Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  “Queen Gwynofar is your half-sister, yes?”

  He used a stick to prod the woodpile so that air could flow freely through it. Tiny flames flickered beneath the pile of bark and branches. “It’s not Gwynofar who’s being crowned,” he pointed out. “And I’m certainly not needed for the ceremony.”

  “No, but it’s her son. A rather important day for her.” She dropped the bags down by the fire. “Horses are all taken care of,” she told him. “Ragnar hates this place, but he’s still eating.” Rhys nodded. Namanti’s mount was an ill-tempered creature who was clearly not pleased about their current journey. No surprise, really. He was a bulky animal, bred for hard work and trampling down enemies in battle, not meant to be dancing along cliff edges like a mountain goat. Rhys had been hoping Namanti would choose a more agile mount when they got closer to the Wrath, but for now she seemed determined to stick with this one. So he had to put off hoping that the unpleasant creature would lose its footing at the edge of a cliff. At least while she was riding it.

  Namanti sat down cross-legged on the ground beside him and began to unpack their evening meal: salted meat, hard cheese, a small portion of dried fruit, and two hard, dry cakes from Skandir that she said would help keep them strong. The latter were clearly an acquired taste, but the fortitude of Skandir warriors was renowned throughout the Protectorates, and they always seemed to carry the miserable things with them, so Rhys ate one whenever she offered it. With a good swig of ale to wash it down, of course. Or two.

  “My first duty was here,” he said, using his hunting knife to cut off a hunk of cheese. “Bringing the Souleater samples back to Master Favias, reporting to the Guardians what I’d seen. And now they need us to attend to the Spears. That’s much more important than attending a ceremony I have no part in.” Long tongues of flame were beginning to lick at the sides of the woodpile. He leaned back on his heels, watching them with satisfaction. “Gwynofar is lyra, she will understand.”

  Namanti nodded as she dropped down beside him, unplugging a waxed leather skin full of ale for herself. “So tell me why the Lady Protector tolerates your presence at her court. I admit I’ve always wondered.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re very inquisitive tonight.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a boring ride. Indulge me.”

  He sighed and for a minute just stared into the growing flames. They had traveled far enough north by now, and ridden high enough into the mountains, that the summer nights were growing chill; the warmth of the fire would be welcome when the sun finally went down. “I don’t know, Namanti. That’s the gods’ honest truth. I should be the last person she wants in her home, by any civilized measure—”

  “You earned her respect somehow? Or maybe charmed her with your good looks?”

  Rhys snorted and took another deep swig from his own skin. “Given that I was all of ten years old when she first saw me, I somehow doubt that.”

  “Even in Skandir, where it’s expected that a ruler will have his share of concubines, the children of such unions aren’t welcome in their father’s house. Laws of inheritance and all that. If bastards weren’t officially disowned, then the whole system could fall to pieces. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Then it’s fortunate I’m not from Skandir, isn’t it?” He took a bite of the hard, dry cake and quickly washed it down. It was better if he didn’t actually stop to taste it. “All I know is that I was still a child when a servant from the royal court showed up at our home, asking after me. My mother had always hinted that someone ‘of rank’ was responsible for my birth, so I assumed it a query from that mysterious personage. How proud I was, to have my father sending servants to ask after me, as though I were something more than the product of a night’s drunken debauchery!” He grimaced as he dislodged the last bits of Skandir cake from his teeth and swallowed them. “But he just looked me over rather distastefully, like one might do with an overripe melon in the market, searching for bruised spots, or maybe some sign of worms.” He paused. “It wasn’t until some time later that I found out the servant had been hers. Evaine Kierdwyn had just found out about the product of her husband’s indiscretion and wanted to learn for herself whether his seed grew true in peasant soil or not.” He drank deeply of the ale, letting it spread in warm waves out to his fingers and toes. “Had the Lord Protector not been lyr himself it would probably have not mattered to her at all . . . but he was, you see, so it was all tied up in Protectorate tradition. A child with the ‘gift of the gods’ isn’t something you just forget about. Even if you really do wish it had never been born.”

  “Do you think that’s how she feels?”

  He hesitated before answering. “No. I don’t. It’s how she should feel—it’s how I would feel in her place—but she’s never shown any sign of it. She’s been nothing but gracious to me any time I visit. As if I were . . . something other than what I am.” Why did that make him feel so bitter? He took a long swallow of the ale, letting the skin hide his expression from her view. “Mostly I try to stay out of her way. Though Favias does rather seem to enjoy sending me to court with his messages. I think the situation amuses him.”

  “Would you have been welcome at the coronation had you gone?”

  He stared into the distance for a moment. “Salvator will become High King with or without me there to watch. It’s just as well I had other business. And what would my place be there, anyway, amid all the crowned heads and their retinues? A guest of Gwynofar, taking up space in a palace that should be reserved for the High King’s most valued vassals? Or perhaps banished to the far reaches of the field, as my social station merits, too far away to be any more part of the proceedings than a house servant would be, or a local peasant hawking his wares.” He capped the skin, put it down on the ground beside him, and sighed. “My duty is here. Gwynofar will understand. Anyway . . .” He smiled faintly. “The last thing Salvator needs right now is an illegitimate half-uncle wandering around the palace.”

  How reasonable it sounded when he explained it that way, he thought. Almost enough to ease the ache in his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Just that, and then silence.

  It took him a minute to realize she had put her hand on his shoulder. A companionable gesture, rather than intimate. The kind of gesture a man might make. He shrugged it off.

  “I’m going to take a piss,” he said.

  She said nothing as he left the camp, making his way through the pine trees to where a small stream flowed softly over the rocks. There he stood for a minute, eyes half shut, drinking in the sounds and the smells of the pine forest. Trying not to think about the event taking place hundreds of miles to the south of him and what might have happened had he attended it.

  Never mind, he told himself. Soon you will be near enough to the Wrath that you will long to be back among the civilized discomforts of Lady Evaine’s court.

  Kamala woke up suddenly.

  At first she thought it was an animal foraging nearby that had disturbed her sleep. She had cast a simple spell to keep the local wildlife from tripping over her during the night—what little wildlife there was in these cursed latitudes—but that didn’t mean some scrawny creature might not be making enough racket outside the spell’s border to wake her up. For a moment she lay very still, trying to tell if that were indeed the case. But whatever creature had awakened her was silent now. A smart move on its part, she thought. Especially with game as rare as it was these days. Yesterday’s field mouse had not been all that satisfying.

  No sound this time. Nothing that merely human senses might catch wind of. Still, without a doubt, something was out there.

  She lay frozen for a moment, not even breathing, straining all her senses to the utmost. But she heard nothing moving. No, less than that: she heard nothing at all. No breeze rustling through the trees, no insects scrabbling in the dirt, not even water flowing over the rocks in the stream just downhill from her. Nothing.

  A chill of pure dread ran
down her spine. Carefully, secretly, she gathered her athra to her, trying to look as if she were still half asleep so that whatever had silenced the natural sounds of the mountain landscape would think she was still unaware of its presence.

  And then a stick broke.

  She sat up suddenly, just in time to see the black-robed figure in the moonlight disappear again. The color of his clothing drank in the light, leaving no doubt as to his profession. A Magister. For a brief second their eyes met—just long enough for her to see that his were filled with hate—and then the night folded in around him and she could no longer see him at all. But he was still there. Oh, yes, she knew that for a fact. Her human senses could not locate him any longer, but now that she was fully awake her sorcerous sense could detect his handiwork. Spells had been wrapped about her campsite while she slept, she saw that now, layers upon layers of them, like the sticky web of a tent spider. The magical strands glowed fitfully, as if they’d been woven from some sickly power; no doubt that was the effect of the Wrath being so close by. If so, then the curse of the gods might have just saved her life, for she read clearly in the webwork surrounding her the baleful intent of its maker and knew that if the construct had been perfect, she would have slept until it was too late to save herself.

  She tried to transport herself away, focusing upon an apparent weak spot in the web for her directional focus. But her athra seemed slippery somehow and she could not control it. Was that the effect of the Wrath as well? Or was the spell surrounding her acting to constrain her sorcery?

  Shadows were beginning to stir on all sides of her now, and she knew with a sudden sinking feeling that there was more than one Magister present—many more. Apparently news of her crime had gotten out. How they had tracked her to this place she did not know, but one thing was certain: if she did not break free of their spell she was doomed.

  She tried to put on wings again, adopting that feathered form which had served her so well in the past few days. But the change was agony; hot needles pierced her joints as her bones cracked audibly, and the soft tissue of her body felt like it was on fire. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she struggled to force her flesh into the shape she desired. Never before had she come so close to losing control of her body . . . or her courage.

  They will not take me down without cost, she swore.

  They were coming into focus now, stepping forth from the shadows as they surrounded her, standing just outside the spell circle. So many Magisters! She did not have time to look for familiar faces; instead she leaped into the air as soon as her wings were stable, throwing herself at the high point of the barrier with all her strength, aiming for what seemed like a weak point in its structure. For a moment the sorcerous webwork entrapped her, and she struggled desperately to free herself. Must get out! The Magisters watched in silence. Must break through! Her claws scrabbled desperately at it, but to no avail. Finally it released her and she fell back to earth. Like a bird in a cage she began to panic, flying toward the barrier first in one place, then another, throwing the full weight of her body against the spell circle, ripping at it with her talons and her sorcery. Feathers flew from her shoulders. Blood dripped from her claws. But the encircling spell remained undamaged; she could find no place weak enough in its construction to allow her to break through, either by physical or metaphysical effort.

  And still they watched in silence. So many of them! Black-robed cannibals all of them, drinking in her desperation. She could sense the hunger in them as they watched her struggle. The hate. They were packed tightly about the spell circle now, in a crowd so many layers deep that she could not begin to guess how many Magisters were present. Truly, she would not have thought there were so many in all the world as seemed to be here now—and every single one of them had contributed his power to the spell that was her prison. Now that her senses were fully awake to its power, its glow was so bright that it burned her eyes to look upon it. And it seemed to be strengthened by her own efforts, brightening each time she tried to break free. It was stealing her power, even as she tried to save herself.

  Must get out! Must!

  Trembling with fear and exhaustion, she reclaimed her human flesh so that she might better control her sorcery. The skin of her arms appeared bruised and lifeless, and blood dripped from her fingertips. What was happening to her? The uncertainty of it was more unnerving than any direct assault would have been. Violence she knew how to deal with. Violence she knew how to answer. This . . . this she did not.

  The Magisters watched her, unmoving. They were chanting softly now, it seemed to her, but the language was one that she did not understand. Nevertheless she knew instinctively that they were voicing words of power, such as a witch might use to focus his athra before a major undertaking. But a Magister had no need of such tools. What in the name of all the hells was going on?

  Then she saw that the webwork about her was thickening, shifting, closing. Where there had been small open spaces before to offer her hope, slender strands of power now splayed like darning threads, drawing them inexorably shut. Desperately she gathered her athra to her and struck out at the baleful construct, directing all the force that was in her soul at the one point that seemed weakest but she could barely raise a whisper of power now, and the spell circle remained unharmed.

  “What do you want?” she gasped. “Tell me!”

  They continued their chanting. So many Magisters, joining their life energies together in one great effort . . . how could any one human being hope to stand against them?

  The last holes in the web were drawing shut. Strands of light began to assemble themselves into letters and words, all in a language she did not understand. It was hard to see anything beyond them. The webwork itself was dimming, but the letters remained clear. She tried in desperation to call up enough power to interpret them but the power would not come to her. Even worse, the glowing letters seemed to draw strength from her efforts, as though her own athra was feeding them. The spell that surrounded her was sucking all the power out of her soul. . . .

  “It was an accident!” she screamed. Or tried to. The tissues of her throat were dry and cracked and she could barely force out any sound, much less recognizable words. “I didn’t mean to kill him!” What little volume she could muster seemed to be absorbed by the glowing letters as well; they pulsed with light as they drifted toward her. The spell wall behind them was growing dark now and she could see nothing beyond it, only those unknown symbols that floated in the air before her, waiting for another offering of her life energy. Whatever power she raised to fight this thing it would absorb; whatever spells she cast to save herself it would devour.

  And then suddenly the last of the light was gone, the glowing letters sputtered out, and there was darkness. Panicked, she struck out toward the barrier, but her hands moved only a few inches before they hit solid stone. Reaching out in other directions, she found the same thing: rock on all sides of her, above and below as well, roughly carved and clearly not natural in its formation.

  She was entombed.

  Bleeding hands scraped against the unseen wall to no avail. She could feel something chiseled crudely into the rough surface. Letters. Surrounding her. Spells—powerful spells—that would slowly but surely steal all the life force that was in her and transform it into—

  What? What did they want? What was happening to her?

  Wordlessly, she screamed. Opened her mouth and let the terror pour out until the stone walls shook from the force of the sound and surely the animals beyond it would hear its echo and flee and—

  She was lying on a bed of leaves with no stone tomb enclosing her.

  No words of power.

  No Magisters.

  For a moment she just lay there, stunned, trying to absorb what had just happened. Her heart was pounding so hard that it seemed about to burst from her chest. Her whole body was drenched in a cold sweat. Her hands, her hands . . . she brought them up before her face and saw that they were undamaged. No blood. No blo
od.

  The sudden relief was more than she could handle; she rolled over on her side and retched. Long, shuddering spasms shook her as her body vomited up all the terror of the past hour. It seemed to go on forever.

  It was a dream, she thought when at last the fit was over. Lying on her side on the rocky ground, feeling as if she ought to kiss the soiled earth beneath her cheek, so glad was she to be back in the real world again.

  Then: No. It was more than a dream.

  She had never been prone to nightmares. Even in the darkest days of her childhood, which were filled with more pain than any young girl should have to endure, her sleep had been free from torments. Her brother used to awaken crying in the middle of the night, whimpering of monsters and darkness, but she never had. Her monsters had walked the earth during the day and paid with grimy coin for the right to abuse her; sleep had been her one true refuge.

  The Wrath was known to give men nightmares, she knew that. Indeed, she had expected to have bad dreams once she entered this area; it was a risk she’d accepted in order to follow the two Guardians. But this . . . this had been something more than a simple nightmare. She knew that for certain, without quite understanding how she knew. This was a vision that mattered. But what part was significant and what part was simply the product of her own fear? She had no idea how to begin to sort it all out. And yet it mattered. She knew that instinctively, in the same way she knew that the sun would rise every morning. It mattered.

  The Guardian would know what it meant, she thought. If only she dared ask him.

  Shivering in the chill dawn light, she wiped her face clean on a handful of grass and began to make her way down to the stream to wash herself.

  Chapter 8

  THE LAST time Colivar had seen Danton’s palace, the land surrounding it had been a study in devastation. Blackened earth and the charred skeletons of trees had stretched as far as the eye could see, and the smell of stale smoke and burned flesh had hung heavy in the humid summer air.