Wings of Wrath (64 page)

Gently she reached out and touched the side of his face; his skin was cool beneath the linen veil. What was it like to value some outside agency or goal more than life itself? The concept was so alien to her that she could barely frame the question. From her earliest days she had fixed her own sight on a single goal, willing to sacrifice anything and everything to achieve it. Even her humanity. Yet in the end, what had she gained? Eternal life in which to do . . . what? Standing before Rhys' body, she was acutely aware that she had no answer to such a question. Was that why the Magisters invested so much time and energy into their incessant rivalries? she wondered. Not to ward off the boredom of the centuries, as they claimed, but to give themselves the illusion of purpose?

With a shiver she leaned down over Rhys' body and kissed him gently on the forehead. And in that moment, she knew the name of the emotion that was so disquieting.

Envy.

Taking up the ritual knife with its serpentine blade, she reached up and cut off a lock of her hair, then laid it gently beside him. Binding it to the linen shroud securely enough with her power that not even a single hair could be removed without a sorcerous wrestling match first. She could sense Colivar's eyes on her back as he watched her make the morati-style offering, but she did not look up. For the sacrifice that Rhys had made, he deserved to be honored thus.

Then she passed the knife on to another, and stepped back into the shadows herself. Watching for over an hour as mourners filed past—Guardians and lovers, soldiers and friends—until his body was surrounded by a circle of tokens. Then another layer of linen was carefully lowered over the platform and tied down at the corners, to keep the wind from disturbing the offerings. Guardians then took up the poles at both ends of the mourning platform and lifted it from its stand, carrying it over to where the makings of a funeral pyre were waiting. Soon Rhys lay at the top of a pyramid, its stacked-wood base fragrant with the natural perfumes of the forest. A priest circled the construct three times with a torch, chanting prayers, then touched his flame to the dry tinder. The smell of burning pine needles filled the air as flames soared skyward, flickering veils of light surrounding Rhys for one glorious moment before the platform itself went up in flames. In the end, Kamala knew, his ashes and bones would be gathered up and buried at the base of some great pine that would later be carved into his image so that future generations might seek communion with his spirit.

She stood by the fire for a long time after that, well after the royal family had withdrawn from public view and the last of the mourners had begun to scatter. Then she reached into her pocket and drew out the message tube that she had taken from Anukyat's pigeon. Turning it over slowly in her hand, she drew in a deep breath, then worked loose the leather thong that held it shut. Teasing out the tightly rolled piece of paper that was inside it, she held it in her hand for a few moments before finally unrolling and reading it.

Slowly, silently, she rolled the paper up tightly once more and slid it back into its tube. Then she cast it at the funeral pyre. Up it sailed, high over the blazing wood, until it landed in the center of the conflagration, on what was left of the funeral platform.

Not until the fire had burned down to embers, and all the offerings to ash, did she leave finally leave the site.

In the shadows at the far end of the field, the Lord Protector and his family watched the fire burn. Colivar stood beside them, enjoying the vague discomfort his presence was causing Ramirus. Unless he missed his guess, the white-haired Magister had struck some kind of deal with the Aurelius household, or at least with Gwynofar. If so, then the two of them were serving rival monarchs once more. Just like old times.

Not that it was likely to stay that way for long. Colivar had been so busy tracking down hints of the Souleaters' presence in recent days that he'd hardly had time for his royal duties. King Farah had been understanding about it—the Souleaters were a global threat, after all—but in the end, an absent Magister Royal wasn't all that much better than not having one at all. Soon Colivar would have to give up his position if he meant to go on with his investigation.

Why were the creatures so important to him? Was it because their return threatened the world he lived in, the civilization he had come to take for granted, or was the reasons more intimate, more personal? Certainly the mere thought of them flying free in the skies again awakened memories that he was not entirely ready to handle and hinted at personal weaknesses that until now he had not realized he'd possessed. Better to search those things out now, he thought, than be surprised by them later.

Looking out over the crowd, he saw that Salvator was approaching. Now that was interesting. Apparently he'd had a witch transport him here, preferring—as always—to sap the living strength of morati rather than trust to the seemingly endless power of the Magisters. Not that there was much difference between the two in the end, of course. Someone, somewhere, had to provide the life-essence for such a spell. It was only a question of whose athra it was, and whether the donor was willing.

The new High King came to where the Lord Protector was standing, nodding his head respectfully to Kierdwyn and Gwynofar. Not to the Magisters, though. They might as well be stone monuments for all Salvator seemed to care. It seemed a foolish move, but at least one had to admire the man's consistency. Colivar could see the displeasure in Ramirus' eyes, and Lazaroth's expression was as warm as a glacier.

Colivar chuckled to himself.
Careful, Magisters. Your pride is showing.

“Your son was greatly loved,” Salvator said to his grandfather. “This funeral does him honor.”

In the distance Guardians were stepping forward now to stir the embers of the funeral pyre, making sure that every bit of flammable material was properly burned. By the time the sun rose, there would be nothing left but bones and ash.

“My people honor Rhys' mission as well as his person,” Kierdwyn responded solemnly. “It is the way of the
lyr
.”

Salvator nodded respectfully. “Such a mission is worthy of honor.”

The Lord Protector raised an eyebrow. “That is a different sentiment than one normally hears from you.”

“We have all learned much of our natures these past few weeks. Some of those lessons were . . . surprising.”

“Indeed.” A shadow passed over the Lord Protector's face. “I would think a Penitent would be pleased by all this. Legends of the ancient gods proven to be no more than a seductive fantasy, the mysterious ‘gift of the
lyr
' no more than a natural resistance to the Souleaters' power. Granted it was useful, but hardly supernatural.”

Salvator spoke quietly. “On the contrary, the hand of the Creator is now evident in this matter. Was it not he that created mankind to begin with, along with all the talents and proclivities that make us human? If so, then it is he who seeded that immunity among us in the first place, anticipating our need. By proving the
lyr
gift to be a natural power, part and parcel of mankind's creation, you have in fact confirmed it as a divine endowment.” He paused. “But what of your people? How are they dealing with this?”

Kierdwyn shrugged stiffly. “Most received only fragments of Gwynofar's visions and are relying upon the priests to sort things out. I am not sure where it will lead. Certainly our duty is not altered, and with the Souleaters returning I suspect there will be little time to worry about anything else. For myself . . .” He bit his lip for a moment. “I wonder, if we had known the truth from the beginning, if we would have been quite so meticulous in preserving the
lyr
bloodlines. It is the legends that kept us committed to that cause through all the centuries. Repairing the Spears, preserving ancient lore, concentrating the gift that is in the blood of the seven great families . . . a man will do things in service to his gods that he would not do for himself. So perhaps the legends we believed in for so long were part of the gods' plan all along, to keep us properly focused. Perhaps.”

Colivar could not resist the opening. “And the Magisters? What is our part in all of this supposed to be?”

Salvator's expression was chill. “In light of what has just been revealed, I find it noteworthy that there has never been a Magister of
lyr
blood. Perhaps when we understand why that is so, we may be able to answer your question as it deserves.”

Hardly a mystery,
Colivar thought dryly.
The
lyr
exist for a purpose. A Magister's only purpose is to ensure his own survival. The two philosophies are incompatible.

“So you accept your heritage now?” the Lord Protector asked his grandson.

“I do. In fact . . .” He looked over at the three Magisters, perhaps considering whether he really wanted to hold this discussion in front of them. Finally, with a grim nod of acceptance, he turned back to Kierdwyn. “I had a dream, while our armies were gathering. It seemed rather straightforward at the time. Now, in light of the visions that Gwynofar provided, I must wonder.”

“The one with the Witch-Queen?”

Salvator nodded tightly.

“You said that she tried to convince you to withdraw your troops from the north.”

“Indeed. The political implications seemed clear at the time, so I did not question it further. But she tried to use witchery to drive her message home. And could not. I would like to take credit for her failure and claim that my soul is so well guarded against spiritual assaults that she could make no headway. But in light of what the Throne has revealed, I must now question that assumption. Especially as . . .” He hesitated. “In the dream's final moments, I saw her change. Her eyes became black, and faceted. For a moment I thought I saw wings. Nightmares often have such imagery. But now I wonder if these were perhaps more significant.”

Colivar could feel the color drain from his face; words came out before he could stop them. “The scent of a queen.”

Kierdwyn turned to him. “Magister Colivar?”

“The Souleater's scent. It was in her palace, the last time I saw her. On her skin. I had forgotten . . .” He shook his head sharply, banishing the tide of memory.
Not now, Colivar. Not in front of all these people
. “She was channeling their power.” He looked at Salvator. “That is why she could not take control of you. Your
lyr
heritage protected you.”

The High King's expression was grim. “So she was not only allied to Alkali, but to the monsters themselves?”

“So it would appear,” Colivar agreed.

“How is that possible?” Salvator demanded.

Colivar did not answer him. Dared not answer him. “I don't know,” he said at last, turning away. He could sense the eyes of the other Magisters on him with questions of their own, but none of those could be answered in the presence of morati. If at all.

A few awkward seconds passed, and then, when it was clear he had nothing more to offer, the tide of conversation moved on without him. He waited until the morati were safely focused on other things, then quietly took his leave of their company. There were memories stirring inside him now that he did not know how to handle, and he did not wish them to witness his disquiet. Feelings he thought he had conquered long ago.

Not until they were out of hearing of the small group, and nearly out of their sight, did Ramirus say quietly from behind him, “It is not enough, you know.”

Colivar stopped walking, but did not turn back.

“You have the knowledge of how to stop these creatures,” Ramirus said, “but you cannot do it alone. Sooner or later, you must have allies.”

“Are you suggesting I trust other Magisters?”

“Would you rather rely upon the morati?”

“You also assume I wish to do battle with these creatures.”

“Not at all.” Ramirus' tone was a silken thing. “But I do believe we will come to the point when we must do that, or else surrender our sovereignty to them. And I suspect the Souleaters will not take kindly to having rivals about.”

“No.” A cold shiver ran down Colivar's spine. “They will not.”

“Just something to think on, for the moment. No need to act on it just yet.” There was a pause. “Perhaps something to discuss on the way to Sankara?”

Colivar drew in a deep breath, then exhaled it slowly, willing his soul to be calm.
If you knew the real reason that Magisters do not trust one another, you would never suggest an alliance
. “I don't know how to stop the creatures,” he warned Ramirus. “No man does.”