Wings of Power

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Arrows and spears glanced off Gard’s shell of power and clattered to the ground. The ground sped away beneath him, and the planks of the bridge heaved under his paws. The rattle of his claws reverberated hollowly upon the wood and were lost in the rush of the river.

  The guards at the far side of the bridge were hurrying toward the camp. Soldiers from the camp were running toward the bridge. A thunderhead swelled higher and higher, blotting out the fire, thrusting out cloudy appendages toward the fleeing forms.

  Gard carried Deva. No, Deva was part of him, the burnished plates of his chest-armor, the pearly length of his claws, the tapestried breadth of his floating wings, the coiled length of his tail.

  Soldiers before them, soldiers behind them. He screamed in fury, hearing his voice, the roar of the dragon, roll across the water and break upon the sky. His wings cracked the air—his tail casually flicked the binding ropes—he leaped and cold air rushed past his cocked and open ears.

  A creaking and splintering echoed from the river, followed by the cries of the men cast into the flood as the bridge shattered. Shouts came from the far bank as the burning pavilion illuminated a great winged shape sailing toward the gates of Ferangipur, moon and fire making of it a filigree of light and shadow mingled, bright on the surface, dark within . . .

  It was gone. A clap of thunder muted all other sounds. Clouds clashed before the face of the moon and a cold rain poured down from the heavens.

  Wings sodden, fires extinguished, Gard and Deva splatted enlaced onto the mud. The pentacle whined and fell silent. The sapphire glinted and went out. The dragonet shriveled and slid down Gard’s chest, its claws leaving bloody furrows in his perceptions, to faint dead away in the tangle of his viscera. Deva panted, her shoulders heaving in his hands.

  Something had happened back there, but Gard was not quite sure what. Something had snatched a reprieve from the gaping maw of defeat . . . Defeat? No, just a setback, never defeat.

  Lightning streaked across the sky, for one instant illuminating the milling ant-shapes of the Apsuri encampment, the broken reeds of the bridge, the wan, wet walls of Ferangipur with its great tower like an obscene finger thrust upward to the gods. “Storm-bringer,” said Deva. “Tarek, the Storm Lord. My father.”

  A roar of thunder buffeted Gard’s brain inside his skull. “What?”

  “I do not think he knows who I am. He knows he knows me, but he is not sure why. Yet.” Her words and her wheezing breath were mingled into sobs expelled through clenched teeth. “I wager Amathe was my mother. I am Tarek’s daughter, Gard. I know it.”

  The rain soaked through every garment he wore so that the cloth clung, clammy and choking, to his limbs. Her words soaked into his mind and lay heavy in his awareness, vibrating like jelly as he trembled. “I wish I could think of some evidence to dissuade you,” he said at last, “but I cannot.”

  Groaning, Gard heaved them both to their feet. A company was picking its way across the field—even through the dark and wet he could recognize Senmut’s hobble. He could already hear the old monk’s waspish voice, I told you it was a foolish idea, to pass Deva off as Yasmine.

  It was worth trying, muttered Gard. I started this war, I should make some effort to end it.

  Do not be arrogant, boy. This war is much larger than you are.

  Oh yes, Gard said. That is just the problem; the war is much larger than any of us. Even Jofar. Even Bhai. Even Tarek . . .

  He realized Deva was looking up at him, proud and tense, as if expecting him to push her away. The dampness on her face could have been rain or tears or both. He grasped reassurance and snugged her so closely to his side their garments squished in unison. “God’s beak, woman,” he exclaimed, “we cannot pick and choose our fathers like sweetmeats upon a plate, can we?”

  Her expression softened. Senmut called through the rain, “Back so soon? They wasted little time in seeing through your ruse!”

  Ignoring the old man, Gard whispered to Deva, “Now we know what power is yours, and why. What power can be ours. Even Tarek would appreciate the irony, that he has generated the cause of his own downfall.”

  Deva smiled up at him, pulled to shore upon the strand of his certainty. Even disheveled, she was lovely, he thought. Why, her eyelashes made stars when wet. Certainty was not too much to offer her—even when he had to manufacture it from nothingness.

  “Ho, Senmut,” he called. “It was not a complete farce. We learned . . .” Deva flinched and he steadied her with a caress. “A great deal.”

  “Hmph,” said Senmut.

  “If,” Deva sighed, “I was conceived in the temple of Saavedra in Apsurakand, then all will be well, as Saavedra looks after her own.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” he said soothingly. Lightning flickered and thunder grumbled among the clouds. The rain intensified, beating them against the ground like laundry against stones.

  As they staggered toward the city he wondered how soon his strained muscles, his exacerbated senses, his mind gagging on its own confidence, would begin to hurt.

  Chapter Twenty

  Groaning, Gard sat where Senmut told him, upon a small carpet spread amid gathering shadow in his and Deva’s room. He would not have thought his nerves capable of sustaining such agony; each fiber of his body screamed in protest at every move, at every breath, at every thought. And yet not one bruise marred his pale skin. The dragonet lay hiccupping behind his ribs, its wings limp as wet paper and its eyes crossed.

  Deva knelt beside him, her graceful and yet capable hands smoothing her sari over her knees. The sapphire in her nose glowed with serenity, casting its faint blue luminescence over Gard. If he could not share the solace she found in faith, he thought, he would have to do without solace. And he would rather not do without. Hiccup.

  Senmut looked appraisingly from face to face. “So Tarek is your father,” he said to Deva, concluding the litany of confession and absolution they had recited all evening. “That is a daring move on the part of the gods. Fascinating, in the light of Tarek’s own prophecy to Menelik.”

  “The gods move subtly,” Deva said. “We can only trust that their motives give purpose to seemingly purposeless pain.”

  Gard had suspected that the litany would conclude on that hoary old chestnut. The bridge between belief and credulity must be much stronger than the one across the Mohan, to support so much traffic. The dragonet hiccupped.

  A marriage ceremony. He had actually asked for a marriage ceremony. No, it was too late for panic. Gard squirmed into the appropriate cross-legged position and rested his hands on his knees. The dragonet dragged each paw into the same pose. It held its breath until it turned a translucent green and finally stopped hiccupping. There, the pain was not quite so bad; the humming of his nerves slipped into another key, attaining a note that skirted the boundary between pain and pleasure. Not unlike Deva’s hold over him, or Senmut’s, or the dragonet’s.

  Senmut began to light the candles arranged upon a low table. White, to dispel evil influences. Red for luck. Blue for healing, green for fertility and prosperity, yellow for strength of mind. At the end of the row was an amethyst candle like Deva’s aura, symbolizing the sweet purity of selfless magic. But magic could not be selfless. It was, by its very nature, selfish.

  The flickering lights chased away the darkness. The boundaries of the room softened, protecting but not confining. Senmut began intoning a prayer. Deva listened attentively, her face glowing, her eyes flashing deep violet blue. Gard slid dizzily upon the words. “And the blessings of Saavedra upon this marriage,” the old monk concluded.

  The little daemon lifted its wings and fluffed them up. Its ears pricked toward Deva. Demon children, Gard reflected, both of them. If they did not belong together, they belonged nowhere. “Will Saavedra bless your marrying me?”

  “She has put up with you for some months already,” Deva replied.

  Senmut speared a sliver of meat from the dishes arranged before him. One bite went in Deva’s mouth, the othe
r in Gard’s. Senmut lifted a morsel of fish. Nibbling, Deva cast a shy glance at Gard. Her aura licked at him, raising goose flesh on his back. He pulled the fish from Senmut’s fork with his lips. The dragonet smacked its chops, its tiny snout spreading into a grin.

  A spoonful of grain next. With the tip of her tongue Deva snared an escaping kernel. Gard’s teeth snapped on the utensil with a tiny clink and he looked up, startled at the noise. It seemed as if the candles were smearing together, becoming one rainbow-colored glow. They smelled not of wax but of jasmine. No, Deva was scented with jasmine.

  Senmut gave them each a sip from a cup of wine. Not very good wine, tart on the tongue—but then, Deva tended to be tart on the tongue. And sweet in the throat. The pentacle wriggled against his skin. The dragonet danced, slow and sensual, barely touching him.

  The candlelight wavered as Senmut left them to finish the last sacrament alone. The fifth point of the wizard’s foot, will or love or imagination, or a craving for affirmation that could never be surfeited.

  Gard realized he was smiling in foolish inebriation on one sip of wine. Deva’s hands traced signs and symbols down the flesh of his chest, which had somehow become exposed to her touch . . . Oh, she was opening his pouch and pulling out the tiny clay seal that was the slave-dealer’s receipt.

  He stood. He stamped the seal underfoot until it was dust. He met Deva’s embrace. Her sapphire flared with the light of a crisp autumn day, bathing the dancing dragonet in radiance.

  The candles burned into a fragrant pool of multicolored wax, flickered and went out. But the darkness was tinted amethyst and blue, purple and silver, as two auras mingled in patterns too complex for the gods themselves to read, and even the wings of power lay at peace in Deva’s arms.

  * * * * *

  They could not even declare their marriage, Gard sighed. As far as everyone else knew, they had been married for ages. A shame, that; good news would have been welcome, a celebration very nice, and they would certainly not have refused any wedding gifts . . .

  He braced his arms on the battlement and considered the scene below. The dragonet braced its paws on his spine and contemplated the city behind. It had been five days since his abortive attempt to trade Deva for peace. Five days since he had tried to end the war, and had failed.

  If I were a god I could destroy both armies, or put them to sleep, or afflict one and all with forgetfulness. In a small fishing village my powers might make me a god. But here and now, amid this complexity, power teases like Hurmazi’s wives, promising much, delivering only trouble.

  Below him the armies clashed. This was the glory of war of which the poets sang. It would be ludicrous if it were not so ghastly.

  A spearhead of Apsuri chariots ripped through a bloc of Ferangi infantry. Screams filled the air as the scythed wheels cut down men like so many vegetables. A squad of Ferangi cavalry overran an Apsuri siege engine. More screams, curses, prayers. Vijay’s helmet bobbed in the thick of the fighting, Rajinder’s skirted the boundaries, darting in and out as needed. Jofar’s huge shield reflected the sunshine in a blinding flare, rallying the Allianzi troops around Menelik’s plumes. In a window in the great tower Jamshid’s pale face hung like a tragedian’s mask.

  Behind Gard a catapult whanged. An arc of black smoke pointed to another siege engine. The engine, a hut on wheeled stilts, burst into flame. Soldiers leaped and fell like shooting stars, to smash upon the ground. Smoke hung over the field, smudging the blue perfection of an autumn sky. The monsoon was over. The farmers should be sowing instead of hiding in the city.

  A sentinel, struck by a black-barbed Khazyari arrow, fell with a gurgle of surprise. Deva rushed to the wounded man’s side, her basket of bandages and herbs at the ready. The catapult whanged again.

  At least Senmut’s contraptions worked. Every time Gard tried to cast a spell over the battlefield it was muffled—unless he himself was smothering bolts of magic from the other side. Frustrating, but at least it told him how evenly matched he and Tarek now were. Machines functioned, efficient and mindless. Opposing magicks tore each other into ineffectuality.

  A group of soldiers jog-trotted across the rooftop and disappeared. Senmut hobbled to Gard’s side and frowned down at the tumult.

  “Bhai is not there,” Gard informed him. “Or Tarek either. All I smell is smoke and sweat and blood.”

  “Then they have no plans to interfere today.”

  Gard shrugged tightly. The little daemon, the eyes in the back of Gard’s head, winced as the chariots swept once more through the Ferangi troops. More Allianzi swarmed over the rebuilt bridge behind Shikar. Rajinder gestured, his heralds trumpeted harshly, the Ferangi began to fall back toward the gates. Jofar urged his horse in pursuit and was confronted by Vijay and his men. Insults spattered back and forth.

  “This could go on forever,” Gard muttered to Senmut. “We go out, the Allianzi cross the bridge, a few more men are butchered, everyone goes back home. I spar with Tarek, you spar with Bhai. Stalemate.”

  “Then something must be done to tilt the scales.”

  The bedraggled armies slowly separated, twin tides going out and leaving the bodies of men splayed like seaweed on the dirt. Squads advanced warily from gate and bridge, sorted out the remnants of humanity, carried them off to pyre or pit. Silence fell, disturbed only by distant groans and sobs.

  A bird started yammering somewhere, feverfeverfever . . . Deva stood at Gard’s right hand, her sari splotched crimson, her hair straggling around her face. Senmut stood at Gard’s left, surveying the cracks and pits in the stonework, made by his brother’s exploding gourds. The dragonet stamped its paws and ruffled its wings in Gard’s thorax, sending pins and needles through his limbs.

  Here came Rajinder and Vijay up the stairs to the rooftop garden to meet Jamshid, who arrived supported on Srivastava’s arm. Bogatyl loomed behind the Rajah like a pirate ship behind a small merchant dhow. The man wore an affable, self-effacing expression, apparently hoping no one would notice his presence. Gard considered pricking his smugness—a curse of leprosy, perhaps. It was annoying, to let the man think he could spy with impunity—but then, he had his uses . . .

  “Gard!” Rajinder called. He lifted his helmet from his head and stood for a minute, eyes closed, as the breeze sorted the tangled ends of his hair. Once he had had long, smooth hair. Once the wind had not reeked of burning flesh, rotten roses, sulfur and hazelnut. Gard trudged across the trampled flower beds to Rajinder’s side.

  Vijay peered like a snapping turtle from the carapace of his helmet, lips tight, eyes sunk deep, hands white-knuckled on the shaft of his spear. Gard returned his baleful look. He could have tried reasoning with the young prince, pointing out that he had not tried to give away Yasmine herself but only a facsimile. But reason was not worth the effort these days. Vijay all too obviously felt that Gard’s scheme had interfered with the natural order of the world, of which war was an inevitable part.

  Once they had had such good times together . . . Damn war. Damn prophecy. Damn it all.

  Raj said, his voice hoarse from shouting, “This is stupid. No one will have anything left. The exercise becomes pointless.”

  “The Apsuri have been hurt!” Jamshid protested.

  “So have we,” said Raj.

  “The glories of these days will live on in song . . .” Vijay started.

  Raj turned to his brother and said, “Oh, shut up.”

  Vijay slammed his spear upon the ground and glared. Gard looked down at his feet, pretending he had not heard. Srivastava remained coldly impassive. The bird chortled feverfeverfever.

  “Then what do you propose, my son?” asked Jamshid.

  “Bogatyl,” Rajinder said to the Vizier.

  The man plastered his face with amiability. “Nazib?”

  “Send a message to Menelik. Tell him that our champion will meet theirs this evening before sunset. Single combat, winner take all.”

  A sword seemed to slice through the top of Gard’s skull, stir
his brains, cleave the dragonet in two and strike sparks from the pavement beneath his feet. He heard Deva gasp and Senmut swear reverently under his breath. “What?” he asked, an instant before both Vijay and Jamshid erupted in protests.

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Rajinder demanded of father, brother, and wizard.

  “But, but . . .” stammered Gard, “to wager everything!”

  “That is what this war is all about, is it not?”

  “And if we lose?” demanded Gard. Vijay flushed and opened his mouth to protest again. “It is a possibility,” Gard snapped at him.

  Jamshid said, “Yes, Raj, what if we lose?”

  “Then we shall be ruled by Menelik. We shall live, and the walls of Ferangipur will stand, and our children will grow to maturity as merchants, perhaps, not as princes. You would prefer no future at all, no destiny but as the food of carrion birds amid the ruins of our city?”

  “I would prefer to win,” said Jamshid, his words quavering and then crisping again.

  “We all would. But we cannot always have what we want.”

  Feverfever went the bird, and stopped abruptly. A wailing rose as the day’s crop of bodies were carried like meat into the city. Gard and dragonet stepped back, to the side, around in a circle, searching for coherence. He saw Deva’s sapphire, Senmut’s eyes, Srivastava’s hands clinging to her father’s arm. He saw Vijay’s truculent face. He saw Rajinder’s features so harrowed as to be ruthless, the even black brows no longer balanced. This, thought Gard in wonder, is the man who had joked with Tarek in Chandrigore, and who left his son’s playthings upon the floor of his own room.

  Just because I wanted to tip the scales, he shouted silently, just because I wanted to end the war, I did not mean for Raj . . . Do not be arrogant, boy! came the echo of Senmut’s voice. “Send the challenge, Nazib-ji,” Gard said aloud to Jamshid, his throat aching. “It is the best alternative.”