Wings of Wrath (11 page)

“You seem very certain this . . . power . . . will serve my need.”

She could hear him walking up behind her. Close, too close. She could feel the coldness of his presence near to her back, and for some reason it made her skin crawl. “It will allow you to extend your life,” he said quietly, “beyond the normal span of the morati. It will replace the vitality that a lifetime of witchery has drained so that you can live as the Magisters do, unfettered by common mortality. That is what you seek, is it not?”

She did not answer him immediately. She focused her attention on the delicate page before her, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the gold leaf while she tried to order her thoughts. How she wished she had enough witchery left for one last spell! A single spark of soulfire could reveal this man's true intentions, sort out truth from falsehood. But she dared not risk it. She had too little life left to her already; she could not afford to sacrifice another hour, even for that.

And he knows all that,
she realized.
If he understands my situation, as he claims, then he knows he is free to lie to me. That I have only my human senses to rely upon.

But what if he was not lying? What if there really was some new power in the world, neither sorcery nor witchery, that could sustain her? It was a heady thought. Also an unlikely one. But she had run out of other options and could not afford to let the possibility go untested.

She turned around to face him again. Because he had probably intended his physical proximity to unnerve her she did not back away, but instead drew about her such regal aspect that it was he who instinctively took a step backward. It was important not to look weak now, important for him to view her as a powerful queen, not a desperate beggar. “Such gifts are not without a price,” she said sternly. “Speak on that.”

His eyes narrowed. “Those whom I represent are not merchants, come to haggle over a handful of coins. They are men of power, seeking a woman of equal power as an ally.”

“Men?” The edge to her voice was undisguised. “They are all men?”

He bowed his head in assent. “Aye.”

“That is the way of Magisters, is it not?”

“Except that we tender you an invitation to join our ranks, while they—may I be blunt, my Queen?—left you to die.”

The words were like a slap across her face. Yes, the Magisters had left her to die. Used her when it pleased them, to bind their pitiful backstabbing brotherhood together, and then thrown her on the trash heap when they were tired of her. Like the rind of a fruit that had been sucked dry of juice. Who cared if the flies ate what was left?

Did the Magisters even suspect how much she hated them now, she wondered. Not damned likely. They were narcissistic bastards, all of them, blind to anything that did not revolve around their own desires, their obsessions, their petty rivalries.

The thought of possessing some power that they had no knowledge of was a heady one. The thought of surviving long enough to actually turn the tables on them, to make them pay for their callous abandonment of her, was almost too sweet to contemplate.

But words were cheap. Any fool might offer them. And if her years as queen had taught her nothing else, it was that a woman in power attracted fools like honey attracted flies.

“What proof do you offer that any of this is true?” she challenged. “Or do you think that I will swear my allegiance to a complete stranger for a handful of pretty words that any good actor might invent? How do I know that you even have allies?”

The cold, reptilian eyes flickered with amusement. What if he could read her thoughts? It would not be beyond the reach of a witch to do so, she realized suddenly, and certainly not beyond a Magister.

“When the time comes for you to claim this power, Majesty, all will be made clear to you. And you may choose then whether to go forward or not with full knowledge of all your options. Is that satisfactory?”

“When the time comes?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “You claim to know my situation, then speak casually of waiting.” She glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I have wasted my time after all.”

The man's eyes narrowed. How alien they seemed in that instant, how lightless! Not like human eyes at all. “There are things that must be set in motion before you can join us. Certain natural processes must be completed first. We have done all we can to hurry them along, but—”

“How long?” she demanded.

“A lesser month at least. No longer than a great month at most.”

She exhaled in a soft hiss. “Then why come to me now? Why speak of these things to me tonight, when—”
when I may not be alive a month from now
“—when you cannot deliver what you promise, or even prove that such a power exists?”

“I came tonight to see if you were interested in such an offer. If not, we will seek elsewhere.”

“For another woman?”

“Yes.”

“A woman of power?”

“A queen in spirit, if not in title. No one else can accept such a gift.”

“And was I your first?” she asked. “Or have you approached other queens before me and been rejected?”

A muscle along the line of his jaw twitched. “There have been no other queens,” he said. His expression was impassive, but she could sense the hostile energy coiled just behind it. He was not accustomed to bargaining with women, or with masking his emotions; the strain of it showed. “There are others who can take your place, if need be.”

Take her place in what?
In claiming an unnamed power that must have a woman to master it
. The whole idea was mad. Every rational fiber of her being was crying out for her come to her senses and throw this miscreant out on his head—and perhaps have him meet with a convenient accident on the way home, thus silencing a man who seemed to know far too much about her private business. Surely a wild tale like this deserved no better treatment.

But what if there is some truth to all this?
she thought. If even one word out of twenty was true, that still hinted at secrets worth learning. Risks worth taking. Didn't it?

She had to know the truth.

Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for what well might be her last act on earth.
May the gods help you if you are lying to me, Amalik. If so I will have you torn limb from limb for making me waste the last hours of my life indulging your delusion
.

Focus. Focus.

Reaching deep inside herself to where the final sputtering embers of her soulfire lay hidden, she struggled to claim one precious drop of power to bind to her purpose. Her dying soul did not part with its substance easily; it would have been easier to thrust her hand between her ribs and rip her heart out of her body than it was to claim that tiny portion of power.

But she had not risen to her throne by being weak-willed, nor had fear ever kept her from doing what she needed to. Her body trembled as she focused upon that dying flame, her flesh growing cold as it sensed the closeness of Death, but she remained focused on her objective. And in the end she claimed it—one precious drop of her soul's strength, divorced from the whole, that she might shape to her will.

Carefully, so carefully, she crafted a truth-telling spell, knowing that she must make it perfect, absolutely perfect, for in this enterprise there would be no second chance.

(And how much of her life had this effort already cost her? Was Death laughing at her as he watched, amused by her desperation?)

“All that you have told me of this power,” she whispered hoarsely, “all the promises you have made and the reasons you say you are making them . . . you swear before the gods, all these thing are true?”

“Aye, my Queen.” There was an edge to his voice that had not been there before. “By the gods I swear it.”

She released the power to do its work and shut her eyes, feeling her spell fill the room between them: testing the stranger, tasting his substance.
Hunger. Lust. Impatience.
Powerful emotions roiled within him, primitive in their intensity, strangely inhuman in their tenor.
Hatred. Dominance. Desperation
. His outer aspect might appear civilized, but the depths of his soul were just the opposite. Dealing with him would be dangerous beyond words. But what of the prize he had promised? Did it exist? Might she really lay claim to it, if it did?

Then she tasted the truth of his words and a shiver ran up her spine.

He does not lie
.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She did not need to say anything to him; he could read in her expression what she had learned.

And you wanted to see if I were willing,
she realized suddenly.
This was a test, wasn't it? Of strength. Of commitment. Perhaps of desperation.

Only one decision was possible now. Only one promised a chance of life.

“What do you ask of me in return?” she said quietly.

Amalik smiled coldly. How calm his outer demeanor was! As if he and she were bargaining over some trinket of jewelry that had no real value. But she had seen inside him and knew the truth: whatever these men wanted her for, their hunger for it was every bit as driving as her hunger for life itself. “A token. A test. To seal our bargain.”

“Such as?”

“You are planning to attend the coronation festivities for the new High King, I believe? Position yourself in the palace. Earn his favor. It should not be difficult for someone of your talents. Our plans may require some influence in his court. You will provide it.”

But that is only a secondary goal,
she thought.
The hunger that burns within you is for something much simpler, a goal far less civilized than courtly politics.
“And what is it you want him influenced to do?”

“For now?” He chuckled softly. “To be true to his faith. To be confident in Sankara's friendship so that he does not look too closely in this direction. And to distrust the many Magisters who will be vying for his favor. I assume the latter will be no problem for you?”

Now it was her turn to smile. “No. None at all.”

“Later there will be more concrete assignments, I am sure. But for now that will suffice. Let us say simply set the groundwork for him to trust your counsel, so that in the future your words will have power.” He raised up one black eyebrow. “So do we have a bargain, my Queen?”

There was a voice that whispered deep within her soul, warning her to be careful. Reminding her that the welfare of Sankara was not necessarily well served by such a plan. The Free Lands needed a war, or at least the threat of war, to keep them unified. A peaceful, happy High King was not necessarily a good thing for them.

But if there was even a remote possibility that this man could deliver what he promised—even a shadow of a chance—could she afford to turn him away?

“Aye,” she said quietly. “We have a deal.”

The voice in her soul was silent.

T
HE MIRROR in front of Salvator was not one of his father's sorcerous accessories but a simple sheet of polished metal set in a tall wooden frame. As such it was a less than perfect reflector that made his lean form look even thinner and his angular features somewhat awry. That did not bother him, of course, though it did seem to bother his mother.

What bothered him was the stole about his neck. The long strip of embroidered cloth hung down the front of his robe on both sides, its foundation fabric encrusted with so many layers of embroidery and so many gemstones that one could no longer see the original cloth. Which was not what bothered him, of course. Well, it was not what bothered him
most.

With a sigh he lifted it off over his head and held it out to Gwynofar. “I am sorry, Mother. I cannot.”

“It is part of the coronation regalia,” she said quietly.

“I understand that.”

“It represents your family's history,” Gwynofar said firmly. “Your heritage.”

“Again, I am sorry. But I cannot wear it.”