Wings of Wrath (63 page)

Standing atop the third Sister, Anukyat could see it gathering along the southern horizon. Thick black clouds with sheets of rain that swept down across the landscape, slowly moving closer and closer to where he stood. Lightning flashed across the sky from north to south, and the thunder reached him a few seconds later, setting the rock vibrating beneath his feet.

He knew he should go inside before the rain reached the Citadel. The rock surface would grow slick very quickly and be hard to manage. The last thing he wanted now was to loose his footing in the very same place where he had so recently lost his honor.

Or perhaps that would be an appropriate end.

He had come up here to pray, but once he arrived he found that he could not. He could not even curse, or rail at the heavens, or in any other way give vent to what was inside him. The emotions that were tearing his soul to pieces were too vast for words, too volatile to be contained by anything as concrete and finite as
language
.

He had failed.

The scope of that failure defied rational limits. The roots of it lay a thousand years in the past, and the future . . . the future had yet to make itself known. All he could be sure of right now was that his ancestors had offered up their lives for a cause, and he had betrayed it. And his descendants would now pay the price.

It was more than a human heart could absorb.

Lightning fractured the storm clouds for a moment, bright enough to blind him. He shut his eyes against the glare, counting down the seconds before a whiplike crack of thunder split the air. Five. Only five. The storm would be upon him soon.

And there was another sound, a slow rhythmic beat, like pennants whipping in the wind. He shuddered to hear it but did not turn around, not even when he heard the scraping of talons on the rock behind him. Or the sound of human feet hitting the stone surface.

“They will repair the Wrath.” Anukyat spoke without turning. “There are those who will make the sacrifice, now that they know the truth.”
I would,
he thought,
if I believed the gods would accept a traitor's sacrifice.

“It is too late,” Nyuku said.

Slowly, the Master Guardian turned to face his visitor. Or rather
both
his visitors. The first, a man, was garbed in gleaming blue-black armor that had been polished to a fine sheen; his hair had been pulled back tightly into a queue, baring his Kannoket features. The second, behind him, was a beast from out of legend whose broad veined wings beat the air slowly as it crouched at the edge of the monument, its long serpentine tail coiling restlessly about its master's feet as it waited. Its hide was the same color as the man's armor, making the pair of them seem more like extensions of a single creature than two separate individuals. Which was in fact accurate enough.

“You lied to me,” Anukyat accused. The lightning cracked again. A few drops of rain splattered upon the granite spire, vanguard of the coming storm.

“About what? Your ancestry? The fate of the Kannoket? None of that was a lie.” Nyuku smiled coldly. “None of it needed to be a lie.”

How smooth he was in his manner now, in his speech! The bestial mannerisms that had once betrayed his origin were long gone; he had become polished enough to walk among morati princes as if he were one of them. Anukyat had helped teach him that. Doubtless the others of his kind would learn the trick as well. Their early mistakes would not be repeated.

“Why do you bring these creatures back to our world?” Anukyat demanded. “You must know what they will do.”

A flash of lightning behind Anukyat turned Nyuku's eyes silver for a instant, reflective like a cat's. “They are no longer merely beasts,” he said.

The anger that until this moment had been self-directed suddenly had an outward focus. “Do they no longer feed upon human souls?” Anukyat demanded. “Do they no longer rob men of the very spark that makes them human? Are you claming to have ‘tamed' them, so that they can live among us peaceably?” He stared at the ikati with raw, unfettered hatred. It was a strangely cleansing sensation, as though all the despicable things he had done recently were oozing out of his pores, like some noxious poison. “Somehow I doubt that is possible.”

“Many men will die,” Nyuku agreed. “That is the price they pay for driving us into exile. A thousand years of being cut off from the world, away from the very heartbeat of humanity! And now we are free at last.”

The words came unbidden to his lips. “Not all of you.”

Anger flashed like lightning in Nyuku's eyes. “The rest will follow us. Those of us who were strong enough to make the crossing will pave the way for them. Once mankind has submitted to our rule we will come back here and tear the Wrath down in its entirety.”

Lightning flashed across the sky; the crack of thunder that followed was loud enough to make his ears ring.
He would not tell me all this if he meant for me to live,
Anukyat realized. Strangely, the insight did not really disturb him. Perhaps he had grown numb to fear . . . or perhaps he was more afraid of remaining alive and witnessing the consequences of his treachery.

“The
lyr
will find you,” he said quietly. “They know what you are now. They know how to find you.”

“And by the time they mobilize we will be far from this region. They will not even know where to look.” The tail of the ikati twitched against Nyuku's thigh; he reached out a hand to stroke its glistening surface. “It is a long flight from here, Anukyat.” He said it softly. “I am sure you understand.”

He did.

The beast's black eyes captured his and held them fast, so that he could not look away. The power of the ikati licked at his soul, loosening his life force from its moorings, ripping it loose like raw meat. While lightning struck behind Anukyat, its brief flash reflected a thousand time over in the black facets of the ikati's eyes.

“Bugger yourself,” he said.

And he jumped.

For a brief moment longer he could feel the ikati's hunger burning inside him, then the sensations of the fall drowned all that out. Air rushing by his head. Raindrops racing him to the ground. The sweet embrace of gravity, serene and incorruptible. And at the end of the fall, rushing up toward him: freedom.

Nyuku stood silently at the top of the monument, gazing down in frustration at the broken body far below him. Behind him his consort fidgeted restlessly. He was hungry. All the other human food had left this place. He would have to begin his flight with nothing more than a few local snakes and frogs for sustenance. And in the rain, no less. Clearly the great beast was not happy.

Nyuku looked northward. The malignant power of the Wrath was visible from here: a wounded curse, slowly bleeding out its life force. The
lyr
would focus their efforts upon it now and would attempt to kill any of his people who tried to cross it. Perhaps in time they would even succeed in repairing the barrier, after a fashion. But even that could do no more than delay the inevitable. Enough of his brothers had made it through already to set his plans in motion. And there was a queen in the southlands now, which meant that they were no longer bound to the land of darkness and ice. The whole world was theirs for the taking.

“I will come back for you, my brothers.” He whispered his words into the growing wind. “I promise.”

Then the rain began to fall in earnest and the ikati screeched in protest. Quickly Nyuku climbed up on his back once more and let the stained-glass wings fold about him protectively. And then the ground dropped away from them both and the long journey began.

South.

B
Y THE time Rhys' body was brought out and set upon the bier, both moons had risen high in the sky. A cool, ghostly light picked out highlights on his armor, his sword, the ornaments in his hair. His pale skin was perfect, seemingly untouched by death, and his hands across his chest were so artfully folded that it looked as if he might stir at any moment, making a fool of Death. Such was the gift of witchery that the Seers had insisted on providing for their fallen brother, refusing Lazaroth's offer of sorcery to do the same at lesser cost. Their sacrifice was a statement of their mourning.

They had dressed him in his armor, weapons by his side. His pale blond braids were spread out like a halo about his head, tiny ornaments glittering in the moonlight. Several wooden boxes and small fabric bundles had been placed on the wooden platform beside him. They contained his most precious personal possessions, Gwynofar had explained to Kamala. A man should be surrounded by the things he valued most when he left this world.

Finally the Lord Protector stepped forward and the crowd of mourners grew hushed. Holding out his hand, he beckoned a woman to join him. She was dressed in dark garments, her hair loose and undressed about her shoulders, and the tears that trickled down her cheeks as she stepped forward cut paths through the streaks of dried salt already there. Rhys' mother. Gwynofar came forward as well, and helped them unroll a length of sheer white linen that they then placed gently over the corpse. It was thin enough that one could see Rhys' face through it, his expression as peaceful as though he were merely sleeping.

“This is my son,” the Lord Protector announced to the crowd of mourners, “lent to us by the gods and now returned to them. He lived in honor and died with courage, offering up his life that others might live. He will be memorialized among the trees of Kierdwyn's ancestors, as a prince of our line, for he has earned his place among them.”

He held out a hand to one side, and a servant stepped forward and placed a gleaming kris knife into his hand. Thrusting it through the cloth of his sleeve, the Lord Protector tore loose a ragged piece of cloth that he set down on top of the white linen. He then handed the knife hilt first to Rhys' mother, who performed the same odd ritual. When it came to Gwynofar's turn she did not rend her garment, but cut off a lock of her hair, lying it reverently beside her half brother, leaning over him to kiss his forehead lovingly through the layer of gauze.

A solemn procession followed. Salvator, the Lady Protector, and all the sons and cousins of Kierdwyn went first, passing the knife from one to another, each one tearing loose some bit of fabric or hair to honor Rhys' memory. Several had brought small items as well that they left on top of the white cloth. Gifts of remembrance. Magisters Lazaroth, Ramirus, and Colivar were present, and they offered their respects in turn. But they refused the knife that was offered, and Kamala was sure that the gifts they laid beside the fallen Guardian were strictly impersonal. Only a fool among Magisters would leave behind items that could be used against him by others of his kind, especially with rivals present.

And then it was her turn.

How quiet the night seemed in that moment! Darkness swallowed the other mourners as she approached the body, granting her an eerie privacy. Someone handed her the ritual knife and then faded back into the shadows. She and Rhys were alone.

Looking down at the body of her traveling companion, she felt a tightness in her chest. Some cold, uncomfortable emotion stirred in the deepest recesses of her soul, making it hard to breathe.

There was no denying that truth. If she had remained at her watch-post while the Guardians were climbing the monument, she would have seen the soldiers entering the upper chamber. She could have warned Rhys' men in time to keep them from being trapped there.

I saw an alarm being sent out from the Citadel,
she thought.
I had to intercept it.

But what if it wasn't the alarm she thought it was? The tiny leather message capsule was in her pocket, still unopened. Every time she took it out, her hands shook so badly that she could not get the clasp undone. A call for Souleaters to come protect the Citadel would have been well worth the risk she had taken; a single one of the great winged creatures could have picked the warriors off their precarious perch, Gwynofar included. The men would all have died then, and their mission would have failed as well. This way at least the mission had succeeded. Any of the Guardians would have made the same choice, surely.

But what if the message wasn't that?

Gazing down at her companion's still form, Kamala found it hard to sort out her emotions. Certainly Rhys himself had not feared death. Even before the revelation of Alkali's Spear had worked its spiritual corruption on him, making him hunger for the peace that death might bring, he had dedicated his life to a mission that was firmly rooted in the concept of self-sacrifice. He once told her that he would march into hell with his head held high if he thought it would gain his brothers some advantage over their winged adversaries. And she did not doubt that it was true. Life had been sweet to him, but duty meant more.