Wings of Wrath (37 page)

She hesitated, then nodded. “They didn't know what had happened to you, so how could I trust them to watch for trouble? They wouldn't know what to look for.”

Trouble
. Did she think that he might hurt himself again? That when he woke up he might grab a knife and start lacerating another limb? The others didn't know what he had seen at the Spear, and thus would have no reason to fear such behavior. As far as they were concerned he had simply used his flesh to record a valuable message in the absence of less bloody tools. A finite sacrifice for a finite purpose, gruesome but comprehensible. Only
she
understood that it was more than that. That in the madness of his despair, he might do something foolish.

And she was right, of course. If he had awakened alone, with nothing to focus on but his memories, he might not have done so well.

Once more I am indebted to you,
he thought soberly.

They had dressed her in a woman's gown, though the way her hands kept fluttering down to her sides to pick at the fabric made it clear she was not really comfortable with the choice. It was a simple enough outfit, with a saffron-colored gown that fit her body closely and sleeveless surcoat of burgundy wool over it. The surcoat was laced down both sides, loosely enough that the color of the underlayer peeked through, along with a hint of the womanly curves it guarded. The whole of the outfit was a bit too short for her, with the result that the hem fluttered about her ankles as she moved. At first he was surprised that the Lady Protector could not have found something that fit her better, but no, this had probably been by her own choice. He couldn't see her manipulating all the fashionable bits of feminine attire that normally dragged behind a lady, requiring that she
flow
across the floor rather than
walk.
This outfit was suitably practical.

Someone had affixed a veil to her head, a thin piece of white gauze that had been probably been meant to fall softly about her face, disguising her short-cropped hair. Only she had pushed it back out of the way so that it dangled precariously from a single hairpin, utterly failing to accomplish its purpose. It was oddly appealing in its disarray, he realized. As was she.

She must have sensed the nature of his inspection, for she held her skirts out at the sides as if to show them off. The gesture was so unnatural for her it seemed almost like a parody of its type, a caustic comment upon the habits of the feminine sex. “They thought this was more appropriate than a soldier's uniform.” A wry half smile flickered across her lips. “Or a grimy man's shirt, no doubt.”

A rush of gratitude filled his heart. If not for her he would still be trapped in Anukyat's dungeon. “You will never look more beautiful to me than you did when you appeared in that place,” he told her. “Grimy man's shirt and all.”

She was clearly shaken by his words. How strange. He'd never seen a woman so startled by a compliment, though many played at it for flirtation's sake. “I'll tell them you're awake,” she said quietly, and she slipped out the door. He couldn't tell from her expression whether she was sorry to be leaving him after such an exchange, or grateful to have an excuse to do so. Maybe both.

With a sigh, he pushed his blankets to the side and swung his feet down over the edge of the bed. His arm and leg ached dully where his wounds had been, but that was more memory than real pain. Her witchery had banished any sign of damage, inside and out. Likewise, it appeared to have banished all signs of dirt from his skin. Or maybe someone had bathed him in his sleep.

If not for her, he thought, he would still be in Anukyat's dungeon.

Which meant he would not have seen the Spear.

Which meant he would not have learned the truth.

Thus do the gods torment our souls for their own amusement
.

Gathering up the clothes that had been laid out for him, he tried to focus on the task of getting dressed and not think about anything else. But it was hard not to stop and stare at the strange figures etched into his arm, or wonder what in all the hells he was going to say about them to the Lord Protector when he was finally asked.

There was sorcery in the palace.

That was the warning Stevan Kierdwyn's Seer had sent to him.

Not
witchery.
Nor even a vaguely descriptive term like
power,
that might mean any number of things.

Sorcery.

So Rhys' witch must have a Magister as patron who had transported her and Rhys to the palace. Either for reasons of his own, or because he owed her a favor.

Or his Seer could have been wrong.

The last possibility was in some ways the least disturbing, but he knew it wasn't likely. The two uses of soulfire were supposedly so distinct from one another that there was no chance of a Seer confusing them. Witchery was a hot force, molten power spewing forth from the furnace of life. Sorcery was like ice, and chilled the soul if you came too close to it. Or so a Seer had described it to him once when he had asked about it.

So what other sorcerer was active in his Protectorate? And why?

Magisters hated the north. They accepted contracts with the Lord Protectors in order to protect them from the assaults of other Magisters—the same as they did for kings in other places—but for the most part those contracts were in name only. None of them lived this far north. None of them traveled here unless they had to, and if they did, then they stayed only for as long as a given assignment required. Was that because the Wrath was so close by that it disturbed their sorcerous senses? Or were they uncomfortable amid a race of men that claimed that the gods had entrusted them—and not the Magisters—with the saving of the world?

Stevan opened his hand to look once more at the crumpled note within it. It bore the seal of his own Magister Royal and one simple line of script.

Was he telling the truth? The Magisters often followed dark and twisted paths and their true motives were always suspect. The Lord Protectors called upon them for aid only when it was absolutely necessary. There were enough witches in the Protectorates who were willing to sacrifice a portion of their life for the common good that Magisters were rarely needed. Like the
lyr,
the Seers had been born for a purpose. Like the Guardians, who honed their weapons and skills in order to prepare to meet the Souleaters in battle, they knew that sacrifice might be required of them, and accepted that. How did the ancient song go?

The Magisters were creatures of self-interest, as unlikely to sacrifice themselves for a worthy cause as any soulless beast. Now it looked as if an unknown Magister was active in Kierdwyn—in Stevan's own palace—and he was not at all pleased by it. In fact he was infuriated by it. How dare a Magister (or anyone!) distract him now, just when it looked like the ancient enemy was returning to the human lands? Just when his people needed him most? The fact that the sorcerers served no higher purpose did not mean they had the right to interfere with his. A Lord Protector answered to the gods themselves. Who was
their
master?

His anger meant little to them, of course. No morati could stand up to a Magister.

But with the Souleaters returning, the
lyr
would have power of their own. Great power. Or so the legends promised.

Be careful,
he thought to the nameless offender.
For if you fly too close to this fire, it may just singe your wings
.

Y
OSEFA'S FAMILY was just sitting down to dinner when the screaming started. It had been a quiet day until that point. Her husband had worked hard loading and unloading ships in the harbor, and she could see from how he leaned on the table how grateful he was to finally sit down and rest. Her oldest child had been helping her cook and for once hadn't made a mess of things. Her two younger children, both boys, had managed to get through the day without getting into trouble, which was nothing sort of a miracle.

Then the screams had started.

Her daughter was bringing a pot of stew to the table at the time; the sound startled her so badly that she stumbled and fell, spilling the hot contents across the table and into the lap of the youngest boy. He opened his mouth and was about to start screaming himself, but Yosefa reached over and covered his mouth with her hand, forcing him to be silent.

Men were screaming in the distance. Women also. More of them now, voices rising in pitch and volume with each passing second. The sound of raw, unadulterated terror.

It seemed to be coming from the harbor.

Her husband rose up. She could see his eyes going to the heavy cleaver by the fire, and knew what he was planning. “Sorran—” she began, reaching out her hand to stop him. Whatever was going on, she didn't want him in the middle of it.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a child added its voice to the rest. Shrill and terrified, infant lungs stressed beyond tolerance, squeezing out a single note of terror. The terrible sound vibrated across her motherly nerves like fingernails on slate.

She let her hand fall. “Go,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“I'll find out what's happening and come right back. I promise.” He grabbed up the cleaver and a heavy staff from beside the door. “Keep the children safe.”

And then he was gone.

“Mama, what's happening?” Her daughter was pulling at her skirts. The youngest boy was starting to cry, which meant that the other one would join in soon.

They had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere that no enemies could find them.

“Take a blanket off the bed,” she ordered the girl.

“Gather food into it. Quickly!”

Shaken, her daughter ran off to obey. She was so frightened she didn't think to ask her question again. How could Yosefa have answered? She did not have a clue what was going on. She only knew with a mother's certain instinct that they needed to get away from the house as soon as possible, before something terrible happened to them all.

Kneeling by the hearth, she lifted up one of the flat stones, uncovering a small secret space beneath it. A handful of coins were in there, along with a few pieces of silver jewelry. Bridal adornments mostly, now tarnished by time; a dowry they had never spent. She fingered the pieces for a moment and then thrust them into her pocket along with all the rest. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

“Come,” she ordered, gathering up the youngest boy, gesturing for her daughter to take the hand of the other. “Shush,” she told them both. “Stop crying now. I need you to be quiet. I need you to be brave.” To her amazement, it seemed to work. At least they subsided to a quieter form of terror, whimpering softly as she led them all out.

The town bell was tolling in the distance now, a deep, resonant sound. Usually it was used to mark meetings of the elders or to announce the arrival of important visitors. Clearly this time it was being rung as a warning. But of what?

“Come!” she whispered fiercely, as she set off westward, wending her way down the narrow streets. Women and children huddled in doorways and peered through windows as she passed; hungry, worried faces turned to her as she passed, begging her silently for news.
I don't know any more than you do!
she thought wildly. Why weren't they fleeing? If their menfolk had gone off to see what the trouble was, as her husband had done, surely they'd rather have their wives and children safe in the hills than clinging to their homes out of some mistaken belief that mud-patched walls could protect them!