The Lady Protector spoke for the first time. “Do not forget the cost of the first spell. It is said that all the witches that were in the world offered up their lives in sacrifice, that the gods might hear their prayers. Do you imagine we might repair it with any less effort? The witches of our own age are unlikely to make such a sacrifice.” Her clear eyes glittered in the lamplight. “They do not yet understand what we face,” she said softly. “They do not yet fear the enemy enough.”
Rhys’ fists were clenched so tightly now that that his fingernails drew blood from the palms. Kamala could only imagine what he was thinking. Would they judge such an enterprise more practical if they knew it did not require a willing sacrifice but could be managed by mass murder instead? Would they be willing to pay that cost? All he needed to do was speak the truth to them, and they would know the price of power for what it was.
And lose their faith.
“It is clear we require a more precise translation of the inscription before we can decide upon a course of action,” the Lord Protector said. “I remain open to any suggestions of how that might be accomplished. In the meantime, there are other matters I wish to discuss.”
His cool blue eyes fixed upon his daughter. “Since you are here, Gwynofar, I would like to address a matter that speaks to the High Kingdom. Perhaps related to all this. Family should be direct with family, for that is the way of the lyr. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course,” Gwynofar said, nodding gracefully in assent.
“Do you find the current company acceptable? Or would you prefer a more private setting? I have no wish to make you uncomfortable.”
The High Queen looked around the table. Everyone present was either a member of Kierdwyn’s ruling family or a trusted adviser who would expect to be part of any such discussion. All except for Kamala, that is. Gwynofar’s eyes paused for a second as they fell upon her—taking her measure, no doubt—but Rhys reached out and took the witch’s hand, holding it tightly where all could see it. The message was clear.
She nodded. “It is acceptable.”
The Lord Protector drummed his fingers sharply on the oak table as he ordered his thoughts. “Your late husband Danton wanted peace along his northern border. Your marriage was arranged to seal that peace. As lyra, you understand the importance of such a contract. Our bloodlines have a duty to look beyond ephemeral politics to a greater mission. We do not wish to waste time and manpower in petty skirmishes over border disputes. Danton, meanwhile, wanted to focus his imperialistic instincts elsewhere, without having to worry that we might stir up trouble on his rear flank while he was doing so to test his strength.”
“The alliance served us well,” she agreed.
“And Salvator honors it?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “Of course.”
The Lord Protector’s eyes narrowed. “You should know that there have been raids against our people along our common border. Supposedly the work of bandits, but they left relics of his soldiery behind. If Salvator’s men are not performing the raids themselves, then they may be supplying those who are.”
Gwynofar’s eyes flared. “Salvator has no reason to do such a thing.”
“His antipathy toward the Protectorates is well known. His creator god disapproves of our mission, does he not?” Again the fingers drummed restlessly on the table. “Perhaps he feels that distracting the lyr from their vigilance would be a service to his god.”
His wife put her own hand gently over his, quieting his fingers.
“I do not deny the distasteful nature of his religion,” Gwynofar countered. “But he is Danton’s son, and understands that his first duty is to maintain the stability of his domain. That would hardly be accomplished by sending out bandits to harass an ally.”
The Lord Protector nodded, but his expression did not soften. “And the source of the relics?” he challenged her.
Gwynofar hesitated a moment, then reached into her pouch and drew out a wide brass cuff. “Perhaps the same as the source of this.”
She turned it in the light so that the designs etched into it were visible to all. Kamala heard a sharp intake of breath from the Master Guardian.
“Where did you get this?” Favias demanded, rising from his seat as he reached for it.
“From the body of a dead Skandir raider. Three ships full of them attacked the harbor town of Soladin some days ago and left nothing alive in their wake.” She handed the item to him and watched him as he turned it over in his hand, studying the engravings. “It is a Guardian’s bracelet, is it not?”
Favias looked sharply at Rhys, then offered him the item to inspect.
“Namanti,” Rhys whispered, as he took it. All the color had drained from his face, “She was wearing this when we left Kierdwyn.”
Favias turned to Gwynofar; his voice was steady, but the effort required to make it so was apparent. “Let me understand this, Majesty. You are claiming that Guardians from Skandir raided your shores?”
Gwynofar drew herself up proudly. “I have shown you what one of the raiders wore while she helped put my subjects to the sword. You tell me what that means, if not that she was one of yours.”
“Jewelry can be stolen,” he challenged her. “Traded. Lost.”
Gwynofar looked to Ramirus.
“The bracelet was taken from the body of its true owner in Soladin,” the Magister said quietly. “That much I have confirmed myself. I am sorry.”
Favias drew in a sharp breath. “With all due respect, how can you know—”
“NO!” Rhys slammed his fist down on the table; the noise was like an explosion. He stood up suddenly, sending the heavy oak chair clattering to the floor behind him. “Namanti was with me. She died in Alkali. I saw her crushed beneath her horse. . . .”
And then words failed him utterly, as the truth sank in.
With a hoarse cry of rage—or was it grief?—he turned his back on the others and started toward the door.
“Rhys!” Gwynofar reached out as if to stop him, but he showed no sign of even knowing she was there. He struck the oak doors at a near run, scattering the servants outside as he rushed from the chamber.
Kamala bound a whisper of sorcery to read his intentions, then quickly rose from her own seat as the answer came. Ignoring all the proper protocol for one of her rank—which would no doubt dictate some complex dance of curtseys and apologies before leaving such exalted company—she headed straight for the door, following in Rhys’ wake. Let them take her to task for it later, if they liked. She would not put him at risk for such foolishness.
Why do you care what happens to him? she asked herself.
There was no time to answer.
Through the castle she hurried, following the trail of Rhys’ grief as it wended its way through room after room. The force of his misery was as clear to her Sight as a trail of animal droppings would have been to a tracker. Once her long skirt caught underfoot and she cursed in language that would make a sailor blush, but she didn’t want to spare so much as a single second of concentration to shorten it, so she just grabbed the fabric and raised it up in front of her to scandalous height—calf-high—and kept moving.
Servants scattered as she approached, perhaps fearing that if they did not get out of the way fast enough she would run right over them. Rightly so.
She passed through an iron-barred door and was suddenly outside. High, high up, on a walkway edged by a waist-high parapet, somewhere near the summit of Kierdwyn’s castle. Two half moons shone overhead and she could see Rhys clearly by their light, standing unsteadily by the parapet, facing outward into the night. The ornaments in his hair glittered like captive stars as his braids stirred in the breeze; Kamala thought she could see a thin line of blood trickling down from his injured palm where he gripped the cold stone.
She knew without asking why he was so very still as he gazed out over the battlements. She knew that he was considering how far he would have to fall to have his life snuffed cleanly out rather
than leaving his body broken but alive. Such a fall would have no meaning if all it accomplished was to test a healer’s art.
For what seemed like an eternity Kamala stood there in silence, afraid to speak aloud or move toward him lest that be the final impetus that forced him over the edge.
“She was alive,” he said at last, his voice hoarse with misery. Was he speaking to her, or to himself? “I watched her fall and I saw her crushed and I thought she was dead . . . I believed them when they told me she was dead . . . would she be alive now if I had not been such a fool? Could I have saved her?”
“The servants there genuinely believed she was dead.” Kamala’s tone was as gentle as she could make it. “Probably the jailer also.” If she moved closer, if she reached out to touch him, would he accept that? Or would he vault himself over the parapet and be lost forever? “Questioning them more would have accomplished nothing.”
“Don’t you understand?” He turned back to face her. His face was streaked with sweat—or perhaps with tears?—and his gray eyes were bloodshot and haunted. “I should have refused to leave Alkali until we found her! I should have torn that Citadel apart, brick by brick if necessary, until I either knew that she was safe, or held her body in my own hands! Do you understand now? Can you understand? I failed her!” He shut his eyes and whispered fiercely, “I failed my duty.”
Kamala did not know what to say. She was not a creature of instinctive compassion and had no experience with bringing men comfort. She just stood there in silence, hoping that her presence would be enough to bind him to the living world. Enough to matter.
Why do you care if he lives or dies? the inner voice persisted.
“Did they kill her back then, do you think?” Rhys’ voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Did they preserve her body with sorcery so that it would not rot, then leave it to be found in Soladin, as if it had been freshly killed? Or maybe they used spells to wipe out her mind, turned her into a mindless puppet that could do nothing but obey them, even when they ordered her to betray her mission. Her sacred mission!” He struck his fist against the parapet behind him, hard enough that Kamala heard the crack of bone. Pain flared briefly in his eyes, followed by a dark and terrible satisfaction. She had seen that expression once before, when he had gouged the symbols from the Spear into his flesh. It was no less unnerving this time.
“The Guardians will avenge her,” Kamala said quietly. The words seemed insufficient even to her when weighed against his grief, but they were the best she had to offer. “Don’t you want to be there for that? Don’t you want to help make it happen?”
“And what makes you think I will not fail in that as well?” he rasped. “They are all better off without me.”
He looked out over the parapet—toward the deep, dark shadows that lay below—and shuddered. For a moment Kamala thought that he would indeed jump, and she summoned enough power to stop him—but then a soft voice rang out across the evening air, all the more startling for its gentle tone. “Rhys.”
Shaken, he turned back to see who it was.
Gwynofar Aurelius walked slowly toward him, past where Kamala stood, holding out a hand to him. Moonlight cast a halo about her head, turning her hair nearly as pale as his own; in such light she looked like some delicate fairy creature, come from another world to save him.
“Don’t leave us, Rhys. Not now.” She paused, and when he did not respond, added quietly, “Don’t leave me.”
For a moment the entire world seemed frozen; even the breeze seemed to grow still waiting for his answer. Kamala found that she was holding her breath. Still no response from Rhys.
Gwynofar took one step forward, then another. Her half brother shivered and glanced back over the parapet once more, but he did not move away from her.
And then her slender white hand touched his arm, oh, so gently, and all the strength seemed to drain out of his body in a single breath. She caught him as he slumped, holding him tightly in her arms. After a moment he returned the embrace, his face buried in her hair. Weeping, perhaps. The dam had broken at last.
“There is so much to do now,” Gwynofar whispered to him. “So much that you are needed for. Have strength, my brother.”
For a moment longer Kamala watched them, a vague and nameless hunger stirring in her heart. Jealousy? Flushing at the thought, she finally forced herself to turn away, granting them their privacy. Not jealousy, she told herself, as she eased open the door that led back into the castle. What was there to be jealous of? She slipped inside and then shut the door softly behind her, so very softly, not wanting the sound of it to disturb them.
With her back against the door she took several deep breaths, trying to sort out what was in her heart. So many strange feelings to process. So many unfamiliar questions. If she had some of this mysterious lyr blood in her veins, would it all make more sense?
There is no Magister among the lyr, she remembered. Why was that? Logically it made no sense at all; any population with an innate propensity for arcane power should produce more Magisters, not fewer. Yet here the opposite had happened.
There had to be a reason, she thought.
“Lady Kamala.”
Startled, she looked up to find that Ramirus had entered the room. What had he seen in her when she had thought herself alone, her expression unguarded? Silently she cursed her own carelessness. In a place like this she should never let her guard down; one never knew who was watching.
When she did not respond he pressed, “That is the name you prefer. Is it not?”
She pushed herself stiffly away from the door, aware that now every movement of hers was going to be watched, analyzed, memorized. The thought was daunting, but also strangely invigorating; suspicion was an arena much more comfortable to her than that of sympathy and sentiment. “It is.”
“The meeting has been adjourned till the morrow, for obvious reasons. His Lordship has sent out servants to inform all concerned, but I offered to carry the message to you myself.” Clear eyes set deeply into folds of parchment-textured skin took her measure, offered nothing in return. “I thought perhaps we might speak.”
“Of course.” She nodded in what she hoped was a suitably gracious manner, though her pulse was racing. In any other company she might have used sorcery to calm her heart, but in front of a Magister that was far too dangerous. Better to respond like a morati and take her chances. “You honor me with such attention.”
The aged lips curled into a thin smile. “Rhys speaks highly of you.”
She bowed her head in what she hoped was a suitably humble manner. “He honors me as well.”
“How fortunate it was that he came across you when he did. Otherwise he might still be imprisoned in Alkali . . . or perhaps even worse.”
“Indeed.” It did not matter what words she gave him, she knew; his true purpose was to read her hidden responses, if not with sorcery than with simple human insight. Such a man could learn more from how she listened to a question than the words she used to answer it. “Clearly the gods favored his mission.”
Ramirus chuckled softly; she would have sold her soul at that moment to know the exact cause of his amusement. Stroking his long beard with a wrinkled hand, he said, “I was surprised you did not say much at the meeting.”
She shrugged. “I was not asked to speak.”
“And if you had been?”
Now it was her turn to smile enigmatically. “That would depend on what the question was.”
“Regardless, I am sure you would have had much to offer. You were with Rhys when he found the broken Spear. You saw the same Karsi figures that he did, and must have wondered at their meaning.”
“Of course.”
“No doubt you would have made your own observations, as well.”
“Perhaps.” She felt like a fly dancing around the edges of a spider’s web. Where was he heading with all this?
“And being a witch, no doubt you also viewed the situation as witches do, who are sensitive to the require
ments of arcane power.”
The hairs on the back of her neck rose instinctively. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”
“I think that perhaps you do.” The challenge in his voice was all the more sharply honed for being quietly voiced. “Once you left the Spear’s vicinity, you knew you would be unable to access its secrets any longer. Unless you brought back something to serve as an anchor, to use in a place where the Wrath had no power.”
She felt the flicker of surprise come into in her eyes before she could stop it. Well done, she thought to him, even as she struggled to keep any more emotion from showing on her face. I should have anticipated that you would guess that. I should have been prepared for it. “Is that a question?”
A strange, cold smile spread across his face. “No. Not at all. The question is . . . what information did you gather that Rhys did not, and why do you not offer it up to those who need it?”
“There are a lot of assumptions in that question.”
“But not necessarily false ones.” The cold eyes glittered.
She shrugged. “I was not asked for information today. If I am tomorrow, we shall see then how I answer.” She paused, wondering how best to regain control of the conversation. “Unless there is some reason you think I should keep my silence.”
“Quite the contrary. I am looking forward to what you have to say. In fact, I was hoping we might share a few words on the matter tonight. Let us say, a professional discussion.”
A cold hatred welled suddenly up inside her. She knew exactly how Magisters felt about witches, and it wasn’t a collegial relationship by a long shot. There was a reason they called them morati—death-bound, ignorant—a word usually reserved for the helpless mortals of the world who couldn’t summon enough power to tie a shoelace. Witches were failures: men and women who were ambitious enough to grasp at power, but not strong enough to hold onto it. The ones that were worthy of respect became Magisters. The rest of them died young and were forgotten.
Normally if there was a piece of information a Magister wanted, he would just use sorcery to steal it. But Kamala’s defenses were strong enough to repel such efforts. Ramirus could not use sorcery to loosen her tongue without running up against that armor. So he was forced to rely upon this mundane seduction that assumed her own ignorance of Magister bigotry.
Wings of Wrath Page 30
