came over and wrapped a thick piece of rope around her waist, knotting it so that there was a secure loop in front. Another man took all their discarded gear and tucked it into a shadowy crevice, covering it with a piece of gray cloth that matched their clothing. From a distance it should be all but invisible. Through all this they were silent. So silent. Each person knew what was required of him and did it, wary of offering up so much as a whisper of sound for the enemy to hear. There was no way they could predict when Ramirus’ sorcery would or would not protect them; they would proceed as though there were nothing to protect them from discovery but their own stealth.

  The need for silence had cost them one of their most valuable tools. Lazaroth’s spikes had been tested on a rock outcropping the day before, and while they had worked well enough, they were far from silent. That hadn’t seemed like an issue in Kierdwyn’s castle, but here it could mean the difference between life and death. Too much risk, the captain had assessed. They could not afford to stress Ramirus’ protective spell that much. Gwynofar hadn’t been all that sure she agreed, but now that she was here, in the midst of this vast silence, she realized that he’d been right.

  Which meant that the men would have to make their climb with nothing more than stubbornness and a few mundane tools to support them.

  I believe in you, Rhys mouthed to Gwynofar as he tightened the last knot on her harness, and he kissed her on the forehead; she hugged him tightly, allowing
herself the luxury of trembling in his arms for one last time. He would be nearby to protect her if anything went wrong.

  Watching as the first climbers began their ascent, Gwynofar could not help but hold her breath. They moved with eerie agility, one limb at a time, clinging to such subtle cracks and protrusions that sometimes it was easier to believe they possessed a spider’s power of adhesion than a human’s clumsy grasp. At one point they abandoned handholds entirely, bracing their backs against one side of a vertical gap and their feet against the other, their bodies bridging the open space as they inched their way up the walls with nothing but friction and raw muscular strength keeping them in place. It was slow and painful work, and Gwynofar’s body ached just watching them.

  But they had left a trail of new handholds behind them, twists of rope that they had anchored into various crevices along the way for those who must follow. As the other men began to climb, the first two took shelter on a ledge high overhead. Once they had found a solid anchor for their ropes, they lowered one end to Gwynofar, and Rhys helped her hook it onto her belt. There was a pulley system to help distribute her weight as they pulled her up to the ledge, but that did not lessen the sensation of vertigo as the ground suddenly dropped from beneath her, or her instinctive panic when the motion of the rope swung her against a jagged outcropping. She did her best to keep in contact with the monument as she moved, bracing herself against it in order to stabilize her motion. It took enough concentration that she had no time to look down, which was probably a good thing.