Wings of Wrath (57 page)

Behind him he could feel the Witch-Queen approach. Close, very close. The warmth of her body tickled against his back, though her flesh did not touch him. Something male inside him stirred in response.

“They head toward the High Kingdom.” Her whisper was hot against his ear. “Knowing you are distracted right now and that your focus is elsewhere.”

“Then they make dangerous assumptions.” How much did Corialanus really know and how much was the Witch-Queen milking him for state secrets? Gwynofar's letter to him had passed through no other hands, his own witch had assured him of that. And as much as Salvator despised the Magisters, he knew that Ramirus would not have allowed Gwynofar's words to be leaked by any other means. The man he remembered from his childhood had always been meticulous about such matters. It was unlikely that anyone, Corialanus included, knew the truth of his intentions.

A finger stroked the length of his back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “They say you are a weak king who does not understand how much it will cost him to have turned the Magisters away. By the time Corialanus is ready to strike at your border it will be too late for you to send your armies there without a sorcerer's help. Will you compromise your ethics, then, and meet them in battle as Danton would have done, with your armies transported to battle by some Magister? So that all men know the weakness of your faith? Or will you cede them this victory, in the name of your god, and show the High Kingdom that you cannot defend its borders? Either way, your enemies will celebrate, for they will have won more than land or gold.”

Silently he clenched his teeth. It took all his self-control to keep the dismay in his heart from showing on his face, but if there was one thing that a monk of the Creator learned early on, it was self-control.

It may not even be true,
he reminded himself.
Thus far the only evidence of this is a dream sent by a witch.

“What is your interest in this?” he demanded.

A long nail, razor-sharp, brushed against his cheek, delicately urging him to face her. “Right now Corialanus is part of the High Kingdom; as such it cannot act against your allies. As a free state, however, who knows how far her ambitions might extend? I value the current arrangement. It leaves me free to focus upon other things . . . more important things.” Her lips were so close to his cheek that he could feel her breath on his skin. His groin tightened reflexively. “Our interests are allied in this, High King. Else why would I come here and warn you?”

Why, indeed? It was getting hard to think of the options. His body wanted another kind of conversation entirely.

Soft hands slid from the sides of his face down to his chest, creasing the fabric of his robe. Copper fingers banded with golden rings, copper skin as fine and as lustrous as Sengalese silk. Heat rushed to his loins as his body responded to her touch.
Never mind politics,
a voice seemed to whisper in his head.
Never mind treaties. Some alliances are sealed by sweeter stuff
.

She moved closer, sliding her arms up around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her body pressed close against his, the warm, full weight of her breasts a maddening enticement. Desire surged through his veins with a force that he could neither deny nor contain, and his hands moved of their own accord over her shoulders, along her back, and down over her hips and buttocks. Fingers hungry for her soft curves, her fierce heat. With a sigh of pleasure she began to move against him, slowly at first, then with greater strength, teasing the swollen flesh that was trapped between them. He reached down suddenly to grasp the soft silk of her skirt, sliding his hand beneath it, stroking the sleek copper skin of her inner thigh, seeking the moist heat that lay beyond. Never before had he desired a woman so desperately, so blindly. Never before had he felt so utterly out of control, as if his rational human self had somehow been consumed by a beast that knew only hunger and lust and cared nothing for human concerns.

She drew a leg up about his hips and he pushed aside his own clothes, thrusting inside her with a force that drove the air from her lungs in a gasp. Copper hands reached for his hair, drawing him down to her lips as he thrust harder and harder into her engulfing heat. Soft moans of pleasure were offered for him to devour and he kissed her fiercely, claiming them. Not afraid of hurting her because he knew somehow, in that primitive part of him that had been unleashed, that she was as strong as he was. Worthy allies, equal in passion. How they deserved one another! Not like the weak creatures marching below them who pretended to be men. Vermin from Corialanus, all of them, who played at being wolves while they crept up upon his territory like rats, thinking he did not notice. But he would show them. He would show them! The molten heat of masculine pride filled his veins to the breaking point and he clutched the Witch-Queen to him as images filled his brain, accompanying each wave of pleasure. His armies waiting at the north end of King's Pass. Surprising the enemy. Mountains drenched in blood. Sovereignty defended. His land! His empire! No man could take what was rightfully his! No enemy would dare to challenge him again once he had taught Corialanus the price of defiance!

Strength proclaimed!

Sovereignty assured!

He knew something was wrong but he could not stop himself, nor rein in the beast that had been given control of his flesh. She cried out as he came at last inside her, not in pleasure but in triumph, and even as the waves of unbearable pleasure surged through his flesh he could feel her witchery taking hold of him. It was a cold and clammy thing that offered pleasure to the bestial parts of his brain if they would serve her will, and strangled those parts which might question what was happening. As the wild pounding of his heart began to subside at last he pushed her away from him, not knowing exactly what was wrong but knowing with certain instinct—
human
instinct—that he must fight it with all his strength.

How cold her eyes were now, with all the illusion stripped from them! Black jeweled eyes, without iris or white. Her silken dress had taken on an unwholesome sheen, like that of a wet eel, and the chiffon strips of her sleeves spread out like wings behind her, snapping in the wind. And the smell! No longer an offense limited to the earth and sky, it now seemed to emanate directly from her, like some foul perfume. And now it was on him as well. Soaked into his velvet gown, lathered along his loins. His whole body reeked of it.

“You have no power over me.” He tried to pour all his strength into the words, but they came out no louder than a whisper. “I will not allow you to have power over me!”

“Salvator. Sweet Salvator.” She reached out to touch his cheek but he pulled away from her. She seemed surprised by his defiance. Did she not realize that he had seen through her mask? That he had somehow broken free of her spell and was seeing her as she truly was? Not human any longer, but something alien and evil that made every fiber of his soul scream out in revulsion? “You have no choice in this. Don't you understand? The ancient drives are too strong to deny. Can't you feel them now, simmering inside you? Too long denied. My poor monk.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper; she probably intended to sound seductive, but with his senses now alert to her corruption he could hear the echoes of baleful power behind it. “Forget the northern border,” she breathed into his skin. “The real danger is here, in King's Pass. There is still time to redeploy. . . .” He could feel the words seeping in through his pores, wrapping themselves about his soul. So hard to think clearly. So hard to remember why Alkali mattered. . . .

He jerked back from her. It took every ounce of strength that he had, and at first his legs would not even respond to him. He could feel her spells shattering like rotten silk as he struggled against them, the tapestry of their shared dream unraveling about them. Clouds shivered into nothingness overhead; the soldiers marching below lost their bodily cohesion and bled out into the surrounding scenery. Something wailed in the distance that didn't belong in any world, and then—still nameless—was silenced.

“You have no power over me,” he repeated. His voice was stronger now; control of his body seemed to be returning, and with it confidence. Did she think he had wasted his four years in the monastery? Did she think a four-year vow of celibacy was lightly sworn or easily maintained, a casual flirtation with self-denial that would not affect the kind of man he became? He had faced down the beast within his own soul and vanquished it before; he could do so again if need be. Even in the midst of this cursed dream and with the sweat of her passion still clinging to his skin.

The smell in the air had changed now. No longer was it sweet, even in its undertones. Acrid fumes filled his nostrils and stung his eyes, making them water. He remembered what his mother had told him about the foul odor that had been in the palace when Kostas had lived there. Not a real smell, she had said, with a physical source that other men might notice, but something that only their family could detect.

Then the fabric of his dream came crashing down about him. Dark images flooded his brain, choked off his breath. He struggled to break free of them and surface. Somewhere beyond all this was the real world, the Creator's world, and he knew if he could just connect to it again this vile magic would lose its hold on him. Feverishly he prayed, using the familiar phrases to focus his mind and fortify his soul:
Holy Father, who created the world that man might live in it, and placed within us all the things that he requires. . . .
Slowly, oh, so slowly, the nightmare images began to fade. Black jeweled eyes. Amethyst wings. Soldiers marching north to claim his territory—

And a sudden pounding on the door.

He opened his eyes and blinked until they focused. The light of dawn had just begun to creep in through the windows, illuminating a chamber that looked jarringly normal. His bed was soaked with cold sweat, but it smelled refreshingly human. Whatever witchery had taken hold of his soul for a brief time, no trace of it remained.

He whispered his thanks to his god.

“Majesty! Are you all right?”

Before he could find his voice the door swung open, and two of his guards entered the room. One had already drawn a sword, and he seemed quite startled to discover there was no one in the room but the three of them. He peered suspiciously into all the corners of the room as his companion bowed nervously. “Forgive us for disturbing you, but Your Majesty cried out—”

Salvator waved him to silence. “I am fine. As you see. But I thank you for your concern.”

They began to bow out of the room, but he signaled for them to wait. “I am done with sleeping for tonight,” he told them, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed so that he might rise. “Order a cold breakfast laid out for me. And a bath. Cold as well. And for after that . . .” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Order my council to attend me. We have much to discuss.”

He wondered briefly what his mother would have made of his dream, but only briefly. In the end it was his faith in the Creator that had saved him, and his training among the holy brothers, not some mysterious gift that no man knew the name of.

Such strength could be yours as well,
he thought to Gwynofar,
if you only would let go of empty legends
.

T
HE THIRD Sister arose from a sea of morning mist like a whale breaking through the surface of the ocean. Fog filled the low points of the landscape, rendering everything all but invisible, and wisps of it swirled like silken veils over all the rest. The sun was beginning to rise, the blackness of night just starting to drain out of the sky along the eastern horizon, and the first hint of morning light lent a ghostly glow to the edges of the fog drifts.

Gwynofar's company stood still for a long time, taking it all in. No doubt those who led the expedition were making precise calculations about how best to approach the Citadel in order to maximize their cover while not losing sight of necessary landmarks, but to Gwynofar's eye the view was simply magical, as if they were in some fairy realm and the object of their attention was rooted not in solid earth but in clouds and dreams.

“A while longer,” the captain of the expedition ordered. “We need more light.”

They were sheltered in the last sizeable patch of forest east of the citadel. They had reached it by moonlight alone, not daring to use any artificial light this close to their target. Fire could be seen from miles away in the night the captain had explained to Gwynofar. Even a single candle flame would be dangerous.