Wings of Wrath (40 page)

His consort clearly wanted to get close enough to the man's body to claim the last sparks of his life-essence. Ikati did not normally feed on the humans who served their kind—such an act would stress their fragile society to the breaking point—but an orphaned rider was fair game. With the sun setting for the last time in months, and the air chilled by the coming winter, the ikati had little energy to spare right now and needed every fresh drop he could gather. But the man's body was too close to the barrier for them to approach safely, and in the end the ikati had to withdraw. At full strength he might have dared the approach and tried to face down the madness that the barrier would pour into his brain, but with his wing torn and bleeding and pain attending every movement, he dared not take such a risk. Already Nyuku could feel a deadly chill creeping into his consort's flesh and he knew they had very little time before the last of his strength was gone and winter's lethargy began to set in. They had to get within range of the Sun Stone's heat before that happened; the wing would never heal properly otherwise.

But this year there would be one less rider wintering in the crowded caverns, he thought with elation. One less elder to frustrate his ambitions come spring. That was surely worth a little pain, yes?

Slowly, carefully, the wounded ikati turned north once more and began the long flight home. While behind his back the shadows of the Long Night crept in from the edges of the sky, eager to devour the icelands and all who were too weak to survive them.

“M
AJESTY.”

Gwynofar looked up to find that one of the royal pages had entered. A young lad who stood stiff and upright, trying to be worthy of the message he carried.

“Yes, Petro?”

“The High King asks that you please attend him.”

Brow furrowed, she set aside her book and rose, smoothing her long skirts as she stood. Her maidservant rose as well, prepared to accompany her, but Gwynofar waved her back.

It was odd for Salvator to send for her this way. Normally if he had something to say to her, he just came to wherever she was and did so. The formality of this request was disconcerting.

The page led her to the threshold of an audience chamber overlooking the courtyard. Two guards with grim expressions flanked the double doors; one knocked upon a dark oak panel sharply before opening it, admitting her.

Salvator was inside with one of his witches. That was not a good sign. Her son never relied upon mystical powers when mundane efforts would suffice. A woman was kneeling before him, her clothing torn and stained, and Gwynofar could see that she was trembling from fear and exhaustion.

She wondered for a moment if perhaps Salvator was the cause of the woman's distress, but as her son looked up to acknowledge her entrance, she could see in his expression that this was not the case. The anger in his eyes was focused on someone or something far beyond this room.

While the door was still open, he waved for one of the guards to come in and attend to the woman on the floor.

“See that our guest is given food and drink, and anything else she requires. With a guard by her door while she sleeps, if she desires it. She has come far, and done us a great service today.”

He waited while the guards helped the woman out—how weak she looked, walking unsteadily between them!—and then he nodded for the witch to follow them as well. “Please, leave us.”

The man bowed and obeyed, and shut the heavy door behind him, leaving Salvator and Gwynofar alone.

The High King walked over to one of the room's two sideboards, where an assortment of metal pieces had been laid out on a soiled woolen blanket. For a moment he just stood there, hands joined behind his back, gazing down at them.

Finally he said, “Skandir has attacked one of our northern provinces.”

Gwynofar drew in a sharp breath. “You are sure?”

He nodded toward the chamber doors and the woman who had just passed between them. “That was a very tired and terrified messenger, but also an honest one. And fairly accurate, according to my witch. Her words ‘resonated with truth.' Or so he said.”

“Why on earth would Skandir attack the High Kingdom?”

“Why indeed?” He did not look up as she came up to the table, but kept his eyes fixed on the pieces laid out before him. Knives and buckles, a man's roundel belt, a worn leather bracer studded with iron bits, a set of brass bracelets, and several smaller pieces. “Mind you, they did not exactly announce themselves as being from Skandir. Three ships full of warriors fell upon the harbor town of Soladin without warning. They slaughtered nearly everyone who was there at the time, took what they wanted of the town's possessions, and burned the rest to the ground.” His expression was hard. “This woman Yosefa, she says that fewer than two dozen survived by hiding on the outskirts of town. Fortunately they had the mental wherewithal afterward to collect what they could find of the warriors' gear that had survived the fire. Apparently the locals had put up a good enough fight to take down a couple of the invaders, leaving us with the relics that you see here before you.”

He gazed at the collection of objects a moment longer. And then, without warning, he swept his arm across the table and sent them flying across the room.

Startled, Gwynofar stepped back quickly so as not to be hit by the falling debris. She knew Salvator well enough by now to guess at the cause behind his silent fury, to understand that it probably had as much to do with his own sense of failure as any external threat.

He sees this as his fault,
she thought.
The weight of all those deaths is on his shoulders because he failed to prevent them.
It was the teachings of his barbaric faith, reveling in guilt that prompted such feelings. How she secretly hated it! What good could come from any religion that tormented its worshipers so?

Finally her son seemed to pull himself together enough to be able to speak again, though his voice was a strained and hollow thing. “Tell me why this happened, Mother. You are from the northlands. Tell me what this is about.” He shook his head grimly. “An army moving against the High Kingdom I might understand, but this—” He shook his head. “This makes no sense to me.”

“I am not from Skandir.”

“No, but you are from a Protectorate. Yes? All of them serving one great mission to the exclusion of all else. Isn't that what you taught me, Mother? What was that mission supposed to be?
Make ready to fight the Souleaters when they return! Let nothing come before that!
” He gestured angrily towards the mess on the floor. “Well, the Souleaters are back now. And where are Skandir's warriors? At my border, slaughtering my people. I want to know
why
.”

“Perhaps they were not from Skandir.”

“Oh, no. My witch used his power upon these relics and confirmed their source. Or is that not good enough?” he said angrily. “Should I consult another? Or sell my soul to a Magister, perhaps, to get better answers?”

Gwynofar did not respond. Any discussion of Magisters was likely to spur on other angers, other frustrations, and that was one thing they did not need right now.

Is Skandir doing these things because Danton is gone?
she wondered.
Do they doubt Salvator's ability to guide this kingdom and mean to test his hold upon the border? Or is there some darker purpose here?

“They were sea raiders once, you know.” Salvator's voice was steadier now, but she could sense the effort it was taking to manage that. “They were the only army that came to the final campaign by ship instead of over land. After the Wrath appeared and victory was declared, they warred with Alkali for some time over who would control the coastal territories.”

“That is ancient history,” she told him. “Those borders have been stable for centuries.”

“And this was painted upon the sails of the ships that Yosefa saw.” He handed her a small piece of paper that had been crumpled in his hand. Cheap paper, with the figure of a strange creature drawn upon it. It had a serpentine body joined to a lizardlike head, the body folded back upon itself in a complex figure-eight pattern. “Do you recognize it, Mother?”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “Mordi?”

“The serpent of the open seas. War god of the early Skandir. Now absorbed into the northern pantheon with all the rest. But, oh, he must be hungry, after so many centuries without human sacrifice.”

She looked up at him sharply. “That is quite a leap of logic, Salvator.”

“Is it?” He leaned down and picked up one of the items on the floor: a wide brass bracelet inscribed with various patterns. “The woman Yosefa told me that when the raiders left her homeland, they took a number of captives with them. All children.”

She shut her eyes and instinctively whispered a prayer to her gods. It was not something she normally did in Salvator's presence, but this news required it.

“The worshipers of Mordi used to sacrifice children to him before their battles,” Salvator said. “They believed that if they sated his hunger for blood before they engaged the enemy, he would not seek theirs on the battlefield. Now three ships appear in my kingdom with the mark of the Sea Serpent upon their sails and raid my lands not only for wealth, but for children.”

“Those customs existed a thousand years ago,” she told him. Which of them was she trying to convince? “A god of the Dark Times, abandoned long ago.”

“Maybe not, Mother. The Souleaters are returning, yes? Maybe the ancient gods are returning as well, and they are not such benevolent creatures as your people would like to believe. Nor will they be satisfied with a few drops of blood smeared onto trees. Not when war can loose rivers of blood to sate their hunger.”

She could feel her expression harden. “Do not defame your own heritage, Salvator.”

“What heritage is that?” he demanded. “The
lyr
gift, which will supposedly save us all? If so, it is well overdue, don't you think? Or maybe you are referring to those self-proclaimed saviors of the material world, the
Guardians of the Wrath
. Freelance warriors who go where they wish and do whatever it strikes their fancy to do, knowing that the gods themselves will surely strike down any prince who dares to question them.”

Anger flared hotly inside her. “You go too far, Salvator—”

“Do I?” he demanded. “Or am I only saying what should have been said years ago? Maybe if someone had asked more questions at the beginning of all this, the gods would not have sent their demons back to us now. Maybe if your Guardians spent less time spilling blood to sate their idols, rather than facing the truth behind the legends, the Destroyer would not loose plagues among us now!”

Speechless in her rage, Gwynofar whirled about and started toward the door. If she stayed a moment longer she would surely say things she would regret. But he grabbed her arm and jerked her back, his grip tight enough to cause her pain.

“Behold your precious mission, Mother.” He held up the Skandir bracelet in front of her face. “Behold what your traditions have brought us!”

For a moment she could not even focus upon the object, she was so enraged. She tried to jerk away from him, but his grip on her was too strong. Still he held the piece of jewelry before her face, demanding she look at it. Finally she did so, and he turned it in the light so that one by one its decorative images caught the light, ancient Skandir runes meant to inspire and protect the wearer—

And then she saw it.

The color drained from her face. Her legs lost all their strength. If not for Salvator's grip on her arm, she would surely have collapsed.

“No,” she whispered. “It can't be.”

“It is,” he said. His own voice was shaking. Beneath the rage now she could now hear a subtle strain of some other emotion in it. Doubt? Fear? Her head was swimming. “The witch confirmed it.”

Slowly, heart pounding, she took the bracelet from him. She turned it in the light so that she could see the terrible figure that was inscribed upon it. A shield with seven upright spears, bound together where they crossed.

The symbol of the Guardians.

“It must have been stolen,” she whispered. “Or . . . or . . .” Her voice failed her.

Firmly but gently, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He waited until she looked up from the bracelet to meet his eyes once more, then said to her, very quietly, “No, Mother. I'm sorry. I thought that at first, too. So I had a witch test it. Twice over, in fact. To be sure.” He took the bracelet back from her. “This piece was last worn by a true Guardian who died by the sword in Soladin.”

She shut her eyes for a moment. He urged her gently to the side a few steps, then placed her hand upon the back of a chair. She found its seat and lowered herself into it, trembling.