Wings of Wrath (44 page)

“Of course.” She nodded in what she hoped was a suitably gracious manner, though her pulse was racing. In any other company she might have used sorcery to calm her heart, but in front of a Magister that was far too dangerous. Better to respond like a morati and take her chances. “You honor me with such attention.”

The aged lips curled into a thin smile. “Rhys speaks highly of you.”

She bowed her head in what she hoped was a suitably humble manner. “He honors me as well.”

“How fortunate it was that he came across you when he did. Otherwise he might still be imprisoned in Alkali . . . or perhaps even worse.”

“Indeed.” It did not matter what words she gave him, she knew; his true purpose was to read her hidden responses, if not with sorcery than with simple human insight. Such a man could learn more from how she listened to a question than the words she used to answer it. “Clearly the gods favored his mission.”

Ramirus chuckled softly; she would have sold her soul at that moment to know the exact cause of his amusement. Stroking his long beard with a wrinkled hand, he said, “I was surprised you did not say much at the meeting.”

She shrugged. “I was not asked to speak.”

“And if you had been?”

Now it was her turn to smile enigmatically. “That would depend on what the question was.”

“Regardless, I am sure you would have had much to offer. You were with Rhys when he found the broken Spear. You saw the same Karsi figures that he did, and must have wondered at their meaning.”

“Of course.”

“No doubt you would have made your own observations, as well.”

“Perhaps.” She felt like a fly dancing around the edges of a spider's web. Where was he heading with all this?

“And being a witch, no doubt you also viewed the situation as witches do, who are sensitive to the requirements of arcane power.”

The hairs on the back of her neck rose instinctively. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”

“I think that perhaps you do.” The challenge in his voice was all the more sharply honed for being quietly voiced. “Once you left the Spear's vicinity, you knew you would be unable to access its secrets any longer. Unless you brought back something to serve as an anchor, to use in a place where the Wrath had no power.”

She felt the flicker of surprise come into in her eyes before she could stop it.
Well done,
she thought to him, even as she struggled to keep any more emotion from showing on her face.
I should have anticipated that you would guess that
.
I should have been prepared for it
. “Is that a question?”

A strange, cold smile spread across his face. “No. Not at all. The question is . . . what information did you gather that Rhys did not, and why do you not offer it up to those who need it?”

“There are a lot of assumptions in that question.”

“But not necessarily false ones.” The cold eyes glittered.

She shrugged. “I was not asked for information today. If I am tomorrow, we shall see then how I answer.” She paused, wondering how best to regain control of the conversation. “Unless there is some reason you think I should keep my silence.”

“Quite the contrary. I am looking forward to what you have to say. In fact, I was hoping we might share a few words on the matter tonight. Let us say, a
professional
discussion.”

A cold hatred welled suddenly up inside her. She knew exactly how Magisters felt about witches, and it wasn't a collegial relationship by a long shot. There was a reason they called them morati—death-bound, ignorant—a word usually reserved for the helpless mortals of the world who couldn't summon enough power to tie a shoelace. Witches were failures: men and women who were ambitious enough to grasp at power, but not strong enough to hold onto it. The ones that were worthy of respect became Magisters. The rest of them died young and were forgotten.

Normally if there was a piece of information a Magister wanted, he would just use sorcery to steal it. But Kamala's defenses were strong enough to repel such efforts. Ramirus could not use sorcery to loosen her tongue without running up against that armor. So he was forced to rely upon this mundane seduction that assumed her own ignorance of Magister bigotry.

But she was not ignorant. She knew exactly what he wanted—and why he wanted it.

Lazaroth was Magister Royal here. Any sorcerous investigation that took place in Kierdwyn would be subject to his authority. For another Magister to become involved, as Ramirus had done today, bordered on insult; no doubt that was why Lazaroth had been in such a foul mood. If Ramirus now provided some vital piece of information that his rival had failed to uncover . . . ah, that would be a move to savor in the fierce competition which passed for social concourse among their kind! Rarely did a Magister come across such a perfect opportunity to embarrass a rival while appearing to aid him.

“Such information is valuable,” she said quietly.

“That depends on what it is.”

“I know its value to me. The favor of a Lord Protector, at the very least.” She paused. “That is a high price to bid against, Magister Ramirus.”

The bluntness of her challenge seemed to startle him. Good. If there was one thing she had learned in her whoring days it was the power of keeping a man off balance.

Another cold tendril of power slithered over her skin, seeking some chink in her armor; it was easily banished. Finally he said, “You have a price in mind.”

She cocked her head to one side, pretending to consider. Could he hear how hard her heart was beating? “Frankly, there is not much that I need.”

His eyes narrowed ominously; the warning in them was clear.
I could crush you without pausing for breath, witch, and then summon your secrets forth from your ashes. Do not toy with me
.

“But we could call it a favor owed,” she concluded, seemingly oblivious to his displeasure. “I am sure in the future something appropriate will come to mind.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That is quite an audacious request.”

She shrugged. “If you find it unacceptable, I am quite content to discuss my findings when our meeting resumes tomorrow. I am sure their lordships will appreciate my contribution.”

She began to move past him to the exit. Would he try to stop her? If so, he was in for one hell of a surprise. She could already feel her power gathering inside her, molten and eager.
I have already killed one Magister,
she thought to him.
Don't tempt me to make it two.

But he did nothing to stop her from leaving, and she was halfway out the door when he finally said, “A favor without limits is an invitation to misunderstanding.”

Since he could not see her face, she allowed herself to smile. “Well now, we do not want misunderstanding by any means.” Slowly she turned back, her mind racing. She was under no illusion about the subtext of this conversation; he was putting on a show for her benefit to convince her that her request had real meaning. As a Magister herself, Kamala knew better. No promise made to a morati was considered binding. Who was going to enforce payment? He could promise whatever he wanted to her, without limits or logic, and neither law nor ethics would require that he honor it.

The game was on now, and she hoped he would not realize where it was headed. “Very well, let us say . . . something reasonable. Counsel, perhaps; the benefit of your knowledge. Guidance, when morati wisdom falls short. Perhaps protection in some simple matter. Nothing so vast it would stress your resources, nothing that would put your morati allies at risk or any contract with them. A single, finite act. Is that reasonable?”

His brow furrowed as he pretended to think it over. All a farce, of course. It hardly mattered what conditions he agreed to; he would keep his promise if it suited him to do so and ignore it otherwise. But the drama of the moment had to be played out for as long as he thought it had meaning to her. “Agreed,” he said at last, with suitable solemnity.

“Excellent.” She let her eyes fill with gratitude, and gave him a moment to drink it in.
See how grateful the poor little witch is for your magnanimous favor
. “Now seal your promise with an oath upon your Law, and we will call the bargain sealed.”

Now it was his turn to be startled. “The Law is for Magisters. An oath to a witch would be . . . meaningless.”

“Ah.” She appeared to reconsider. “Then perhaps when the time comes to call in my favor, I will have a Magister do it for me. Does that sound reasonable?”

An oath sworn upon the Law was sacrosanct, Kamala knew. It was one of the handful of customs that kept Magister society from tearing itself to pieces, and all would respect it.

Ramirus' eyes narrowed as he reassessed her. Bereft of sorcery, he had only his human senses to rely upon. She, however, had spent half her lifetime lying to men, getting them to believe that she possessed the one thing they wanted most in the world, then convincing them they wanted to pay for it.

“What you ask is unprecedented,” he said at last, clearly displeased with where his negotiations had led him. “Show me that what you have is worth such a price.”

Looking down quickly so that he would not see the triumph in her eyes, she untied a small leather purse from her belt and loosened the cord that kept it closed. Upending it, she spilled forth a handful of rubble into her upturned palm.

Brick.

Mortar.

“The substance of the Spear itself,” she told him. “Enough of an anchor to allow sorcery to divine the history of that artifact, its message, its makers' intent.” She looked up at him. “I trust that has value to you?”

His face revealed nothing. Of course. He was a master of manipulation, and would let nothing of his true desire show.

Then: “Very well.” He said it gruffly, as if the promise he was about to give her was of no real consequence anyway.

“By the Law that governs Magisters, you shall have what you ask for.”

Reining in her jubilation so that he would not see it, Kamala handed the precious rubble over to him. She hoped he would never discover that she had prepared the fragments for just such a bargain. They might reveal many secrets to Ramirus, including the meaning of the Spear's Karsi text—they would certainly enable him to upstage and embarrass his rival—but they would not betray the one secret that mattered most. All the traces of human sacrifice had been cleansed from the fragments; the screams of the dying had been silenced, and no man's sorcery could restore them without her agreement.

My gift to you, Rhys
. She thought it gently, softly, and wished it could give the Guardian comfort.
Do with that secret as your spirit guides you.

D
REAMBOUND, SIDEREA flew.

Or perhaps not dreambound. Nor waking, exactly. Rather some state that was in between, that quieted the flesh but stirred the soul. A sense of
otherness
that allowed her to extend her senses beyond the limits of her human body and embrace the other half of herself. To share in the Souleater's flight, her energy . . . her joy.

Broad, shimmering wings beat the air into whirlwinds beneath her. She could feel them lift her up and over the rocky peaks, while below her all sorts of animals fled in terror. That was all right. She was not hungry right now, so she let them run. But if she had wanted one . . . ah, the pleasure of the hunt! To feel the power surging outward from her until it stopped her prey in its tracks, until her target fell to its knees before her, inviting her to sup upon the essence of its life until it expired. An ecstasy of dying. The Souleater queen had not truly savored such things before; to her the world was simply divided into
those who eat
and
those who are eaten,
and devouring her prey was a simple animal indulgence. But now she had access to Siderea's subtler instincts, and the Witch-Queen recognized the seduction of the kill for what it truly was. And it pleased her—it pleased them both—to have such power over other living creatures.

Amalik matched us well,
Siderea thought, and she could feel the sentiment echo in the distance, couched in terms a Souleater might understand. Along with a mental growl of warning, should the man approach either of them again without the proper courtesies.

She had not seen him since the day at the ravine. Which was as it should be. He was a companion of Souleaters and understood the male's proper status.

Sometimes Siderea dreamed of tearing him limb from limb, along with his Souleater consort. They were terrifying dreams, but also pleasurable ones. Sometimes she would lie in bed for hours afterward, savoring the smell of Souleater blood and the screams of his dying, sharing that pleasure with the one who now shared her soul.