Wings of Wrath

by C. S. Friedman

  Salvator spoke quietly. “On the contrary, the hand of the Creator is now evident in this matter. Was it not he that created mankind to begin with, along with all the talents and proclivities that make us human? If so, then it is he who seeded that immunity among us in the first place, anticipating our need. By proving the lyr gift to be a natural power, part and parcel of mankind’s creation, you have in fact confirmed it as a divine endowment.” He paused. “But what of your people? How are they dealing with this?”

  Kierdwyn shrugged stiffly. “Most received only fragments of Gwynofar’s visions and are relying upon the priests to sort things out. I am not sure where it will lead. Certainly our duty is not altered, and with the Souleaters returning I suspect there will be little time to worry about anything else. For myself . . .” He bit his lip for a moment. “I wonder, if we had known the truth from the beginning, if we would have been quite so meticulous in preserving the lyr bloodlines. It is the legends that kept us committed to that cause through all the centuries. Repairing the Spears, preserving ancient lore, concentrating the gift that is in the blood of the seven great families . . . a man will do things in service to his gods that he would not do for himself. So perhaps the legends we believed in for so long were part of the gods’ plan all along, to keep us properly focused. Perhaps.”

  Colivar could not resist the opening. “And the Magisters? What is our part in all of this supposed to be?”

  Salvator’s expression was chill. “In light of what has just been revealed, I find it noteworthy that there has never been a Magister of lyr blood. Perhaps when we understand why that is so, we may be able to answer your question as it deserves.”

  Hardly a mystery, Colivar thought dryly. The lyr exist for a purpose. A Magister’s only purpose is to ensure his own survival. The two philosophies are incompatible.

  “So you accept your heritage now?” the Lord Protector asked his grandson.

  “I do. In fact . . .” He looked over at the three Magisters, perhaps considering whether he really wanted to hold this discussion in front of them. Finally, with a grim nod of acceptance, he turned back to Kierdwyn. “I had a dream, while our armies were gathering. It seemed rather straightforward at the time. Now, in light of the visions that Gwynofar provided, I must wonder.”

  “The one with the Witch-Queen?”

  Salvator nodded tightly.

  “You said that she tried to convince you to withdraw your troops from the north.”

  “Indeed. The political implications seemed clear at the time, so I did not question it further. But she tried to use witchery to drive her message home. And could not. I would like to take credit for her failure and claim that my soul is so well guarded against spiritual assaults that she could make no headway. But in light of what the Throne has revealed, I must now question that assumption. Especially as . . .” He hesitated. “In the dream’s final moments, I saw her change. Her eyes became black, and faceted. For a moment I thought I saw wings. Nightmares often have such imagery. But now I wonder if these were perhaps more significant.”

  Colivar could feel the color drain from his face; words came out before he could stop them. “The scent of a queen.”

  Kierdwyn turned to him. “Magister Colivar?”

  “The Souleater’s scent. It was in her palace, the last time I saw her. On her skin. I had forgotten . . .” He shook his head sharply, banishing the tide of memory. Not now, Colivar. Not in front of all these people. “She was channeling their power.” He looked at Salvator. “That is why she could not take control of you. Your lyr heritage protected you.”

  The High King’s expression was grim. “So she was not only allied to Alkali, but to the monsters themselves?”

  “So it would appear,” Colivar agreed.

  “How is that possible?” Salvator demanded.

  Colivar did not answer him. Dared not answer him. “I don’t know,” he said at last, turning away. He could sense the eyes of the other Magisters on him with questions of their own, but none of those could be answered in the presence of morati. If at all.

  A few awkward seconds passed, and then, when it was clear he had nothing more to offer, the tide of conversation moved on without him. He waited until the morati were safely focused on other things, then quietly took his leave of their company. There were memories stirring inside him now that he did not know how to handle, and he did not wish them to witness his disquiet. Feelings he thought he had conquered long ago.

  Not until they were out of hearing of the small group, and nearly out of their sight, did Ramirus say quietly from behind him, “It is not enough, you know.”

  Colivar stopped walking, but did not turn back.

  “You have the knowledge of how to stop these creatures,” Ramirus said, “but you cannot do it alone. Sooner or later, you must have allies.”

  “Are you suggesting I trust other Magisters?”

  “Would you rather rely upon the morati?”

  “You also assume I wish to do battle with these creatures.”

  “Not at all.” Ramirus’ tone was a silken thing. “But I do believe we will come to the point when we must do that, or else surrender our sovereignty to them. And I suspect the Souleaters will not take kindly to having rivals about.”

  “No.” A cold shiver ran down Colivar’s spine. “They will not.”

  “Just something to think on, for the moment. No need to act on it just yet.” There was a pause. “Perhaps something to discuss on the way to Sankara?”

  Colivar drew in a deep breath, then exhaled it slowly, willing his soul to be calm. If you knew the real reason that Magisters do not trust one another, you would never suggest an alliance. “I don’t know how to stop the creatures,” he warned Ramirus. “No man does.”

  “Understood.” A cold smile crept across the Magister’s face. “In the meantime, I believe we have some business to take care of .”

  Gwynofar stood by her mother in the early dawn light, staring at the hole they had just dug in the moist earth. The air was heavy with smells from the surrounding forest: pine needles, damp moss, the faint musk of deer preparing for their morning forage.

  Peaceful, she thought. So peaceful. This was a good place.

  “Are you ready?” her mother asked gently.

  Gwynofar drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and then nodded. She took a small wooden box out of her pocket and knelt down before the hole, holding it out before her.

  “This is my son,” she said, “lent to us by the gods, and now returned to them. He never knew what life was, nor understood why it was taken from him—”

  She had to stop for a moment, biting her lip as she fought against a wave of sorrow. I am sorry, my son. I would have died myself to save you, if the gods had allowed it. “He died that others might live,” she whispered. “May the gods honor his sacrifice.”

  She opened the box and overturned it; a small bit of ash fell to the bottom of the hole, barely visible in the dim light.

  Reaching over to one side, her mother picked up the small tree they had brought with them. It was barely two feet high, its spiny blue branches just beginning to spread. The two women lowered it into the grave together, on top of the ashes. Evaine then held the root ball in place while Gwynofar packed fresh dirt in around it. By the time she was done her fingernails were black, and fresh tears streaked her cheeks.

  Finally she sat back on her heels, gazing in sorrow at the tiny grave. “He has no face,” she whispered. “There will be nothing to carve on his tree.”

  Her mother put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Have you given him a name?”

  Gwynofar nodded. “Anrhys. After his uncle.” She wiped a hand across her face, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “He was one of the bravest men I ever knew.”

  “It is a good name,” her mother said softly. “And it will be a strong tree.”

  They waited together in silence until the first rays of the morning sun fell upon the grave, then whispered the closin
g prayers.

  Rest in peace, my son.

  The Witch-Queen’s palace gleamed emptily in the early morning light, bereft of any sign of life. The sense of stillness about it was palpable, broken only by the shimmering of the portal spell that allowed four Magisters to pass through, and that only briefly. Once the sorcery vanished, its job completed, the atmosphere was like that of a tomb.

  Sulah drew in a sharp breath. Even he, the most recent addition to Siderea’s stable of sorcerous lovers, could sense the shadow of wrongness hanging about the place. “I don’t like this.”

  Lazaroth and Ramirus looked equally disturbed, though Colivar doubted that either had been here before. He said nothing himself, but headed straight for the gleaming white arches that marked the entrance to the palace.

  No servants came to greet them, or even to acknowledge their existence. Colivar led them to the atrium, and from there to the other public chambers. Nothing. Only when they headed toward the Witch-Queen’s private chambers was there a hint of movement, and that turned out to be a bird at the window.

  We are too late, Colivar thought.

  Outside her bedchamber he paused. That strange, sweet scent was noticeable here, and now that he recognized what it was, it brought memories in its wake. Fierce memories, primitive in tenor, that were wholly out of keeping with his current mode of existence. For a moment he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself, as he fought to free himself from the mnemonic riptide.

  A queen’s power has touched this place, he mused when the worst of the storm had passed. Wonder and horror attended the thought.

  Inside the chamber there was no Witch-Queen, but they found their first sign of life. A maidservant lay on the floor by the great bed, curled up on her side like a child, asleep. Lazaroth knelt down and prodded her, but she did not stir. He prodded her more harshly. Still no response. Finally he slapped her face, hard enough to leave the imprint of his hand across her pale flesh, but still she slumbered on.

  “The Black Sleep.” Ramirus’s tone was grim. “Will she recover?”

  “She may,” Colivar said. “If the cause of it does not return.”

  Just then there was a sound from outside the bedchamber. The Magisters turned quickly, just in time to see a young boy enter. His eyes were wide and tear-filled, his clothing dirty and disheveled. “Have you come to help?” he asked. His voice was trembling. “Do you know what happened here?”

  Sulah said, “We were hoping you would tell us.”

  The boy shut his eyes for a moment. “There was a great beast, with wings like sapphires. It hovered over the palace for an hour or more. At first men went up onto the roof to see it better, and some said they should kill the thing. They never came down again. And then people began to get dizzy. And weak. And then they fell down wherever they were, and just . . . went to sleep. I couldn’t wake them up.” Tears poured down his face. “I kept trying and trying, but it was like they were dead. They couldn’t hear me.”

  “Where is your queen?” Colivar demanded.

  “She went up onto the roof after all the others. She never came down. The flying thing left soon after that, heading out over the sea. I thought that everyone might wake up then, but they didn’t. So I . . . I went to hide. In case it came back. I didn’t want it to get me, too.”

  “How long ago was that?” Ramirus asked.

  “I don’t know,” the boy said miserably. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in the cellar. It seemed like the safest place.”

  “You’re safe now,” Colivar told him. Even if the rest of the world isn’t.

  On the roof they found some of the missing people. Most were comatose. A few were dead. One looked as if large chunks of flesh had been gouged from his body. Flies were thick about the meat, but no maggots had appeared yet. So all this had happened fairly recently, Colivar thought. He gathered his sorcery about him to narrow down the time frame, but he could not bring himself to release it. Not when the whole place smelled of her.

  “She was readying herself for a long flight,” he said. Trying to keep his voice steady. “Possibly to a place where food would be scarce. I doubt she will come back.”

  “She?” Lazaroth asked sharply.

  “A female Souleater,” he said. “The most dangerous of her kind.”

  But not for any reason you would understand.

  Had Colivar thought he could escape them forever? That the Wrath would protect him from ever needing to confront his memories? From having to define his loyalties? If so, that illusion was shattered now.

  He had never expected a queen to appear in the south. You will take up the sword again soon, he told himself. But on which side will you fight?