Wings of Wrath (36 page)

Kierdwyn would have to move troops down to the trouble spot. There was no way around that. Whether the threat was from roving bandits or soldiers in disguise, his people had to be protected. And all of this was coming at the worst possible time, with their ancient enemy returning to the human lands. He could not attend to that threat properly with his soldiers having to spread out, ready for trouble anywhere along the border—

“Sire!”

Startled, he looked up just in time to see the air in the center of the room begin to ripple oddly. Sorcery! His lord constable moved forward quickly, putting himself between the Lord Protector and whatever unknown spell was about to manifest. Stevan moved back, giving his officer room to defend him if need be. Who would enter his home like this, unannounced? Magisters generally had better manners, and witches rarely used their power for transportation.

Then two figures stepped through the rippling portal, and with a rushing sound the illusion vanished behind them. For a moment Stevan did not recognize either of them, then—

“Rhys?”

The Guardian was dazed and unsteady, and his shirt was streaked with blood. There was a woman by his side who the Lord Protector did not recognize at all, a fiery redhead dressed in a man's raiment who met his eyes proudly—nay, defiantly—as he took her measure. Both of them were wearing matching uniforms of some kind, and both looked like they had just fought their way through the seven hells and back.

Then the alarm came from his Seers, magical words lancing red-hot into his brain.
There is sorcery in the palace!
Were his Seers watching the castle right now, or had they set up some kind of magical alarm? Either way, he offered his mental reassurance.
All is as it should be
. Whatever was happening here, it was not cause for alarm . . . yet.

“Sire.” Whispering the word, Rhys went down on one knee; the gesture seemed as much the product of sheer exhaustion as social courtesy. “Forgive us for the sudden intrusion.” The woman at his side said nothing, and offered no gesture of obeisance. Was she the witch that had brought them here? If so, that was a noteworthy sacrifice.

“There is nothing to forgive,” the Lord Protector told his son. “You would not have come here without good cause. So speak.”

Rhys raised up his head; the expression in his bloodshot eyes was an empty and terrible thing. “The Wrath has been breached,” he whispered. “In Alkali. The Guardians are corrupted.”

A cold chill ran down Stevan's spine. “Does Favias know?”

Rhys shook his head. “I . . . we . . . came straight here. You are the first. . . .”

And then the faint light in the Guardian's eyes flickered and died. The strength bled out of his limbs as his lids fell shut, and he collapsed into a crumpled heap upon the floor.

Alarmed, the Lord Protector knelt down beside him, pressing fingers against Rhys' wrist to see if there was still a pulse. A servant stepped forward to help him.

“His wounds are healing,” the witch told them. “But he has not slept in a very long time.”

Rhys' pulse was strong. Racing, in fact, despite his collapse. Stevan felt an odd ridge on the inside of his son's wrist, and pushed up the sleeve to see what it was. Then further.

“What are these?” he demanded. Strange, angular symbols had been crudely etched into Rhys' flesh. They looked oddly familiar, as though he had seen something like this sometime in the past, but he could not place when or where.

“It is a long story,” the witch said, “and one I am sure he would rather tell you himself. But give him a place to sleep for now, so that his spirit can restore itself, and I will explain as much as I can.”

He nodded shortly and signaled for his servants to pick up the fallen warrior. “Put him in the finest guest chamber. Have food brought and a bath drawn for when he awakens, and see that he is attended at all times.” The servants hurried to obey, one of them hoisting Rhys up onto his shoulder, while the other ran ahead to open the chamber doors ahead of him.

Stevan turned to face the witch. She awaited his word politely enough, but he could see the spark of defiance in her eyes, and she offered him no greater obeisance than a stiff, measured bow of her head: the absolute minimum that his rank required.

That was good. Witches should have spirit.

“Send word to Master Favias,” he ordered his men, all the while never taking his eyes off her.

Was she from the Protectorates? Did she understand the significance of Rhys' warning? If so, she gave no sign of it.

“My name is Kamala,” she said quietly.

He nodded solemnly. “Kierdwyn is in your debt, Kamala. As is its Lord Protector.”

Raising a hand to silence her for a moment, he looked to his lord constable. “I want an estimate of the manpower and supplies needed to secure the most vulnerable portions of the southern border. Assume that we may soon have two fronts to deal with.”
There could not possibly be a worse time for this sort of trouble,
he thought.
Not if the Wrath is truly failing.
“We will meet again after Rhys gives his report.”

He held out a hand toward a small door at the back of the map room, gesturing for the witch to join him. “Come,” he said to Kamala. “We will talk.”

Rhys woke suddenly to find himself lying between linen sheets, drenched in a cold sweat. His head throbbed painfully. His stomach was a cold, hard knot. For a moment he could not remember where he was.

“Welcome back.”

Kamala sat beside him on the great bed, her hand only just now withdrawing from his. Her touch had brought him back from his dream, he realized. He shuddered as he remembered how she had appeared in it.

Was it only a dream? Some
lyr
were said to have the gift of prophecy in their veins. What if this had been a true vision, brought on by the power of his blood? Some kind of warning?

He forced himself to sit up, trying to loosen the grip of the dream upon his soul. “How long has it been?” His throat was so dry that he could barely get the words out. That was good. Less likely she would catch the note of uncertainty in his voice that way.

“Since our arrival?” She got up from the bed and went to pour him a cup of water from the sideboard then returned to hand it to him. She looked ready to help him sit up if need be, but he'd be damned if he would look that helpless in front of her.

He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to rid himself of the memory. It was only a dream, he told himself. Fragmented memories and random emotions, woven into a narrative that was horrific, but not truly meaningful. At least not in the way that the dreams of a Seer were meaningful.

“Rhys? Are you all right?”

He focused his attention on the cup in his hand, and upon the act of drinking.
Just a dream,
he told himself.
Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. . . .
He could sense her watching him, clearly concerned, but he dared not look at her or that would break the spell.

Slowly, his trembling subsided. Slowly, the images from his dream faded. For now.

“So what happened?” he asked at last.

She shrugged stiffly. “Healers have come and gone, attending to every wound three times over. Seers came to gaze at your soul, and declared it troubled. The Lord and Lady Protector have visited several times, asking the same questions of me on each occasion, as though hearing the same answers over and over again might give them some new insight.”

He had to ask it. “What did you tell them?”

“That we traveled to the Spear in Alkali. That we discovered it had been broken open. That there was some kind of writing inside, and you recorded it. They copied the figures from your arms, but said they did not recognize them. I also told them that the Guardians in Alkali probably no longer serve their original cause.” She bit her lip.

“They wanted more details from me, but I said they should wait until you were awake and let you tell it. What do I know of Guardian politics?”

“Thank you.” He handed the cup back to her; his hand was almost steady now. “I am surprised they let me sleep this long, considering all that.”

“I told them you had been exhausted to the point where you could no longer remember things clearly, and would not be able to give them the information they wanted until you had gotten some sleep. They didn't believe me, so they brought in some Seers who confirmed my diagnosis.” She got up from the bed and walked back to the sideboard. “The Lord Protector wasn't happy about it, but he trusted their opinion and declared that you must be allowed to sleep until you awakened naturally.” For a fleeting moment her expression darkened; her eyes were hard and cold, like diamonds.
Your father trusted the Seers,
they seemed to say,
but not me
. “Do you want some more?”

It took him a minute to realize what she was asking. “No. Thank you.”

“I should go and tell them you are awake. No doubt they will want to bring in a score of Seers to confirm the fact.” She indicated the sideboard. “There's some food here for you, and I'm sure they'll set out a proper feast once they know you are up and about again.”

He asked quietly, “Have you been at my side all this time?”