Wings of Wrath (34 page)

With a heavy sigh she shut her eyes. For a long moment she was silent. He could sense some great internal struggle going on, and he respected her enough not use sorcery on her to eavesdrop on the details. Finally, she whispered in a trembling voice, “Why did none of you tell me? Why did you leave me alone to discover the truth?”

He shook his head. “I don't know, Siderea.”

“I expected better of you. After so many years. . . .” She turned away from him, biting her lip. “I expected better of all of you,” she whispered.

“You know better than anyone else how few morati we become involved with. The rhythm of mortal life is alien to us. As are its accustomed sentiments.” He sighed. “Accuse the Magisters of many things, lady. Gods know, we probably deserve them all. But never believe that we would not drive death from your door if that were possible.”

How convincing his words sounded! And it was the proper thing to say to her, even if it were not really true. Colivar suspected that most of the Magisters would not lift a finger to help her if they thought the price of it was having a woman invade their exclusive brotherhood. Siderea was like a king's concubine in that regard; good enough to share a man's bed, not good enough to share his throne. Thank the gods that would never be tested.

What about me?
he wondered.
Would I give her the gift of eternity if I could?

He didn't know the answer.

Gently he took her by the shoulders, turning her back to him. The strange, sweet perfume that she wore filled his nostrils, stirring his blood unexpectedly. He put a hand to her cheek and felt the life pulsing fiercely within her.
This one will not go quietly to death,
he thought.

“I cannot preserve your life past its natural span,” he said gently. “But I will help you as I always have, in other things. Those favors which my kind has provided for you, you will have so long as you walk this earth. I promise you that.”

“And when I need you?” she whispered. “What then? I have no way to call for help.”

Her words were a sudden reminder of something he had forgotten. Something they all had forgotten. It took all his self-control not to let the shock of that realization show on his face.

She had tokens from all her sorcerous lovers. Personal items which could be used to call to them . . . or to focus less benign spells upon them, if she so desired. What would become of that collection when she died? Which of the Magisters would get to it first? In the secret and subtle wars that sorcerors waged against one another to fend off the ennui of immortality, such a collection was beyond price.

She did not have Colivar's token any longer. He remembered that now. She had used it to call him to her when the messenger from Corialanus had brought news of the Souleater, and he had never replaced it. So he was safe. The same could not be said for the others.

“I will keep in touch,” he promised softly. His mind raced as he tried to figure out where she would have stored such a thing and what sort of magical defenses might surround it. “If you need me I will know it, and I will come to you.”

The black eyes filled with gratitude. For a moment she hesitated, then she embraced him. Tangling her fingers in his long hair as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. Clutching him with all the desperate strength of a drowning woman. And when he put his arms about her in turn, she wept. All the fear and uncertainty seemed to come pouring out of her in deep, gut-wrenching sobs. He was tempted to use his sorcery to blunt the edge of her emotions, but then he thought,
No. Do not toy with her as you would with a common morati. She deserves better than that
. And so he held her until the flood tide finally receded of its own accord. Until she broke the embrace of her own volition, and stepped back from him.

“I am so sorry, Colivar . . .” Wrapping her arms about her, hands tucked out of sight, she breathed the words. “This is not your burden.”

He conjured a handkerchief and used it to wipe the tears from her face. “You have nothing to apologize for. Save perhaps befriending men who are not worthy of you.”

She lowered her eyes and nodded. He could see her trembling now, as she struggled to regain her composure. But it was clearly a losing battle. Finally she looked up at him, her wide eyes pained, and said, “Colivar, this is all too much to deal with. Your coming today . . . I was not prepared. Would you . . . would you understand if I said I needed to be alone for a while? To process all this? I am so sorry. . . .”

“No need to apologize,” he answered quickly. He kissed her gently on the forehead one last time, feeling her shudder beneath the contact. So much pain. So much fear. He genuinely wished he could do something to help her.

“I will be back,” he promised her. Whispering other things as well, to soften the edge of his departure.

But his focus was no longer upon her sorrow, and when he finally got far enough from the palace to be sure that she was not watching him, he crafted a tendril of power to go search for her tokens. He gave it an hour to do its work. It turned up nothing. Oddly, that pleased him.

The fact that she is merely a witch does not mean she is foolish,
he thought.

He wondered how many others of his kind would have to learn that lesson the hard way.

The Souleater's indignation was so powerful that for a moment it was as if Siderea could indeed taste Colivar's blood on her lips. Sweet, sweet blood! How she hated him, and all his kind! It had taken all her art not to let that hatred show while Colivar was here. Not to let him guess the truth.

Our territory! Inviolate!
The Souleater's thoughts were a storm within her. Not voiced in human language at their source, those thoughts, but translated somewhere within her own brain so that she might understand them. The process was becoming more and more natural to both of them as time went on, but no more gentle.

It is all good,
she thought back to the creature.
Trust me
.

A hot wave of anger enveloped her. She no longer feared such onslaughts, but let the bestial emotion surge freely through her, drowning out her human instincts. It was the stuff of life that transferred power from the Souleater's flesh to her own, and she welcomed it as she would welcome the embrace of a lover.

Trust me,
she whispered to her winged consort when the worst of the hate-storm finally subsided. The power in her own soul was so strong now that she could feel its heat tingling in her fingertips. What sorcery could the Magisters possibly wield that was the equal of the Souleater's vitality? Poor, doomed souls, wrapped in their black shrouds, imagining themselves invincible! Someday she would beckon to them and they would come to her, tearing each other to pieces in the hope of being allowed to touch her. Sweet, sweet vengeance!

Trust me,
she whispered again to her consort. Soothing thoughts. Loving confidence.

And he will pay for it,
she promised.

She opened her hand and gazed with satisfaction upon the long black hairs that lay across her palm, tangled between her fingers.

“All in good time,” she whispered.

A
S THE butterfly's wings fanned slowly up and down they began to change color. First the orange spots along the outer edges grew larger and darkened, then they transformed into deep violet patches. Next, two white streaks radiating out from each side of its body merged into one and then curled back upon themselves, forming intricate knotwork designs along the base. Following which the tiny white spots on the creature's body began to move about as well, gathering into rosettes reminiscent of a leopard's coat, a strange configuration for an insect.

The butterfly sipped from its flower once more, seemingly oblivious to its amazing transformation. Then it beat its wings quickly and was borne aloft on the breeze to be swept away from them.

“So your witchery will work here?” Rhys asked.

“So it seems.” Kamala would have liked to test her sorcery against some larger template before entrusting a human life to it again, but no real witch would waste athra like that. Until she was ready to let her true status be known she would have to limit herself to the sorts of tests that a real witch might enact.

She looked back at Rhys. The fact that they had gotten out of Alkali territory safely—and were now beyond the range of the Wrath's corrupting influence—had done little to improve his spirits. There was an emptiness in his eyes that made her shiver, as if a part of his soul were now gone. Her gentlest touch received no response at all, or if it was noticed, was simply shrugged off. She had watched him lie awake in the moonlight for many nights now, and wished that she could do something to sooth his spirits. But she had not been willing to take a chance on how the Wrath might warp her spells. Now that sorcery was possible again, she didn't know where to begin. What did you do to help a man who had lost his gods?

They had made love once. If it could be called that. When they had traveled far enough south that the screams of the Wrath could no longer be heard, and had stolen enough sleep to restore their strength, he had awakened in the depths of the night and reached out for her, and she, stirred by the same wordless need, had responded. Life calling out to life, in the shadow of destruction. It was quick and desperate and when it was done he lay in her arms shivering, and she understood why. No words were offered, nor any asked for. Some things defied the bounds of language.

In the morning they had saddled up their horses and started on their way once more. They never spoke of that night. He never touched her again. Now and then she thought she saw something flickering in the depths of those empty eyes, a tiny spark of human emotion that was struggling to break through to the surface. But because she didn't know how to fan it properly—or if should be fanned at all—she let it be.

He had not slept since then, and was clearly exhausted, but perhaps he deemed that better than nightmares.

Gazing at the land ahead of them now—windswept plains cloaked in tall grass, with patches of dense brush, a different universe entirely than the land that surrounded the Spear—he told her, “You don't have to do this for me.”

“It's safe here,” she assured him. “My spells will work properly now.”

“Safe for me. Not for you.” The tiny spark flickered in his eyes for a moment, a brief defiance. “We do not ask our witches to give up their life-essence for us unless there is no other choice.”

“You didn't ask for it,” she pointed out.

“Transporting someone costs you dearly, does it not?”

“It costs much soulfire.” In fact, the transportation of living creatures was one of the most costly tasks in the sorcerous lexicon. Removing a sentient being from one place and materializing him in another with all his living systems intact—not to mention his memories—was the ultimate test of any sorcerer. Or any witch, for that matter. The cost in athra was immense. The slightest mistake could be fatal. “But that is my concern, not yours.”

She had already taken the necessary precautions. As soon as it had seemed that her powers were stable once more she had gone off by herself to burn out her current consort. Though she'd had no idea how much athra she had wasted in her struggle to shape-shift near the glen—or even how long the struggle had taken—she had felt she could not afford the risk of losing consciousness at some inopportune moment.