Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  Chapter 19

  “MAJESTY.”

  Gwynofar looked up to find that one of the royal pages had entered. A young lad who stood stiff and upright, trying to be worthy of the message he carried.

  “Yes, Petro?”

  “The High King asks that you please attend him.”

  Brow furrowed, she set aside her book and rose, smoothing her long skirts as she stood. Her maidservant rose as well, prepared to accompany her, but Gwynofar waved her back.

  It was odd for Salvator to send for her this way. Normally if he had something to say to her, he just came to wherever she was and did so. The formality of this request was disconcerting.

  The page led her to the threshold of an audience chamber overlooking the courtyard. Two guards with grim expressions flanked the double doors; one knocked upon a dark oak panel sharply before opening it, admitting her.

  Salvator was inside with one of his witches. That was not a good sign. Her son never relied upon mystical powers when mundane efforts would suffice. A woman was kneeling before him, her clothing torn and stained, and Gwynofar could see that she was trembling from fear and exhaustion.

  She wondered for a moment if perhaps Salvator was the cause of the woman’s distress, but as her son looked up to acknowledge her entrance, she could see in his expression that this was not the case. The anger in his eyes was focused on someone or something far beyond this room.

  While the door was still open, he waved for one of the guards to come in and attend to the woman on the floor.

  “See that our guest is given food and drink, and anything else she requires. With a guard by her door while she sleeps, if she desires it. She has come far, and done us a great service today.”

  He waited while the guards helped the woman out—how weak she looked, walking unsteadily between them!—and then he nodded for the witch to follow them as well. “Please, leave us.”

  The man bowed and obeyed, and shut the heavy door behind him, leaving Salvator and Gwynofar alone.

  The High King walked over to one of the room’s two sideboards, where an assortment of metal pieces had been laid out on a soiled woolen blanket. For a moment he just stood there, hands joined behind his back, gazing down at them.

  Finally he said, “Skandir has attacked one of our northern provinces.”

  Gwynofar drew in a sharp breath. “You are sure?”

  He nodded toward the chamber doors and the woman who had just passed between them. “That was a very tired and terrified messenger, but also an honest one. And fairly accurate, according to my witch. Her words ‘resonated with truth.’ Or so he said.”

  “Why on earth would Skandir attack the High Kingdom?”

  “Why indeed?” He did not look up as she came up to the table, but kept his eyes fixed on the pieces laid out before him. Knives and buckles, a man’s roundel belt, a worn leather bracer studded with iron bits, a set of brass bracelets, and several smaller pieces. “Mind you, they did not exactly announce themselves as being from Skandir. Three ships full of warriors fell upon the harbor town of Soladin without warning. They slaughtered nearly everyone who was there at the time, took what they wanted of the town’s possessions, and burned the rest to the ground.” His expression was hard. “This woman Yosefa, she says that fewer than two dozen survived by hiding on the outskirts of town. Fortunately they had the mental wherewithal afterward to collect what they could find of the warriors’ gear that had survived the fire. Apparently the locals had put up a good enough fight to take down a couple of the invaders, leaving us with the relics that you see here before you.”

  He gazed at the collection of objects a moment longer. And then, without warning, he swept his arm across the table and sent them flying across the room.

  Startled, Gwynofar stepped back quickly so as not to be hit by the falling debris. She knew Salvator well enough by now to guess at the cause behind his silent fury, to understand that it probably had as much to do with his own sense of failure as any external threat.

  He sees this as his fault, she thought. The weight of all those deaths is on his shoulders because he failed to prevent them. It was the teachings of his barbaric faith, reveling in guilt that prompted such feelings. How she secretly hated it! What good could come from any religion that tormented its worshipers so?

  Finally her son seemed to pull himself together enough to be able to speak again, though his voice was a strained and hollow thing. “Tell me why this happened, Mother. You are from the northlands. Tell me what this is about.” He shook his head grimly. “An army moving against the High Kingdom I might understand, but this—” He shook his head. “This makes no sense to me.”

  “I am not from Skandir.”

  “No, but you are from a Protectorate. Yes? All of them serving one great mission to the exclusion of all else. Isn’t that what you taught me, Mother? What was that mission supposed to be? Make ready to fight the Souleaters when they return! Let nothing come before that!” He gestured angrily towards the mess on the floor. “Well, the Souleaters are back now. And where are Skandir’s warriors? At my border, slaughtering my people. I want to know why.”

  “Perhaps they were not from Skandir.”

  “Oh, no. My witch used his power upon these relics and confirmed their source. Or is that not good enough?” he said angrily. “Should I consult another? Or sell my soul to a Magister, perhaps, to get better answers?”

  Gwynofar did not respond. Any discussion of Magisters was likely to spur on other angers, other frustrations, and that was one thing they did not need right now.

  Is Skandir doing these things because Danton is gone? she wondered. Do they doubt Salvator’s ability to guide this kingdom and mean to test his hold upon the border? Or is there some darker purpose here?

  “They were sea raiders once, you know.” Salvator’s voice was steadier now, but she could sense the effort it was taking to manage that. “They were the only army that came to the final campaign by ship instead of over land. After the Wrath appeared and victory was declared, they warred with Alkali for some time over who would control the coastal territories.”

  “That is ancient history,” she told him. “Those borders have been stable for centuries.”

  “And this was painted upon the sails of the ships that Yosefa saw.” He handed her a small piece of paper that had been crumpled in his hand. Cheap paper, with the figure of a strange creature drawn upon it. It had a serpentine body joined to a lizardlike head, the body folded back upon itself in a complex figure-eight pattern. “Do you recognize it, Mother?”

  She felt her heart skip a beat. “Mordi?”

  “The serpent of the open seas. War god of the early Skandir. Now absorbed into the northern pantheon with all the rest. But, oh, he must be hungry, after so many centuries without human sacrifice.”

  She looked up at him sharply. “That is quite a leap of logic, Salvator.”

  “Is it?” He leaned down and picked up one of the items on the floor: a wide brass bracelet inscribed with various patterns. “The woman Yosefa told me that when the raiders left her homeland, they took a number of captives with them. All children.”

  She shut her eyes and instinctively whispered a prayer to her gods. It was not something she normally did in Salvator’s presence, but this news required it.

  “The worshipers of Mordi used to sacrifice children to him before their battles,” Salvator said. “They believed that if they sated his hunger for blood before they engaged the enemy, he would not seek theirs on the battlefield. Now three ships appear in my kingdom with the mark of the Sea Serpent upon their sails and raid my lands not only for wealth, but for children.”

  “Those customs existed a thousand years ago,” she told him. Which of them was she trying to convince? “A god of the Dark Times, abandoned long ago.”

  “Maybe not, Mother. The Souleaters are returning, yes? Maybe the ancient gods are returning as well, and they are not such benevolent creatures as your people would like to believe. Nor wi
ll they be satisfied with a few drops of blood smeared onto trees. Not when war can loose rivers of blood to sate their hunger.”

  She could feel her expression harden. “Do not defame your own heritage, Salvator.”

  “What heritage is that?” he demanded. “The lyr gift, which will supposedly save us all? If so, it is well overdue, don’t you think? Or maybe you are referring to those self-proclaimed saviors of the material world, the Guardians of the Wrath. Freelance warriors who go where they wish and do whatever it strikes their fancy to do, knowing that the gods themselves will surely strike down any prince who dares to question them.”

  Anger flared hotly inside her. “You go too far, Salvator—”

  “Do I?” he demanded. “Or am I only saying what should have been said years ago? Maybe if someone had asked more questions at the beginning of all this, the gods would not have sent their demons back to us now. Maybe if your Guardians spent less time spilling blood to sate their idols, rather than facing the truth behind the legends, the Destroyer would not loose plagues among us now!”

  Speechless in her rage, Gwynofar whirled about and started toward the door. If she stayed a moment longer she would surely say things she would regret. But he grabbed her arm and jerked her back, his grip tight enough to cause her pain.

  “Behold your precious mission, Mother.” He held up the Skandir bracelet in front of her face. “Behold what your traditions have brought us!”

  For a moment she could not even focus upon the object, she was so enraged. She tried to jerk away from him, but his grip on her was too strong. Still he held the piece of jewelry before her face, demanding she look at it. Finally she did so, and he turned it in the light so that one by one its decorative images caught the light, ancient Skandir runes meant to inspire and protect the wearer—

  And then she saw it.

  The color drained from her face. Her legs lost all their strength. If not for Salvator’s grip on her arm, she would surely have collapsed.

  “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “It is,” he said. His own voice was shaking. Beneath the rage now she could now hear a subtle strain of some other emotion in it. Doubt? Fear? Her head was swimming. “The witch confirmed it.”

  Slowly, heart pounding, she took the bracelet from him. She turned it in the light so that she could see the terrible figure that was inscribed upon it. A shield with seven upright spears, bound together where they crossed.

  The symbol of the Guardians.

  “It must have been stolen,” she whispered. “Or . . . or . . .” Her voice failed her.

  Firmly but gently, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He waited until she looked up from the bracelet to meet his eyes once more, then said to her, very quietly, “No, Mother. I’m sorry. I thought that at first, too. So I had a witch test it. Twice over, in fact. To be sure.” He took the bracelet back from her. “This piece was last worn by a true Guardian who died by the sword in Soladin.”

  She shut her eyes for a moment. He urged her gently to the side a few steps, then placed her hand upon the back of a chair. She found its seat and lowered herself into it, trembling.

  “It makes no sense,” she whispered. “Why would Guardians do such a thing? What would it gain them?”

  “I cannot tell you that. Nor can I tell you if this is related to the recent trouble on our border with Kierdwyn . . . five raids now within our territory . . . but the timing is suspicious, is it not?”

  She looked up sharply. “Kierdwyn would never act against the High Kingdom!”

  “The Lord Protector himself, no. But a group of warriors that owes no more than token respect to his rule? That defines its own mission, defines its own wars, and effectively answers to no one?”

  “Rhys is one of those warriors,” she reminded him. “Do you honestly believe he would serve such a cause? The slaughter of innocents in a foreign kingdom? For what? Booty? Bloodshed? No. Not Rhys. Not possible.”

  “You have great faith in the motives of men. But blind faith in good intentions is a luxury a High King cannot afford. What evidence is there that I can bank my policy upon? What truth is so certain that lives may be risked in its name?”

  “I will go to Kierdwyn and find you evidence,” she said.

  “Whatever it takes. Is that good enough for you?” And she added defiantly, “They are my people. They will answer my questions.”

  He considered it, then nodded. “I will have an escort ready for you in the morning.”

  “No.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She wiped a bit of moisture from her eye. Her hand was no longer trembling. “Horses take too long. And your witches cannot afford such a sacrifice. I will make my own arrangements.”

  His expression darkened. “Mother—”

  “Time matters, Salvator. There is no other way.” When he looked as if he were about to protest she added, “Respect my choices, as I have respected yours.”

  He bit his lip for a moment; she held her breath, waiting.

  “There is no Magister here,” he said at last.

  She exhaled gratefully. “I know how to call one.”

  “And what will he ask in return?”

  “Nothing. He owes me a favor.”

  “Who?” Salvator demanded.

  “Ramirus.” When he did not respond she offered, “Your father trusted him.”

  “My father trusted no Magister. And taught me to do the same.”

  She said nothing.

  Finally, with a sigh, he nodded. “Very well. As long as you will not be indebted to him for it, I will not stand in your way.”

  It is you who are indebted to him, she thought. Without him, you would have been killed by enemies of the High Kingdom within hours of your coronation. But I can never tell you that, can I? Your god would not allow you to accept the truth.

  He held out the bracelet to her. Shuddering slightly, she took it from him. The brass was still warm from his touch.

  “Bring me word of what my uncle says about this,” he told her, “That I may know the name of my enemy.

  He looked toward the doors and his eyes narrowed, remembering the woman who had just passed between them. “For I swear to you, Mother, by my father’s throne, Soladin will have justice. Even if those of my own blood are implicated.”

  Chapter 20

  GWYNOFAR STOOD in the doorway, her golden hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, eyes the blue of a clear summer morning. Kierdwyn blue. She was dressed in a cream-colored gown in the southern style, the long ends of her sleeves all but sweeping the floor. A belt of golden links, each in the form of a double-headed hawk, was clasped about her slender waist. The arms of House Aurelius.

  It took Rhys a few seconds to realize that she was there, and then a few seconds more to respond. Thinking had come hard to him ever since his visit to the Spear. “Gwyn?”

  She did not answer him, but simply crossed the room to where he stood and embraced him. He resisted for a moment, not wanting to let his guard down even for her, but it could not last; with a shudder of surrender he felt the tension bleed out of his limbs as he finally responded in kind, wrapping his arms tightly about her. The perfume of her hair was a tonic to his senses: familiar, reassuring. Trembling, he closed his eyes and simply drank in the smell of her, trying to lose himself in the memory of better times. For a brief instant the shadows surrounding him seemed to release their stranglehold on his heart. But only for an instant. The newfound darkness in his soul was not to be banished so easily.

  When she drew back from him at last her pained expression made it clear just how worried she was about him. Gods alone knew how he looked to her right now, with his bloodshot eyes, week-old stubble, and fading bruises. Probably bad enough to frighten children.

  Kamala had wanted to clean him up a bit, but he had forbidden her to try. He would not have a witch wasting her life force for his vanity. Anything a bath and change of clothing could not fix would just h
ave to stay the way it was.

  He had not trusted himself enough to wield a razor.

  “They called you here?” he said. A question. Her visit warmed his spirit, but it also dismayed him. He had secrets to guard now, and she was the one person that he had never been able to lie to. “They shouldn’t have.”

  But she shook her head. “I didn’t even know you were here until I arrived. Mother told me. I came here right away.” She reached out and brushed a stray braid back from his face; it was like a mother’s touch, gentle and comforting. “I was sent here on Salvator’s business and now I am glad for it.”

  Her concern was almost too intense for him to bear; he was no longer worthy of such affection. “What did they tell you?” he asked, trying not to meet her eyes.

  “That you went on some mission into Alkali territory, your companion was killed, and you were imprisoned by the Master Guardian there. That a witch helped you gain your freedom and brought you back home. That the Guardians of Alkali have all gone mad.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. In an earlier, more innocent time, it might have become a smile. “Her name is Kamala.”

  “And that you found a broken Spear.”

  He felt himself stiffen. “Yes.” The word had a terrible power in such context; he dared do no more than whisper it.

  “Mother told me that seeing it wounded your soul, somehow. That your spirit still bleeds, even though you are surrounded by family now.”

  Startled, he looked up at her. “She said that?”

  Gwynofar nodded. “She cares about you, Rhys.”

  He shut his eyes. “She shouldn’t,” he whispered. “I am a shame to her house.”

  With a sigh she reached out and touched his face. “You are a joy to your sister and you make your father proud. Maybe those things matter to her.”

  He said nothing.

  “What happened out there, Rhys? I saw you after you fought the Souleater, when it had nearly crushed the life out of you, and you looked more alive even then than you do right now.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him from top to bottom; clearly what she saw disturbed her. “What is it, my brother? Tell me.”