He did not say what they all were thinking: Gods save us from discovering that there are enough Souleaters around to make such a study possible.
Carefully Rhys unwrapped the third of his bundles. Unlike the others it did not contain a simple piece of Souleater anatomy, but rather a wide, flat box made of wood. This he opened, laying it in the center of the circle so that all might see what it contained.
“This is from the creature’s wing.”
Even in such a dismembered state, the wing fragment was eerily beautiful. Jewel-toned colors rippled across its surface as Rhys turned it for them all to see, as if the thing were made of liquid gemstones. Slender black struts and the delicate veining between them seemed better suited to an insect’s wing than that of a great carnivore; it seemed too delicate to bear such a great weight.
“When I first took this sample,” Rhys said, “it required great effort. My knife could barely pierce the wing membrane, fragile though it seemed. And yet, within hours of the Souleater’s death . . .”
He picked up the wing fragment, held it in his hand for a moment, then closed his fist around it and squeezed. When he opened his hand again, only dust and tiny shards remained.
“That is all I was able to collect before the creature was past the point of being useful to us,” he said quietly. “I should have worked faster.”
“What about its mesmeric power?” Master Favias asked, pointedly ignoring the last comment. “Tell us about that.”
Rhys bit his lip for a moment as he sought the proper words. “The others who saw it told me afterward that it was . . . seductive. They felt drawn to it. Some even felt an urge to offer themselves to it, as a . . . as a lover might. Even wished for it to tear out their throat, as though that would be a pleasurable act. They knew that the feeling was wrong, that something unnatural was happening, but even so they could not fight it . . . or perhaps, more accurately, they did not desire to fight it.”
“And yourself?”
“I felt . . . a dullness of my senses. A heaviness of thought. And it was as if my limbs belonged to another creature and would not respond to my commands. Every move I made took monumental effort. I used one of the spellsongs to focus myself; without that, I might well have been overcome. But my emotions were never altered. I hated the thing, and I feared it, but I was never drawn to it. I never desired anything but its death, and the death of all its kind.”
“So that much is good news,” Master Favias approved. “The gods’ protection is strong in their chosen warriors.”
“Maybe not,” one of the other Guardians said. Rhys recognized him as part of the Brusan contingent, a somber man who rarely came this far east. “Rhys is half lyr, yes? So he is better protected than most of us. What if the gods were not as generous to the rest of us . . . to mere peasants.”
Rhys’ eyes narrowed in anger. He started to move forward, but Master Favias put a hand upon his shoulder once more, this time to steady him.
“Rhys. Please.” His tone was respectful but firm. “No insult was given here.”
“I am no different than any other man in this company,” Rhys muttered.
“In spirit, in strength, in dedication, no, you are not. But in blood? The question’s a fair one, my brother. You can ride closer to the Spears than any of us, you know that. You can bear the Wrath beating down upon your soul past the point when other men just cower and flee. If it is your father’s special heritage that strengthens you thus, and not just your personal fortitude, then we must be wary of assuming that the rest of us will enjoy the same immunity. Best now to assume that the Souleaters may indeed be strong enough to mesmerize some Guardians, despite this one’s failure with you, and figure our tactics accordingly.” When Rhys did not respond, he pressed, “That is a good thing, yes?”
Rhys exhaled sharply, but said nothing. His hands at his sides curled into fists for a moment, as he tried to calm his spirit. The fact that Favias was right did not make it any easier. At last he nodded, somewhat stiffly.
“You say that Magister Colivar was present,” Favius noted. “I did not see him in the battle.”
Rhys nodded. “No. He stood by and watched. So did Ramirus, who had brought me there. Neither lifted a finger to help.”
“Perhaps they could not,” Favias mused.
“Or will not,” a Skandir Guardian offered. One of the few women in the group. “Gods forbid their precious Magister hides should be risked for someone else’s welfare.”
“Aye,” the Brusan muttered. “They are not known for sacrifice, are they?”
Master Favias held up a hand. “Time enough later to complain about Magisters,” he said sternly. “Let us hear from our archivists now. Rommel, what have you found that might shed light upon this tale?”
The chief archivist for Kierdwyn, an older man with long gray hair pulled back into a tight queue at the base of his neck, cleared his throat before speaking. “There are records of ancient formulae that were used for treating Souleater hides so that they could be crafted into armor. If the body decays as quickly as Rhys suggests, that would certainly explain why those formulae were considered as important as they were, and why our forebears took such care to preserve them.” He stroked the gray stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Our tradition says that in order to defeat a Souleater, one must wear its armor and wield its weapons. Apparently that is not as simple a process as it sounds.”
Master Favias nodded. “We will need samples of all of those formulae. Let us see which ones can be stored without losing their potency. If the creatures do return in force—” he let the words hang in the air for a moment “—our Guardians may have to carry such potions with them to use on the battlefield. The bodies will likely be too far gone to preserve otherwise.”
The archivist nodded. “I will send out word to all the archivists and see that trials are begun.”
“Good. Good. Now, Rhys . . .” Favias turned back to Rhys. “What of this Magister, this Colivar? You say he gave you information about the Souleaters? Who is he and how much does he know?”
Rhys frowned. “All I can tell you is that he is an enemy of the High Kingdom—or at least he was while Danton was alive—apparently bound in service to one of the southern kingdoms. He is said to be very old, very knowledgeable, and dangerously deceptive. Which, according to Gwynofar, describes most of the Magisters.”
“Did you get any sense of where his information was coming from? If there is some ancient text we have not seen yet, we should search it out. Especially if it contains precise information on how to deal with these creatures.”
Rhys hesitated. “He spoke very matter-of-factly, as if these were things he’d actually seen, rather than something he’d learned about from written records or artifacts. Though that can’t be the case, of course. There were no Magisters until long after the Spears descended.”
Favias nodded. “Very well. Then let us collect information on this Colivar as well and see what we can come up with. Not only regarding what he claims to have witnessed, but personal details as well. We may eventually have to barter with him for his knowledge, in which case I want to know what sorts of things he values, what peoples and places he favors . . . what sort of games he is known to play.” He scowled at the last item. The Magisters’ penchant for secrecy, and the convoluted tasks they would often require of morati who wanted to learn something from them, were notorious in the northlands. It was the reason that the Protectorates generally relied upon witches for power, trusting to those who were willing to sacrifice a portion of their life-essence for a worthy cause, rather than becoming indebted to prideful dilettantes of sorcery who believed that the entire world existed solely for their amusement.
Not to mention that the Magisters hated the Wrath. Rumor said it wreaked havoc with their sorcery. Most of them preferred not to get within a hundred miles of it, if they could help it. When duty did call them closer they showed up grudgingly, lending their power to the rituals that helped keep the Wrath strong and allo
wed the locals to approach it . . . but no one doubted when they did that they would rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Maybe they are just afraid of it, Rhys thought, the way all men are when they come near it. And the rest is just a story they put out so we won’t think they are cowards.
Now that would be something worth verifying, wouldn’t it?
“All right now.” Favias’ tone was strong and confident; if Rhys’ news worried him at all, he wasn’t letting it show. “We’ll need all this to go out to the other Protectorates as quickly as possible. And all the relay houses should be checked to make sure they are manned and ready. When the call to war comes . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “. . . I doubt we will be given much time to respond. So let’s make sure everything is in order before that happens.”
Forty generations, Rhys thought. It had been forty generations since the first Lord Protectors had established a cadre of warriors whose only purpose was to prepare for the return of the Souleaters. Forty generations of Guardians, each one praying that the world would never need to call upon it. Knowing all the while that such a prayer was futile. The gods themselves had warned that the monsters would return. Now it was happening.
We will be ready, Rhys swore silently.
“Now let us choose who will carry our message,” Favias said.
It was the end of the meeting, save for Favias’ task of choosing those who would ride to the other Protectorates, carrying word of their discoveries. Rhys knew he was not needed for that. His ties to the Kierdwyn court meant that he would be sent there, as always, to update the Lord Protector. Which meant that he should start on his way as soon as possible. Within days Lord and Lady Kierdwyn would be heading south with all their royal retinue to attend the coronation of their grandchild, Salvator Aurelius. If Rhys didn’t handle his business before they left, he might wind up heading south alongside them, and having to speak to both Lord Kierdwyn and his wife on the road.
His stomach tightened at the thought of Lady Evaine.
She would be gracious to me, he thought, as always.
That only made it worse.
He slipped out of the meetinghouse quietly, not wishing to disturb the others. Outside the sun was shining, and a brisk summer breeze was whipping the red-and-gold pennants atop the roof with audible force. One well-worn dirt path led down to the stables, another to the Guardians’ offering circle. He hesitated for a moment, then chose the latter. He needed to steady his soul before setting out on such dark business.
The path led him into the edge of the forest, away from the smells and the sounds of the meetinghouse. Blue pines crowded closely on all sides of him and the air was filled with their sharp, resinous scent. The path wound between them, inclining slightly as it brought him to the top of a hill. There the pines had been cleared away, leaving a circle of ground bare, with nothing but a Spear in its center.
It was not as large as the ones at the Wrath, and it did not have their baleful resonance, but the pinnacle of twisted rock awakened in Rhys a visceral memory of what the real ones were like . . . and why they existed. For a while he stood still and silent in the clearing, reflecting upon their meaning and upon his mission. Surrounding him were ancestor-trees—or perhaps, more accurately, protector-trees—blue pines that had been carved into the likeness of the seven First Protectors. Abeja, Brusus, Han, Tonado, Kierdwyn, Alkali, Skandir. Bark had overgrown their features, making it seem as if the trees had grown into human forms of their own accord. Even being rendered in the same artistic medium could not disguise the fact that the seven were as different from one another as men could possibly be. And why not? They had come from all parts of the known world, brought together by terrible necessity. And when the great war had ended, and the Wrath of the Gods had entrapped the last monsters in a no-man’s-land of ice and snow, these seven had stayed behind to guard against the fall of the Wrath, and to found the bloodlines that would someday stand against the Souleaters once more.
The gods had named them lyr, and placed special magics in their blood that would awaken when the Souleaters returned. So the legends promised, anyway. By now most of the inhabitants of the northlands had at least a distant blood tie to one Lord Protector or another, which meant that the gift of the gods was in all of them. But the lyr were special. They could trace their lineage back to the first Protectors by every branch of their family tree. In them the gift of the gods was concentrated, undiluted; in them, the legends said, lay the hope of mankind.
Rhys was half lyr by virtue of the Lord Protector’s indiscretion. That had great value among the Guardians. Others would trade places with him in a heartbeat, to have such a heritage.
So why did it make his head hurt? Why did he get angry whenever someone mentioned it?
Because it is not something I earned, he thought bitterly. Because no matter what battles I face, what dangers I brave, what victories I facilitate, my bastard heritage will always overshadow them.
“Rhys.”
He turned to see who was calling him. It was one of the Skandir, a woman named Namanti. Like all the Guardian-women from that Protectorate she wore a man’s shirt and leggings, the former with its sleeves cut off in deference to the heat of summer. Her well-muscled arms were adorned with wide metal bracelets running up and down their length, and Rhys knew that each one was etched with a design that commemorated some battle she’d won or some trial she’d endured. Her thick yellow hair was plaited with thongs and glass beads, her skin coarse and reddened from exposure to the elements. Skandir Guardians were fierce, he reflected, the women most of all. Sometimes that translated into activities away from the battlefield and sometimes it didn’t.
“You missed the ruckus,” she told him.
“Over my departure?”
“Nay.” She grinned. “You’re not quite so important yet, lyr.” She was using the title to ruffle his feathers and he knew it, so he let it pass without comment. “Favias wanted messengers to carry your news to the other Protectorates; he asked for volunteers. That’s when we all realized that there were no Alkali among us.”
“None at all?” he asked, startled.
She shook her head. Wisps of blond hair had escaped from their confinement and the forest breeze scattered them across her face. She pushed them back absently, hooking them behind her ears. “Not a single one. Apparently no one has seen any Guardians from there for some time now.”
He frowned. “That is . . . odd.”
“Aye. Master Favias thought it so. Especially here, so close to Alkali itself. No one has inspected the Spears up there, either—or at least if they did they’re not reporting it. Given that we think the Wrath has been breached somewhere, that’s no small thing. He wants to send someone in to see what’s what. Check the Spears at least, see if the trouble’s there.” Her deep blue eyes sparkled. “Someone with powerful blood.”
She knew him well enough to know how the words would make him squirm, and for that reason he refused to take the bait. “Makes sense, if he wants the Spears looked at. Others would be too weak to get close to it without a week-long ritual to pave the way. I hear the Skandir are particularly weak-willed.”
She didn’t go for his bait either. “Of course, I pointed out you were hardly up to the job, since you don’t even speak the language.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The Alkali speak a different language?”
“Aye. Leadership does. Sometimes the priests. It’s an ancient thing, from before the Dark Times. They don’t use it around . . . ah, outsiders.”
How like the Alkali, he thought. Anything to set themselves apart. They were a proud people—some would say arrogant—who never let the other Protectorates forget that they had been masters of the northlands long before the war against the Souleaters brought strangers to their shores. And they were masters of it still, at least in their own minds.
That the Alkali Guardians had dropped out of sight now, just when Souleaters were being sighted again, was ominous indeed. Had they tried
to take a stand against the creatures and fallen? It was hard to believe that such a thing could have happened without them sending out a cry for help. But perhaps it had all happened too swiftly for that.
He shook those thoughts from his head. “All right, so who is to be my translator? Some myopic little bookworm, no doubt, that I will have to protect from tree branches as we ride? Assuming he can ride at all.”
“You should be so fortunate.” She slapped his chest lightly with a folded piece of paper. “Rumor has it you’ve been assigned an arrogant Skandir who has no great love for the Alkali. Oh, and she’s a woman, too. No doubt she’ll slow you down each time she needs to take a piss.”
He took the paper from her and quickly looked it over. Favias had provided them with a letter of introduction in case their presence in Alkali lands was questioned. That in itself was disturbing; normally Guardians needed no special clearance to go about their duties. “Maybe I’ll leave her behind if she takes too long.”
“Maybe she’s the best shot in the region and you won’t get ten strides if you try it.”
He refolded the paper and tucked it into his shirt. “Maybe she has drunk too much Skandir ale recently, and thinks her talent is more than it is.”
“Ten kroger says it is better than yours. Your choice of target and terms.”