Wings of Wrath (14 page)

Little wonder that the Magisters hated this place, she thought. She hoped that soon the Guardians she was following would reach a place more amenable to sorcery; otherwise Kamala might have to abandon her current course long enough to go back and fetch supplies.

Or you could always talk to the Guardians,
she reminded herself.
They carry enough food for three
.

But she wasn't ready for that yet.

She did attempt to weave a spell over the two travelers that would ease their nerves a bit. They had taken to looking over their shoulders on a regular basis, and sometimes their eyes strayed upward, as if seeking enemies in the cloud-filled sky. From what she could pick up when she eavesdropped on them, it seemed that the proximity of the Wrath was making them both unnaturally edgy. That would have been a simple matter to correct back home, but in this region it took her more than an hour to polish the spell that would calm their fears. It was necessary, though. She didn't want to take a chance that one of them would notice the hawk that was following them day after day, or guess at its nature. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

You are not being watched,
her sorcery whispered to them.
You are not being followed
.

For now, it seemed to be enough.

“I was surprised you didn't want to go to the coronation,” Namanti said as she separated their saddlebags from the rest of the equine gear.

Rhys looked up from the fire he had just started and blinked. “What on earth made you think of that?”

“Queen Gwynofar is your half-sister, yes?”

He used a stick to prod the woodpile so that air could flow freely through it. Tiny flames flickered beneath the pile of bark and branches. “It's not Gwynofar who's being crowned,” he pointed out. “And I'm certainly not needed for the ceremony.”

“No, but it's her son. A rather important day for her.” She dropped the bags down by the fire. “Horses are all taken care of,” she told him. “Ragnar hates this place, but he's still eating.” Rhys nodded. Namanti's mount was an ill-tempered creature who was clearly not pleased about their current journey. No surprise, really. He was a bulky animal, bred for hard work and trampling down enemies in battle, not meant to be dancing along cliff edges like a mountain goat. Rhys had been hoping Namanti would choose a more agile mount when they got closer to the Wrath, but for now she seemed determined to stick with this one. So he had to put off hoping that the unpleasant creature would lose its footing at the edge of a cliff. At least while she was riding it.

Namanti sat down cross-legged on the ground beside him and began to unpack their evening meal: salted meat, hard cheese, a small portion of dried fruit, and two hard, dry cakes from Skandir that she said would help keep them strong. The latter were clearly an acquired taste, but the fortitude of Skandir warriors was renowned throughout the Protectorates, and they always seemed to carry the miserable things with them, so Rhys ate one whenever she offered it. With a good swig of ale to wash it down, of course. Or two.

“My first duty was here,” he said, using his hunting knife to cut off a hunk of cheese. “Bringing the Souleater samples back to Master Favias, reporting to the Guardians what I'd seen. And now they need us to attend to the Spears. That's much more important than attending a ceremony I have no part in.” Long tongues of flame were beginning to lick at the sides of the woodpile. He leaned back on his heels, watching them with satisfaction. “Gwynofar is
lyra,
she will understand.”

Namanti nodded as she dropped down beside him, unplugging a waxed leather skin full of ale for herself. “So tell me why the Lady Protector tolerates your presence at her court. I admit I've always wondered.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You're very inquisitive tonight.”

She shrugged. “It's a boring ride. Indulge me.”

He sighed and for a minute just stared into the growing flames. They had traveled far enough north by now, and ridden high enough into the mountains, that the summer nights were growing chill; the warmth of the fire would be welcome when the sun finally went down. “I don't know, Namanti. That's the gods' honest truth. I should be the last person she wants in her home, by any civilized measure—”

“You earned her respect somehow? Or maybe charmed her with your good looks?”

Rhys snorted and took another deep swig from his own skin. “Given that I was all of ten years old when she first saw me, I somehow doubt that.”

“Even in Skandir, where it's expected that a ruler will have his share of concubines, the children of such unions aren't welcome in their father's house. Laws of inheritance and all that. If bastards weren't officially disowned, then the whole system could fall to pieces. At least that's what I've been told.”

“Then it's fortunate I'm not from Skandir, isn't it?” He took a bite of the hard, dry cake and quickly washed it down. It was better if he didn't actually stop to taste it. “All I know is that I was still a child when a servant from the royal court showed up at our home, asking after me. My mother had always hinted that someone ‘of rank' was responsible for my birth, so I assumed it a query from that mysterious personage. How proud I was, to have my father sending servants to ask after me, as though I were something more than the product of a night's drunken debauchery!” He grimaced as he dislodged the last bits of Skandir cake from his teeth and swallowed them. “But he just looked me over rather distastefully, like one might do with an overripe melon in the market, searching for bruised spots, or maybe some sign of worms.” He paused. “It wasn't until some time later that I found out the servant had been
hers
. Evaine Kierdwyn had just found out about the product of her husband's indiscretion and wanted to learn for herself whether his seed grew true in peasant soil or not.” He drank deeply of the ale, letting it spread in warm waves out to his fingers and toes. “Had the Lord Protector not been
lyr
himself it would probably have not mattered to her at all . . . but he was, you see, so it was all tied up in Protectorate tradition. A child with the ‘gift of the gods' isn't something you just forget about. Even if you really do wish it had never been born.”

“Do you think that's how she feels?”

He hesitated before answering. “No. I don't. It's how she
should
feel—it's how
I
would feel in her place—but she's never shown any sign of it. She's been nothing but gracious to me any time I visit. As if I were . . . something other than what I am.” Why did that make him feel so bitter? He took a long swallow of the ale, letting the skin hide his expression from her view. “Mostly I try to stay out of her way. Though Favias does rather seem to enjoy sending me to court with his messages. I think the situation amuses him.”

“Would you have been welcome at the coronation had you gone?”

He stared into the distance for a moment. “Salvator will become High King with or without me there to watch. It's just as well I had other business. And what would my place be there, anyway, amid all the crowned heads and their retinues? A guest of Gwynofar, taking up space in a palace that should be reserved for the High King's most valued vassals? Or perhaps banished to the far reaches of the field, as my social station merits, too far away to be any more part of the proceedings than a house servant would be, or a local peasant hawking his wares.” He capped the skin, put it down on the ground beside him, and sighed. “My duty is here. Gwynofar will understand. Anyway . . .” He smiled faintly. “The last thing Salvator needs right now is an illegitimate half-uncle wandering around the palace.”

How reasonable it sounded when he explained it that way, he thought. Almost enough to ease the ache in his heart.

“I'm sorry,” she said. Just that, and then silence.

It took him a minute to realize she had put her hand on his shoulder. A companionable gesture, rather than intimate. The kind of gesture a man might make. He shrugged it off.

“I'm going to take a piss,” he said.

She said nothing as he left the camp, making his way through the pine trees to where a small stream flowed softly over the rocks. There he stood for a minute, eyes half shut, drinking in the sounds and the smells of the pine forest. Trying not to think about the event taking place hundreds of miles to the south of him and what might have happened had he attended it.

Never mind,
he told himself.
Soon you will be near enough to the Wrath that you will long to be back among the civilized discomforts of Lady Evaine's court.

Kamala woke up suddenly.

At first she thought it was an animal foraging nearby that had disturbed her sleep. She had cast a simple spell to keep the local wildlife from tripping over her during the night—what little wildlife there was in these cursed latitudes—but that didn't mean some scrawny creature might not be making enough racket outside the spell's border to wake her up. For a moment she lay very still, trying to tell if that were indeed the case. But whatever creature had awakened her was silent now. A smart move on its part, she thought. Especially with game as rare as it was these days. Yesterday's field mouse had not been all that satisfying.

No sound this time. Nothing that merely human senses might catch wind of. Still, without a doubt, something was out there.

She lay frozen for a moment, not even breathing, straining all her senses to the utmost. But she heard nothing moving. No, less than that: she heard nothing at all. No breeze rustling through the trees, no insects scrabbling in the dirt, not even water flowing over the rocks in the stream just downhill from her. Nothing.

A chill of pure dread ran down her spine. Carefully, secretly, she gathered her athra to her, trying to look as if she were still half asleep so that whatever had silenced the natural sounds of the mountain landscape would think she was still unaware of its presence.

And then a stick broke.

She sat up suddenly, just in time to see the black-robed figure in the moonlight disappear again. The color of his clothing drank in the light, leaving no doubt as to his profession. A Magister. For a brief second their eyes met—just long enough for her to see that his were filled with hate—and then the night folded in around him and she could no longer see him at all. But he was still there. Oh, yes, she knew that for a fact. Her human senses could not locate him any longer, but now that she was fully awake her sorcerous sense could detect his handiwork. Spells had been wrapped about her campsite while she slept, she saw that now, layers upon layers of them, like the sticky web of a tent spider. The magical strands glowed fitfully, as if they'd been woven from some sickly power; no doubt that was the effect of the Wrath being so close by. If so, then the curse of the gods might have just saved her life, for she read clearly in the webwork surrounding her the baleful intent of its maker and knew that if the construct had been perfect, she would have slept until it was too late to save herself.

She tried to transport herself away, focusing upon an apparent weak spot in the web for her directional focus. But her athra seemed slippery somehow and she could not control it. Was that the effect of the Wrath as well? Or was the spell surrounding her acting to constrain her sorcery?

Shadows were beginning to stir on all sides of her now, and she knew with a sudden sinking feeling that there was more than one Magister present—many more. Apparently news of her crime had gotten out. How they had tracked her to this place she did not know, but one thing was certain: if she did not break free of their spell she was doomed.

She tried to put on wings again, adopting that feathered form which had served her so well in the past few days. But the change was agony; hot needles pierced her joints as her bones cracked audibly, and the soft tissue of her body felt like it was on fire. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she struggled to force her flesh into the shape she desired. Never before had she come so close to losing control of her body . . . or her courage.