Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  He shook his head. “I don’t carry kroger, you know that.”

  “Then you forfeit, do you?” She smiled pleasantly. “Too easy, Kierdwynner.”

  He chuckled despite himself. “So who else is coming?”

  “No one. Just you and me and the cold, high road. Favias wants us in and out quickly. Up to the Wrath and then across to the east, check out each of the Spears in turn until we find the source of trouble. Preferably before the Alkali even know we are there. Other Guardians have different assignments.”

  Rhys nodded. He would have liked a witch to ride along with them, even if they never needed to use his power, but Seers were notoriously sensitive to the Wrath, and wouldn’t survive that long an exposure. Supposedly it was the price they paid for focusing their witchery on visionary matters; it made them doubly vulnerable to powers that affected the mind. “Dawn, then?”

  “If you can get up that early.” She pulled out a slender knife with a carved bone handle. “I wouldn’t want to strain your noble blood.”

  He grabbed her wrist and held it tightly. She stared at him for a minute, as if to assess how much real anger was behind the move, then shrugged off his grip. “Easy, Rhys, that’s why they picked me as well, you know. Second cousin to someone or something of importance . . . I forget his name. Not as much of the lyr blessing as you, but some little bit of it, eh? They figured you’d need that with you, if you had to go close to the Spears.”

  She looked down at her hand and made a quick cut along the side, shallow and short. Red blood welled up quickly, trickling down the side of her palm. “May the gods of the north guide us and protect us. May they grant us the sight to pick out the enemy, the courage to challenge it in battle, and the strength to send it to the worst bloody hell that the underworld has to offer.” She stepped forward and put her hand on the spire of twisted rock, smearing the blood across its surface before withdrawing it.

  She offered Rhys the knife.

  He cut himself slowly, carefully, along a line that had been cut and healed over many, many times in the past. Unlike her he did not speak out loud, but moved his lips silently as he made his blood offering.

  If we are the generation that must do battle with demons, then so be it. Guide us to where our strength is needed. Help us to see that the Second Age of Kings does not end like the first.

  His fingers trailed down along the twisted stone pillar, thin lines of red trailing behind them.

  And have mercy upon the lyr, he added, your most precious and ignorant children, who have been promised power without knowing its name, and who may be sent into battle without even knowing what weapons they bear.

  It seemed to him that the ancestor spirits echoed his prayer.

  Chapter 4

  COLIVAR HAD anticipated that Ramirus’ domain would be guarded by sorcerous obstacles, but they were annoying nonetheless. None of them were serious threats, as a Magister measured such things, but they required him to waste time and energy, which was a threat of a more subtle nature.

  But that was their purpose, of course. Such obstacles were the Magister’s equivalent of a welcome sign, which set out in no uncertain terms what the status of a guest was to be in this place. Each challenge required a visitor to waste just a tad more power in flying over it, or burrowing under it, or burning or fighting or conniving his way through it, to reach the other side. For each such act a visitor must drain more of the life from a consort whose vital energies were finite. Would such exercises force a guest to the edge of transition, so that he might fall helpless later if he tried to use sorcery in Ramirus’ presence? Or would he have second thoughts about the business that had brought him here, and perhaps question whether it was important enough to merit such a risk?

  It mattered little to Colivar. His current consort was freshly claimed and unlikely to expire this soon for anything short of an all-out sorcerous war. Nevertheless the various entrapments did annoy him, and if he happened to damage a few of them as he flew overhead—setting fire to a forest of enchanted trees, causing a pack of mutated hounds to turn on one another, draining a moat so that all its carnivorous inhabitants were left gasping for breath upon the dry earth—surely Ramirus had expected no less of him. Indeed, even as Colivar flew over the final obstacle, a vast maze of hedges twice as high as a man, he could see rain begin to fall upon the land he had just passed, quenching his fire’s fury, distracting the hounds, and filling the moat anew.

  He smiled as he flew, for such weather-working was a costly affair that could drain whole days from a consort’s life. He had judged Ramirus too proud to sit back and watch as his works were destroyed, and he had not been disappointed.

  At the heart of the hedge maze was an imposing manor house built in the northern style, a large and somber building with narrow windows and ivy-covered turrets. It seemed to Colivar that a vague pall of sorcerous irritation hung over it, thick in the humid afternoon air. He reclaimed his human form, brushed a bit of dirt from his black linen shirt, and tried not to let his amusement show as he climbed the great stairs to the entrance. But it would be a mistake to think that the challenge was over merely because he had reached his destination safely. Magisters played a longer game.

  The front doors opened at his approach with no human hand to guide them. A whisper of energy, sent to greet him, beckoned for him to follow it. Colivar expended enough athra to confirm its purpose and—when he was satisfied as to Ramirus’ intentions—let it lead him deep into the house. Shadowy halls were punctuated by thin beams of dusty sunlight, a setting oddly reminiscent of King Danton’s depressing keep. You served Aurelius for too long, Ramirus. He thought it loudly, just in case his host was trying to read his thoughts. It has soured your taste.

  The chamber at his journey’s end was a study of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing book, scrolls, and even a few clay tablets. Colivar resisted the impulse to identify the latter with his sorcery. Such tablets could be items of great age, and therefore of great value, or they could simply be another test, a trick, one last temptation for him to waste his power before negotiations began.

  Ramirus stood when he entered; it would be hard to say whether his stern expression was meant to communicate respect or distaste. Probably both, Colivar thought. He looked much the same as he had the day King Danton had banished him—long white hair and beard flawlessly groomed, ebony robe falling in graceful folds, expression darkly serene. And why not? Danton was dead now, along with a good part of his family. Ramirus probably considered it divine justice. Even a high king should think twice before insulting a Magister.

  “Colivar. What a surprise.” Ramirus’ tone was dry. “I would offer you refreshment, but I find myself lacking anything . . . appropriate.”

  The black-haired Magister chuckled. “Poison’s all in the moat, eh?”

  A cold smile flickered across those ancient lips. Age was an art form to Ramirus, each line and wrinkle applied to his face with the meticulous care of a master painter. It was more than mere aesthetic conceit, Colivar knew. Even by Magister standards Ramirus was said to be old, and for such a man the trappings of physical age were a badge of honor. Even with his eyes hooded by folds of flesh like fine aged vellum, the piercing clarity of his gaze was undiminished. “I would not insult a visitor in such a manner.” The velvet words masked a razor’s edge. “Not one who comes in peace.”

  Colivar bowed his head ever so slightly. “You no longer serve the Aurelius, so we have no reason to be enemies.”

  “Indeed. No more than any two Magisters. Which is not saying much, is it?” He peered at Colivar, studying him closely, as one might do with some strange winged creature that had flown in the window of its own accord, trying to assess whether or not it could be trusted not to make a mess on the rug.

  “Please have a seat,” he said at last.

  Colivar did so, guessing at the chair his host favored and, in a rare show of graciousness, choosing another. “You go without a patron these days, I hear.”


  “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply discreet about my business.” Again he smiled, ever so briefly. “It is not a quality I expect you to understand.”

  The windows were cloaked in heavy curtains, Colivar noted, shutting out the sun. A single amber lamp struggled in vain to illuminate the gloomy chamber. Either Ramirus had absorbed too much of Danton’s aesthetic while he worked for the man, or he wished to protect the contents of the room from the damaging effects of sunlight. Which implied that the scrolls and tablets surrounding them were ancient, and probably quite valuable. If so, it was an impressive collection.

  “So,” Ramirus said, sitting down opposite Colivar in a leather-bound chair that creaked beneath his weight. “What brings you to my domain? Besides a desire for social pleasantries, of course.”

  He was smooth, Colivar thought. So smooth. You could never get past that smoothness to read what was in his heart, not unless he wanted you to. That was what made the game so interesting with him.

  “I was curious as to whether you would be attending Salvator’s coronation.”

  A muscle along the Magister’s jaw tensed slightly. “I have not yet decided.”

  “I hear it’s going to be quite the spectacle.”

  Ramirus shrugged. “I tire of Aurelius spectacles.”

  The shrug was too casual, the tone too dispassionate. You are still involved with that family, Colivar observed. That is interesting.

  “If that is all you came to learn,” Ramirus continued, “you could have sent a letter. The answer would have been the same and the delivery would have cost you considerably less.”

  “Perhaps I enjoy your company.”

  “Of course,” Ramirus said pleasantly. “And perhaps tomorrow the sun will rise in the west.”

  Now it was Colivar who smiled. “I could make it so, if it pleased my host.”

  “Indeed. I would not put it past you to try. Though I imagine even your formidable power has its limits.” Ramirus dismissed the thought with a sharp wave of one hand. “You came here to talk to me, Colivar, so speak your mind. I have little taste for pointless pleasantries these days. And be forewarned, if I find your query is not worth my time I may yet charge you for your damages to my estate.”

  Colivar leaned back in his chair. It was a posture designed to look casual, collegial, but the intensity of his gaze rendered it something quite different, and he knew that Ramirus would recognize it for what it was: the stillness of a predator. “You recall the day the Souleater appeared, yes? Outside Danton’s palace?”

  Ramirus nodded; one corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Hard to forget.”

  Stained glass wings filtering the sun, knife-edged whip-tail slicing through air and flesh with equal ease, agonizing beauty wrapping itself around a man’s soul . . . Colivar shook off the memory with effort. “As I recall, your arrival at the site with a Guardian by your side was rather . . . serendipitous. Rather incredibly so, to be frank. I find myself . . . curious.”

  One white eyebrow arched upward. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

  “It never hurts to ask.”

  “Knowledge has its price, Colivar.”

  “I did not say I expected it to be free.”

  Ramirus steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Dust motes stirred in a thin beam of light beside him. At last he said, “The hawk. The one that fought the Souleater outside Danton’s palace. What happened to it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Think what you like. It fell in battle and was gone by the time I went looking for it. I know no more of its destiny than you do.”

  “And its true identity?”

  “A witch, apparently. I have only guesswork on that count, the same as anyone. But it seems the likely answer.”

  Ramirus nodded. “Then here is the answer to your own question. Fadir came to me and asked for help in manipulating Danton. I realized that the only person capable of that—if anyone was—was his wife, the High Queen Gwynofar. And she . . .” His expression darkened slightly. “Let us say she had good reason not to approach her husband at the time. So I sought out the one person she trusted most, her half-brother Rhys, and transported him to the High King’s estate to meet with her, arriving what I hoped was far enough from the palace that Kostas would not sense my presence there. Where the battle you cited was already engaged. So you see, Colivar, no strange coincidence there, simply two roads leading off from a single point that converged a short while later of their own accord. The ‘serendipity’ of timing simply betrays their common source.”

  For a long time there was silence as Colivar considered the parameters of their exchange. At last he said, “The hawk was a woman. Whether she was witch or Magister I am unsure—obviously the latter is highly unlikely—but she was an accomplished shape-shifter, as you saw.” He hoped that would be enough to satisfy Ramirus. Clearly it was not. The cool blue eyes were merciless. For several long minutes Colivar studied him, trying to gauge just how much he would have to offer the man and just how much the information he got in return would be worth. His opponent waited patiently, the faintest flicker of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Win or lose, he clearly enjoyed the game.

  Finally Colivar said, “I believe she was the one responsible for Prince Andovan’s illness. As well as the death of that idiot Magister in Gansang—Raven, or Flamingo, or whatever his name was.” Ramirus’ expression remained stonelike, impassive, but Colivar thought he saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “And then she was gone, before I could test those suspicions. I have not seen her since.”

  “The others all think that Raven’s killer is dead.”

  “Yes,” Colivar agreed. “I was the only one who knew the truth. Until now.”

  Ramirus nodded slowly, digesting his offering. As the Magisters measured such things, it was considerable. Finally, his lips set in a tight line, he nodded. “Rhys already knew of Danton’s decline, and of the queen’s precarious situation. When I asked him for help he told me there was nothing he could do. He said that no words existed that could convince Gwynofar to confront her husband in the manner I desired, and besides, he loved her too much to cause her that kind of pain.

  “Those seemed weak excuses to me at the time, but sorcery granted me insight. Apparently Rhys knew what Danton had done to his half-sister. He was afraid that if he went back there again he would lose himself to rage and do something truly terrible to the High King . . . something Gwynofar would suffer for, even more than she was suffering then.

  “I was trying to think of some argument that might change his mind when, all of a sudden, he stiffened in his saddle. For a moment his eyes lost their focus and his body shook as if from some sort of seizure. As I was summoning the power to counter it, the fit passed as suddenly as it had come.

  “Rhys looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes, which moments ago had been clear and bright, were now bloodshot and stricken.

  “ ‘The monster is here . . . I saw it . . . through her eyes . . .’ He stared at me in horror. ‘A Souleater.’

  “I did not know at the time that such a creature had returned to the world, you understand, so I imagined that some dark vision had possessed him. But the distinction hardly mattered. He was convinced that the High Queen was in great danger and he begged me take him to her immediately. Which I did. The rest you know.”

  Colivar drew in a sharp breath. “Witchery?”

  Ramirus shook his head. “What I saw that day was not simple witchery. Nor do I believe that Gwynofar consciously chose to send a message to her brother—and he very clearly did not expect to receive one.” He folded his fingers one by one as he spoke. “It is said the gods of the north once promised that if the Souleaters ever returned, the Protectors would awaken to some special power. I believe that is what I saw happening. I believe that in her moment of need, Gwynofar Aurelius tapped into some ancient formula whose name we do not even kno
w, and used it to call Rhys to her. Clearly there is some kind of metaphysical connection between them. It may be a connection she shares only with him, or with her family, or even with all of her bloodline. There is no way to tell at this point. Rhys apparently no longer remembers his vision, and Gwynofar was never aware of sending it. Whatever power the gods once hid deep within their blood, it has returned to hiding once more. Not all my sorcery could pry it out afterward.”

  Colivar’s expression was grim. “If it is as you say, it is an ominous sign.”

  Ramirus nodded. “Yes. It is that.”

  “If the Souleaters are returning—”

  “The northern gods seem to think they are, if ancient legends are to be believed. If not, then some new sort of power has come into the world. Either way things will be . . . interesting.”

  Colivar’s mouth twitched. “That is a bit of an understatement.”

  Ramirus shrugged. “What are we but spectators? The centuries pass slowly. Mysteries have value. The world changed slowly once, and now it quickens its pace. Only the morati need fear such things.”

  “Perhaps,” Colivar said quietly. “But do not forget what the Souleaters once did to this world. There are parts of that tale which even a Magister should fear.”

  Ramirus leaned forward; his voice, now a whisper, was strangely fierce. “And do you remember those times, Colivar? Not as other men do, who learn of such things from minstrel tales and dusty tomes, but perhaps from knowledge of a more . . . personal nature?”

  Colivar drew in a sharp breath. “No Magister existed during the First Age of Kings. You know that as well as I do, Ramirus. The last Souleaters disappeared long before the first of our kind entered the world.”

  “Indeed. Yet some say you know more than any man alive about the creatures. More than a living man should be able to know. Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps I am simply old enough to have lived in a time when men remembered more.”

  “And perhaps I am sharp-witted enough to know that for—what was that charming phrase you once used?—camel dung.”