Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  What had the prophecy said, exactly? Gwynofar struggled to remember the exact words.

  Birthright in balance, Seven together,

  Offered as one in the eagle’s nest

  Upon a chair of bones and wings. . . .

  “Blood,” the bird said abruptly.

  Kamala was right, Gwynofar thought. The lyr birthright was measured in blood; it would be an appropriate offering.

  She took her bruised hand and dragged it against point of one of the chair’s talons; her flesh tore open and blood began to flow freely. She let drops of it fall upon the claws of the chair and the black globes they grasped. Upon the center of the seat. Upon the back. She located every carved motif on the thing that might provide an appropriate site for blood sacrifice and offered up prayers as she smeared her lyr blood on each one. But still nothing happened, no matter what she did. Not even when she sat in the bloody chair afterward, willing all her innate magic into it. Still nothing.

  The voices were less muffled now. Alkali voices, approaching from below.

  Tears of frustration ran down her face . . . and tears of fear as well. Could it be that the sacrifice of her life was required in order to unlock the throne’s secrets? Was that what the prophecy was hinting at? It was the only other thing that she could think of.

  “All right!” she whispered fiercely. “Take it! Take me! My blood, my life . . . whatever you require! Only give the lyr what they need. Show them how to fight these creatures!”

  She closed her eyes, trembling. And waited for the dire magic of the throne to devour her soul.

  Nothing happened.

  Despair came crashing down around her. In her worst fears she had never imagined that her quest would end like this: sitting on the legendary throne, prepared to make whatever sacrifice was required to awaken its power, and not having a clue how to do so.

  What if the Wrath itself were responsible, she thought suddenly. What if the same baleful power that had befouled all other magic in this region had affected this priceless artifact as well? Then all their efforts would have been wasted and there was truly no hope.

  I won’t believe that. There must be a way. . . .

  Someone banged on the underside of the trap door, startling her. The bolt held it closed for now, but how long would that last?

  Gods of the Wrath, she prayed, have mercy upon your servant. Tell me what I must do.

  But there was no answer.

  The trap door thudded heavily as someone below tried to break it open; the sudden force shook the iron bolt, loosening its mooring. A rush of hot fear surged through Gwynofar. How many men had died to get her this far? How many more would die in the coming war, if the lyr could not access their god-given powers? She could not fail them all.

  Gods of the Wrath, she prayed desperately, whatever price is required for this knowledge, I willingly pay it. My life, my soul, all that I possess . . . all of it is yours. Freely offered in sacrifice, on behalf of my people. Take from me whatever is required, that the lyr may learn the name of their gift. . . .

  A cold wind seemed to stir in the room. She drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the voices from below. The arms of the throne were growing warm beneath her touch, its heat filling her lungs as she drew in a long, trembling breath—

  And then, suddenly, she understood.

  The child.

  Her body stiffened reflexively, she put a hand over her stomach, as if to protect the child within.

  No!

  It was Danton’s child who defied the prophecy. Not because he was tainted by sorcery—Ramirus had assured her that was not the case—but simply because he was what he was: his father’s child. Half his heritage was lyr, but the other half was not; that alien inheritance was now wedded to her flesh. Gwynofar could not sacrifice her own life without offering up his life as well. And he did not satisfy the conditions of the prophecy.

  “No,” she whispered. Remembering her other lost children, lying dead at her feet in a pool of blood. A part of her soul had died that day. “Don’t ask this of me. . . .”

  But it was too late.

  The trap door jerked upward, forcing the bolt partway out of its mooring. “Who is in there?” a voice demanded from below. “Open this door!”

  And then the voices were gone, and all the noises of the world outside, and there was only a terrible silence within her . . .

  . . . and memory.

  His strength will never be measured, Ramirus had told her, but he will test the strength of others. He will attend upon death without seeing it, change the fate of the world without knowing it, and inspire sacrifice without understanding it.

  Kostas had understood the power of such a pregnancy. That was why he had baited Danton into raping her, and had used his own sorcery to guarantee conception. As long as the High King’s son was wedded to her flesh she could not manifest her full potential as lyra. Oh, the vile creature couldn’t possibly have known how important Gwynofar’s unique heritage would turn out to be, but on the eve of the Souleaters’ return, any lyr who might be neutralized was one less enemy to worry about later. The fact that her poor innocent child now held the fate of the world hostage was something none of them could have foreseen.

  Don’t ask this of me, she begged silently. But the offer had already been made, and could not be recalled.

  Pain lanced through her abdomen as the trap door slammed open. With a cry she doubled over in pain, as her body struggled to protect the child it had nurtured for so long. But the power of the throne—or the gods—was stronger. A rough hand grabbed her arm as her womb convulsed—

  And then something bright and terrible exploded inside her. Power, raw and unfettered, surged through her with such unexpected force that it drove the air from her lungs. The hand that had grabbed hold of her arm fell away, and from somewhere in the distance she heard a man’s cry of pain. But she could not focus on anything outside her own flesh now. A firestorm had taken root in her soul and molten power poured through her veins, agony and ecstasy combined into one terrible conflagration.

  Just when she thought that her body could not contain it any longer, the power burst out of her, flooding the world beyond with its fire. It surged through the souls of the men surrounding her, then into the guards who waited below, and into all the inhabitants of the Citadel . . . she could feel it as it swallowed each new soul, spitting out those very few who had no northern blood in their veins, claiming all the others. Into the Alkali Protectorate it surged, where thousands cried out in fear and pain as the power suddenly claimed them at their tables, at their work, in their beds. Into the other Protectorates it rushed, and beyond them. Into the High Kingdom and past it, to all the continents beyond, claiming every man, woman, and child whose heritage bound them to the lyr. Gwynofar could sense the moment when the power first touched Salvator, and she could taste his terror. She could feel it envelop her other children in rapid succession, and then each of her grandchildren in his turn, down to the tiniest newborn babe in his cradle. Each one taken by surprise as the mystical fire poured into them, engulfed too swiftly to protest or resist it.

  And then the power paused, and for a moment it seemed to Gwynofar that she sat at the heart of a vast burning web that covered the whole of the earth, whose fiery strands bound each new lyr into a vast and complex pattern. She could sense the anchor cords that connected her soul to each of the seven founding bloodlines, perfectly balanced in strength and tenor. Had it been unbalanced, she realized, the forces involved would have torn the whole construct to pieces, and her along with it.

  But how perfect a construct it was! Each new bit of soulfire that the throne’s power absorbed fed its strength into the greater whole, be it borrowed from the spirit of a true lyr, born and bred for power, or from some long-forgotten descendant with only the faintest echo of northern blood in his veins. All of them were bound together now in a vast metaphysical conflagration, as if their souls had joined hands together for strength and
support.

  And then the images came. Rushing into Gwynofar’s head with a force that threw her back against the throne, traveling down the lines of inheritance to every other soul in the burning web, drowning them all in a flood of memory so powerful that every other thought was extinguished, leaving only—

  —Wingshadows passing low over the farmlands, fertile fields made barren by abandonment. A young boy sleeps by his plow, perhaps forever; his body twitches as the demon’s shadow passes over him. In the distance his family gathers—what is left of his family—for a meal of dried tubers and rotten berries, the best they could gather from fields long since gone wild. Rats in the corner have eaten their way through the burlap bag that guards their stores, but no one notices. No one has the energy to notice. The war with the rats cannot be won because they are stronger than men now; the winged demons have reordered nature to suit their hunger—

  —Winter’s cordwood running out and all there is left to burn for heat is furniture, artwork, books. Why mourn their loss? There is no need for such things anymore. An ax lies unused by the door, for none have the strength—or perhaps strength of will—to wield it. The child in the cradle shivers in his sleep, but will not awaken. The strength has been sucked out of its soul, and all that is left now in an empty shell, too weak to dream of its mother’s lost milk—

  —Golden cities stripped of their burnish by time and neglect, overgrown with weeds. Proud stone temples robbed of their marble for building supplies, for projects abandoned in their turn. Ebony idols broken apart for fuel. Priceless tapestries torn to pieces when all other clothing is gone, or else perhaps laid out whole upon the earth to serve as bedding, until time and damp rot them away—

  —Staggering across the dying landscape, a handful of survivors struggle to find others of their kind before it is too late. A lone demon circles high overhead, picking at their souls like a carrion bird tearing at rotting meat, but it cannot devour these spirits as quickly or as easily as it does the souls of other men. A gift of the gods? Or merely a quirk of nature? One of the survivors falls and does not get up, but the others are stronger. More determined. They expend enough energy to build him a cairn—itself an act of defiance—and then persist in their journey. Somewhere there must be others like them, resistant to the power of the demons, perhaps even a few who are wholly immune—

  —Weaker ones left behind in the towns they pass through, stronger ones invited to join them. North they travel, seeking the comfort of cold skies and snowbound fields, in the sunless lands that the demons despise. Men and women of different colors, different shapes, different languages. Sometimes a handful from one town, sometimes only a single traveler, desolate among strangers. Children among them as well, running to keep up. Gaunt faces, haunted eyes. Some of the young ones have left their parents far behind, while others drag them along behind them like oversized dolls, not understanding that the spirit within them has long since expired—

  —Witches screaming out their power to the skies, sculpting vast illusions with their final breath. Monstrous images with cobalt scales and stained-glass wings, ten times larger than the invaders, driving them fearfully northward. Clouds of witchery blotting out the sun in all directions but one, herding the demons northward. Always northward. No spell can last long when crafted on such a scale, but as each witch falls another rises to take his place, for all know the cost of failure—

  —Marking the anchor points for what will be man’s final defense, a curse so fearsome that no living creature can cross it. But who will protect the natives of the ice fields that live beyond this point once that final spell is cast? Alkali answers: they cannot be saved. Let us mourn their sacrifice—

  —Blood on the ice, broken wings in the snow, the scent of demons: these things mark the way for the hunters who will follow. For the enemy is wounded now, and the cold skies offer them neither comfort nor healing—

  —Witches mutter prayers as they craft the cylindrical walls of their own tombs, laying brick upon brick themselves, scribing from the inside of their mausoleums the song of their final sacrifice. Thus do we die, so that the world will not have to. Remember our courage. Remember our sacrifice. Treasure the gift of freedom which we bequeath to all the generations that follow us, and do not let it flounder, lest our suffering be in vain—

  As quickly as they had come, the images vanished. For a brief moment it seemed that Gwynofar could sense all the other lyr souls she was connected to, and she knew that the strongest ones had shared her visions in their entirety, while all the others had felt only a brief and terrifying rush of power that left in its wake fragmentary images, as if from some half-remembered nightmare. For a moment Gwynofar could sense them all—their confusion, their fear—and the image of a burning web that was burned into her brain. And then all that vanished. The firestorm was over.

  Silence.

  Shivering in pain, she forced herself to open her eyes and look about the chamber. Near her feet lay a body that might once have been human, but its head was a mound of shapeless flesh, as if it had exploded from the inside. Beyond that stood two of Anukyat’s Guardians, clearly rendered speechless by what they had just experienced. Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered her strength and rose to her feet, calling upon all her years of professional majesty to look stronger than she felt. In fact her legs were shaking so badly they could hardly support her; she wished she had a woman’s gown on to hide their trembling.

  She should be talking to these men. Establishing the proper context for their visions. Telling them that it did not matter whether a gift of the gods was in their blood or simply a quirk of nature. The end result was the same. The northern bloodlines were resistant to the Souleaters’ power. They must work together to combat the coming invasion.

  But her child was dead within her and she could not find her voice.

  On shaking legs, she stumbled to the trap door. Neither man moved to stop her. One even backed up a bit, getting out of her way. Their eyes were wide. They think that I did this, she realized. That it was my power that reached out to them and showed them the truth.

  The hand of one guard opened, and his sword clattered noisily to the floor. He hesitated for a moment, then lowered himself to one knee before her. The other followed suit, laying his own sword before her in offering.

  She knew that some kind of acknowledgment was called for, but she was too numb with sorrow to offer it. She could focus on only one thing right now. Rhys. Shaking, she backed down the ladder to the observation chamber. Must find Rhys. Bodies littered the floor, puddles of blood slick beneath her feet as she made her way to the head of the great staircase. An Alkali guard was still standing, and he stepped quickly out of her way. What a ghoulish sight she must be right now! Her body covered with dust and her face streaked with tears, her clothing soaked with blood from her various offerings . . . little wonder he moved out of her way so rapidly.

  Three turns down the staircase. Four. She passed the place where she had parted with her half brother to sneak out through a narrow window, half a lifetime ago. Five turns. Six. Stepping over bodies as she searched for her brother among the living and the dead. The warriors who were standing were so dazed that they hardly noticed her, still stunned by the power of the nightmare visions she had channeled. Dare she hope that Rhys might be alive as well? With increasing urgency she stumbled over fallen bodies and forgotten weapons, seeking the one person who mattered most.

  And she found him. Lying diagonally across the stairs, his head resting against the base of the inner wall. His eyes were shut almost peacefully, as though he had only just fallen asleep. She knelt down beside him with a sharp sob and stroked his cheek, calling his name. “Rhys! Rhys!” But his chest was not moving and his eyes did not open. As his head lolled to one side in response to his touch she could see the deep gash in the side of his neck and the pool of blood beneath it. Still warm. By the gods, he was still warm . . . !

  The final dam let loose then, and she wept. Lowering her hea
d to his unbreathing chest, allowing all the sorrow and fear that had been building up inside her to pour out at last, unfettered. There was no reason left to hold it back. Rhys was gone. Her child was gone. Nothing was left that mattered.

  And when the local guards finally came to bind up the living and gather up the dead she would not let them take Rhys away, but she curled up against his side, shivering uncontrollably. Until finally, mercifully, exhaustion claimed her and all the world slipped away into darkness.

  Chapter 29

  A STORM WAS coming.

  Standing atop the third Sister, Anukyat could see it gathering along the southern horizon. Thick black clouds with sheets of rain that swept down across the landscape, slowly moving closer and closer to where he stood. Lightning flashed across the sky from north to south, and the thunder reached him a few seconds later, setting the rock vibrating beneath his feet.

  He knew he should go inside before the rain reached the Citadel. The rock surface would grow slick very quickly and be hard to manage. The last thing he wanted now was to loose his footing in the very same place where he had so recently lost his honor.

  Or perhaps that would be an appropriate end.

  He had come up here to pray, but once he arrived he found that he could not. He could not even curse, or rail at the heavens, or in any other way give vent to what was inside him. The emotions that were tearing his soul to pieces were too vast for words, too volatile to be contained by anything as concrete and finite as language.

  He had failed.

  The scope of that failure defied rational limits. The roots of it lay a thousand years in the past, and the future . . . the future had yet to make itself known. All he could be sure of right now was that his ancestors had offered up their lives for a cause, and he had betrayed it. And his descendants would now pay the price.