Wings of Wrath (15 page)

They will not take me down without cost,
she swore.

They were coming into focus now, stepping forth from the shadows as they surrounded her, standing just outside the spell circle. So many Magisters! She did not have time to look for familiar faces; instead she leaped into the air as soon as her wings were stable, throwing herself at the high point of the barrier with all her strength, aiming for what seemed like a weak point in its structure. For a moment the sorcerous webwork entrapped her, and she struggled desperately to free herself.
Must get out!
The Magisters watched in silence.
Must break through!
Her claws scrabbled desperately at it, but to no avail. Finally it released her and she fell back to earth. Like a bird in a cage she began to panic, flying toward the barrier first in one place, then another, throwing the full weight of her body against the spell circle, ripping at it with her talons and her sorcery. Feathers flew from her shoulders. Blood dripped from her claws. But the encircling spell remained undamaged; she could find no place weak enough in its construction to allow her to break through, either by physical or metaphysical effort.

And still they watched in silence. So many of them! Black-robed cannibals all of them, drinking in her desperation. She could sense the hunger in them as they watched her struggle. The hate. They were packed tightly about the spell circle now, in a crowd so many layers deep that she could not begin to guess how many Magisters were present. Truly, she would not have thought there were so many in all the world as seemed to be here now—and every single one of them had contributed his power to the spell that was her prison. Now that her senses were fully awake to its power, its glow was so bright that it burned her eyes to look upon it. And it seemed to be strengthened by her own efforts, brightening each time she tried to break free. It was stealing her power, even as she tried to save herself.

Trembling with fear and exhaustion, she reclaimed her human flesh so that she might better control her sorcery. The skin of her arms appeared bruised and lifeless, and blood dripped from her fingertips. What was happening to her? The uncertainty of it was more unnerving than any direct assault would have been. Violence she knew how to deal with. Violence she knew how to answer. This . . . this she did not.

The Magisters watched her, unmoving. They were chanting softly now, it seemed to her, but the language was one that she did not understand. Nevertheless she knew instinctively that they were voicing words of power, such as a witch might use to focus his athra before a major undertaking. But a Magister had no need of such tools. What in the name of all the hells was going on?

Then she saw that the webwork about her was thickening, shifting, closing. Where there had been small open spaces before to offer her hope, slender strands of power now splayed like darning threads, drawing them inexorably shut. Desperately she gathered her athra to her and struck out at the baleful construct, directing all the force that was in her soul at the one point that seemed weakest but she could barely raise a whisper of power now, and the spell circle remained unharmed.

“What do you want?” she gasped. “Tell me!”

They continued their chanting. So many Magisters, joining their life energies together in one great effort . . . how could any one human being hope to stand against them?

The last holes in the web were drawing shut. Strands of light began to assemble themselves into letters and words, all in a language she did not understand. It was hard to see anything beyond them. The webwork itself was dimming, but the letters remained clear. She tried in desperation to call up enough power to interpret them but the power would not come to her. Even worse, the glowing letters seemed to draw strength from her efforts, as though her own athra was feeding them. The spell that surrounded her was sucking all the power out of her soul. . . .

“It was an accident!” she screamed. Or tried to. The tissues of her throat were dry and cracked and she could barely force out any sound, much less recognizable words. “I didn't mean to kill him!” What little volume she could muster seemed to be absorbed by the glowing letters as well; they pulsed with light as they drifted toward her. The spell wall behind them was growing dark now and she could see nothing beyond it, only those unknown symbols that floated in the air before her, waiting for another offering of her life energy. Whatever power she raised to fight this thing it would absorb; whatever spells she cast to save herself it would devour.

And then suddenly the last of the light was gone, the glowing letters sputtered out, and there was darkness. Panicked, she struck out toward the barrier, but her hands moved only a few inches before they hit solid stone. Reaching out in other directions, she found the same thing: rock on all sides of her, above and below as well, roughly carved and clearly not natural in its formation.

She was entombed.

Bleeding hands scraped against the unseen wall to no avail. She could feel something chiseled crudely into the rough surface. Letters. Surrounding her. Spells—powerful spells—that would slowly but surely steal all the life force that was in her and transform it into—

What? What did they want? What was happening to her?

Wordlessly, she screamed. Opened her mouth and let the terror pour out until the stone walls shook from the force of the sound and surely the animals beyond it would hear its echo and flee and—

She was lying on a bed of leaves with no stone tomb enclosing her.

No words of power.

No Magisters.

For a moment she just lay there, stunned, trying to absorb what had just happened. Her heart was pounding so hard that it seemed about to burst from her chest. Her whole body was drenched in a cold sweat. Her hands, her hands . . . she brought them up before her face and saw that they were undamaged. No blood. No blood.

The sudden relief was more than she could handle; she rolled over on her side and retched. Long, shuddering spasms shook her as her body vomited up all the terror of the past hour. It seemed to go on forever.

It was a dream,
she thought when at last the fit was over. Lying on her side on the rocky ground, feeling as if she ought to kiss the soiled earth beneath her cheek, so glad was she to be back in the real world again.

Then:
No. It was more than a dream
.

She had never been prone to nightmares. Even in the darkest days of her childhood, which were filled with more pain than any young girl should have to endure, her sleep had been free from torments. Her brother used to awaken crying in the middle of the night, whimpering of monsters and darkness, but she never had.
Her
monsters had walked the earth during the day and paid with grimy coin for the right to abuse her; sleep had been her one true refuge.

The Wrath was known to give men nightmares, she knew that. Indeed, she had expected to have bad dreams once she entered this area; it was a risk she'd accepted in order to follow the two Guardians. But this . . . this had been something more than a simple nightmare. She knew that for certain, without quite understanding how she knew. This was a vision that mattered. But what part was significant and what part was simply the product of her own fear? She had no idea how to begin to sort it all out. And yet it mattered. She knew that instinctively, in the same way she knew that the sun would rise every morning.
It mattered
.

The Guardian would know what it meant, she thought. If only she dared ask him.

Shivering in the chill dawn light, she wiped her face clean on a handful of grass and began to make her way down to the stream to wash herself.

T
HE LAST time Colivar had seen Danton's palace, the land surrounding it had been a study in devastation. Blackened earth and the charred skeletons of trees had stretched as far as the eye could see, and the smell of stale smoke and burned flesh had hung heavy in the humid summer air.

Now that same landscape was a brilliant and colorful thing, with a lush carpet of fresh grass underfoot—so new it had not yet had a chance to scatter its first seed—and a veritable metropolis of colorful tents and pavilions staked out upon every available inch of solid ground. A channel had been established to bring in fresh-flowing water from a nearby river, with several pools providing focal points for the encampments surrounding them. And perhaps even more important, large refuse pits had been provided at the far end of the estate, with servants waiting to shovel a layer of dirt over each new offering, to keep the air smelling sweet throughout the festivities. All in all, Colivar mused, it was quite an impressive transformation.

If it had been the intent of the Aurelius family to erase all memory of the land's former devastation, they had done so admirably.

Each delegation had its own assigned space, and the larger groups had established veritable cities of canvas, complete with feast halls, formal audience chambers, and, in some cases, temples to one god or another. Uniformed guards patrolled the canvas walls that demarcated the boundaries of their domains, and in some cases elevated walkways had been erected inside the walls, so that those men might have a clearer perspective. It was mostly for show, of course. Any delegation of rank would have a Magister Royal in attendance, and if some lesser encampments did not have a Magister on its regular payroll it would have surely scrambled to hire one for this gathering. Which meant that there would be no real trouble, Colivar thought dryly. Magisters valued their peace.

At the far end of the field was a single pavilion set apart from all the others. Its fabric was black—that rich and impossible shade of black which only sorcery could produce—and if one approached closely enough, one could feel a cool breeze stirring about its walls, regardless of the angle of the sun or the heat of the day. Few morati came near enough to find that out, of course. They understood the message embodied in its color, preferring to steer clear of anything which so obviously—and aggressively—belonged to the Magisters.

Entering the pavilion's cool confines, Colivar offered up a bit of his own sorcerous power to help maintain its comfortable temperature. Visitor's courtesy. As his eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior he could make out furnishings that were rich and luxurious, if somewhat mismatched. Each Magister had apparently donated key pieces in his style of choice to the whole, with little thought for the overall effect. Or perhaps they simply did not care to adjust their offerings to suit the taste of others. It was hard to say. Social events with this many Magisters in attendance came along only a few times each century, so they had never had the time to work out exactly how such things should be organized. Or the interest.

Colivar gazed at the collection for a few moments, then bound enough power to tweak the colors here and there; when his sorcery settled, all the pieces were rendered in a rich but tasteful combination of burgundy, scarlet, and gold. Much better. He added a few embroidered floor pillows of his own to the collection and then headed over to the sideboard, where bottles of wine and platters full of delicacies were waiting. A chill wafted upward from the plates and bowls whose contents required cold storage, soothing after the day's heat.

There were three other Magisters inside the pavilion: Lazaroth, Tirstan, and another one from Gansang whose name Colivar could not call to mind. He nodded a greeting to them all as he poured himself some wine. “So,” he said. “Any news worth hearing these days?”

“Lemnos has fled Kierdwyn,” Tirstan said. “If you regard that as news.”

Colivar sipped his wine. It was a complex vintage, with subtle and pleasing undertones; whoever had conjured it had excellent taste. “Not a great surprise. No Magister serves in a Protectorate for very long.”

“He says the Wrath is getting worse these days,” Lazaroth offered dryly. “Apparently it was more than he could handle.”

Colivar raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe that to be true? That the Wrath is changing?” When Lazaroth didn't answer immediately he added dryly, “I am guessing from your self-satisfied tone that you are the one who claimed Lemnos' post, but if I am mistaken in that assumption, please do let me know.”

Tirstan chuckled softly. “You are not mistaken.”

The other Gansang Magister lifted up his cup in a toast. “Permit me to introduce Magister Royal Lazaroth, newly sworn to the service of Stevan and Evaine Kierdwyn, of the Kierdwyn Protectorate. May he have a bit more staying power than his predecessor.” He drank deeply from his cup.

Tamil, Colivar recalled suddenly. The Magister's name was Tamil. “Certainly an interesting post,” he mused, “given all that is happening these days. No doubt it will put you front and center at Salvator's festivities, Lazaroth.”