Wings of Wrath (61 page)

Finally the ledge widened out a bit, almost enough for her to fit her whole foot onto it. A welcome luxury. She worked her way slowly around a narrow column, body scraping against the rough rock; she saw that she was leaving a thin smear of blood behind her, but she didn't have the luxury of stopping to see where it was coming from. At last she reached a shelter of sorts, a deep vertical groove that ran between two of the columns, large enough for her body to fit inside. The ledge she'd been following widened out into a platform there, big enough for her to stand up comfortably. She tucked herself into the shadows gratefully, wedging herself in tightly enough that nothing short of an earthquake should be able to dislodge her . . . and then the tears came. She let them flow. Gods alone knew if the others were still alive, but even if they were the whole of the mission rested on her shoulders now.

Finally she wiped the wetness from her face with a torn and grimy sleeve and gathered herself to face the task at hand.
Need to be strong. Need to keep going.
Once her vision cleared she could see why Kamala had directed her to this place. Her shelter was the lower end of a narrow chimney, scored by a series of diagonal faults that would provide a wealth of handholds going up. Climbing it, she would be surrounded by solid stone on three sides, as opposed to open air. A comforting illusion of safety, at least.

I can do this,
she thought. And then:
I have to do this.

There was a sudden squawk from Kamala, a clear alarm. Startled, Gwynofar pressed herself back into the shadows of the chimney as fast as she could. As she did so she could see shadows moving in the area she had just left. Was someone going to follow her out the window? She didn't dare lean far enough forward to be sure. Heart pounding wildly, she tried to make herself as small as possible and drew up her arms in front of her face, so that the coarse gray wool of her shirt would help hide the gleaming pallor of her skin. One second passed. Two. An eternity of waiting, while the cold wind whistled across the front of her rocky shelter. Finally the bird cheeped again, softly this time, and then fluttered down to a perch next to her and whispered, “Stay here.”

She nodded.

Kamala began to move around the monument, peering intently around each obstacle before going past it, as if searching for something in particular. Her plumage was so perfectly matched to the color and texture of the tower that once she got more than ten yards away it was all but impossible to see her. Eventually she ducked into the shadow of a deep vertical crack and Gwynofar lost sight of her completely.

Wait,
she told herself.
Just wait. She knows what she's doing
.

There were other sounds she could hear now that she was still, carried to her by the wind. Banging sounds. Clashing sounds. Shouting. She could not help but think of the men that she had left behind, fighting for their lives within the monument. Offering up their life's blood to give her the time she needed to reach the uppermost chamber.

Their sacrifice must not be in vain.

Finally the soft scratching of talons above her head alerted her to Kamala's return.

“There have been guards at some of the windows,” she whispered to Gwynofar. “Checking for trouble on this side of the monument. I don't think they saw you. You should be able to go straight up this chimney, almost to the top, and you'll be invisible from most vantage points.”

“The fighting. Is it . . . ?” She couldn't finish the question.

“I don't know,” the bird said shortly and then she flapped her wings and moved to a distant perch. Too far away for any more questions.

Drawing in a deep breath, Gwynofar began to climb again. It was easier now, with the solid wall of the chimney to brace herself against, but her arms ached from the day's exertions, and her hand had been scraped badly enough that it was starting to ooze blood along the palm. She rubbed it against her clothing whenever she could to dry it off, but sometimes that just wasn't possible.

At last, trembling from exhaustion, she reached the top of the narrow channel, where a jutting formation overhead cut off any hope of further progress. Wedging herself into the tight space beneath it, she took a moment to catch her breath as the bird flew off into the distance once more. Every muscle in her body was shaking from exhaustion now; she prayed that Ramirus' sorcerous enhancements would last long enough to get her to her objective.

Then the bird was back. “This way,” it whispered, and then added, “there are no guards.”

The transverse course was a more generous ledge, nearly as wide as her feet. Slowly she worked her way along it until she felt the stone wall beneath her outstretched hand give way to empty space. A window. Her legs were shaking as she worked her way over to it, and at last she was able to grasp the edge of the opening solidly enough to pull herself into it. It was a tight fit, more so than she had anticipated, and there was no question that the men in their company could not have made it through with armor on. She was forced to wriggle out of her own harness first, prying at the knots with trembling fingers until they finally gave way. Even then the window was so narrow that the rough stone scraped her flesh painfully as she forced her way through and she could feel the warm trickle of blood along her back.

But she was inside at last.

She fell to the floor and for a moment could do no more than lie there, panting for breath. But only for a moment. Gods alone knew how little time she had before the locals came up here and found her; she had to do what she had come for before that happened.

Raising herself up from the floor on trembling hands, she looked around at the chamber. It was round, with tall, narrow windows at irregular intervals; if they were man-made, there had been no effort to make them uniform in shape. She could see now that Kamala had led her to the widest of all the windows; it was doubtful she could have fit through any of the others. She was dimly aware of a heavy trap door to one side of her, no doubt leading down to the observation chamber the men had tried to storm earlier. But she did not stop to look at that. She did not stop to look at anything more, save the item that was in the middle of the room.

Draped in black oilcloth and a thick layer of dust, it was at least as tall as she was, and wider than her outstretched hands. She felt a thrill rush through her veins as she reached out to grab hold of the cloth cover; it looked like no one had touched the thing for years. Getting a good grip on it with both hands, she pulled as hard as she could. Clouds of dust filled the room and set her to coughing; for a moment it was not possible to see anything at all.

Then the dust cleared and the Throne of Tears was before her in all its darksome glory.

It was regal and elegant and indisputably grotesque; the very sight of it sent a cold chill down her spine. At first glance it seemed to be carved from polished ebony, but where sunlight played over its surface it raised cobalt highlights that pooled upon its surface like puddles of oil. The seat and back of the throne were covered in polished leather of the same color, with a glistening texture. The arms and legs terminated in a ball-and-claw motif, but in the place of carved wood, long, curving teeth had been set into them, their ivory enamel in stark contrast with the fist-sized globes of black crystal that they grasped.

And then there were the wings. They fanned outward from the back of the chair like silk veils frozen in midmotion: impossibly delicate, chillingly beautiful. The beams of sunlight that passed through them were filtered as if through stained glass, sending shards of color streaming across the walls and floor and ceiling of the chamber.

For a moment Gwynofar was mesmerized by the sight of the terrible sculpture. Was this truly the last hope of her people? She trembled to consider what manner of power might be vested in such a thing, or what the price might be of awakening it. But there was no other choice. Men had died to give her this opportunity; she could not let them down.

Breathing deeply, she stepped up onto the stone dais that supported the ghastly seat and muttered a final prayer under her breath, bracing herself for whatever the gods might require of her. And then she sat down in it, running her hands down the arms of the great chair until her fingers slid between the polished teeth, grasping the jeweled globes with her own pale fingers.

Nothing happened.

All the dangers of the past few days did not strike such terror into her heart as that single moment of failure. All the planning that had been required to bring her here, all the lives that had been risked—and possibly lost—to make this possible . . . was that all to be wasted?
No,
she thought fiercely. Defiantly.
Not possible!
She grasped the arms of the throne in her hands and squeezed them, willing the grotesque throne to respond to her. Still nothing happened.

What was wrong? Was she not the right candidate after all? Had the ancient magics faded over time? Or had they interpreted the prophecy incorrectly?

There were muffled sounds coming from beneath the trap door now. Kamala had managed to shut the iron bolt on the trap door, but that would only work for so long. Armed men with enough determination could surely break through.

What had the prophecy said, exactly? Gwynofar struggled to remember the exact words.

“Blood,” the bird said abruptly.

Kamala was right, Gwynofar thought. The
lyr
birthright was measured in blood; it would be an appropriate offering.

She took her bruised hand and dragged it against point of one of the chair's talons; her flesh tore open and blood began to flow freely. She let drops of it fall upon the claws of the chair and the black globes they grasped. Upon the center of the seat. Upon the back. She located every carved motif on the thing that might provide an appropriate site for blood sacrifice and offered up prayers as she smeared her
lyr
blood on each one. But still nothing happened, no matter what she did. Not even when she sat in the bloody chair afterward, willing all her innate magic into it. Still nothing.

The voices were less muffled now. Alkali voices, approaching from below.

Tears of frustration ran down her face . . . and tears of fear as well. Could it be that the sacrifice of her life was required in order to unlock the throne's secrets? Was that what the prophecy was hinting at? It was the only other thing that she could think of.

“All right!” she whispered fiercely. “Take it! Take me! My blood, my life . . . whatever you require! Only give the
lyr
what they need. Show them how to fight these creatures!”

She closed her eyes, trembling. And waited for the dire magic of the throne to devour her soul.

Nothing happened.

Despair came crashing down around her. In her worst fears she had never imagined that her quest would end like this: sitting on the legendary throne, prepared to make whatever sacrifice was required to awaken its power, and not having a clue how to do so.

What if the Wrath itself were responsible, she thought suddenly. What if the same baleful power that had befouled all other magic in this region had affected this priceless artifact as well? Then all their efforts would have been wasted and there was truly no hope.

Someone banged on the underside of the trap door, startling her. The bolt held it closed for now, but how long would that last?

Gods of the Wrath,
she prayed,
have mercy upon your servant. Tell me what I must do.

But there was no answer.

The trap door thudded heavily as someone below tried to break it open; the sudden force shook the iron bolt, loosening its mooring. A rush of hot fear surged through Gwynofar. How many men had died to get her this far? How many more would die in the coming war, if the
lyr
could not access their god-given powers? She could not fail them all.

Gods of the Wrath,
she prayed desperately,
whatever price is required for this knowledge, I willingly pay it. My life, my soul, all that I possess . . . all of it is yours. Freely offered in sacrifice, on behalf of my people. Take from me whatever is required, that the
lyr
may learn the name of their gift. . . .

A cold wind seemed to stir in the room. She drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the voices from below. The arms of the throne were growing warm beneath her touch, its heat filling her lungs as she drew in a long, trembling breath—

And then, suddenly, she understood.

The child
.

Her body stiffened reflexively, she put a hand over her stomach, as if to protect the child within.

It was Danton's child who defied the prophecy. Not because he was tainted by sorcery—Ramirus had assured her that was not the case—but simply because he was what he was: his father's child. Half his heritage was
lyr,
but the other half was not; that alien inheritance was now wedded to her flesh. Gwynofar could not sacrifice her own life without offering up his life as well. And he did not satisfy the conditions of the prophecy.

“No,” she whispered. Remembering her other lost children, lying dead at her feet in a pool of blood. A part of her soul had died that day. “Don't ask this of me. . . .”

But it was too late.

The trap door jerked upward, forcing the bolt partway out of its mooring. “Who is in there?” a voice demanded from below. “Open this door!”

And then the voices were gone, and all the noises of the world outside, and there was only a terrible silence within her . . .