Wings of Wrath (35 page)

It was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but she knew the theory of it well enough. Waste the athra in pointless exercises, drain one's consort of the last of his life-essence, and force the next Transition to take place, claiming a fresh source of life. It took surprisingly little time to do; apparently her consort was nearly exhausted. A mere whisper of sorcery was all that was needed to drain him of what little energy was left. It was a humbling discovery. Truly, if she had not forced the issue now, when it was relatively safe to do so, she might well have lost her power in the midst of some more precarious procedure such as transportation. What happened to a sorcerer who lost control of his power when his physical body was
nowhere?
She shuddered to think of how close she had come to finding out.

It is not enough to grab hold of immortality,
Ethanus had taught her.
One must be careful not to lose one's grip
.

There had been a whisper of some other power in the area that she had sensed as soon as her own was restored. A spell of searching. Wary of any sorcery on a good day, downright paranoid at the current moment, she had turned it aside with care.
Nothing here of any interest,
she had told it.
Whatever you seek, look elsewhere
.

“I am fully capable of riding home on horseback,” Rhys insisted. And indeed he seemed ready to try. But in his current state she doubted he would get very far. Stubborn male pride. It made men do foolish things just to prove that they didn't need help. And the weaker they were, the more the game mattered to them. The eternal paradox of the male psyche.

“Try it,” she said with equal stubbornness, “and I will pick you up off your horse to send you home, and that will cost me more soulfire in the end. Is that what you want?”

He gritted his teeth and shook his head and looked like he was going to argue with her further but then, with a sigh, he surrendered. Arguing with her required energy and right now he had very little to spare. “What do you need from me?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Home.” He whispered it. “To make my report. That is my duty, is it not? A Guardian is a creature of duty.”

She had to ask. “How much will you tell them?”

“I don't know.” His gaze was dark and empty. “Do I serve them best by telling them truth? Revealing that their heritage is a sham? That their ancestors' grand self-sacrifice was in fact a hideous atrocity? How will they do battle with the Souleaters then, knowing that? What will they draw upon for strength?” He sighed heavily. “I won't know until the words come out of my mouth, I think.”

“I'm sorry.” She whispered the words. “I wish I could help you.”

“You have done more than I would ever have asked for. You know that.”

She was not used to people being grateful to her; it stirred uncomfortable emotions. “I will need something to link you to the place you want to go, as I've never been there. Some sort of physical relic to help anchor that end of the spell.”

“Anukyat's men took all my supplies. Including my focus for the meetinghouse. Does that mean you can't send me there?”

“Probably not. I'm sorry.”

Cursing softly under his breath, he began to pat down his clothing, as if trying to remember what he still had on him. As one hand brushed across his chest he felt something lying beneath the bloodstained fabric. Fumbling inside the neck of his shirt, he pulled out a leather cord he wore as a necklace with a small stone threaded on it. He held it in his hand for a moment, his eyes shut; clearly it had memories attached. Then he took it off and handed it to her. “Will this do?”

The pendant was a small river rock with a natural hole through the middle. Anukyat's men had clearly not deemed it significant enough to steal from him. “What is its significance?”

“Gwyn gave it to me, years ago. For luck.” He laughed bitterly. “You see how well it worked.”

“Where did that happen?”

“In Kierdwyn. The Lord Protector's keep.”

“It might take us there, then. “ She turned it over in her hand, considering. The thing had no natural power, but many people ascribed good luck to such formations. “Or it might take us to wherever she is now.”

“Either will do,” he said quietly.

“We will have to leave the horses behind.” As a sorcerer she could transport them easily enough, in fact, but no true witch would waste that much vital energy.

For once he did not argue with her, but simply nodded.

“There is good forage here, and with luck they will find their way home in time. Or perhaps they will choose to stay here, without human masters.”

He limped over to where the horses were waiting and carefully removed their last few bits of tack. She could see him wince once as he had to reach higher than his wounded arm wanted to go, but he would not ask her for help. Male pride.

“Rhys, let me tend to your wounds now.”

He shook his head. “There will be healers when we get home. You have wasted too much life on me already.”

“That is my choice to make, Rhys.” When he did not respond she added, “Please.”

He hesitated, then sighed and nodded.

Slowly, carefully, she untied the neck of his bloodstained shirt and pushed it back over his wounded shoulder so that she could see where the Alkali arrow had pierced him. The joint was stiff and it clearly pained him to move it, but the hole was clean and it was healing fairly well. Silently, secretly, she bound a bit of sorcery to speed up the process and ease the pain, but no more was necessary. Then she gestured for him to take a seat on a nearby tree stump and waited while he rolled up one leg of his breeches, so that she could look at the gash in his leg. As she had suspected, that wound was not doing well. Hard riding had kept it from closing properly and the surrounding flesh was red and swollen; a thick yellowish fluid had oozed out from one corner of the gash, and dried blood had crusted along its edges. She could see him biting his lip when she inspected it, trying not to admit how much it pained him to have it touched. Not good. Not good at all.

She drained the malevolence from the ugly wound, drawing out the poisons that were festering deep inside it. Then she used sorcery to weave the edges of the torn flesh back together, starting from the deepest point and working outward, toward the surface of his body. And she communicated to his body that all was well, so that the blood inflaming that region would disperse and the swelling subside.

Physical healing was easy enough. What she did not know how to do was attend to the wound in his soul.

When the scars of battle had been dealt with, she directed her attention to his self-inflicted wounds. Thus far he hadn't let her touch them, or even look at them, and she was afraid for a moment that this would still be the case. But apparently he no longer had the strength—or perhaps the heart—to resist her efforts. Numbly, he pushed the bloodstained sleeves up his arms so that she could take a look at his handiwork.

His arms were a gruesome sight. Reddened flesh was cross-hatched with shallow cuts and covered with streaks of dried blood. Gently she brushed her fingers down the length of his arms, one at a time, using sorcery to cleanse the wounds, wondering at the meaning of the mysterious shapes he had copied. Strange angular figures covered every inch of his left arm in jagged, uneven rows. He had tried to etch a few figures into his right arm as well, when he'd run out of space, but the latter attempt had been far less successful.

For a long, silent moment she studied the strange shapes, binding enough sorcery to be sure they were burned into her memory forever. Then she took his left arm in her hands. It was stiff and painful and she handled it gently, summoning soulfire to her as she stroked the wounded skin once more with her fingertips.

“Leave the scars there,” he ordered her. “Just like they would have healed on their own, without witchery.”

She didn't point out to him that such self-mutilation was no longer necessary. She could easily summon a tablet for him to write on, to copy the precious signs, so that they could safely be erased from his flesh. But that wasn't what this was about, for him. There were other wounds inside Rhys, soul-deep wounds, that required pain for healing. To be scarred by his journey was somehow part of that formula. She didn't understand why—she wasn't sure he did either—but for now, she simply urged the cuts to scar over until they were no longer a series of swollen and infected gashes, but neatly fashioned ridges of reddened scar tissue: a surreal calligraphy.

And because his gaze was elsewhere for a moment, she was able to alter some of the symbols without his noticing. Every third or fourth sign was changed by a stroke or two, or transposed with another figure. Whoever attempted to read this text, even if he knew what language it came from, would have a serious challenge ahead of him. Then she wove a spell about the scars to guarantee that that no one would be able to detect her tampering, nor summon a vision of the original writing without her consent. Rhys would not notice the change, of that she was certain. Now she had made sure that no one else would be able to detect the obfuscation either, even by sorcerous means. The secrets guarded by the sorcerous script had been veiled once more.

When she was done he rolled down his sleeves again and tied the front of his shirt closed. He seemed to be moving more easily now, and his color definitely looked a shade better than before. But he was a battered, bloodstained figure all the same, and she wondered what kind of reaction they would get when they suddenly appeared . . . well, wherever.

Drawing in a deep breath, she focused her attention inside herself and began to summon power.

The map on the table was old, as were the brass weights that pinned it down at the corners, solid nuggets with the Kierdwyn family crest inscribed on them. Smaller markers had been placed along the southern border of the Protectorate, near where the High Kingdom began. Seven in all.

The Lord Protector Stevan Kierdwyn stood with his hands behind his back, studying each marker in turn, his expression growing more and more solemn as he absorbed each new bit of information. His advisers were accustomed to such thoughtful silence and waited patiently until he chose to speak.

“These raids,” he said at last. “How sure are we of their true source?”

The lord constable's expression was grim. “You've seen the artifacts, Sire.” He gestured toward the sideboard, where a variety of items had been laid out for his inspection. A soldier's short sword, such as troops in the High Kingdom carried. A leather supply pack, whose construction betrayed its martial origins. A bloodied pewter button cast with a double-headed hawk, torn loose from some anchoring uniform. “The Seer confirms they are all of military origin. Which means—”

Stevan waved him to silence. “I know what it means,” he said sharply.

“Yes, Sire.”

They were from the High Kingdom. There was no way around that fact. Seven brutal raids had taken place along Kierdwyn's southern border that appeared to be the work of mountain bandits—but those bandits had been outfitted with military weapons and supplies. And disguises. Good disguises. The people in the villages they had raided had believed themselves to be at the mercy of common outlaws. The women they had raped—

Rage flared inside the Lord Protector; it took all his willpower to keep it from consuming him.

Calm. Calm. Those who protect the civilized world must be calm
.

Why would Salvator sanction something like this? What did he stand to gain?

But a prince could set things in motion without ordering them directly. A single comment overheard by the wrong overzealous minister might result in actions he himself would never have approved. Some kings, like Danton, used that to their advantage, manipulating men without ever seeming to do so. Others, less savvy—or perhaps simply less careful—might well find themselves having to pass judgment on men at a later date whose only crime had been the blind passion of their service.

He did not want to think that the son of Danton Aurelius—his own grandchild!—could be so careless. But the only other viable explanation was that Salvator was losing control over his northern border, and that was not a good thing either. Gwynofar's marriage had been meant to secure a lasting peace in that region so that both the Protectorate and the High Kingdom might focus their attentions elsewhere. On new conquests in Danton's case, and ancient duties in Stevan's. Salvator had sworn that he would honor that treaty. So what was happening now?