Wings of Wrath (47 page)

When he was done he leaned back in his chair, breathless, as if he had just completed some great physical exertion. “That is all,” he said.

He shut the leather-bound book that Ramirus had provided, wrapped it lovingly in a piece of oilcloth, and tied the package safely shut. Lazaroth glared at it.

“Prophecy or otherwise,” the Lord Protector said, “the intent of all this seems clear enough. These words were meant to be seen if the Spear was ever broken open.”

“And they were meant for us to read and understand,” Favias offered. “Else they would not have been scribed in this universal script.”

Rommel nodded. “Every scholar of the First Age would have known how to read this. They would have no reason to anticipate that such a useful tool would be forgotten.”

Ramirus looked to him. “Have you been able to make sense of any of these passages?”

The archivist licked his lips. “Some of it. The first line seems clear enough. The Seven were the generals that survived the final battle, the first Protectors. Legend says they each took seven wives, the better to spread out the gods' gift to the population. Well, except for the one woman among them, who presumably took seven husbands . . . or something like that.”

“Are the legends true?” The Lady Protector asked. “Do the actual records support this?” There was an edge to Evaine's voice that Kamala had not heard there before, but it came and went too quickly for her to read meaning into it.

“Yes and no.” Rommel took a new sheaf of papers from a leather portfolio by his side and spread them out upon the table. Genealogical charts. “Every one of them took care to spread his seed about, and in many cases that did indeed result in exactly seven children, but as you can see, this Protector had a few more and several had fewer.”

“Nevertheless,” Ramirus said, “the reference seems clear.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course . . .” He cleared his throat. “One is tempted to read the second line as referring to the number of children in the generation after that, but there is no support for that interpretation. Even allowing for unrecorded bastards—” He looked at Rhys as though he was about to apologize for the reference, then thought better of it “—there is nothing near that number of offspring in the
lyr
lines. Especially during the Dark Times. Families were small for a long time after that.”

“Perhaps these numbers refer to the generations themselves,” Kamala said.

Rommel looked at her. “Pardon me?”

“How long has it been since this prophecy was written? About a thousand years, correct? Forty-nine generations is almost that.”

As the archivist's brow furrowed in concentration, Kamala sensed Ramirus' eyes fixed on her.
Well, did you think I would not conjure knowledge for myself before giving you my relics?
Despite the danger of baiting him, she found she was enjoying the game immensely. Did that mean she was truly a Magister at heart?

“Yes, yes, that could be the meaning,” Rommel agreed. “Perhaps not intended literally, as an exact number, but simply to indicate a considerable period of time. Long enough for the
lyr
to forget some things about their own heritage.”

“The image of a flame might refer to the gift of the gods,” the Lady Protector offered. “In which case, the meaning of the entire prophecy becomes clear: After enough time, men will forget the nature of that gift, or how to use it.”

Rommel nodded excitedly. “Yes, and what is most interesting about all this is the next section is clearly meant to show us how to retrieve that knowledge. If we can decipher it properly.” His eyes narrowed in concentration as he studied his notes. “Three ladies . . . the eldest . . . some kind of lineage reference?”

Kamala paused just long enough for her to look as if she had to think about her answer. “There are some monuments in Alkali,” she mused. She turned to Rhys. “What did you say they were called?”

“Three Sisters. Wind-carved towers, at the north end of Alkali's central plain. They're called the Three Sisters.” There was an odd look in Rhys' eyes as he said that; it took her a moment to realize why.

Rhys had talked to Namanti about the Three Sisters, not to Kamala. That was well before Kamala had joined him. So how did she know what he had said to his companion said back then?

“So.” Rommel dipped his quill in ink and began scribbling new notes next to the old ones. “The Three Sisters in Alkali. That means the eldest would be—”

“The tallest one,” Lazaroth said. Thus far he had been silent, his dark eyes brooding as Kamala and Ramirus had offered up their tidbits of stolen knowledge. He was sharp enough to know that something was up, and he was not pleased.

Rhys nodded stiffly. “That is the one which Anukyat's Citadel guards. The base of the monument is part of its structure.”

“And this reference to a twilight throne?”

Kamala smiled with satisfaction; this answer did not require sorcery. “The servants of the Citadel spoke of such a thing when I was there. Some great antique chair made of bones, covered by blue-black leather. The color of twilight, they said. The servants believed that it was at the top of the tower. They called it the Throne of Tears.” She paused, remembering. “Every now and then some foolish boy would climb up, looking for it. They never came back.”

Gwynofar nodded. “It is said that in the ancient days there was a throne fashioned from the bones and wings of Souleaters. Some now believe it was never real, only legend.”

“Apparently Anukyat believes in it,” Favias muttered. “Why else have a fortified outpost in the middle of nowhere?”

“So, some sort of blood offering must be made in front of this chair,” Rhys said. “Is that the idea? And that will awaken ancient magics, reveal forgotten truths, call down the favor of the gods to protect us from the Souleaters?” It was the first time that he had allowed his voice to express the full measure of his newfound cynicism and Kamala felt herself holding her breath as she wondered if the others would take note of it. But they seemed too wrapped up in unraveling this mystery to notice the bitter edge in his voice—or else they just chose to ignore it.

“There is nothing of gods in this prophecy,” Rommel pointed out. It was a simple factual statement, but ironically, it was just the response that Rhys needed to hear; Kamala could see her traveling companion relax slightly, as he realized he was not going to have to pretend to honor the gods that had abandoned him.

“It speaks of the seven ruling bloodlines acting as one.” Ramirus said. “Perhaps embodied in a single individual.” He stroked his long beard thoughtfully, pretending to muse over the problem. In reality, Kamala's handful of brick fragments had already provided him with most of the information he needed. The rest was all showmanship, for Lazaroth's sake. “With the same number of ancestors from each bloodline, perhaps?”

Deep furrows appeared in Rommel's brow as he considered the question. “Well, it would not be so simple as all that, since each ancestor after the first would carry multiple strains himself, in varying proportions, but theoretically it could be worked out. See here . . .” He spread out his genealogical charts on the table. “If we can figure in the dilution of each succeeding generation properly, we can produce a formula which allows us to evaluate the blood of each existing
lyr
for its precise relationship to each of the original seven founders. Lord Kierdwyn, for instance, traces his heritage back to the bloodlines of Kierdwyn, Abeja, Brusus, Han, and Tonado most strongly, with lesser strains of Skandir and Alkali. All the
lyr
can be mapped thus, turning the whole problem into a simple mathematical exercise.”

“Hardly simple,” the Lord Protector mused.

Rommel flushed. “Forgive me, your Lordship, I—”

Stevan waved his protest short. “I meant it as a compliment, Rommel. Ten centuries of genealogical records are no small thing to wade through, much less reduce to mathematical measure, simple or otherwise. So do you think you will be able to find us one of these . . . well, I suppose we shall have to come up with a new word for it . . . a
lyr
whose birthright is in balance? In whom all seven bloodlines are equally represented?

“Oh, I am sure, Your Lordship. If Magister Lazaroth will help me send word to all the other archivists, we can start work on it right away. We may not be able to find a lineage that is as perfectly proportioned as the prophecy would like, but we can certainly locate the best candidate for you.” He hesitated. “That said, it will take time of course. . . .”

“All the more reason to begin immediately.” The Lord Protector looked to Lazaroth. “Please give Archivist Rommel all the help he needs.”

“Of course.”

Kierdwyn turned to look at his lord constable. “Ullar, you are quiet today. Have you nothing to add?”

The officer snorted. “I am a man of war, my liege, not a jongleur. The fine points of poetry I leave to others, prophetic or otherwise.”

“But if we wished to send in a force to claim this relic, that would be a different story, yes?”

The constable bit his lip as he considered. With his coarse stubble and his hard, cold eyes, the expression gave him a particularly fierce look. Then, without a word, he got up and went to the sideboard, where several maps had been laid out. Sensing his intention, Rommel quickly gathered up his drawings and Favias moved the pen and inkwell safely out of the way. Just in time. A large map was unrolled across the table and those sitting nearest the corners instinctively reached out to hold it flat.

Alkali.

Every mountain and valley of the rogue Protectorate was mapped out in meticulous detail, including the pass that Rhys and Namanti had originally intended to access; there had not yet been time to update it. With a shudder, Kamala saw a plateau marked the northern edge of the map, and a hard black line cutting across it. The Wrath. It seemed almost obscene that a curse of such baleful power could be reduced to a simple pen stroke.

Anukyat's Citadel was marked on the map as well, along with details of the outer and inner defensive walls. According to the map, it commanded the highest inhabitable ground for miles in every direction. All but bare of trees, the area immediately surrounding it offered little cover to protect invaders. The map showed that clearly, too.

“Its defenses aren't what they used to be,” the constable told them. “But the place was designed to withstand a siege at least long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the south. Rough terrain to the west means bringing in supplies won't be easy, at least from Kierdwyn.” He looked up at Kamala. “You could not work spells there?”

Surprised to be consulted, it took her a moment to find her voice. “No. Not reliably.”

Master Favias said, “The Wrath has expanded its geographical area of influence. Presumably since the Spear was damaged.”

“Which means it may continue to do so,” Ullar noted, “so relying on sorcery for anything would be a mistake. That is not a pretty picture, especially once winter comes.” He looked up at his rulers. “You tell me you want to conquer a fortress in the middle of Alkali, I can come up with a plan for that. We'd have to bring in our supply lines from the southwest, so that Lazaroth could protect them—I'd wager his skills against that pissant Alkali Magister any day—and that means we'd have to control a few key transit points, here, here, and here. And then hold this pass to protect our flank.” He indicated various places on the map as he spoke, too quickly for Kamala to do anything more than acknowledge they were there. “But that kind of campaign takes time. Possibly a lot of time. And I'm hearing we don't have that.”

“No,” the Lord Protector agreed. “Not if the Souleaters are already here.”

Ullar clucked his tongue as he studied the map. “Well, there is an alternative,” he said at last. “But it would be a chancy thing without sorcery to back it.”

“What is that?”

“First, your Lordship, please clarify something for me. What is the real goal here? Getting hold of some piece of mystical furniture and bringing it back here so we can bring in our best-bred
lyr
and have them try it out? Or just getting someone with the right birthright to sit down in the thing, possibly right where it is?”

Kamala could feel a wave of tension come over the table as they all realized what he was proposing.

“Well,” the Lord Protector said slowly, “It might require more than merely ‘sitting down' . . . but yes, sending someone to it would be an option.”

“A dangerous option,” his wife offered.

Ullar snorted. “War is dangerous. One does not win it without taking risks. And we know what the battlefield will look like in the end if we lose.”

He stroked his stubbled chin as he studied the map; Kamala could almost hear his brain churning. Finally he turned to Rhys. “Am I correct in understanding that the Citadel flanks this tower, it does not surround it?”

Startled, Rhys looked to Kamala for confirmation; evidently he thought her memory would be better than his. When she nodded he said, “Yes. That's right.”

“Well, that is good then. But hells!” He cursed softly under his breath. “I would give my right eye to be able to send someone in for a good reconnaissance right now.”

“Why can't you?” the Lady Protector asked him

“Because the damned thing is surrounded by enough open ground that getting close to it unobserved will be all but impossible without some kind of arcane support. And according to the witch here, we can't rely upon that.”

“Ah,” Kamala coughed gently into her hand. “I didn't say that, exactly.”