Wings of Wrath (46 page)

The belt dropped to the floor, and she opened the clasp securing her gown. The soft silk parted easily, caught for a moment on the fullness of her breasts, and then whispered to the ground. Beneath it she wore only a thin white chemise that did little to hide her charms. She smiled in pleasure as Petrana stared at her, fascinated despite herself, clearly unable to look away. “There, you see how easy it is?” Now Siderea loosened the neck of her chemise and let that, too, fall to the ground. Her skin was a rich copper, rare in these regions, and it glistened with a fine sheen of summer sweat: exotic, enticing. A few choice bits of jewelry glittered in various places, drawing the eye to where Siderea wanted it to go. She turned about slowly, inviting Petrana to look at every inch of her. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” She smiled as she turned back to face her guest, pleased to see the bright flush that had risen in Petrana's cheeks. “Now it is your turn.”

Petrana made no protest this time, turning as Siderea prompted her to face the mirror once more. Siderea leaned her naked body against her back as she reached around on both sides to undo the front of her gown. The young woman's heart was pounding so hard it was possible to feel its beat through her fingertips. There was so much hunger in this one, Siderea mused. And so much fear. This was what men did to women when they locked them away from pleasure all their lives and swaddled them in yards of heavy fabric, as if somehow that might protect them from their own natural instincts. All under the guise of protecting them. It wound them up so tightly that a single touch rendered them utterly vulnerable, where otherwise they might have been able to muster a defense.

I promised you I would teach you how to manipulate men,
she thought to her guest, as she eased the blue dress slowly open. In the mirror before them she could see Petrana watching, lips parted, as she was disrobed. The sight seemed to mesmerize her. Beneath the thin fabric of her chemise the tips of her breasts were surprisingly dark, and she gasped as Siderea's hands rubbed against them.
And so I shall,
she promised, pushing the gown down over her hips, until its own weight finally carried it to the floor.

There was nothing between them now but Petrana's own chemise, more of an enticement than a barrier. Drawing the young woman against her, letting her feel the heat of her body against her back, Siderea pulled at the cord that held the gathered neckline shut, drawing it slowly out. Petrana leaned back against her with a soft sigh as the cord finally came loose, and the final fabric barrier fluttered to the ground around her feet.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong,
keened a voice in her head.

How beautiful she was, Siderea thought, as she ran one hand down the inside of Petrana's thigh, the chemise cord tangled in her fingers. How very beautiful. Breasts so high and taut, as only youth would have them. She traced circles about the tip of one with her fingernail and heard her guest gasp softly as she surrendered to the touch. So lovely. So helpless. Men would like that. Men would flock to this one, fight over her, expend their best energies in courting her. A cold shudder ran through Siderea's body.
She
had been that young, once. Men had fought over her once. Now . . . now this one would take her place. Her beautiful puppet.

A low growl rose in the back of her throat.

Suddenly the scent of Petrana's desire was no longer sweet to her, as it should have been, but foul. Enraging. It made the hackles at the back of Siderea's neck rise up, and her left hand gripped the cord it held, tightly. She should not have invited this woman here. She should not have allowed another female into her territory. She should not have awakened this one's mating instincts, so that she would now be a competitor.

She slid one arm tightly about Petrana's chest, pinning her back against her. Her forearm rubbed hard against her breast, causing the young woman to gasp at the sudden mixture of pleasure and pain. Yes, she would please men well, this one. An untouched virgin, banking on the one commodity with which Siderea could never compete.

She could not allow it.

She
would
not allow it.

With a low growl, Siderea brought up her hands to the sides of Petrana's neck. For a moment she paused there, as her rival mistook the motion for some new caress and leaned back into her grip. What a pleasure it would be just to sink her teeth into the girl's soft throat and rip it open, to feel the gush of her life blood spilling out as she beat her wings in agony . . . but a human body was ill-equipped for such things. Instead, Siderea took one end of the chemise cord in each hand and pulled it up and back, forcing it to bite deeply into her visitor's neck. Petrana's eyes shot open in surprise and she reached for the cord, trying to pull it loose, but Siderea's grip was too strong. She yanked her visitor off her feet, so that her own weight would help choke her. Both of Petrana's hands were now scratching desperately at the cord, but it had sunk deeply into her flesh and could not be dislodged. Her eyes bulged in horror and she opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a gurgle came forth. Her feet scrabbled desperately for purchase on the floor beneath her to provide some leverage for her struggles, but she slipped on one of the garments strewn about her feet and went down, hard. Siderea thought she heard something in her neck crack but she kept tight hold of the cord, pulling upward against the female's weight.

The hands stopped their fluttering. The legs went limp. Siderea felt a hot gush of urine run down her legs as Petrana's bladder suddenly voided itself. A wordless voice inside her head screamed in triumph.

Then the thrashing subsided. Petrana's pale hands stopped their scratching and fell limply down by her sides. What had once been a warm, living body became a dead weight in Siderea's arms, and she let it fall with a dull thud to the floor.

This is good,
an inner voice crooned.

Siderea blinked as if she were coming out of a trance. For a moment she just stared at the huddled body by her feet, struggling to comprehend what had happened. Confused, she looked at the mirror. And back to the body.

The room seemed to swim in her vision. The smells surrounding her were suddenly overwhelming—urine and sex and fear—and she doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit.

She stared in horror at the body at her feet, as if seeing it for the first time. Petrana's eyes stared emptily at the ceiling now; the whites were spotted with crimson. Siderea's own flesh felt suddenly cold and she fumbled to pick up her gown, to cover herself again.
What have I done?

Within her, the Souleater queen keened her triumph. Formless bestial instincts took on the shape of words inside her head:
You protected what is rightfully ours
.

“This is not right!” she whispered hoarsely. “The woman was an ally!” Raw visceral horror was giving way now to political horror, which was equally compelling. How was she going to handle this so that it did not bring her down? What was she supposed to tell Petrana's family? It wasn't a question of whether the girl was dead—assassinations were a common enough affair in the Free States—but how openly, how brazenly it had been done. Not to mentioned that the Free States' best chance to wield influence in the High King's court was now lying dead on the floor, in a pool of her own urine. What monarch in his right mind would be so reckless as to do that?

She would have to clean up the body. She'd use sorcery to remove the marks of murder from Petrana's flesh and substitute other signs that would serve as witness to a more natural illness. Petrana had come to visit, had complained of dizziness, and shortly afterward had suffered a seizure that took her life so quickly that even Siderea's witchery could not save her. Even a Magister could not raise the dead.

Her family would want to believe that, she told herself. Not because they would believe the Witch-Queen incapable of killing, but because they knew she would never be so utterly reckless with her own reputation as to do it like this. If Siderea Aminestas wanted to kill someone it would be done through poison in the night, or the kiss of a nameless stiletto in some foreign place, or else perhaps by witchery, unseen and unsuspected. Not like this. Never like this.

Her hands still shaking, she began to gather up the dead girl's clothing and to summon the power needed to set her plan in motion. To mask the fact that she had murdered an ally.

There are no allies among queens,
the Souleater told her.

T
HE BOOK was bound in brown leather, well-worn, and its parchment pages were yellow and crisp with age. The inked figures that filled its pages had no doubt been a deep black in their youth, but now were a faded brown or in some cases little more than ghostly echoes of the original.

Rommel turned the pages with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts, his wrinkled fingers so gentle upon the paper that the dust that clung to their edges was not disturbed. As he smoothed each page into place, it was possible to see that the figures scribed upon it were a remarkable match to some of the ones that Rhys had cut into his arm. Still others were vaguely similar, but differed in the curve of a tail, the angle of an ascender. A small number were reflected nowhere in the figures Rhys had copied.

As for the original lists that Rommel had drawn up, they now had notes scrawled all over them: translations, Karsi-style drawings, and his own commentary.

“. . . A remarkable work,” he was saying. “It has enabled me to go much further in interpreting these symbols than I had thought would be possible.” The archivist looked up at Ramirus. “We are all indebted to you.”

Kamala coughed gently into her hand, masking any hint of a smile. Whatever she had imagined the bearded Magister might do with the information from her brick fragments, counterfeiting ancient texts had not been on the list. But it was a brilliant move. Lazaroth had already announced that his own sorcery had not been able to locate any new Karsi resources; now Ramirus was presenting an item which appeared to be exactly that. It would be hard to imagine a Magister being more effectively embarrassed than Lazaroth was right now. And in front of his royal patron, no less! Ramirus must have been very pleased with himself.

But it did not show on his face, of course. That was all part of the game. Kamala guessed that he had woven enough sorcery into his “ancient” book to prevent any other Magister from being able to uncover its true origin, no doubt under guise of a protective spell to reinforce its fragile pages. Lazaroth might suspect that a trick had been played on him, but he could never be sure of it.

Rommel pushed the book aside and spread out his original drawings once more. “The first portion of text is now confirmed as an evocation to earthly and arcane powers to attend upon some great project. Outside of adding a few new elements to the list I recited yesterday, Ramirus' source offers no new insight. I do note that some of the pictoglyphs Rhys brought back from the Spear differ slightly from the versions in this book; I have had to take some liberties in correcting them.

“The second portion likewise becomes more detailed with this new information, but does not change in its general purpose. It provides a lengthy list of human sufferings, no doubt meant to describe the effect of the Wrath upon living minds. However, this does raise one question. This inscription was supposedly created
before
the Wrath came into existence, yes? But our records tell us that our ancestors did not know what the gods were about to do for them; when the Wrath fell upon the land its power was a surprise to man and Souleater alike. So how can its effect be described in such detail here, before it even existed?” He shook his head. “We will need more than a simple translation to make sense of all this, I fear.”

“And the third section?” the Lord Protector asked. “You said it might be a prophecy of some sort.”

“That or a list of instructions. I will let you judge for yourselves.” He cleared his throat as he pulled a new set of notes toward him. “Mind you, there is no way to know the proper rhythm of the thing without knowing what language the original writer spoke though the passage clearly falls into three quatrains. Here is the meaning of it, in our current tongue: