Wings of Wrath (6 page)

“To you, Ramirus?” She took a step closer to the Magister; the air between them seemed strangely charged with energy. Was that the magic of her blood coming to the fore again? Ever since the night the Souleater had died she had wondered what its limits were. “I offer that which you desire most. Not wealth, nor status, nor earthly power. I know what it is you really want.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and compelling. “There are secrets in the blood of the Protectors—in those we call the
lyr
—that you've hungered to study for as long as I've known you. Now the Souleaters are returning, and whatever power lies dormant in our bloodlines will soon awaken, as the gods promised us it would. And you can be there, Ramirus, by my side, when it happens. Knowing what the Protectors know, learning the truth behind the ancient legends even as the gods reveal it to us. All that I will share with you and more—fair payment for what I ask in return. Yes?”

She tried to still the beating of her heart as she waited for his answer.
Did you think I didn't know what you were about all those years? Why you had such a keen interest in the tales of my homeland?
But there was far more at stake now than a handful of legends. A contract with Salvator would have bound Raimrus to the service of the High Kingdom. A contract with Gwynofar would bind him not only to her brood but to the business of the Protectors as well. And if the Souleaters were truly returning to the human lands, that was no small thing.

We will need allies,
she thought.
All the witches in the world barely managed to contain these creatures the first time. We cannot face them with less power then that.

“An interesting offer.” The night had become dark enough that it was hard to see Ramirus' expression, but she knew from long experience that it would reveal little to her. “Not one that I would normally entertain—but this is not a normal time, is it?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You accept?”

“I did not say that. I will consider your offer, both for what I would gain from it, and what I must sacrifice. You know my accustomed habits. I do not set them aside lightly, even for such price as you would offer.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “But Salvator—”

“Is safe until his coronation, and probably for some time afterward. My colleagues will allow him time to choose a Magister Royal. That much is tradition. If you can keep him from making any public announcement of his intentions, he may last quite a while.” He looked at her sharply. “You are asking for more than his protection, you know that.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I know.”

“And you wish nothing else from me? Nothing of more . . . customary service?”

She looked out over the barren landscape.
Would that we could turn the clock back and start over. Bring back the trees, and Andovan to hunt among them, and my husband and firstborn son to complain about his lack of interest in royal politics. But even you do not have that much power.
“Help the land to recover its strength. Send strong summer rains to nurture the seeds that survived Kostas' fire, so that they grow with all possible speed. Let the field of ash become a field of life, and thus cover over this nightmare that Kostas wrought. For it was no natural devastation and should not be favored by any god.”

He nodded. “Very well. If I choose to accept your contract, you shall have fields of grass to comfort you.” He bowed his head ever so slightly. “Is that all, Majesty?”

“For now, yes.” Later in the night she would make blood sacrifice to the Spears and beg the northern gods to turn Ramirus' mind and heart to her cause. For now, she had done all that one woman could do.

He turned to leave. She knew from experience that he would step into the natural shadows before disappearing or else summon sorcerous shadows to attend him. He did not like the morati to witness his transportation.

“Ramirus.”

He paused, but did not turn back.

“Why does your kind make contracts with us at all? You could have anything you wanted with your sorcery, including Danton's throne. Why do you bargain with kings at all, rather than simply become kings yourselves?”

Slowly he turned to look at her. His eyes were black sparks in the darkness.

“Because,” he said, “if the world had no structure or limits, we would drown in it.”

And then the shadows of the parapets folded about him and she was alone once more.

T
HE SEERS sat in a circle, hands linked, oblivious to all but the soft rhythm of drums in the background. The spellsong rose from their lips in a shared murmur, a construct of ancient melodies and long-forgotten tongues, mysterious in its harmonies, hypnotic in its power. The great hall surrounding them seemed to dissolve into shadows as they chanted; all the men and women sitting in a circle beyond them did likewise, until the spectators seemed no more than mere phantoms to them. Distant. Inconsequential.

Only the spell mattered now.

Slowly, the air that was contained within the circle of their hands began to stir. At first it rippled softly—like rainwater stirred by a breeze or desert air rising over hot summer sand—then suddenly a gash appeared, as if some unseen blade had rent the air in two. Colors gushed out from the opening, filling the circle with liquid streamers of light: cobalt, ultramarine, violet, viridian. Colors so rich and resonant that they gleamed like gemstones in the dusty air. Soon the center of the circle was a swirling mass of dancing ribbons that throbbed in time to the steady drumbeat. The chanting grew louder then, as the Seers concentrated their power; those spectators familiar with ancient tongues might have been able pick out a few words here and there, remnants of languages from an earlier age, now preserved only in ancient tomes and mystical chants.

The streamers of color were beginning to weave themselves into a picture in the center of the circle. The first shape to become recognizable was some kind of creature. It was long and sinuous like a snake, but it moved in a way that implied more than reptilian intelligence. More streamers knotted themselves about its midsection and then fanned out, taking the shape of broad wings, veined like an insect's. A thousand subtle tones of blue and violet rippled through their substance as the creature hovered in the center of the circle, wings beating steadily.

One of the Guardians watching drew in a sharp breath. The man sitting next to him put a hand on his shoulder, warning him to silence.

Now there was a new shape coalescing in front of the creature: that of a man. He was tall and golden-haired in the manner of the northlands, and well-armed. Even so, he seemed a small and fragile creature compared to the great winged beast looming over him. Then he cried out to the beast as he drew his weapon, a strange, animalistic cry. Every man and woman in the great hall knew the meaning of that sound, and it made cold shivers run up their spines to hear it. The winged creature clearly heard it also, for it turned all its attention upon the lone warrior, just as the legends had said it would do.

The two figures fought.

The strength of the beast was fearsome, but finite. A crossbow bolt to the inside of one shoulder forced it down to earth, where it hissed like an angry lizard.

The skill of the man was great, but untested. The tail of the creature whipped toward him, faster and harder than he had expected, and one could hear ribs shatter as it struck.

And then as the circle of Seers chanted—and the Guardians sitting behind them watched in fascination—the man drove his lance upward through the creature's jaw and into its brain. And then, after the creature's final death spasms, the battle was ended.

For a few minutes longer, the Seers continued their whispering. Long enough for all present to study the fallen creature and take note of important details: the thick armored plates guarding its underbelly; the long, sharp blades fixed to the end of its whiplike tail; the deadly spines running down the length of its neck, back, and tail—save for one small section just above its shoulders where there was only scar tissue. Knotted and twisted whorls of thickened flesh bore witness to where spines had once been. Had they been broken off in battle or removed deliberately? The image gave no clue.

Finally, the chanting ceased.

The image faded.

“May the gods help us,” Master Favias muttered.

The Guardian nearest to the doors pushed them open, admitting sunlight into the meetinghouse once more. The late afternoon light picked out a somewhat chaotic collection of carvings that decorated the walls, ceiling, and rafters of the rough-hewn building. Kierdwyn knotwork, Skandir pictoglyphs, battle prayers calligraphed in flowing Tonado script. Forty generations of Guardians had left their marks on this place, all of them carefully preserved each time a portion of the building had to be repaired. According to legend, not a single carving had ever been lost. Wood might rot, mortar might crumble, but the messages left by past Guardians were truly eternal.

The Seers were rising to their feet now, as were all the Guardians surrounding them. Master Favias clasped each Seer by the hand, one after the other, bowing deeply to each, offering the formal thanks of his Protectorate. If their spellsong had been true, if the gods had answered their call for shared sacrifice, then each one of the witches had contributed a portion of his life-essence to their common conjuration. If the spellsong had failed—or the gods were not pleased with their efforts—then one man or woman might bear the cost for all of it. Either way, each and every one of them had been willing to sacrifice a portion of his or her life to serve the Guardians' need, and that must be properly acknowledged.

Some of the Seers took their leave then, clearly exhausted by their efforts; the Guardians bowed in humble respect as they left. A few others chose to remain, waiting to hear what would be learned from their conjuring.

The Master Guardian of Kierdwyn Protectorate looked to Rhys. The latter's expression was grim, and he continued staring at the place where his battle with the Souleater had just been displayed, as if his mind were elsewhere. “You did well,” he said.

“I was careless,” Rhys responded sharply. Irritably. “I would have died, had a Magister not healed me.”

Master Favias walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No man has fought one of these creatures for at least a thousand years. Nor even seen one alive, in all that time. Yet you fought one, with nothing better than a handful of myths to guide you, and you brought it down. And then you collected samples for us that will help us prepare for the next battle.
You did well,
” he insisted, “regardless of who may have assisted you.”

Rhys bowed his head reluctantly, accepting the praise, but clearly not happy about it.

“Now tell us, where is the cursed creature now? Is the body in a place where we might send our scholars to go and study it?”

Rhys shook his head. “The High Queen tried to have it preserved for us, but was unable to do so. It did not rot as other living creatures do. Within hours of its death its inner organs were already foul from corruption, and its skin was as rotten as that of a week-old corpse. Rotting from within.” He shook his head in frustration, remembering it. “I wanted to get a look at the creature's bones, to see if they might be hollow in the manner of birds—that would be a vulnerability worth noting—but by the time I had gotten that far, the creature's skeleton had begun to rot from the inside out, so I could not be sure. Even the few samples I managed to get did not fare well. In the end the cadaver had to be burned to keep its poison from spreading to living creatures. This is all that remains.”

There was a table at the far end of the meetinghouse where several small canvas bundles were waiting. The Guardians gathered as Rhys walked over to it and unwrapped the first bundle. Four long, thin bony plates were revealed. Their outer edges were sharp, as finely honed as if some master swordsmith had spent months forging them to perfection; the inner edges were thick and discolored, with fragments of decaying flesh clinging to them that crumbled to dust as Rhys spread the pieces out for inspection.

“These are from the creature's tail. Magister Colivar directed me to salvage them immediately when the creature died. Later, when it became clear that the rest of the creature was rotting too quickly for sample gathering, I wanted to ask why these were unaffected. Whether it was because of some unique property of this particular material, or simply because I had removed them from the body before the putrefaction began. But Colivar had already left and no one else knew the answer.” He turned one of the long blades over so that it caught the light; sapphire highlights played along its sharper edge, and a faint musky odor rose from its surface. “This is the part of the beast that our ancestors crafted into knife blades and lance tips to pierce the creatures' hides. Colivar said it was better than steel for this purpose, and that we would probably need diamonds to craft it.”