Wings of Wrath

  “So what, then?” Colivar’s eyes narrowed. “Am I not really a Magister, but something that existed prior to the Great War? Is that what you are implying?” Dramatically he spread his arms wide, as if in invitation. “Test me, then. Taste the sorcery that binds me to my consort. Know for yourself the truth of what I am.”

  Mad though the offer was, for a brief moment Colivar thought Ramirus might just take him up on it. Certainly there was a fire that sparked in the white-haired Magister’s eyes at the suggestion. If Colivar was truly opening himself up for inspection, might there not be some way to take advantage of that, without getting sucked into a consort’s bond and devoured in the process? It was a tempting prospect, and Colivar felt a rare thrill as he braced himself for possible assault. It was rare that two Magisters of their age and power tested themselves against each other directly, and anything rare was an experience to be savored . . . even if it was not without its dangers.

  But then the moment passed. “I know what you are from the taste of your sorcery,” Ramirus assured him. “Or did you think all those obstacles outside were just for my amusement? Your power is as cold as a demon’s prick.”

  Colivar chuckled. “Now you flatter me.”

  “Hardly.” Ramirus leaned back in his chair once more. “The day is coming when we may well need to cooperate with one another. All of us, Colivar. Else the world may fall to these creatures once more.”

  “Then the world is doomed,” he responded. “For I cannot imagine Magisters making the kind of sacrifice that would be required to save it.”

  “Perhaps sacrifice would not be necessary this time. Perhaps if we knew our history better, a better way might be found.”

  Chuckling softly, Colivar stood. “You do not yet have the coinage to buy all my secrets, Ramirus. Though I am flattered by your interest.” He nodded respectfully as he stood. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a variety of preparations to make before Salvator claims his crown. So much to do.” He smiled. “You understand, of course.”

  Ramirus stood to see him out, and took it upon himself to walk him back to the front door of the manor. An uncharacteristically respectful gesture. The exchange of information sometimes brought that out in him.

  “You really should come to Salvator’s coronation,” Colivar said along the way. “It may well prove the largest gathering of our kind since the night of Andovan’s suicide.” You do remember that, don’t you? The night Danton humiliated you in front of all of us? “Already there are wagers being placed among the Magisters as to which enemy will strike him down the moment the crown is placed upon his head. And to think, it would only take a handful of words to keep it from happening—nothing more than the name of a Magister to sponsor him—but that is the Aurelius pride in action. Or perhaps it is Penitent pride to blame. Such a distasteful religion.” He shook his head. “Foolish morati, all of them. My money is on Corialanus, by the way. And death for Salvator within twenty-four hours of the moment that he first puts the crown upon his head.” He bowed his head slightly. “Please accept the information as a courtesy.”

  “You are most gracious.” Ramirus’ expression was impassive—unreadable—but his tone was dry. “And I shall consider your advice for what it is worth.” He waved his hand toward the door and it began to open. “In the meantime, try not to destroy too much of my property on the way out, will you? I should hate to have to send you a bill for it.”

  Indeed. And how much does one pay for a three-headed moat monster these days? “I shall do my best,” Colivar promised. “Assuming of course that your property does not get in my way again.”

  “It will not stop you from leaving,” Ramirus promised. And a spark of cold humor glimmered in his eyes. “In fact, Colivar, I feel confident in promising you that no sorcery of mine will ever keep you from leaving.”

  Nevertheless, it was not until he saw his visitor fly over the enchanted forest, demon-hounds howling at him from below, that he returned to the lamplit comfort of his library to continue with his research.

  Chapter 5

  A MONTH AGO, the Queen of Sankara might have been pleased by the success of her gathering.

  The heads of all twenty-six Free States were in her grand atrium now, accompanied by such spouses, advisers, and, in some cases, courtesans as had traveled with them. Servants in flowing silks moved among the guests, silent and graceful, offering silver platters heaped with the costliest delicacies of the region: fresh peacock hearts, marinated lark tongues, date pastries topped with shavings of gold leaf. Music played softly in the background—a sensual melody from the southern deserts—and a delicate incense warmed the air, carefully chosen to complement the perfumes in vogue.

  If anyone had questioned in the past whether a Grand Council meeting should be held in Sankara, they did not question it now. Other princes might provide a meeting room where the leaders of the Free States could hash out policy issues, but who else could host such a fete as this afterward?

  “What a delightful gathering,” the Duke of Surilla gushed to her. He had found a young man among the attendants that suited his fancy and had spent the last hour eating his fill of whatever delicacies the boy was serving, to keep him from wandering away. Other hosts might have simply provided the duke with a promise that the servant would join him in his bed later and prided themselves on a job well done. Silly fools! Pleasure was not simply about hunger fulfilled, but a multicourse feast in which seduction was merely the first remove. And so the good duke must stumble about the task of asking her if later that evening the boy would be, ah, free, to attend to his desires. And Siderea told him that her attendants were free to do as they pleased, and so the boy might meet with him after hours if it pleased him to do so. Now the duke must wonder and worry each time his blood grew heated, and continue to eat from that one particular tray until his stomach could hold no more, and offer up flattery and flirtation and perhaps even some expensive gift to earn the night’s ending that he desired. Which was all as it should be. Siderea’s servants were well versed in such games and took a genuine pleasure in manipulating her guests. And why not? The boy was free to keep whatever gifts he might earn, while the duke drank deeply of the illusion of conquest. Far more fulfilling for him than if she had merely told him the truth—which was that her servants would of course accommodate his sexual needs. What kind of a hostess would she be otherwise?

  Yes, by all her normal measures, it was a most successful party.

  But while her guests laughed and flirted, and she moved from one to another with wine in her hand and a smile on her face that made each guest feel absolutely certain that he was the one person the Queen of Sankara really cared about, her heart was cold. The joy on her face was no better than a mask, and even the pride she felt at the success of her party was a pale shadow of what it should have been. Empty pleasures. The one thing she wanted most was beyond her reach, and no man here could provide it. Which made all other pastimes seem cold and futile.

  Could her guests see the weakness in her? Could they sense the doom that hung about her like a shroud? Or was she hiding it artfully enough?

  Don’t think about that, she ordered herself. Focus on the business at hand.

  The council meeting had been peaceful enough, but ultimately unproductive. As she had expected it to be. She was not one of those Free Lands monarchs whose head was in the clouds, nursing dreams of political unity and cooperative enterprises. She was a realist. The Free States had banded together to face down the threat of the High Kingdom and to keep Danton Aurelius from claiming the valuable trade ports of the Inner Sea one by one. Individually the twenty-six tiny nations might have fallen to him, but together they had proven strong enough to fend off his military attentions. No one dared leave the alliance because to do so was an invitation to certain conquest.

  But now Danton Aurelius was dead. That threat was gone. In his absence the so-called Free States were likely to devolve into what they had been before his reign: a bunch of squabbling, disorganiz
ed municipalities, more interested in warring with each other than in serving any common interest. Oh, there were a few exceptions. The ruling houses married their children to one another to establish alliances by blood and sometimes that actually worked for a while. Sometimes a whole generation might pass without overt aggression between two particular states, although the shadow war of corruption and assassination continued on unabated. And of course Sankara itself was prosperous enough—and strong enough—that it had never needed to fight with its neighbors over land or gold. But on the whole, the lords of the Free States were a fractious lot, more interested in who owned what particular stone along their common shoreline than in any dreams of mutual prosperity.

  Danton had been the Other. Fearing him, they had united. Who would fill that role for them now? Salvator Aurelius wanted peace, she’d heard. A Penitent monk who hated war, inheriting a warmonger’s throne! That was of no use to anyone.

  “My compliments, Lady Queen. A most impressive gathering.”

  Lost in reverie, Siderea had not seen or heard anyone approach her. She masked her surprise with a delicate laugh of pleasure. Never mind who was talking to her; they would read into that sound whatever message they most wished to hear. “You are too kind,” she purred, turning to face the source of the words.

  The speaker was a stranger to her, a man of indeterminate age, thin and hard, with black hair that fell in a sharp-edged bowl cut above lean, angular features. His jawline was without any hint of shadow, which made it likely that no more than a handful of hours had passed since his last shave. On a day when both lords and servants had been bustling about since dawn without a moment to spare, that seemed . . . odd. His long robes hinted at wealth in their fabric, but not in their styling, and they offered no clue as to his origins. Garnet silk: the color of pomegranates and blood. His words had a foreign flavor to them, but it was not an accent she recognized. That was odd as well; the great port city of Sankara was favored by merchants and travelers from all the great cities of the world, and Siderea had heard their accents and dialects often enough to recognize them. This one was hauntingly familiar to her, but she could not place it.

  The Witch-Queen made a point of knowing the faces and names of all those who attended her gatherings, and even the servants who traveled with her guests. No man should ever be in her house whom she could not identify. The fact that she did not know this one was . . . disconcerting.

  He smiled, and there was a hint of dry satisfaction about the edges of his mouth, as if he sensed her consternation and took pleasure in it. “Your reputation does not do you justice.”

  “You are not one of my guests,” she said coldly.

  “Not one of your invited guests,” he agreed, “but one that I think you would welcome nonetheless.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his own—her left hand—and raised it to his lips. Something about the gesture sent a warning chill down her spine. She was about to pull her hand back from him, and perhaps call for the guards to evict him, when he folded his other hand over hers and said softly, “Permit me to admire your taste in jewelry.”

  She opened her mouth to respond as his arrogance deserved . . . but then she saw what he wore on his own hand, and the words died on her lips. For a moment the whole world seemed to blur about her; the only point that was steady and clear was the deep blue cabochon ring on her left hand, the one the sorcerer had given her . . . and this man’s matching ring, now positioned right beside it. Deep blue, almost violet, with other colors that swirled and shimmered in its depths.

  “Perhaps there is someplace where we might speak privately,” he suggested.

  She looked back at her guests, blinking as the world came back into focus. They all seemed to be happily occupied for the moment. Her servants would see to any needs they had. If she did not tell someone she was leaving, no one was likely to notice her exit. For a brief moment she contemplated calling a guard to her side, just in case, but a cold and stubborn determination filled her. If these men were what they claimed to be, then their business with her was something not even a trusted servant should hear. And if it was not, and this was some kind of trap . . . how much was there left to lose? A few years of life? Maybe only a few months? The time for hedging her bets was long past.

  “Follow me,” she said, and her heart was suddenly pounding so loudly in her chest she could no longer hear the music.

  Through the palace she led him, past sitting rooms outfitted in velvet and gilt, with diamond-paned windows that looked out over the moonlit harbor. One maidservant rushing about her business turned a corner and almost ran into them; lowering her head to the floor in obeisance, she offered up whimpering apologies until they were out of sight. Siderea hardly saw her. She was remembering the night a sorcerer had visited her on her balcony, his face hidden by shadows, promising her a means of surviving the loss of her soulfire in return for . . . what? He had not specified. But she did not doubt that there would be a price, or that it would be a large one.

  Finally they came to a small study away from the traffic of the evening. Siderea closed the heavy doors behind them, then drew herself up as she turned to face him. He had caught her off guard in the atrium, but she would not allow that to happen again. A bit of unorthodox behavior might be tolerated, given the circumstances, but even that had a limit. She was still a queen.

  The first visitor had played similar games with her, she recalled. Though she had not been able to see his face clearly at the time, nor heard his voice above a whisper, she realized now that his accent had been much the same as this man’s. Were they the same person? She decided to take a chance on it.

  “This is the second time you have entered my home without proper introduction,” she pronounced. The flicker of surprise in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed. “Perhaps it is time to remedy that.”

  A curt nod acknowledged her insight, but also warned her that the game was far from over. “You may call me Amalik.”

  “Not your true name, I gather.”

  The thin lips twitched. “It is the one I use in this region. The only one you will hear others use, in referring to me.”

  “Fair enough.” She allowed herself to smile slightly. “I assume you know mine.”

  “Aye, Lady Queen. Your name, your title, your history—as much as any man knows of the latter, of course—and your . . . situation.”

  Could he hear how loudly her heart was pounding? It took all her composure for her to keep her expression neutral. This is a stranger who may have nothing of value to offer, she reminded herself. Nothing but dreams of manipulating royalty with promises and shadows. Until he proves he is more than that, give him nothing. “You must have ears among the Magisters, to know of such things.”

  “Not all men require the permission of the Magisters to take a piss. Majesty.”

  The vulgarity might have offended her if the overall sentiment did not sit so well with her current mood. “You have witches serving you, then?”

  “No, my Queen. Not witches.”

  “Who else has the power to ferret out secrets that have never been spoken aloud? Much less offer a solution to them?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Perhaps you do not understand quite as much about me as you claim.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “There are more powers in the world than Magisters and witches,” he told her. “Others keep to the shadows and are rarely seen by men. Or women.”

  “And you claim to have access to such a power.”

  “I do.”

  “And are offering to use it on my behalf.”

  “No, my Queen.” Again the flicker of a smile. Not a warm thing, that expression, but cold and reptilian around the edges. “We—I and my allies—are offering you control of it. Yourself.”

  Keeping her expression carefully composed, she turned away from him for a moment. There were a few leather tomes on the sideboard nearby; she opened the cover of one and stared at the illuminated pages without seeing them as she
tried to digest his seemingly incredible offer. It didn’t help that a sudden wave of physical weakness came over her at that moment. It took all the strength she had to set her limbs so solidly that he did not see her falter. The moment of weakness passed as quickly as it had come, but the warning of it was clear: she had very little time left.

  “You seem very certain this . . . power . . . will serve my need.”

  She could hear him walking up behind her. Close, too close. She could feel the coldness of his presence near to her back, and for some reason it made her skin crawl. “It will allow you to extend your life,” he said quietly, “beyond the normal span of the morati. It will replace the vitality that a lifetime of witchery has drained so that you can live as the Magisters do, unfettered by common mortality. That is what you seek, is it not?”

  She did not answer him immediately. She focused her attention on the delicate page before her, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the gold leaf while she tried to order her thoughts. How she wished she had enough witchery left for one last spell! A single spark of soulfire could reveal this man’s true intentions, sort out truth from falsehood. But she dared not risk it. She had too little life left to her already; she could not afford to sacrifice another hour, even for that.

  And he knows all that, she realized. If he understands my situation, as he claims, then he knows he is free to lie to me. That I have only my human senses to rely upon.

  But what if he was not lying? What if there really was some new power in the world, neither sorcery nor witchery, that could sustain her? It was a heady thought. Also an unlikely one. But she had run out of other options and could not afford to let the possibility go untested.

  She turned around to face him again. Because he had probably intended his physical proximity to unnerve her she did not back away, but instead drew about her such regal aspect that it was he who instinctively took a step backward. It was important not to look weak now, important for him to view her as a powerful queen, not a desperate beggar. “Such gifts are not without a price,” she said sternly. “Speak on that.”