Wings of Wrath (21 page)

“You do not disturb me,” he answered.
How could you do that, when I came here to draw you out?

She was dressed in layers of silk tissue the colors of sunset, with a pattern of delicate gold flowers embroidered across the outermost gown. The soft fabric hinted at the shape of her body with pleasing subtlety, teasing the eye with the curve of a breast or a thigh briefly as the night breeze pressed against it, then falling free once more and concealing all. It was hard to resist doing what masculine instinct would prefer and fix his eyes where they would stand to catch the finest view when the next breeze stirred. Instead he met her eyes. They were wide and black in the moonlight, twin pools of black crystal. A few drops of belladonna could provide such an effect, if nature fell short.

“There is enough view here for two to enjoy,” he said, and he made room for her to stand beside him.

She had been introduced to him earlier in the day, of course. One introduction among the dozens that mattered most. Even then she could not help but stand out from the crowd. Her deep copper skin was muted now by the moonlight, but in the bright light of day it had gleamed with exotic splendor as she moved through the crowds with an innate sensuality that defied all attempts at male understanding. The flesh stirred to see her walk without the brain understanding why. Such a woman required no décolletage to draw men's eyes to her, nor any of the other sartorial affectations that passed for flirtation among her less talented sisters. Indeed, Salvator thought that once or twice he had seen a flicker of disdain in her eyes for women who had clearly invested their hopes in such mechanisms. It was a strangely cold look, with a fleeting hint of something darker behind it, peeking out from behind the civilized mask. An intriguing insight.

She had not made any attempt to talk to him at length during the day, or to capture his attention by any other means. Hardly a surprise. In the midst of the day's festivities she had been surrounded by vulgar distractions, like a fine jewel in a gaudy setting; now her only competition was the moonlight.

“You are most gracious,” she allowed, bowing her head ever so slightly. Something tinkled softly beneath her skirts as she joined him at the parapet; a hidden bit of jewelry making its presence known? His instinct was to seek it out, but he kept his eyes focused carefully upon her face. No reason to hand her such an easy victory.

She looked out over the landscape and sighed. “Such a beautiful view. I wish I could have come up here earlier. It must have been magnificent at sunset.”

“We have both had our duties to perform today,” he said. “Perhaps in the future there will be more time for such simple pleasures.”

One delicate, plucked eyebrow arched inquisitively higher. “You do seem to be taking all this rather in stride, considering how much your world has changed in a fortnight.” She laughed softly. “I think I would still be numbed by shock, myself.”

“Ah, but a king does not have the freedom to be numbed by shock. Or a queen, I should think.”

“True enough.” The dark eyes sparkled. “Perhaps that is the ultimate test of royalty. To be surprised by nothing.” A subtext purred beneath the words:
You are doing quite well so far, my King.

The unvoiced compliment pleased him more than it should have. Was there witchery behind it? Or simply the natural power of feminine flattery, contrasted against four years of isolation?
She would not be willing to sacrifice her life's essence for such a simple spell,
he guessed. And:
It would be a point of pride for her, to accomplish her seductions without witchery.

“There have been many tests of late,” he said quietly. Not trusting himself to say more.

She smiled and looked out over the landscape, gracefully offering a change of subject. “I admit I did not expect the land to be so well recovered, so soon. Quite an impressive sight.”

“We were fortunate,” he said, following her gaze outward. Only a few torches were lit now, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the vast stretches of land. Sparks of light kissed the high points of tents and banners as moonbeams fixed upon them, shivering slightly as a few stray clouds passed overhead. “There was rain nearly every day, a rare thing in summer. Plants can grow quickly if Nature is accommodating.”

“Ah, see now, if you had not told me that, I would not have assigned Nature the credit. I would have said to you that your witches were skilled, and that their offerings spoke well for your throne.”

A shadow passed over Salvator's face. “I would not order any witch to expend his life-essence for so trivial a thing. Nor would I accept such a gift, if it were offered.”

“You are an unusual man, then. Most kings welcome power however it is offered.”

“Most kings are not Penitents,” he said quietly.

She turned back to look at him. For the first time, he sensed hesitation in her. Was it a genuine emotion or simply another serving of polished artifice? She moistened her full lips with her tongue as she considered, then said, “I hope it would not be . . . out of line . . . to ask a question of you? Regarding your faith?”

“Not at all.” He smiled faintly. “Many have done so this day. Many more will in days to come.” He did not add that few of the questions had been respectful, though they had all been voiced respectfully. His faith was an alien thing to most of his guests, and the presence of monks wandering among the gaily-clad peacocks of his court, watching silently as vain young nobles proudly fluffed their tails before their fellows, was a sober reminder of that. Not that it had stopped the peacocks from staging their displays over and over again. Or kept them from asking about Salvator's years in the monastery, with the same distaste as one might ask a prisoner from a dungeon how many maggots were in his daily bread. “Please speak freely.”

She smiled at him. “You are most gracious, Your Majesty.” A slender hand moved forward as if to touch him lightly upon the arm, but then paused, and fell gracefully down by her side once more. It was far from the first time today that a woman had hesitated before touching him, but unlike the other incidents, this one seemed to be born of respect for his faith, rather than fear of it. A refreshing change, even if the move was as likely to be carefully staged as all the others.

“Please,” he said. “Call me Salvator.”

She inclined her head ever so slightly, acknowledging the offer. “Only if you will call me Siderea in turn.”

He nodded. “So be it.” With a sigh, he leaned back against the parapet. The gesture appeared casual, but it had as much to do with physical exhaustion as any social statement. “So what do you wish to know about my faith, Siderea? Since it seems for once we will not be interrupted.”

She leaned against the parapet beside him; the soft silk of her gown lay fluid along the curves of her figure. “It cannot have escaped your notice that we are the only two monarchs on this continent that eschew any formal contract with Magisters. Certainly it is common wisdom that no man can claim a throne without them.” She circled one finger slowly about a stray tendril of her hair as she spoke.

“There are those who have questioned my judgment for my own choice, though it is no secret that I maintain social ties with various Magisters so that they tolerate my eccentricity. Yet you do not seem the type to flatter and fête the Magisters in order to remain in their favor. You simply . . . reject them. I must admit that I am curious about why you would choose such a high-risk course.” She smiled. “You understand . . . I thought I was quite alone in my prejudices, until you came along.”

Salvator nodded.
Aye, we are kin in that much, whatever other differences there may be between us
. “The Magisters represent power without price. As such they are a corrupting influence that disturbs the natural order of things. The Penitents believe they were sent to mankind as a temptation after the last of the Souleaters were gone, to see if we had learned the proper lessons from that invasion. Apparently not, for the world was then subjected to another century of darkness.” Salvator's expression grew solemn as he remembered the details of that darkness. Far too disturbing to be shared in such a casual exchange.

“It is said that during the latter half of the Dark Times the Magisters destroyed all of Man's greatest works, and killed all the leaders who would have led him back into the light. But for sorcery, the Second Age of Kings would have begun much earlier than it did.”

“And do you believe that is what truly happened?”

He shrugged. “History tells us that our ancestors lived in darkness for generations after the Great War, long after the last of the Souleaters were gone. Have you ever heard a better explanation for it?”

“No,” Her voice was soft, her tone thoughtful. “No, I have not.”

“I believe there is not a night that goes by that they do not hunger to be restored to the kind of unfettered power they once enjoyed. If not to wield it openly, then by virtue of their influence over mortal kings. And if we become corrupt enough to allow them that influence . . .” He drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, trying to settle his spirit; if he became so strident that he drove her away, that served no one's purpose. “Perhaps that is why the Souleaters have returned now. Perhaps it is a warning. At any rate, I for one will not serve the Magisters' agenda.”

“That is a very brave stance,” she said quietly.

He shrugged stiffly. “It takes no great courage to risk one's life in service to one's god. I would be more afraid of a life lived without faith, that had as little direction as the life of an insect.” He shook his head. “But forgive me, your words inspire darker reflections than I think you anticipated—”

“It is your passion,” she said softly. This time she did put a hand upon his arm: a light touch, like the wing of a butterfly. “You need never apologize for passion. Not to me.”

He forced himself not to look in her eyes. There were too many secrets there, swimming in the shadows; a man could get lost in them. “So what about you?” he asked “Why do you take such a risk?”

She laughed gently; the jewelry hidden under her skirts tinkled softly as she shifted her position. “Oh, I am afraid I have not nearly so compelling a tale to offer. Nor so exalted a cause. I simply find them insufferably arrogant. When I first came to my throne they tried to tell me how to run my country, and it did not sit well with me. Now they offer the same words to me as ‘friendly counsel,' but I am not beholden to them as other princes are, so I do not have to listen. Or obey.”

A faint smile spread across Salvator's face. “Now you see,
that
is true courage.” He bowed his head ever so slightly. “I salute your spirit, my lady.”

On sudden impulse, he reached out and took her hand in his. Raising it to his lips he kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. A subtle perfume rose from her fingers, warm and pleasing. Her skin was like silk.

She did not move closer to build upon the moment. That intrigued him. A common seductress would surely have done so, taking his gesture at face value, pressing the moment's advantage. This one was playing a much more complex game.

Somewhere in the distance a bell sounded, tolling the hour. Midnight. The sound seemed to disperse the moment's magic. He held her hand a moment longer, and then reluctantly released it. Her fingertips stroked his palm as they withdrew, leaving streamers of fire in their wake.

“So much to do in the morning,” she said softly. Regretfully.

He chuckled. “Now you see, that is where a retired monk has the advantage over a lady of the court. My day's work has always begun at dawn. To sleep even an hour longer than that would be . . . unimaginable decadence.”

“Well, then.” She reached up to his face, her index finger tracing the line of his cheekbone, feather-light. Despite his best intentions, it made his loins tighten in response. “Shall I wish you decadence, then? Or would that offend against your faith?”

Using a silent prayer to settle his spirit, he managed to keep his voice steady. “Only if I may wish you the same,” he said, hoping the words sounded more natural than they felt. Suddenly he was out of his element, and no longer sure of . . . anything.

But she did not press the moment's advantage. Or perhaps she did not notice it? He offered her his arm and she took it, and together they walked to the narrow door that led back downstairs, into the tower. Her walk was poetry in motion. How many months had she practiced it—how many years—before it became that fluid, effortless glide? It was impossible not to watch. Impossible not to feel his blood stirred by watching.

She paused at the door, as if considering something. Her finger stroked the weathered oak thoughtfully.

“Corialanus will be trouble,” she said at last. “You have won them over by your manner, at least for today, but they will surely test you in the future. It would be good for you to have a friend in the south, who might learn of trouble when it was still in the planning stages and give you fair warning of it.”

He nodded solemnly. “Such a friend would have my eternal gratitude. And such favors as I might render in return.”

She did not say more, but glanced back at him with a silent, secret smile, then slipped through the door and was gone. Her perfume took a few minutes longer to dissipate, and he did not move again until the midnight breeze had carried the last of it away, cooling his flesh as it did so. As much as his flesh could be cooled.

You have passed your first test of temptation,
he told himself.
Take strength from that knowledge. Build upon it
.