Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  “I cannot preserve your life past its natural span,” he said gently. “But I will help you as I always have, in other things. Those favors which my kind has provided for you, you will have so long as you walk this earth. I promise you that.”

  “And when I need you?” she whispered. “What then? I have no way to call for help.”

  Her words were a sudden reminder of something he had forgotten. Something they all had forgotten. It took all his self-control not to let the shock of that realization show on his face.

  She had tokens from all her sorcerous lovers. Personal items which could be used to call to them . . . or to focus less benign spells upon them, if she so desired. What would become of that collection when she died? Which of the Magisters would get to it first? In the secret and subtle wars that sorcerors waged against one another to fend off the ennui of immortality, such a collection was beyond price.

  She did not have Colivar’s token any longer. He remembered that now. She had used it to call him to her when the messenger from Corialanus had brought news of the Souleater, and he had never replaced it. So he was safe. The same could not be said for the others.

  “I will keep in touch,” he promised softly. His mind raced as he tried to figure out where she would have stored such a thing and what sort of magical defenses might surround it. “If you need me I will know it, and I will come to you.”

  The black eyes filled with gratitude. For a moment she hesitated, then she embraced him. Tangling her fingers in his long hair as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Clutching him with all the desperate strength of a drowning woman. And when he put his arms about her in turn, she wept. All the fear and uncertainty seemed to come pouring out of her in deep, gut-wrenching sobs. He was tempted to use his sorcery to blunt the edge of her emotions, but then he thought, No. Do not toy with her as you would with a common morati. She deserves better than that. And so he held her until the flood tide finally receded of its own accord. Until she broke the embrace of her own volition, and stepped back from him.

  “I am so sorry, Colivar . . .” Wrapping her arms about her, hands tucked out of sight, she breathed the words. “This is not your burden.”

  He conjured a handkerchief and used it to wipe the tears from her face. “You have nothing to apologize for. Save perhaps befriending men who are not worthy of you.”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded. He could see her trembling now, as she struggled to regain her composure. But it was clearly a losing battle. Finally she looked up at him, her wide eyes pained, and said, “Colivar, this is all too much to deal with. Your coming today . . . I was not prepared. Would you . . . would you understand if I said I needed to be alone for a while? To process all this? I am so sorry. . . .”

  “No need to apologize,” he answered quickly. He kissed her gently on the forehead one last time, feeling her shudder beneath the contact. So much pain. So much fear. He genuinely wished he could do something to help her.

  “I will be back,” he promised her. Whispering other things as well, to soften the edge of his departure.

  But his focus was no longer upon her sorrow, and when he finally got far enough from the palace to be sure that she was not watching him, he crafted a tendril of power to go search for her tokens. He gave it an hour to do its work. It turned up nothing. Oddly, that pleased him.

  The fact that she is merely a witch does not mean she is foolish, he thought.

  He wondered how many others of his kind would have to learn that lesson the hard way.

  You should have ripped his throat out with your teeth.

  The Souleater’s indignation was so powerful that for a moment it was as if Siderea could indeed taste Colivar’s blood on her lips. Sweet, sweet blood! How she hated him, and all his kind! It had taken all her art not to let that hatred show while Colivar was here. Not to let him guess the truth.

  Our territory! Inviolate! The Souleater’s thoughts were a storm within her. Not voiced in human language at their source, those thoughts, but translated somewhere within her own brain so that she might understand them. The process was becoming more and more natural to both of them as time went on, but no more gentle.

  It is all good, she thought back to the creature. Trust me.

  A hot wave of anger enveloped her. She no longer feared such onslaughts, but let the bestial emotion surge freely through her, drowning out her human instincts. It was the stuff of life that transferred power from the Souleater’s flesh to her own, and she welcomed it as she would welcome the embrace of a lover.

  Trust me, she whispered to her winged consort when the worst of the hate-storm finally subsided. The power in her own soul was so strong now that she could feel its heat tingling in her fingertips. What sorcery could the Magisters possibly wield that was the equal of the Souleater’s vitality? Poor, doomed souls, wrapped in their black shrouds, imagining themselves invincible! Someday she would beckon to them and they would come to her, tearing each other to pieces in the hope of being allowed to touch her. Sweet, sweet vengeance!

  Trust me, she whispered again to her consort. Soothing thoughts. Loving confidence.

  He trespassed! He offended!

  And he will pay for it, she promised.

  She opened her hand and gazed with satisfaction upon the long black hairs that lay across her palm, tangled between her fingers.

  “All in good time,” she whispered.

  Chapter 16

  AS THE butterfly’s wings fanned slowly up and down they began to change color. First the orange spots along the outer edges grew larger and darkened, then they transformed into deep violet patches. Next, two white streaks radiating out from each side of its body merged into one and then curled back upon themselves, forming intricate knotwork designs along the base. Following which the tiny white spots on the creature’s body began to move about as well, gathering into rosettes reminiscent of a leopard’s coat, a strange configuration for an insect.

  The butterfly sipped from its flower once more, seemingly oblivious to its amazing transformation. Then it beat its wings quickly and was borne aloft on the breeze to be swept away from them.

  “So your witchery will work here?” Rhys asked.

  “So it seems.” Kamala would have liked to test her sorcery against some larger template before entrusting a human life to it again, but no real witch would waste athra like that. Until she was ready to let her true status be known she would have to limit herself to the sorts of tests that a real witch might enact.

  She looked back at Rhys. The fact that they had gotten out of Alkali territory safely—and were now beyond the range of the Wrath’s corrupting influence—had done little to improve his spirits. There was an emptiness in his eyes that made her shiver, as if a part of his soul were now gone. Her gentlest touch received no response at all, or if it was noticed, was simply shrugged off. She had watched him lie awake in the moonlight for many nights now, and wished that she could do something to sooth his spirits. But she had not been willing to take a chance on how the Wrath might warp her spells. Now that sorcery was possible again, she didn’t know where to begin. What did you do to help a man who had lost his gods?

  They had made love once. If it could be called that. When they had traveled far enough south that the screams of the Wrath could no longer be heard, and had stolen enough sleep to restore their strength, he had awakened in the depths of the night and reached out for her, and she, stirred by the same wordless need, had responded. Life calling out to life, in the shadow of destruction. It was quick and desperate and when it was done he lay in her arms shivering, and she understood why. No words were offered, nor any asked for. Some things defied the bounds of language.

  In the morning they had saddled up their horses and started on their way once more. They never spoke of that night. He never touched her again. Now and then she thought she saw something flickering in the depths of those empty eyes, a tiny spark of human emotion that was struggling to break through to the surface.
But because she didn’t know how to fan it properly—or if should be fanned at all—she let it be.

  He had not slept since then, and was clearly exhausted, but perhaps he deemed that better than nightmares.

  Gazing at the land ahead of them now—windswept plains cloaked in tall grass, with patches of dense brush, a different universe entirely than the land that surrounded the Spear—he told her, “You don’t have to do this for me.”

  “It’s safe here,” she assured him. “My spells will work properly now.”

  “Safe for me. Not for you.” The tiny spark flickered in his eyes for a moment, a brief defiance. “We do not ask our witches to give up their life-essence for us unless there is no other choice.”

  “You didn’t ask for it,” she pointed out.

  “Transporting someone costs you dearly, does it not?”

  “It costs much soulfire.” In fact, the transportation of living creatures was one of the most costly tasks in the sorcerous lexicon. Removing a sentient being from one place and materializing him in another with all his living systems intact—not to mention his memories—was the ultimate test of any sorcerer. Or any witch, for that matter. The cost in athra was immense. The slightest mistake could be fatal. “But that is my concern, not yours.”

  She had already taken the necessary precautions. As soon as it had seemed that her powers were stable once more she had gone off by herself to burn out her current consort. Though she’d had no idea how much athra she had wasted in her struggle to shape-shift near the glen—or even how long the struggle had taken—she had felt she could not afford the risk of losing consciousness at some inopportune moment.

  It was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but she knew the theory of it well enough. Waste the athra in pointless exercises, drain one’s consort of the last of his life-essence, and force the next Transition to take place, claiming a fresh source of life. It took surprisingly little time to do; apparently her consort was nearly exhausted. A mere whisper of sorcery was all that was needed to drain him of what little energy was left. It was a humbling discovery. Truly, if she had not forced the issue now, when it was relatively safe to do so, she might well have lost her power in the midst of some more precarious procedure such as transportation. What happened to a sorcerer who lost control of his power when his physical body was nowhere? She shuddered to think of how close she had come to finding out.

  It is not enough to grab hold of immortality, Ethanus had taught her. One must be careful not to lose one’s grip.

  There had been a whisper of some other power in the area that she had sensed as soon as her own was restored. A spell of searching. Wary of any sorcery on a good day, downright paranoid at the current moment, she had turned it aside with care. Nothing here of any interest, she had told it. Whatever you seek, look elsewhere.

  “I am fully capable of riding home on horseback,” Rhys insisted. And indeed he seemed ready to try. But in his current state she doubted he would get very far. Stubborn male pride. It made men do foolish things just to prove that they didn’t need help. And the weaker they were, the more the game mattered to them. The eternal paradox of the male psyche.

  “Try it,” she said with equal stubbornness, “and I will pick you up off your horse to send you home, and that will cost me more soulfire in the end. Is that what you want?”

  He gritted his teeth and shook his head and looked like he was going to argue with her further but then, with a sigh, he surrendered. Arguing with her required energy and right now he had very little to spare. “What do you need from me?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Home.” He whispered it. “To make my report. That is my duty, is it not? A Guardian is a creature of duty.”

  She had to ask. “How much will you tell them?”

  “I don’t know.” His gaze was dark and empty. “Do I serve them best by telling them truth? Revealing that their heritage is a sham? That their ancestors’ grand self-sacrifice was in fact a hideous atrocity? How will they do battle with the Souleaters then, knowing that? What will they draw upon for strength?” He sighed heavily. “I won’t know until the words come out of my mouth, I think.”

  “I’m sorry.” She whispered the words. “I wish I could help you.”

  “You have done more than I would ever have asked for. You know that.”

  She was not used to people being grateful to her; it stirred uncomfortable emotions. “I will need something to link you to the place you want to go, as I’ve never been there. Some sort of physical relic to help anchor that end of the spell.”

  “Anukyat’s men took all my supplies. Including my focus for the meetinghouse. Does that mean you can’t send me there?”

  “Probably not. I’m sorry.”

  Cursing softly under his breath, he began to pat down his clothing, as if trying to remember what he still had on him. As one hand brushed across his chest he felt something lying beneath the bloodstained fabric. Fumbling inside the neck of his shirt, he pulled out a leather cord he wore as a necklace with a small stone threaded on it. He held it in his hand for a moment, his eyes shut; clearly it had memories attached. Then he took it off and handed it to her. “Will this do?”

  The pendant was a small river rock with a natural hole through the middle. Anukyat’s men had clearly not deemed it significant enough to steal from him. “What is its significance?”

  “Gwyn gave it to me, years ago. For luck.” He laughed bitterly. “You see how well it worked.”

  “Where did that happen?”

  “In Kierdwyn. The Lord Protector’s keep.”

  “It might take us there, then. “ She turned it over in her hand, considering. The thing had no natural power, but many people ascribed good luck to such formations. “Or it might take us to wherever she is now.”

  “Either will do,” he said quietly.

  “We will have to leave the horses behind.” As a sorcerer she could transport them easily enough, in fact, but no true witch would waste that much vital energy.

  For once he did not argue with her, but simply nodded.

  “There is good forage here, and with luck they will find their way home in time. Or perhaps they will choose to stay here, without human masters.”

  He limped over to where the horses were waiting and carefully removed their last few bits of tack. She could see him wince once as he had to reach higher than his wounded arm wanted to go, but he would not ask her for help. Male pride.

  “Rhys, let me tend to your wounds now.”

  He shook his head. “There will be healers when we get home. You have wasted too much life on me already.”

  “That is my choice to make, Rhys.” When he did not respond she added, “Please.”

  He hesitated, then sighed and nodded.

  Slowly, carefully, she untied the neck of his bloodstained shirt and pushed it back over his wounded shoulder so that she could see where the Alkali arrow had pierced him. The joint was stiff and it clearly pained him to move it, but the hole was clean and it was healing fairly well. Silently, secretly, she bound a bit of sorcery to speed up the process and ease the pain, but no more was necessary. Then she gestured for him to take a seat on a nearby tree stump and waited while he rolled up one leg of his breeches, so that she could look at the gash in his leg. As she had suspected, that wound was not doing well. Hard riding had kept it from closing properly and the surrounding flesh was red and swollen; a thick yellowish fluid had oozed out from one corner of the gash, and dried blood had crusted along its edges. She could see him biting his lip when she inspected it, trying not to admit how much it pained him to have it touched. Not good. Not good at all.

  She drained the malevolence from the ugly wound, drawing out the poisons that were festering deep inside it. Then she used sorcery to weave the edges of the torn flesh back together, starting from the deepest point and working outward, toward the surface of his body. And she communicated to his body that all was well, so that the blood inflaming th
at region would disperse and the swelling subside.

  Physical healing was easy enough. What she did not know how to do was attend to the wound in his soul.

  When the scars of battle had been dealt with, she directed her attention to his self-inflicted wounds. Thus far he hadn’t let her touch them, or even look at them, and she was afraid for a moment that this would still be the case. But apparently he no longer had the strength—or perhaps the heart—to resist her efforts. Numbly, he pushed the bloodstained sleeves up his arms so that she could take a look at his handiwork.

  His arms were a gruesome sight. Reddened flesh was cross-hatched with shallow cuts and covered with streaks of dried blood. Gently she brushed her fingers down the length of his arms, one at a time, using sorcery to cleanse the wounds, wondering at the meaning of the mysterious shapes he had copied. Strange angular figures covered every inch of his left arm in jagged, uneven rows. He had tried to etch a few figures into his right arm as well, when he’d run out of space, but the latter attempt had been far less successful.

  For a long, silent moment she studied the strange shapes, binding enough sorcery to be sure they were burned into her memory forever. Then she took his left arm in her hands. It was stiff and painful and she handled it gently, summoning soulfire to her as she stroked the wounded skin once more with her fingertips.

  “Leave the scars there,” he ordered her. “Just like they would have healed on their own, without witchery.”

  She didn’t point out to him that such self-mutilation was no longer necessary. She could easily summon a tablet for him to write on, to copy the precious signs, so that they could safely be erased from his flesh. But that wasn’t what this was about, for him. There were other wounds inside Rhys, soul-deep wounds, that required pain for healing. To be scarred by his journey was somehow part of that formula. She didn’t understand why—she wasn’t sure he did either—but for now, she simply urged the cuts to scar over until they were no longer a series of swollen and infected gashes, but neatly fashioned ridges of reddened scar tissue: a surreal calligraphy.