It was more than a human heart could absorb.
Lightning fractured the storm clouds for a moment, bright enough to blind him. He shut his eyes against the glare, counting down the seconds before a whiplike crack of thunder split the air. Five. Only five. The storm would be upon him soon.
And there was another sound, a slow rhythmic beat, like pennants whipping in the wind. He shuddered to hear it but did not turn around, not even when he heard the scraping of talons on the rock behind him. Or the sound of human feet hitting the stone surface.
“They will repair the Wrath.” Anukyat spoke without turning. “There are those who will make the sacrifice, now that they know the truth.” I would, he thought, if I believed the gods would accept a traitor’s sacrifice.
“It is too late,” Nyuku said.
Slowly, the Master Guardian turned to face his visitor. Or rather both his visitors. The first, a man, was garbed in gleaming blue-black armor that had been polished to a fine sheen; his hair had been pulled back tightly into a queue, baring his Kannoket features. The second, behind him, was a beast from out of legend whose broad veined wings beat the air slowly as it crouched at the edge of the monument, its long serpentine tail coiling restlessly about its master’s feet as it waited. Its hide was the same color as the man’s armor, making the pair of them seem more like extensions of a single creature than two separate individuals. Which was in fact accurate enough.
“You lied to me,” Anukyat accused. The lightning cracked again. A few drops of rain splattered upon the granite spire, vanguard of the coming storm.
“About what? Your ancestry? The fate of the Kannoket? None of that was a lie.” Nyuku smiled coldly. “None of it needed to be a lie.”
How smooth he was in his manner now, in his speech! The bestial mannerisms that had once betrayed his origin were long gone; he had become polished enough to walk among morati princes as if he were one of them. Anukyat had helped teach him that. Doubtless the others of his kind would learn the trick as well. Their early mistakes would not be repeated.
“Why do you bring these creatures back to our world?” Anukyat demanded. “You must know what they will do.”
A flash of lightning behind Anukyat turned Nyuku’s eyes silver for a instant, reflective like a cat’s. “They are no longer merely beasts,” he said.
The anger that until this moment had been self-directed suddenly had an outward focus. “Do they no longer feed upon human souls?” Anukyat demanded. “Do they no longer rob men of the very spark that makes them human? Are you claming to have ‘tamed’ them, so that they can live among us peaceably?” He stared at the ikati with raw, unfettered hatred. It was a strangely cleansing sensation, as though all the despicable things he had done recently were oozing out of his pores, like some noxious poison. “Somehow I doubt that is possible.”
“Many men will die,” Nyuku agreed. “That is the price they pay for driving us into exile. A thousand years of being cut off from the world, away from the very heartbeat of humanity! And now we are free at last.”
The words came unbidden to his lips. “Not all of you.”
Anger flashed like lightning in Nyuku’s eyes. “The rest will follow us. Those of us who were strong enough to make the crossing will pave the way for them. Once mankind has submitted to our rule we will come back here and tear the Wrath down in its entirety.”
Lightning flashed across the sky; the crack of thunder that followed was loud enough to make his ears ring. He would not tell me all this if he meant for me to live, Anukyat realized. Strangely, the insight did not really disturb him. Perhaps he had grown numb to fear . . . or perhaps he was more afraid of remaining alive and witnessing the consequences of his treachery.
“The lyr will find you,” he said quietly. “They know what you are now. They know how to find you.”
“And by the time they mobilize we will be far from this region. They will not even know where to look.” The tail of the ikati twitched against Nyuku’s thigh; he reached out a hand to stroke its glistening surface. “It is a long flight from here, Anukyat.” He said it softly. “I am sure you understand.”
He did.
The beast’s black eyes captured his and held them fast, so that he could not look away. The power of the ikati licked at his soul, loosening his life force from its moorings, ripping it loose like raw meat. While lightning struck behind Anukyat, its brief flash reflected a thousand time over in the black facets of the ikati’s eyes.
“Bugger yourself,” he said.
And he jumped.
For a brief moment longer he could feel the ikati’s hunger burning inside him, then the sensations of the fall drowned all that out. Air rushing by his head. Raindrops racing him to the ground. The sweet embrace of gravity, serene and incorruptible. And at the end of the fall, rushing up toward him: freedom.
Nyuku stood silently at the top of the monument, gazing down in frustration at the broken body far below him. Behind him his consort fidgeted restlessly. He was hungry. All the other human food had left this place. He would have to begin his flight with nothing more than a few local snakes and frogs for sustenance. And in the rain, no less. Clearly the great beast was not happy.
Nyuku looked northward. The malignant power of the Wrath was visible from here: a wounded curse, slowly bleeding out its life force. The lyr would focus their efforts upon it now and would attempt to kill any of his people who tried to cross it. Perhaps in time they would even succeed in repairing the barrier, after a fashion. But even that could do no more than delay the inevitable. Enough of his brothers had made it through already to set his plans in motion. And there was a queen in the southlands now, which meant that they were no longer bound to the land of darkness and ice. The whole world was theirs for the taking.
“I will come back for you, my brothers.” He whispered his words into the growing wind. “I promise.”
Then the rain began to fall in earnest and the ikati screeched in protest. Quickly Nyuku climbed up on his back once more and let the stained-glass wings fold about him protectively. And then the ground dropped away from them both and the long journey began.
South.
Chapter 30
BY THE time Rhys’ body was brought out and set upon the bier, both moons had risen high in the sky. A cool, ghostly light picked out highlights on his armor, his sword, the ornaments in his hair. His pale skin was perfect, seemingly untouched by death, and his hands across his chest were so artfully folded that it looked as if he might stir at any moment, making a fool of Death. Such was the gift of witchery that the Seers had insisted on providing for their fallen brother, refusing Lazaroth’s offer of sorcery to do the same at lesser cost. Their sacrifice was a statement of their mourning.
They had dressed him in his armor, weapons by his side. His pale blond braids were spread out like a halo about his head, tiny ornaments glittering in the moonlight. Several wooden boxes and small fabric bundles had been placed on the wooden platform beside him. They contained his most precious personal possessions, Gwynofar had explained to Kamala. A man should be surrounded by the things he valued most when he left this world.
Finally the Lord Protector stepped forward and the crowd of mourners grew hushed. Holding out his hand, he beckoned a woman to join him. She was dressed in dark garments, her hair loose and undressed about her shoulders, and the tears that trickled down her cheeks as she stepped forward cut paths through the streaks of dried salt already there. Rhys’ mother. Gwynofar came forward as well, and helped them unroll a length of sheer white linen that they then placed gently over the corpse. It was thin enough that one could see Rhys’ face through it, his expression as peaceful as though he were merely sleeping.
“This is my son,” the Lord Protector announced to the crowd of mourners, “lent to us by the gods and now returned to them. He lived in honor and died with courage, offering up his life that others might live. He will be memorialized among the trees of Kierdwyn’s ancestors, as a prince of our line, for h
e has earned his place among them.”
He held out a hand to one side, and a servant stepped forward and placed a gleaming kris knife into his hand. Thrusting it through the cloth of his sleeve, the Lord Protector tore loose a ragged piece of cloth that he set down on top of the white linen. He then handed the knife hilt first to Rhys’ mother, who performed the same odd ritual. When it came to Gwynofar’s turn she did not rend her garment, but cut off a lock of her hair, lying it reverently beside her half brother, leaning over him to kiss his forehead lovingly through the layer of gauze.
A solemn procession followed. Salvator, the Lady Protector, and all the sons and cousins of Kierdwyn went first, passing the knife from one to another, each one tearing loose some bit of fabric or hair to honor Rhys’ memory. Several had brought small items as well that they left on top of the white cloth. Gifts of remembrance. Magisters Lazaroth, Ramirus, and Colivar were present, and they offered their respects in turn. But they refused the knife that was offered, and Kamala was sure that the gifts they laid beside the fallen Guardian were strictly impersonal. Only a fool among Magisters would leave behind items that could be used against him by others of his kind, especially with rivals present.
And then it was her turn.
How quiet the night seemed in that moment! Darkness swallowed the other mourners as she approached the body, granting her an eerie privacy. Someone handed her the ritual knife and then faded back into the shadows. She and Rhys were alone.
Looking down at the body of her traveling companion, she felt a tightness in her chest. Some cold, uncomfortable emotion stirred in the deepest recesses of her soul, making it hard to breathe.
I killed you.
There was no denying that truth. If she had remained at her watch-post while the Guardians were climbing the monument, she would have seen the soldiers entering the upper chamber. She could have warned Rhys’ men in time to keep them from being trapped there.
I saw an alarm being sent out from the Citadel, she thought. I had to intercept it.
But what if it wasn’t the alarm she thought it was? The tiny leather message capsule was in her pocket, still unopened. Every time she took it out, her hands shook so badly that she could not get the clasp undone. A call for Souleaters to come protect the Citadel would have been well worth the risk she had taken; a single one of the great winged creatures could have picked the warriors off their precarious perch, Gwynofar included. The men would all have died then, and their mission would have failed as well. This way at least the mission had succeeded. Any of the Guardians would have made the same choice, surely.
But what if the message wasn’t that?
Gazing down at her companion’s still form, Kamala found it hard to sort out her emotions. Certainly Rhys himself had not feared death. Even before the revelation of Alkali’s Spear had worked its spiritual corruption on him, making him hunger for the peace that death might bring, he had dedicated his life to a mission that was firmly rooted in the concept of self-sacrifice. He once told her that he would march into hell with his head held high if he thought it would gain his brothers some advantage over their winged adversaries. And she did not doubt that it was true. Life had been sweet to him, but duty meant more.
Gently she reached out and touched the side of his face; his skin was cool beneath the linen veil. What was it like to value some outside agency or goal more than life itself? The concept was so alien to her that she could barely frame the question. From her earliest days she had fixed her own sight on a single goal, willing to sacrifice anything and everything to achieve it. Even her humanity. Yet in the end, what had she gained? Eternal life in which to do . . . what? Standing before Rhys’ body, she was acutely aware that she had no answer to such a question. Was that why the Magisters invested so much time and energy into their incessant rivalries? she wondered. Not to ward off the boredom of the centuries, as they claimed, but to give themselves the illusion of purpose?
With a shiver she leaned down over Rhys’ body and kissed him gently on the forehead. And in that moment, she knew the name of the emotion that was so disquieting.
Envy.
Taking up the ritual knife with its serpentine blade, she reached up and cut off a lock of her hair, then laid it gently beside him. Binding it to the linen shroud securely enough with her power that not even a single hair could be removed without a sorcerous wrestling match first. She could sense Colivar’s eyes on her back as he watched her make the morati-style offering, but she did not look up. For the sacrifice that Rhys had made, he deserved to be honored thus.
Then she passed the knife on to another, and stepped back into the shadows herself. Watching for over an hour as mourners filed past—Guardians and lovers, soldiers and friends—until his body was surrounded by a circle of tokens. Then another layer of linen was carefully lowered over the platform and tied down at the corners, to keep the wind from disturbing the offerings. Guardians then took up the poles at both ends of the mourning platform and lifted it from its stand, carrying it over to where the makings of a funeral pyre were waiting. Soon Rhys lay at the top of a pyramid, its stacked-wood base fragrant with the natural perfumes of the forest. A priest circled the construct three times with a torch, chanting prayers, then touched his flame to the dry tinder. The smell of burning pine needles filled the air as flames soared skyward, flickering veils of light surrounding Rhys for one glorious moment before the platform itself went up in flames. In the end, Kamala knew, his ashes and bones would be gathered up and buried at the base of some great pine that would later be carved into his image so that future generations might seek communion with his spirit.
She stood by the fire for a long time after that, well after the royal family had withdrawn from public view and the last of the mourners had begun to scatter. Then she reached into her pocket and drew out the message tube that she had taken from Anukyat’s pigeon. Turning it over slowly in her hand, she drew in a deep breath, then worked loose the leather thong that held it shut. Teasing out the tightly rolled piece of paper that was inside it, she held it in her hand for a few moments before finally unrolling and reading it.
Sorcery detected where none should be. Inform our allies and send help immediately.
Slowly, silently, she rolled the paper up tightly once more and slid it back into its tube. Then she cast it at the funeral pyre. Up it sailed, high over the blazing wood, until it landed in the center of the conflagration, on what was left of the funeral platform.
Not until the fire had burned down to embers, and all the offerings to ash, did she leave finally leave the site.
In the shadows at the far end of the field, the Lord Protector and his family watched the fire burn. Colivar stood beside them, enjoying the vague discomfort his presence was causing Ramirus. Unless he missed his guess, the white-haired Magister had struck some kind of deal with the Aurelius household, or at least with Gwynofar. If so, then the two of them were serving rival monarchs once more. Just like old times.
Not that it was likely to stay that way for long. Colivar had been so busy tracking down hints of the Souleaters’ presence in recent days that he’d hardly had time for his royal duties. King Farah had been understanding about it—the Souleaters were a global threat, after all—but in the end, an absent Magister Royal wasn’t all that much better than not having one at all. Soon Colivar would have to give up his position if he meant to go on with his investigation.
Why were the creatures so important to him? Was it because their return threatened the world he lived in, the civilization he had come to take for granted, or was the reasons more intimate, more personal? Certainly the mere thought of them flying free in the skies again awakened memories that he was not entirely ready to handle and hinted at personal weaknesses that until now he had not realized he’d possessed. Better to search those things out now, he thought, than be surprised by them later.
Looking out over the crowd, he saw that Salvator was approaching. Now that was interesting. Apparently he’d had a witch tr
ansport him here, preferring—as always—to sap the living strength of morati rather than trust to the seemingly endless power of the Magisters. Not that there was much difference between the two in the end, of course. Someone, somewhere, had to provide the life-essence for such a spell. It was only a question of whose athra it was, and whether the donor was willing.
The new High King came to where the Lord Protector was standing, nodding his head respectfully to Kierdwyn and Gwynofar. Not to the Magisters, though. They might as well be stone monuments for all Salvator seemed to care. It seemed a foolish move, but at least one had to admire the man’s consistency. Colivar could see the displeasure in Ramirus’ eyes, and Lazaroth’s expression was as warm as a glacier.
Colivar chuckled to himself. Careful, Magisters. Your pride is showing.
“Your son was greatly loved,” Salvator said to his grandfather. “This funeral does him honor.”
In the distance Guardians were stepping forward now to stir the embers of the funeral pyre, making sure that every bit of flammable material was properly burned. By the time the sun rose, there would be nothing left but bones and ash.
“My people honor Rhys’ mission as well as his person,” Kierdwyn responded solemnly. “It is the way of the lyr.”
Salvator nodded respectfully. “Such a mission is worthy of honor.”
The Lord Protector raised an eyebrow. “That is a different sentiment than one normally hears from you.”
“We have all learned much of our natures these past few weeks. Some of those lessons were . . . surprising.”
“Indeed.” A shadow passed over the Lord Protector’s face. “I would think a Penitent would be pleased by all this. Legends of the ancient gods proven to be no more than a seductive fantasy, the mysterious ‘gift of the lyr’ no more than a natural resistance to the Souleaters’ power. Granted it was useful, but hardly supernatural.”
Wings of Wrath Page 44
