I saved you, she thought to the creature, despairing. Will you not do the same for me?
A final shudder of pain coursed through her body as she shut her eyes. Her limbs seemed to be distant things, no longer her own, but impersonal objects, controlled by another. She flexed the fingers on her good hand, trying to banish the strange feeling, but it persisted. She tried to flex her injured wing but the sharp edges of the fractured struts cut into the flesh surrounding them, making the slightest move agony. The wing had to be laid out properly, she knew that. It would heal if it were laid out properly, and not otherwise. Gritting her teeth, she struggled to stretch out the part of it which had not been wholly shattered, and finally, keening softly in pain, she managed to get perhaps half of it spread out upon the earth. No more was possible.
Sunlight. Warm, welcoming, intoxicating sunlight. Sunlight such as this creature has never known it. Born in shadow, raised in shadow, imprisoned in shadow. Waves of light beat down upon her wings now, warming her blood, soothing her pain, quelling her fear. Her heart strengthens within her chest as sun-warmed blood fills it, driving the healing power outward to every fiber of her flesh. Even her damaged wing trembles as the warm blood flows through it, throbbing with fresh vitality. But sunlight cannot reach the parts that need the healing most, nor fix into their proper place fragments of bone that are all askew. Keening in frustration, she tries again to move the damaged wing, which starts it bleeding again. Precious healing fluid trickling down upon the ground, where the magic is worthless—
Siderea opened her eyes. For a small eternity she just lay there, unmoving, her cheek resting against the creature’s tail, feeling the warmth of the sunlight course through her flesh. The creature’s flesh. Was this some strange dream that preceded death? If not . . . then what? She tried to rise up and, to her amazement, was able to do so. Her wounded arm still ached, but the pain was no longer blinding; she swayed for a moment on her feet, then they were steady beneath her. Far steadier than they should have been, given her condition. The sunlit world seemed bright again. Her senses were functioning.
She was healing.
She took one step, and then two, and at last, when she was sure that she was steady enough to walk, began to work her way around the Souleater’s body. She could see where one set of wings had been splayed out across the earth; shimmering highlights ran up and down their length each time the creature drew in a breath. They were not like the wings of the other Souleaters, but longer and fuller, with veils of shimmering membrane trailing down from their lower edges. Fairy wings, she thought, as she watched them shimmer cobalt and violet in the sunlight. Strangely, madly beautiful.
The creature turned her head to follow her, black eyes watching as she made her way around to the other side. There . . . there was the damage. One of the main struts, a slender bone that swept out from the creature’s shoulder to the outermost tip of its wing had been fractured in at least a dozen places. Razor-edged shards of bone had cut into the tender membrane, leaving parts of it in tatters; the whole of that wing was crusted with blood. The Souleater had paid a heavy price for its escape.
Siderea crouched down before the broken limb and slowly, carefully, began to work the pieces back into position. Dark red blood slicked her hands, making it hard for her feel what she was doing; she wiped them off on what was left of her riding gown and continued. The Souleater keened softly as she worked, clearly in pain, but it made no move to stop her. It understood that she was trying to help.
Finally all the bits of bone were lined up in roughly the proper configuration, and the torn membrane smoothed down into position as best as it could be. As she stepped back and looked at her handiwork, Siderea realized that her own arm had stopped bleeding. Apparently she had healed herself, without even realizing it.
Her power had returned.
Hesitantly—oh, so hesitantly!—she summoned the supernatural vision that she would need to look within herself. That she was able to do so at all told her volumes about her condition; a mere hour ago such a thing would have been impossible. Heart pounding, she turned her witch’s vision inside herself, seeking the fire that burned at the center of every human soul. The source of all life, all witchery.
And she gasped as it came into focus. No longer merely a dying flame which any metaphysical breeze might extinguish, but true soulfire, steady and strong. There was no mistaking the change, or its significance; dying witches did not possess such energy.
For a long time she just stared at the Souleater. A distant part of her brain remembered that it was one of the most feared creatures on the face of the earth whose cousins had once brought human civilization to its knees. She should rightly fear it. Any sane person would.
She had passed beyond sanity long ago.
Hands trembling—from exaltation now rather than fear—she tore a length of fabric from the hem of her gown and began to clean the damaged wing. She could sense the creature flinching in pain as she rubbed off the crusted blood and filth, but it made no protest. It needed sunlight on its skin to heal. As each new inch of membrane was exposed she could feel the sun’s heat seeping into it, warming the creature’s blood . . . and her own.
I will be whole again, she thought, awed by the revelation.
Finally, she had done all she could. She stood back and watched the Souleater in silence for a moment or two, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she rested, sunlight playing across the wounded wing in ripples of azure and violet. What a strangely beautiful creature she was, Siderea thought. The ancient legends spoke only of terror and death, and hinted at strange mesmeric powers, but said nothing about beauty. Little wonder that men had been mesmerized by these creatures when they first appeared in the sky. Little wonder that it had been so hard for them to muster any real defense against them.
Slowly, carefully, she lay down beside the Souleater, resting her head against its shoulder. She could feel the thrumming of its heart against her cheek, a strong and steady beat now, slowing gradually as the great creature slipped into sleep. Closing her eyes, she tried to let go of all the tension of the past few days—and all the pain of the last few hours—and just lose herself in its musky-sweet perfume. Gradually, her own heartbeat slowed to match the pulse of the creature; the rhythm of her breathing stilled to match the Souleater’s own.
And the sunlight warmed her wings as they slid into sleep.
Chapter 14
KAMALA COULD hear the screaming in her sleep. Or at least she had two days ago, when she had last slept. The best she’d been able to do since then was to lie on the ground with her eyes closed, waiting for dawn to come. Rhys seemed to think that it was important they do at least that much, even though she was pretty sure that he wasn’t sleeping either. The body must rest, he told her, even if the mind could not.
Gods alone knew what the horses were going through.
Rhys said they should not have started hearing the screams yet. The fact that they were doing so was apparently another sign that something was seriously wrong in this region, and the cause of it was surely only a few day’s travel ahead of them. He said that one used to be able to approach the Wrath quite closely before the death-screams became audible. And the pain-screams. And the hunger-screams. The Guardians used potions to counteract the effect but all his potions had been left behind at Anukyat’s citadel. Along with his maps.
Shivering, Kamala turned over in her leafy bed, wishing she could have a single hour’s peace in which to sleep. But that could not be managed by any means the Guardians knew of, and of course sorcery was out of the question this close to the Wrath. A spell for silence was as likely to melt her eardrums as it was to do anything useful.
Daring to open one eye, Kamala saw that the sun was rising at last. With a weary sigh she sat up and saw that Rhys was already up and about, checking on the horses that were tethered near the stream. Long leather leads would allow them to drink freely and graze on the thick summer grass nearby at will—assuming they calmed down
enough to do so. Did the horses hear human screams also, Kamala wondered, or were their nerves being stretched to the breaking point by some equine equivalent? Perhaps the sound of other horses being tortured to death? As the animals paced restlessly at the farthest reaches of their thin leather leads, it was patently clear that all their instincts were crying out for them to break free and run from this place as if all the demons of all the hells were after them. Thus far only Rhys’ quiet mastery had kept them from doing so. How much longer would that last?
“That won’t hold them,” she said. “Not if they really want to go.”
Rhys looked over at her. He had stopped shaving days ago, and his jaw was speckled with stubble. Didn’t trust his own hand with a knife anymore, he’d said. “It’s not meant to.” He came back to the campsite and knelt down by the brush beds they had assembled the night before. “If they panic so badly that it drives them to break the leads, then it’s time for them to go. Prey animals can only remain here so long before their minds snap. Predators last a bit longer.” He handed her the pack with the food in it. “Ugly thing to see, an insane horse. Best they should escape the place before that happens.”
“I take it we’re not riding today.” She tried to hand the pack back to him without opening it, but he wouldn’t take it. “I have no appetite in this place,” she protested.
“All the more reason to eat something.” He stared at her until she gave up with a sigh, and fished a hunk of cheese and a strip of salted meat out of the bag. He was right, damn it. “And yes, I think this is as far as the horses should go. I had some potions with me to calm their nerves down a bit—we use them often when we patrol this far north—but they’re gone now.” His expression hardened. He didn’t often speak of what had happened to him in the Citadel, but it was clear that Anukyat’s betrayal of the Guardians’ cause was something he could neither understand nor forgive.
He squatted down by her side and dug out a few strips of dried meat for his own breakfast. Nothing fancy today, nor anything that required preparation. His mind was elsewhere.
How like Andovan he looked right now, with the low-angled light of early morning setting his golden hair afire! When she had first noticed the resemblance she had thought it a quirk of her own sentiment, replacing the face of this warrior with that of her former consort and lover. But then one night Rhys had told her about his family history, so now she understood the truth. The same inheritance had molded them both; the same lyr blood ran in both their veins. Magical blood, he had told her. The stuff from which heroes were conjured.
Strange, how his voice became bitter when he said that. As if such an inheritance were a curse to him, rather than a gift. He was full of mysteries and bitterness, unlike the doomed prince who had been his nephew. That one had been half lyr as well, but it’d had no real meaning to him. His fate was meant to play out in the halls of kings, not in the lairs of monsters.
“So how close are we to this Spear thing?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Judging from the strength of the Wrath here, I would normally say less than a few hours’ journey, but who knows? The curse used to be much more isolated; one could actually come within sight of a Spear before feeling its full power. Now?” He shrugged. “We will be there before nightfall, that much I’m sure of. Or at least as close as we are able to get to it.”
“I thought the Guardians repaired these things. Surely you can’t do that from a distance?”
“There are the potions I told you of, and also special rituals, designed for that purpose. Sometimes the Magisters help with those, though you can tell how much they hate it. However, as I no longer have any of those things with me, we shall have to make do with simple courage.” He looked at her. “You don’t have to come all the way, you know. You can wait here until I return. There’s no shame in it.”
She could feel her expression harden. “I’m not a coward.”
“You’re also not a Guardian. You have no duty driving you.”
But I have my own reasons for being here, she thought. And they are as valid as yours.
“I will go as far as I can,” she told him. And clearly he had learned enough of her nature by now not to argue with her further.
They left their camp as it was, pausing only briefly to smother the fire so that the surrounding forest would be safe. Rhys wrapped some of the food in a linen cloth and tucked it into his pocket, and both of them took their water skins, but otherwise they left the supplies behind. The message was clear, and chilling: if they did not come back within a day or two, they would not be coming back at all.
Rhys had fashioned lances on their second day of freedom, stripping two long, straight boughs of leaves and then sharpening the tips. Hardened by fire, they now made excellent walking sticks, and they helped Kamala keep her balance as they worked their way up the rocky hillside. They climbed without speaking, but not in silence. The voices were always there. Screaming in pain. Warning them to flee. Bearing witness to a suffering more terrible than anything they had known in their lives. Or so it seemed to Kamala.
Directly ahead.
What exactly are these Spears? she had asked him during the first long day of riding. Why does so much depend upon them?
We don’t really know, he had told her. Tradition says that the gods cast them down from the heavens in the final days of the Great War, to affix a curse to the land. In the places where they struck the ground it was split open, and the blood of the Earth Mother spewed upward. When it cooled, it formed a shell about the Spear itself, protecting it. We keep the shells in good repair to protect what is inside them, so that the Wrath will remain strong and true, but I do not know of any man that has seen what is actually inside one, or heard any tale that hints at what they really are.
Terror.
Dark, cold waves of it. Rushing over her with a roar, filling her lungs, choking off her breath.
Go away! The voices screamed at her. Run! There is still time!
Magisters stirred in the shadows surrounding her, their fingers tracing signs in the air, weaving spells to entrap her. She refused to look at them. They were not real. The Wrath had summoned them once in a nightmare and now it had done so again in her waking moments, but they were still nothing more than an illusion that drew its strength from her deepest fears.
You don’t understand! the voices screamed. You can’t understand! Magic clawed at the inside of her head like a wild animal in a trap. Flee while you can! To stay here is death!
“Kamala!”
It took her a moment to sort out the one human voice from the cacophony. Rhys. She struggled to look at him—to focus upon him—and finally managed it. His own face was ghostly white, all color drained from it by the force of the supernatural assault. Did his lyr blood make him immune to the voices, did it quiet them enough that he could still think clearly? Or was he more sensitive to them than she was, more able to make out exact words and warnings, but somehow granted the spiritual fortitude to stand against them? His expression was dark and terrible, and for a moment she sensed how hard it was for him to focus on her when the source of the disturbance was right before them.
Then he took her hand and squeezed it. She shut her eyes and for a moment—a single moment—managed to focus her mind upon that contact, to draw strength from it.
Ahead of them was a vast plateau, flat and desolate. There were no trees within sight, only an endless tundra with a thin cover of scraggly grass punctuated by tangles of dry brush. In the center of it was a single butte, a flat-topped granite island rising up from a black and desolate sea. One whole side of it had been broken apart, leaving a huge concave gap in its side. Winter’s ice, perhaps, shattering the ancient stone.
Atop it was the Spear.
It stood twice as tall as a man, or perhaps even taller, a monument of mottled stone that seemed alien to everything around it. Its surface was a malformed, tortured shape, as if a cone of rock had somehow been stretched and twisted out of all natural proportion. It had
probably been located in the center of the butte at one point, but centuries of erosion had worn the structure away at its base, and now that one whole side of the butte had broken away, it no longer had the support required to sustain itself. The lower portion of one side had broken open, revealing a hollow interior. Some of the rocks that had fallen were suspiciously regular in form, Kamala noted. Bricks? Whatever lay beyond them, inside the spire, was hidden in darkness. Maybe that was because the sun was on the wrong side for visibility. Or maybe it would have been dark inside the thing regardless.
“Broken,” Rhys whispered hoarsely. Strangely, the terrible screaming that had been with them for hours now did not drown out human sound; Kamala could hear the clear note of disbelief that was in his voice. Whatever sort of damage the Guardians usually repaired, it was clearly nothing on this scale. “No wonder the Wrath was disrupted.”
“You can repair it, yes?” When he said nothing she pressed, “Isn’t that what Guardians do?”
He did not answer her, only stared at the thing for a moment longer, and then, with a grim look upon his face, began to make his way forward, toward the shattered spire. She wanted to follow him—she tried to follow him—but she could not make her body obey her. Every time she tried to force one of her legs to move, to take a step forward, the power of the Wrath would wash over her in a wave, and it took all her courage not to turn around and flee from the place in mindless terror. If she stood still, if she made no effort to approach, it was tolerable, albeit by a slim margin. Her whole body shook from the force of it, but at least she did not run away.
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