Wings of Wrath (51 page)

Another piece of information to remember.

Then of course there was the biggest question of all, at least from Kamala's standpoint. What part would she play in all this? Logic—and self-preservation—dictated that she should be as far from the affected region as possible. The first time she had approached the Wrath she had not properly understood its power and had been deep within its area of effect before she knew what the danger was. This time she understood that all her sorcery would not be worth a rat's ass in that place. If anything went wrong—and it was a sure bet that something would—she would not be able help the expedition and she would not be able to protect herself.

But.

She had already experienced the power that arcane knowledge could wield when she'd bound Ramirus to a Magister's oath for a single serving of it. More information would mean more power over more Magisters, leveraged against the day when she would need to call in those favors. For the first time since she had killed the Magister in Gansang, she really felt as if she had some direction. Now this insane expedition (and she did regard it as insane) offered a new opportunity. The very power that made it dangerous for her to approach the Wrath meant that no other Magister would dare go there.

Because they are intelligent,
she told herself dryly.
Because they understand what a fragile thing immortality can be, and how they should not take chances with it
.

But the kind of knowledge that Magisters valued might not be the sort that morati would think to collect for her. Not to mention the Guardians had other priorities. So as the only Magister who would be present at the assault, she would have an unparalleled opportunity to gather the kind of knowledge the other Magisters would value. And be willing to pay for. And maybe even fight over, if she handled it well enough.

That was the real reason she was going. That was the only reason. No human sentiment was involved. No desire for the sense of elation that accompanied taking risks and surmounting them. No pleasure in outwitting the kind of men who had abused her so casually in her youth, no joy in robbing them of what they wanted most and leaving them with empty hands, to wonder what in all the hells had happened. Until that day when one of them (probably Colivar) called for her death and all the others were forced to defend her. And certainly no fondness for Rhys, or respect for the courage and honor of his family. No Magister would be so foolish as to let such emotions sway him. Especially not when his survival might be at issue.

It was just about knowledge, she told herself sternly. Nothing else.

“You are sure you want to do this, Majesty?” Ramirus' sober expression made his own feelings about the matter quite clear. “You understand the risk?”

“I am
lyra,
” Gwynofar said quietly. “This is my duty.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So the gift of the
lyr
is named at last: stubbornness.”

Despite her dark mood Gwynofar smiled. “What other gift could make us cling to a cause a thousand years after most men had forgotten its name? Danton asked me that once.” She sighed, twisting a bit of her mourning dress between her fingers, remembering him. “In his eyes all the
lyr
were foolish dreamers . . . but he admired our passion.”

“Dreams aside, you are a queen, not a mountain climber. Passion can accomplish much, but it does not negate the force of gravity.”

For a moment Gwynofar didn't answer. Then she went to the window and looked outward, over the lands that surrounded her parents' castle. It was a rugged terrain, spotted with pine trees and naked stone ridges. There were mountains to the west that soared high above the alpine line, their peaks clad in snow even during the reign of summer. “When I was a girl I used to run about freely; the servants were exhausted trying to keep up with me. I would climb trees and rocks, and wriggle into caves, and in general do everything I could that tasted of adventure. My parents encouraged such a spirit in me. They believed it would make me strong.” She looked at him defiantly. “And it did.”

Ramirus sighed. “With all due respect, Majesty, that was twenty years ago. And six children. How long has it been since the last time you climbed a tree? Or even rode astride on a horse?”

“The spirit remembers such things—”

“Aye, but the body forgets. Age is a thief that robs a man of his vital energies in secret. One morning he wakes up and realizes he is not the same creature he was ten, twenty, thirty years ago. If he is fortunate, that does not occur in a place where his life depends upon the strength of youth. I do not want you discovering too late that while Gwynofar the girl might have handled this task with ease, Gwynofar the woman should have considered another approach.”

“You were at the same meeting I was, Ramirus. There is no other way. And no better qualified candidate than I.”

“That we have yet found. There may be others.”

“Time matters. You said so yourself.”

He shook his head. “You know I cannot go with you. Not to this place. Sorcery will not function that close to the Wrath. Nor can I protect you from a distance, once you are within range of its power. There is no telling what my sorcery might become by the time it reached you. We cannot take that chance.”

She said it quietly. “I understand.”

With a heavy sigh he reached out and took her hand in his own; it was such an uncharacteristic gesture that she turned back to face him, surprised. “I can make you stronger,” he told her. “Strength is a function of form, and your form can be altered. I can enhance your perceptive senses in the same manner, and even add to your endurance, because those are also qualities of the flesh. But you must understand, every change that I make to your body will entail some new risk. Your limbs may not respond as you are used to. The world may look different, sound different. Distracting. Under normal circumstances it would not matter so much. You would get used to it in time. But clinging to a cliff face hundreds of feet above the ground, with enemies on all sides of you . . . it is a risk.”

“But less so than physical weakness, I think.” She nodded soberly. “You are quite correct in your assessment, painful though it is to hear. It has been a very long time since I have tested my physical capacity in anything other than childbirth.” Suddenly it seemed that something fluttered inside her. She put a hand to her stomach, surprised. Was it possible that her child was stirring? Surely it was too early for such things. “My son—”

“He will not be harmed,” the Magister promised. But something in his tone hinted at unvoiced reservations. Clearly her pregnancy concerned him more than he was going to admit. Was he simply concerned about how much it might tax her body and perhaps distract her at a crucial time? Or was he wondering about the prophecy he had once uttered, when divining the child's future?

It was all too much for Gwynofar to process right now; she would go crazy if she tried.

Squeezing the Magister's hand in what she hoped was a confident manner, she forced a smile to her face. “Then give me a man's strength if you can, Ramirus. And a man's endurance to match. Those are the things that will matter most, I think. The rest . . . the rest is not worth the added risk.”

He did as she asked. Wielding sorcery that turned key muscles to fire, remolding them as a master sculptor might remold clay. Pouring liquid sorcery into her heart until her body took it up, beat after beat, driving it into her veins, her flesh until she shook from the force of it and tears came to her eyes.

But it would not hurt her child. He promised her that, before they began.

All the rest could be endured.

“You don't have to go,” Rhys said quietly.

He stood with his back to the bedroom window, moonlight casting a halo about his shoulders. With his pale hair glimmering like liquid fire, he looked like one of the angels Kamala's mother had told her about, who lived in a place where everything was perfect and beautiful. Children who obeyed their parents might go there someday, her mother had said, to play among the clouds and eat candies made of sunshine.

Empty fantasies. She hadn't believed in them even back then.

She forced a smile to her face. “You really think I'm going to let you go to the Citadel without me? Look what happened the last time.”

The angel stepped forward suddenly and took her face in his hands; she could feel the tremor in them. “Last time you didn't know what the place would do to you. You told me that. This time you know. All your witchery will be gone.”

Her gaze hardened slightly. “And without it I will be helpless? Was I such a helpless woman when I rescued you?”

Now it was his expression that grew stern. “That isn't what I meant.”

He was trying to protect her. How strange it felt. How . . . intimate.

“I will only watch,” she promised him. “From a height, to scan the countryside for danger, but out of range of any battle. Is that acceptable? You will need such surveillance. I can warn you if any danger approaches.”

“And if a Souleater comes?”

She could not help the shiver that ran through her body at the thought. And she knew from the narrowing of his eyes that he was aware of it.

“Then may the gods help us all,” she whispered. Wasn't that what they said in this place, whenever the demons were mentioned? Leave fate to the gods so men do not have to feel responsible for it.

He kissed her suddenly. Tentatively at first, and then, when he sensed that his advance was not unwelcome, more hungrily. Fiercely. Was there any kind of love in that kiss, or only desperation? The fire of life was burning inside him, demanding an outlet, she understood that. She felt it herself.

The door to the chamber was open. She didn't care. Let them watch. Let them all watch.

He lifted her up and carried to her over to the curtained bed and world outside simply ceased to matter.

The portal spell shimmered in the air before them, rippling slowly, like waves of heat over a sun-baked desert. Kamala could feel its power prickling her skin from several yards away; even by Magister standards it was an impressive piece of work. Ramirus had bound enough soulfire into the spell that it would be able to transport all of them halfway across Alkali without his needing to summon more athra. That was the safest option when other Magisters were watching, because it did not require that he cast a new spell for every individual he was transporting, but it was a costly one. She had no doubt that last night some distant consort had parted with the last meager fragments of his life as Ramirus cast that one aside in favor of fresh blood. Even a brand new consort would have to give up many years of life to power this kind of spell; it would not be unreasonable for Ramirus to cast that one aside as well, as soon as this enterprise was over. Paranoia was a powerful master.