Wings of Wrath (17 page)

“Others will make the opposite error, and assume that because of his background Salvator has an innate distaste for all pleasures of the flesh. That is due to simple ignorance of his faith. The Penitents have no issue with natural desire. Their monks offer up self-denial as a personal sacrifice, to balance out the sinful excess of nonbelievers. Once Salvator sets aside his robes, he will be stepping into another role. And the last thing he wants as High King is to be treated like a monk in the bedchamber. Yet some women will dress up in their most conservative gowns, covering over all the features that a man would have interest in seeing in an attempt to play to that side of his nature. Trust me, their names will be forgotten before the sun sets.” Picking at a fold of Petrana's skirt, she said. “I take it your father chose this for you?”

Petrana nodded.

Siderea sighed. “Never let a man pick out your clothes, my dear. Unless that is part of your seduction. They think they know how to manage it, but really, they haven't a clue.”

“So what do you suggest, then?”

“Put on something attractive that compliments your coloring. The sort of gown you might wear to receive well-born suitors at home. Modest but appealing. Let him see that you have interest in him as a man, but that you are also a tasteful, intelligent woman who can engage his mind. Follow his lead in conversation, but do not be too shy to have an opinion if it is called for. And if he changes tack in mid-conversation, then that is a good thing. You are being tested.

“I do believe that four years in the monastery have left their mark on him, but not in the way that your father expects. Salvator may have been trained in his youth to excel in political manipulation, but he left that world for a simpler one, in which casual lies have no purpose. I expect that he is on his guard now, well aware of the complex plots being woven about him, knowing that he must rise above them all if his crown is to be respected. It is a task he is clearly capable of—else another child of Danton would have claimed the throne—but you can be sure that it exhausts his spirit. So give him something genuine. Wear clothing you are comfortable with so that you can be yourself in front of him. Speak from the heart when you address him, and if diplomacy demands that you must downplay some particular subject matter, then turn his attention to something else. He knows the game and will follow your lead. But do not lie to him. Nor compliment anything about him or his kingdom that you do not truly admire. Vapid flattery is abhorrent to such a man, and those women who practice it today will be forgotten tomorrow.” She leaned back in her chair. “While you, on the other hand, will offer him a brief respite from the whirlwind of courtly artifice, and he will remember you favorably for it.”

Petrana smiled slightly. “That does rather go against what I have been advised.”

Siderea shrugged. “By old men and dried-up maidservants. Whom do you trust in such matters?”

The girl bowed her head respectfully. “Your expertise is renowned.”

“Expertise?” Siderea chuckled softly. “I do my research. That is all. No man is such a puzzle that a proper study of his background will not reveal some crucial weakness. But you must read the signs properly, else all your effort is wasted.”

Leaning forward, she touched a finely manicured finger to Petrana's cheek, stroking the petal-soft skin. A pleasing blush rose up beneath her fingertip. “I will give you more lessons later,” she promised. She was close enough now that the perfumed warmth of her breath filled the space between them. She could see the girl's nostrils flare as she absorbed it. “You will come and visit me and I will teach you all that I know. That is what you desire, yes?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Then that is what you shall have.” Siderea leaned back again, letting her hand fall to her side. “Now, if you will excuse me, I do have some other matters to attend to.” In truth she had no real reason to leave, but it was always important to close such a meeting on the proper note. To leave her companion wanting more.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Petrana stood up quickly, and curtseyed respectfully. “I am grateful for the time you have given me. And all your advice.”

At least the girl seemed more confident now. That was a good sign. A High Queen must be confident.

She definitely had promise.

It was not until Siderea left the encampment some hours later, heading back to her chamber in the palace, that she realized just what it was she had said.

A few days ago she'd had no future. Now she was planning for one. Did that mean there really was hope for her? Or was she just so desperate that she would embrace a stranger's lies in order to pretend that there was?

Either way, there was no denying that she felt a bit better now. And when she passed a Magister on her way to the palace she gave him no more than a brief nod of acknowledgment. Anticipating how delightful the moment would be when he and his kind finally realized they were not the only game in town.

“T
HIS ISN'T right.”

Rhys scowled at the map in his hands then studied the land just ahead of them. The map clearly showed a narrow pass in front of them. The land didn't.

With a muttered curse he went back to his horse and dug out the leather-bound volume of maps that Master Favias had given them. In it were copies of every survey the Guardians had ever made of this region, including detailed drawings with notes scrawled all over them. The archivists were meticulous about keeping their work up to date, and made sure that every map was updated or replaced as soon as new information was discovered. One never knew when a particular quirk of geography might prove important, if not in guarding the Protectorates while the Souleaters were in exile, then certainly in the war that would ensue once they returned. The question of how to best move men and supplies from one point to another might well prove pivotal in that final conflict, and the Guardians intended to be prepared for it.

But.

According to all the maps that Favias had given them, there should be a pass right in front of them now, a low saddle between two high, sharp ridges. The reality was not nearly so accommodating. There was indeed one ridge to the left of them that more or less matched the drawings, and then another to the right of roughly the same proportion that ended in tall, jagged peaks. But the latter was a broken thing, with a deep gouge in its western flank, and beside it, filling in the pass, was a veritable wall of stone. A few scraggly vines and year-old saplings were struggling to take root in the scree along the lower slope, while the upper portion rose naked and forbidding, sharp stone fragments silhouetted against the early morning sky. Far too steep to climb comfortably and bad ground for horses even if it had been level. Not good. Not good at all.

“Earthquake, most likely.” Namanti stood beside him, studying the map in his hands. “Common enough in these parts. Looks like it split a good piece off that one.” She pointed to the broken peak, and with a wave of her hand traced the path of falling rubble. If she was right, nearly half the formation had collapsed.

Lips tight, Rhys nodded.

She looked down at the map again. “Do we have anything more recent than this?”

He looked through the book, checking the date in the corner of every drawing. The most recent map of this area was from a few years back; there had been no notes appended since. He could understand why Master Favias had been concerned about that. Every summer Guardians were sent out to check on all the Spears and to make note of any changes in the terrain surrounding them. Even if nothing were out of place it was customary for the survey teams to add a dated confirmation to the records, just to verify that the trip had indeed been made. The archivists made sure that all those signatures were reproduced, along with the original drawings, each time a map was copied. With Guardians traveling to different Protectorates on a regular basis, and each of them bringing news of recent inspections with them, it was rare that any change took place which all the archivists didn't know about. Doubly rare that a book like this would be lacking such important information as the closure of an important pass.

But it looked like no Guardian had traveled this route for a long time. Or if one had, he'd made no record of the fact.

It was hard to say which concept was more disturbing. “It's cut off the western approach,” he muttered. “Even if we try to circle around to the other side, there's no guarantee the route will be passable when we get there.”

“What other option is there?”

Damn the Alkali,
he thought, as he searched through the material Favias had given him.
Even their mountains are uncooperative.
At last he found a map of the region directly to the east of them, where a route that snaked along a long, narrow valley, parallel to their current route had been marked; it headed directly toward Alkali's westernmost Spear. “Here. This is the main Alkali approach route. What their own Guardians would be using, if they were doing their job. We should be able to cross over to it without too much trouble.”

For a moment she said nothing. He could guess what she was thinking. The Skandir and the Alkali were not fond of one another, which was hardly a surprise given that they'd been rivals before the Spears fell. Now that the will of the gods demanded they cooperate with one another the Alkali and the Skandir were not openly hostile, but it was no secret that they were unhappy about the arrangement. Namanti had accepted this assignment in good faith, willing to act as interpreter if such was needed, but Rhys had no doubt that she was secretly nursing a hope that they wouldn't cross paths with any of the locals. As was Rhys, truth be told. Traveling the Alkali route increased their chances of doing just that.

But this far north they will all be Guardians,
Rhys thought.
No one else has any reason to come up here. And Guardians we can deal with
.

“All right,” she said at last. “Alkali route it is.”

He glanced up at the sky, taking the measure of the sun. A single hawk circled high overhead, searching for prey along the barren landscape; otherwise the sky was empty.
Would that we had your vantage point,
he thought to the bird,
to see what lies ahead of us.
“We can still make good distance before nightfall,” he assessed. The summer days were long in this region, which made traveling easier, though it was sometimes hard to stay asleep long enough to feel rested. It was said that there were places beyond the Wrath where the sun never set at all, but ruled the sky through all the day and night for months on end, followed by an unnatural darkness that smothered the icy land in blackness for just as long. No plants could thrive in such a place, nor any of the animals that depended upon plants for food. It was one of the reasons why the first Protectors had driven the Souleaters to the far north and imprisoned them there; bereft of sunlight on their wings for months at a time, lacking any living creatures to feed upon, they were sure to perish.

Except it hadn't really been a sure thing, had it? Because no sooner had the Spears fallen than the gods announced that mortal men must stand guard over them, and should hone their weapons against the day when the dreaded creatures would return. So what did the gods know about Souleaters that the Guardians did not? Not even Seers had been able to shed light upon that mystery, though generations of them had expended their life-essence trying to do so.

So much knowledge was lost in the early days,
Rhys mused.
Would that we had kept the kind of records back then that we do now!

Speaking of which . . . he drew out one of the writing tablets they'd brought with them, spread its wooden covers open to reveal the smooth wax surfaces within, and began to sketch details of the landscape before them. His bone stylus moved quickly, impressing images into one of the wax surfaces, along with explanatory notes. Archivists would translate it later into proper cartography with the proper labels. For now he just wrote down everything he saw that might be significant, and trusted to the experts to sort out what mattered from what didn't. Given how long it had apparently been since a Guardian had come to this place, he didn't want to risk leaving anything out.

With a final glance up at the sky—and a parting nod to the lonely predator circling high overhead—he mounted up once more, and he and Namanti turned their attention to finding a way across to the eastern valley.