Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  Their access to the upper chamber had effectively been cut off. Three men now had tried to force their way up through the narrow entrance; one was presumed dead and the other two, severely wounded, had been forced to withdraw. In time the men who had succeeded in invading the chamber might find a way provide their brothers with an opening but for now, they had run out of time.

  How slowly the world seemed to move, in that one moment. Slowly enough that when Rhys looked up at his companions, the silent communication between them encompassed all their options, played out to every possible conclusion. In the time it took to draw a single breath every course was weighed, every outcome evaluated.

  Short of a miracle, they were going to die here.

  Beneath them now they could hear other noises within the tower. Voices. Footsteps. The sound of steel being drawn. All resonating in the staircase like echoes in a tomb.

  It cannot end here, Rhys thought.

  Gwynofar’s face was white. She, too, required no words to understand what had happened. Or what sort of fate it must inexorably lead to.

  She might even be spared, he thought. Taken captive, a vulnerable vessel from which all the group’s secrets could presumably be squeezed, by Magisters if not by common torture. Later a hostage in the great war to come, used against her own people to undermine their strength and their purpose.

  He saw her hand move to the knife at her belt. Saw the resolve in her eyes.

  My beloved sister, there is as much courage in you as in any of these warriors.

  Then he saw the window behind her. It was one of the larger ones, a deep crevice nearly as tall as a man, but far too narrow for any man to pass through. A slender woman, though, might just squeeze through. Barely.

  She followed his gaze. The last color drained from her face. “Rhys—”

  The sounds from below were closer now. Too close. The men began to take up a defensive posture. As if it would do anything but delay the inevitable.

  “There is no other way,” he told her.

  “But you—”

  “My fate lies here,” he told her. “Yours has yet to be resolved.”

  Do not let us die in vain.

  As if she had heard his thoughts, she nodded. He could see her trembling, but she did not hesitate as he cupped his hands to give her a lift up to the crevice. For a moment it looked like she would say something more to him, but there was simply no time for it. The noises from below were too close now.

  With a brief kiss to his forehead, she stepped up to the opening.

  He did not watch as she began to squeeze her way out through the narrow crack. There was no time for such luxuries. If she was to get safely away, Rhys would have to provide a distraction. He could not risk the enemy coming upon them here, where she was still visible.

  Grimly, he gestured for the other Guardians to join him. No words were necessary. They all understood.

  There was a time when he might have prayed first. A time when he had believed that someone or something listened to such prayers and cared about what happened to him. Now he had no prayers left in his heart, but in their place was something equally powerful. A willingness to die. Perhaps even a hunger for it.

  Letting loose a battle cry that shook the very walls of the tower, he led his fellow Guardians in a charge down the staircase to earn Gwynofar as much time as he could with his death.

  Squeezing out through the narrow crevice, Gwynofar saw the whole of Alkali spread out before her. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to hesitate. But survival—and the gods—had offered her no alternative.

  They gave their lives to bring me this far. I cannot fail them now.

  Turning to one side, she grabbed hold of a pillarlike formation that flanked the window and, with a whispered prayer, pulled herself around it. Her toes wedged themselves into a crack too small to think about, while her hands struggled to grab hold of a small horizontal ridge overhead for balance. Behind her she could hear a terrible war cry—was that Rhys?—and then the sound of warriors passing by the window she had just exited. She pressed herself close to the rock, praying for their safety. And hoping that when the enemy got this far they would not think to look outside and find her here. But why should they? What kind of insane creature would come out here without the proper equipment, planning, or experience? Such a move would be downright suicidal, wouldn’t it?

  For a moment she just stayed where she was, gripping the stone with all her might, trying to gather her courage. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it pulse in her fingertips. Don’t look down, she told herself, fighting the sudden wave of vertigo that threatened to overcome her at the very thought. Just don’t look down.

  Finally, when she felt she could move her head without being sick, she looked around for anything nearby that she might grab hold of to help her move farther away from the window. For a moment the sheer magnitude of the task was so overwhelming that all the strength seemed to leak out of her limbs; a sudden gust of wind broadsided her and she nearly lost her balance. How was she supposed to climb up from here? What route would get her to the top? Trembling, she tried to remember the detailed drawings she had seen of the monument back in the planning stages of this trip, but she didn’t even know what window she had come out of, from that perspective. How was she to get her bearings?

  A sudden flapping sound overhead startled her and for a moment she feared it was a Souleater approaching. But no, the sound was closer than that, and smaller. Her heart pounding, she turned her head carefully to look for the source.

  Kamala.

  The gray-and-black bird was perched on a narrow ledge some distance overhead, beating the rock with her wings to get the queen’s attention. When she saw that Gwynofar was finally looking up at her, Kamala inched sideways along the ledge to a point midway between two narrow windows. And then she stopped there, and cocked her head to one side. For a moment Gwynofar just stared at her, unable to make sense of the strange dance. Then she nodded her understanding. Kamala could see the whole of the monument from her avian perspective and had picked the best route for her. She would have to trust in it.

  Drawing in a deep breath, wiping her hands one after the other on the fabric of her shirt so as to keep them as dry as possible, Gwynofar began to climb. Inch by inch she struggled to find some purchase for her grip, slender fingers working their way into cracks and around protrusions wherever she could find them, trying to remember how the other climbers had moved and to get her own body to do the same. Her altered muscles ached from the unaccustomed effort, but they did not fail her. Thank Ramirus for that.

  How she envied the climbers their ropes! How much she wished she had even one safeguard in place, even one hint of a safety net right now, that might grant her the illusion of safety!

  The wind was beginning to intensify now, and gusted past her with increasing force; somewhere not too far away a storm must be gathering. She tried not to think about what would happen if it started raining while she was still out here. One thing at a time, she told herself fiercely. Focus on the task at hand. At least Anukyat’s men were not following her yet. Gods willing, Rhys and his men would be able to deal with them. Rhys . . . she had to blink tears out of her eyes before she could move again. Please keep him safe, she prayed to her gods, more afraid for him than she had ever been for himself. She could not bear to lose him now. Not like this.

  You can’t afford to think about him now. You can’t afford to think about anything but climbing.

  It seemed to take forever to climb up to the ledge that Kamala had indicated; by the time she got there she was thoroughly winded and had to stop to catch her breath. Mercifully, the top of the monument was more weathered than the lower reaches had been, offering more handholds for her to work with. But even that would not have saved her if Ramirus had not enhanced her capacity so that she was physically up to the task.

  By the time she finally reached the place where Kamala waited, the muscles of her arms felt as if they
were on fire and she knew that it was only his sorcery that was keeping her body from doubling over with cramps.

  She paused for a minute to catch her breath, then edged out onto the narrow ledge that Kamala had indicated. Slowly she inched along on the inside edges of her feet, her body pressed close to the stone, hands grasping for anything they could find to hold onto. At one point the rock beneath her right foot broke away and her heart almost stopped, but she managed to hang on solidly enough to shift her weight back to her other foot and kept her balance. After a few shaky breaths she inched her right foot out again, trembling, and found solid purchase beyond the break. She tested it a few times with her toes before trusting her weight to it, painfully aware of her lack of experience. Would she even know what a rotten ledge felt like if she tested one? But when she finally committed her full weight to the move, the rock held beneath her and she slowly released the breath she’d been holding as she began to make progress once more.

  Finally the ledge widened out a bit, almost enough for her to fit her whole foot onto it. A welcome luxury. She worked her way slowly around a narrow column, body scraping against the rough rock; she saw that she was leaving a thin smear of blood behind her, but she didn’t have the luxury of stopping to see where it was coming from. At last she reached a shelter of sorts, a deep vertical groove that ran between two of the columns, large enough for her body to fit inside. The ledge she’d been following widened out into a platform there, big enough for her to stand up comfortably. She tucked herself into the shadows gratefully, wedging herself in tightly enough that nothing short of an earthquake should be able to dislodge her . . . and then the tears came. She let them flow. Gods alone knew if the others were still alive, but even if they were the whole of the mission rested on her shoulders now.

  Finally she wiped the wetness from her face with a torn and grimy sleeve and gathered herself to face the task at hand. Need to be strong. Need to keep going. Once her vision cleared she could see why Kamala had directed her to this place. Her shelter was the lower end of a narrow chimney, scored by a series of diagonal faults that would provide a wealth of handholds going up. Climbing it, she would be surrounded by solid stone on three sides, as opposed to open air. A comforting illusion of safety, at least.

  I can do this, she thought. And then: I have to do this.

  There was a sudden squawk from Kamala, a clear alarm. Startled, Gwynofar pressed herself back into the shadows of the chimney as fast as she could. As she did so she could see shadows moving in the area she had just left. Was someone going to follow her out the window? She didn’t dare lean far enough forward to be sure. Heart pounding wildly, she tried to make herself as small as possible and drew up her arms in front of her face, so that the coarse gray wool of her shirt would help hide the gleaming pallor of her skin. One second passed. Two. An eternity of waiting, while the cold wind whistled across the front of her rocky shelter. Finally the bird cheeped again, softly this time, and then fluttered down to a perch next to her and whispered, “Stay here.”

  She nodded.

  Kamala began to move around the monument, peering intently around each obstacle before going past it, as if searching for something in particular. Her plumage was so perfectly matched to the color and texture of the tower that once she got more than ten yards away it was all but impossible to see her. Eventually she ducked into the shadow of a deep vertical crack and Gwynofar lost sight of her completely.

  Wait, she told herself. Just wait. She knows what she’s doing.

  There were other sounds she could hear now that she was still, carried to her by the wind. Banging sounds. Clashing sounds. Shouting. She could not help but think of the men that she had left behind, fighting for their lives within the monument. Offering up their life’s blood to give her the time she needed to reach the uppermost chamber.

  Their sacrifice must not be in vain.

  Finally the soft scratching of talons above her head alerted her to Kamala’s return.

  “There have been guards at some of the windows,” she whispered to Gwynofar. “Checking for trouble on this side of the monument. I don’t think they saw you. You should be able to go straight up this chimney, almost to the top, and you’ll be invisible from most vantage points.”

  “The fighting. Is it . . . ?” She couldn’t finish the question.

  “I don’t know,” the bird said shortly and then she flapped her wings and moved to a distant perch. Too far away for any more questions.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Gwynofar began to climb again. It was easier now, with the solid wall of the chimney to brace herself against, but her arms ached from the day’s exertions, and her hand had been scraped badly enough that it was starting to ooze blood along the palm. She rubbed it against her clothing whenever she could to dry it off, but sometimes that just wasn’t possible.

  At last, trembling from exhaustion, she reached the top of the narrow channel, where a jutting formation overhead cut off any hope of further progress. Wedging herself into the tight space beneath it, she took a moment to catch her breath as the bird flew off into the distance once more. Every muscle in her body was shaking from exhaustion now; she prayed that Ramirus’ sorcerous enhancements would last long enough to get her to her objective.

  Then the bird was back. “This way,” it whispered, and then added, “there are no guards.”

  The transverse course was a more generous ledge, nearly as wide as her feet. Slowly she worked her way along it until she felt the stone wall beneath her outstretched hand give way to empty space. A window. Her legs were shaking as she worked her way over to it, and at last she was able to grasp the edge of the opening solidly enough to pull herself into it. It was a tight fit, more so than she had anticipated, and there was no question that the men in their company could not have made it through with armor on. She was forced to wriggle out of her own harness first, prying at the knots with trembling fingers until they finally gave way. Even then the window was so narrow that the rough stone scraped her flesh painfully as she forced her way through and she could feel the warm trickle of blood along her back.

  But she was inside at last.

  She fell to the floor and for a moment could do no more than lie there, panting for breath. But only for a moment. Gods alone knew how little time she had before the locals came up here and found her; she had to do what she had come for before that happened.

  Raising herself up from the floor on trembling hands, she looked around at the chamber. It was round, with tall, narrow windows at irregular intervals; if they were man-made, there had been no effort to make them uniform in shape. She could see now that Kamala had led her to the widest of all the windows; it was doubtful she could have fit through any of the others. She was dimly aware of a heavy trap door to one side of her, no doubt leading down to the observation chamber the men had tried to storm earlier. But she did not stop to look at that. She did not stop to look at anything more, save the item that was in the middle of the room.

  Draped in black oilcloth and a thick layer of dust, it was at least as tall as she was, and wider than her outstretched hands. She felt a thrill rush through her veins as she reached out to grab hold of the cloth cover; it looked like no one had touched the thing for years. Getting a good grip on it with both hands, she pulled as hard as she could. Clouds of dust filled the room and set her to coughing; for a moment it was not possible to see anything at all.

  Then the dust cleared and the Throne of Tears was before her in all its darksome glory.

  It was regal and elegant and indisputably grotesque; the very sight of it sent a cold chill down her spine. At first glance it seemed to be carved from polished ebony, but where sunlight played over its surface it raised cobalt highlights that pooled upon its surface like puddles of oil. The seat and back of the throne were covered in polished leather of the same color, with a glistening texture. The arms and legs terminated in a ball-and-claw motif, but in the place of carved wood, long, curving teeth had been set into them, their
ivory enamel in stark contrast with the fist-sized globes of black crystal that they grasped.

  And then there were the wings. They fanned outward from the back of the chair like silk veils frozen in midmotion: impossibly delicate, chillingly beautiful. The beams of sunlight that passed through them were filtered as if through stained glass, sending shards of color streaming across the walls and floor and ceiling of the chamber.

  For a moment Gwynofar was mesmerized by the sight of the terrible sculpture. Was this truly the last hope of her people? She trembled to consider what manner of power might be vested in such a thing, or what the price might be of awakening it. But there was no other choice. Men had died to give her this opportunity; she could not let them down.

  Breathing deeply, she stepped up onto the stone dais that supported the ghastly seat and muttered a final prayer under her breath, bracing herself for whatever the gods might require of her. And then she sat down in it, running her hands down the arms of the great chair until her fingers slid between the polished teeth, grasping the jeweled globes with her own pale fingers.

  Nothing happened.

  All the dangers of the past few days did not strike such terror into her heart as that single moment of failure. All the planning that had been required to bring her here, all the lives that had been risked—and possibly lost—to make this possible . . . was that all to be wasted? No, she thought fiercely. Defiantly. Not possible! She grasped the arms of the throne in her hands and squeezed them, willing the grotesque throne to respond to her. Still nothing happened.

  What was wrong? Was she not the right candidate after all? Had the ancient magics faded over time? Or had they interpreted the prophecy incorrectly?

  There were muffled sounds coming from beneath the trap door now. Kamala had managed to shut the iron bolt on the trap door, but that would only work for so long. Armed men with enough determination could surely break through.