Wings of Wrath (41 page)

“It makes no sense,” she whispered. “Why would Guardians do such a thing? What would it gain them?”

“I cannot tell you that. Nor can I tell you if this is related to the recent trouble on our border with Kierdwyn . . . five raids now within our territory . . . but the timing is suspicious, is it not?”

She looked up sharply. “Kierdwyn would never act against the High Kingdom!”

“The Lord Protector himself, no. But a group of warriors that owes no more than token respect to his rule? That defines its own mission, defines its own wars, and effectively answers to no one?”

“Rhys is one of those warriors,” she reminded him. “Do you honestly believe he would serve such a cause? The slaughter of innocents in a foreign kingdom? For what? Booty? Bloodshed? No. Not Rhys. Not possible.”

“You have great faith in the motives of men. But blind faith in good intentions is a luxury a High King cannot afford. What evidence is there that I can bank my policy upon? What truth is so certain that lives may be risked in its name?”

“I will go to Kierdwyn and find you evidence,” she said.

“Whatever it takes. Is that good enough for you?” And she added defiantly, “They are my people. They will answer my questions.”

He considered it, then nodded. “I will have an escort ready for you in the morning.”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She wiped a bit of moisture from her eye. Her hand was no longer trembling. “Horses take too long. And your witches cannot afford such a sacrifice. I will make my own arrangements.”

His expression darkened. “Mother—”

“
Time matters,
Salvator. There is no other way.” When he looked as if he were about to protest she added, “Respect my choices, as I have respected yours.”

He bit his lip for a moment; she held her breath, waiting.

“There is no Magister here,” he said at last.

She exhaled gratefully. “I know how to call one.”

“And what will he ask in return?”

“Nothing. He owes me a favor.”

“Who?” Salvator demanded.

“Ramirus.” When he did not respond she offered, “Your father trusted him.”

“My father trusted no Magister. And taught me to do the same.”

She said nothing.

Finally, with a sigh, he nodded. “Very well. As long as you will not be indebted to him for it, I will not stand in your way.”

It is you who are indebted to him,
she thought.
Without him, you would have been killed by enemies of the High Kingdom within hours of your coronation. But I can never tell you that, can I? Your god would not allow you to accept the truth.

He held out the bracelet to her. Shuddering slightly, she took it from him. The brass was still warm from his touch.

“Bring me word of what my uncle says about this,” he told her, “That I may know the name of my enemy.

He looked toward the doors and his eyes narrowed, remembering the woman who had just passed between them. “For I swear to you, Mother, by my father's throne, Soladin will have justice. Even if those of my own blood are implicated.”

G
WYNOFAR STOOD in the doorway, her golden hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, eyes the blue of a clear summer morning. Kierdwyn blue. She was dressed in a cream-colored gown in the southern style, the long ends of her sleeves all but sweeping the floor. A belt of golden links, each in the form of a double-headed hawk, was clasped about her slender waist. The arms of House Aurelius.

It took Rhys a few seconds to realize that she was there, and then a few seconds more to respond. Thinking had come hard to him ever since his visit to the Spear. “Gwyn?”

She did not answer him, but simply crossed the room to where he stood and embraced him. He resisted for a moment, not wanting to let his guard down even for her, but it could not last; with a shudder of surrender he felt the tension bleed out of his limbs as he finally responded in kind, wrapping his arms tightly about her. The perfume of her hair was a tonic to his senses: familiar, reassuring. Trembling, he closed his eyes and simply drank in the smell of her, trying to lose himself in the memory of better times. For a brief instant the shadows surrounding him seemed to release their stranglehold on his heart. But only for an instant. The newfound darkness in his soul was not to be banished so easily.

When she drew back from him at last her pained expression made it clear just how worried she was about him. Gods alone knew how he looked to her right now, with his bloodshot eyes, week-old stubble, and fading bruises. Probably bad enough to frighten children.

Kamala had wanted to clean him up a bit, but he had forbidden her to try. He would not have a witch wasting her life force for his vanity. Anything a bath and change of clothing could not fix would just have to stay the way it was.

He had not trusted himself enough to wield a razor.

“They called you here?” he said. A question. Her visit warmed his spirit, but it also dismayed him. He had secrets to guard now, and she was the one person that he had never been able to lie to. “They shouldn't have.”

But she shook her head. “I didn't even know you were here until I arrived. Mother told me. I came here right away.” She reached out and brushed a stray braid back from his face; it was like a mother's touch, gentle and comforting. “I was sent here on Salvator's business and now I am glad for it.”

Her concern was almost too intense for him to bear; he was no longer worthy of such affection. “What did they tell you?” he asked, trying not to meet her eyes.

“That you went on some mission into Alkali territory, your companion was killed, and you were imprisoned by the Master Guardian there. That a witch helped you gain your freedom and brought you back home. That the Guardians of Alkali have all gone mad.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. In an earlier, more innocent time, it might have become a smile. “Her name is Kamala.”

“And that you found a broken Spear.”

He felt himself stiffen. “Yes.” The word had a terrible power in such context; he dared do no more than whisper it.

“Mother told me that seeing it wounded your soul, somehow. That your spirit still bleeds, even though you are surrounded by family now.”

Startled, he looked up at her. “She said that?”

Gwynofar nodded. “She cares about you, Rhys.”

He shut his eyes. “She shouldn't,” he whispered. “I am a shame to her house.”

With a sigh she reached out and touched his face. “You are a joy to your sister and you make your father proud. Maybe those things matter to her.”

He said nothing.

“What happened out there, Rhys? I saw you after you fought the Souleater, when it had nearly crushed the life out of you, and you looked more alive even then than you do right now.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him from top to bottom; clearly what she saw disturbed her. “What is it, my brother? Tell me.”

He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “I saw a Spear broken beyond repair. I saw the Wrath weakening. I learned that the Souleater I had killed was not the only one to enter the human lands. Probably only the first of many.” He rubbed his forehead stiffly, as if that could banish the memories. “That is enough to break any man's spirit, I think.”

Perhaps she might have said something to him then that would have broken him down, so that he was forced to tell her the truth. Gods knew that he wanted to share it with someone, to force out all the darkness that was inside him until the pressure in his chest was gone. Until he could breathe again. If anyone would be willing to share his burden with him, it was Gwynofar.

But before his resolve could weaken someone knocked on the door, shattering the moment's intimacy. Rhys drew in a deep breath as Gwynofar stepped forward to open it, revealing one of the Lord Protector's servants.

“It is time,” the man announced, with a bow. “Their Lordships bid you attend them in the map room.”

“We shall come,” Rhys told him; he bowed and withdrew, no doubt to alert another attendee.

Gwynofar raised an eyebrow.

“The master archivist has been working on translating some figures that were inscribed inside the broken Spear,” Rhys told her. “We've been waiting for his report.”

She nodded and held out one delicate hand toward him. He hesitated, then offered her his arm to lead her to the meeting. He tried not to shiver as her slender fingers pressed the fabric of his sleeve against the scars that lay hidden underneath, conjuring memories of a desolate plain, a pile of shattered brick, and a mummified body screaming out its terror. . . .

He wanted to cut the wounds open again. He wanted to feel the hot blood flowing out of them, purifying his flesh. Did chirurgeons not teach that all bodily ills could be traced to an imbalance of vital fluids? Maybe if he did that the darkness inside his soul would bleed out as well so that he could feel clean again.

Dark thoughts swirling about his head like a colony of rabid bats, he led his royal half sister to the Lord Protector's map chamber.

They had invited Kamala to their meeting.

Maybe they would not have, if Rhys hadn't insisted. Maybe their natural distrust of outsiders would have won out over curiosity and the door would have been shut in her face. Certainly the lord constable had been suspicious of her and might have interrogated her for hours had not Rhys intervened.
(Why were you in Alkali? What do you know about the situation there? How is it you appeared at Rhys' side at the exact moment he needed to be rescued?)
She had smoothed over the roughest edges of his nerves with sorcery, but only sparingly; too much mental alteration might have been noticed by those who knew him best.

But when all was said and done, Rhys' argument to the Lord and Lady Protector won out. Kamala had seen the Spear. She had felt its power, tasted its madness, and might remember things about it that he did not. If they meant to discuss what to do about the Wrath failing, then they needed her input.

And so here she was, surrounded by nobles and sorcerers and the commanders of Kierdwyn's armies. And Rhys, of course. How out of place he looked here! When he had left Kierdwyn these people had been like family to him: trusted friends and allies, colleagues at arms, commanders. Now, standing in the midst of that family, he seemed utterly alone. The secret knowledge that he had brought back from Alkali was a prison that he could not breach without revealing the truth. Only Kamala, who knew his secret, could cross that threshold and stand beside him in spirit as well as body. Only she could give his soul comfort.

It was a strange—and uncomfortable—responsibility.

She had asked him,
Shouldn't you tell them the truth? Don't they have the right to know?

He had answered,
They have a war to fight
.
Should I destroy the very source of their courage when they need it most?

But he didn't sound confident and he hadn't been sleeping well and she didn't know how much longer he could go on like this without breaking.

Now his sister was here, and she seemed to bring him some comfort. She was a pale and slender thing, with a delicacy of presence that invited one to forget just how powerful she was. Gwynofar Kierdwyn, Queen Mother to Salvator Aurelius . . . and to Prince Andovan. Poor, doomed Andovan, whom Kamala had killed, sucking him dry of life to fuel her sorcery. How like him his mother looked, despite the disparity in gender! It was like having the ghost of Andovan at the table. Unnerving.