Wings of Wrath (53 page)

“No riddles,” the stranger said sharply. His smile vanished. “Look at me, Guardian!” He spread his arms wide. “What do you see? Kannoket, yes? Like yourself. Like your men. All Kannoket. Now you call yourselves Alkali, but
we
are not Alkali,
we
were not saved by one of your seven heroes,
we
do not take his name. We are Kannoket . . . like you.”

Kannoket. It was an ancient name, from another era. The Kannoket had once ruled the north, braving its harsh winters and fierce storms and serving its bloodthirtsy gods. Then outsiders had arrived, self-righteous invaders who drove the winged demons called Souleaters before them.
Help us to drive them farther north,
they had told the Kannoket.
When they are far from the sun that they love, and have no more men to prey upon, surely they will perish.
And so the final great battle had taken place on Kannoket land, and the blood of Kannoket warriors had been spilled upon the earth in offering, until the gods saw fit to send down their Wrath to end all the killing.

The victors had divided the land into Protectorates after that, one for each of the war's great heroes to rule over. Only one hero was of Kannoket blood, the one called Alkali. The rest were simply foreign invaders who, having seen the true beauty of the north, decided to claim pieces of it for themselves. Or so the priests taught.

“What did the invaders say?” the stranger demanded. “That the lands of ice were empty of men. Empty of life. But they lied! There were Kannoket living there, and the outsiders knew it. They said to each other, ‘we will sacrifice them, we will give them to the demons for food, and then we can take their land.' ”

“This is a mad tale,” Anukyat said sharply. But he could not help but glance up at his men on the hillside.
They believe him,
he thought. “What proof have you of any of this?”

“Proof?” The stranger spread his arms wide. “I am proof, Master Guardian. I come from the lands of ice myself to tell you the truth. Is that not proof enough?”

“You mean you came from north of the Wrath?” A shiver ran down his spine. “You have crossed through it?”

“Yes. And more will come soon. More Kannoket. We seek our brothers. Our blood brothers. We will reclaim what is ours. You . . . Alkali . . . will help.”

No man can cross the Wrath,
Anukyat thought.
Not under normal circumstances. But what if it is changing now? Maybe the same thing that is causing the nightmares to spread has weakened the Wrath so that men might actually cross it.

In the wake of that thought came one more chilling than all the rest put together:
If men can do that now, so can the Souleaters
.

“You want me to believe that the first Protectors betrayed us,” he challenged the stranger. “That they knowingly condemned our people to death, to steal their land. Is that it?”

“And killed their witches, too, so that none would help them. A great sacrifice.” The stranger's eyes glittered coldly. “Do you want to see?”

“Do I want to . . . see?”

The stranger gestured up the slope. Toward the ridgeback, the plateau beyond it . . . and the Spear.

He showed something to my men,
Anukyat thought.
This is what makes them believe him
.

If the stranger's story were true, it would mean that all the history he'd been taught was a lie. Instead of a brave alliance of seven armies coming to defend the northlands, six armies had come to conquer. His own Kannoket people had been divided and the northernmost tribes condemned to a horrific fate. And the witches who might have done something to stop such a travesty—the Kannoket witches who would not have let their people die—had all been slaughtered. Sacrificed. Or so this stranger claimed.

If so, he thought grimly, that would change everything.

“Show me,” he said quietly. Sheathing his sword. Signaling for his archers to stand down.

The stranger nodded and turned away, ready to lead him up the slope. But Anukyat stopped him. “Wait.”

He turned back, to see what was needed.

“You have not given me your name.”

For a long moment the stranger just stared at him. There was something oddly inhuman about his gaze but whether it was something better or worse than human, Anukyat could not begin to guess.

“Nyuku,” he said. “My name is Nyuku.”

And they began to climb.

T
HE FIRST morning of their journey, Gwynofar threw up. She staggered a few yards away from the camp before she did so, but they all could hear her clearly enough. Rhys started to go after her, but Kamala caught him by the arm and said quietly, “woman's business.” In her experience that phrase was enough to make any man back down immediately, and indeed it worked this time.

It seemed obligatory that someone should help Gwynofar, and as she was the only other female in the camp, Kamala grabbed up a nearby rag—actually it was a spare shirt, but it would have to serve as a rag for now—and followed her.

She found the Queen Mother on her knees, shaking in the aftermath of a bout of sickness. It took Gwynofar a minute to notice Kamala standing there beside her; when she finally did, Kamala handed her the rag.

“Thank you.” She wiped off her face with it, and then reached down to the ground to brush some dirt and moss over the mess she had made until it was all neatly covered up. Like a cat, Kamala thought. All neat and tidy.

Perhaps she shouldn't have said anything but the words just came out. “You are with child?”

Gwynofar sighed. Then nodded.

“Do the others know?”

“Rhys does. Ramirus. I am not sure who else was told.”

“So . . . let me be sure I understand this. You are going into enemy territory to risk your life, in a campaign requiring strength and endurance . . . pregnant?”

A dry smile flickered across the blonde woman's lips. “That is the gist of the plan, yes.”

Kamala shook her head in amazement. “You are either very brave or very foolish.”

“I am
lyra
.” She rose unsteadily to her feet. “One of the gifts the gods gave us was the ability to bear our children without pain or illness.” She put a hand on her stomach. “My son will not slow me down.”

“So do the
lyra
usually vomit in the morning?” Kamala could not keep the edge from her voice. “Just like common peasants do?

A shadow passed over Gwynofar's face. She said nothing.

“You've had other children,” Kamala persisted. “Did the other ones make you ill when they were in the womb?”

“No,” she said quietly. “No, they did not.”

“So maybe the Wrath distorts this
lyr
magic as well as the other types.” It was a cruel thing to say and she knew it, but something about the woman's quiet arrogance just brought out the worst in her.

Gwynofar drew in a sharp breath. For a moment she was very still. Kamala was aware of the noise of the men working behind them to get the horses ready for a hard day's ride, as everyone pointedly left the two women alone.

“Why do you dislike me so much?” Gwynofar asked. “I don't remember having treated you badly.”

“I don't dislike you,” Kamala said.

Gwynofar looked at her sharply, then reached down to brush the leaves and dirt from her leggings. “The task at hand requires that we rely upon one another, Lady Kamala. Possibly for our lives. I don't know how you normally go about preparing for such a thing, but I believe that lies are a poor way to start.”

For a long moment Kamala just stared at her. What was behind that delicate facade that gave her such strength of spirit? Dressed in an Alkali uniform for the journey, she looked even smaller than usual, and she wouldn't pass for a grown man in anything but the dimmest of light. Yet she bore the weight of her armor without complaint, and had kept her seat astride her horse through a long day of riding when even the more experienced men were sore. Little wonder she had thrown up, all things considered. It might not even have anything to do with the pregnancy.

Finally she said, “Kamala. My name. Just Kamala.”

The queen drew in a deep breath. “And mine is Gwynofar. Just Gwynofar.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “For this trip, at least. Fair enough?”

She handed her back the shirt. Without even thinking, Kamala bound a whisper of power to clean it.

Gwynofar seemed startled. “Are you sure you should do that?”

“It'll be another day before we're close enough to the Wrath for it to be a problem,” Kamala said.
Gods forbid the Magisters should have risked their precious necks by landing us somewhere closer
. But she understood why the sorcerers had decided to play it safe. It wasn't like there was a line drawn in the dirt that was labeled “sorcery works here” on one side and “sorcery doesn't work here” on the other. Better to play it safe, especially when royalty was involved, and ride into the affected region by purely mundane means.

“But the cost you must pay for such an inconsequential spell. No one here would ask that of you.”

Ah, hells
. She had missed the woman's meaning entirely.

A real witch would not have wasted her power on such a mundane task. What woman in her right mind would give up even one minute of her life to wash the vomit out of a shirt?
You make a lousy witch,
she told herself.

“I forgot myself,” she muttered. That much was certainly true.

Gwynofar touched her lightly on the arm. “You are very generous, Kamala.”

No, I'm not,
she thought.
I'm a cold-hearted cannibalistic monster, the same as those Souleaters you are all so afraid of. You just haven't figured it out yet
. “The men are waiting for us.” She nodded toward the camp without meeting Gwynofar's eyes.

Why did the woman's praise make her feel so damned guilty?

By the time they got back to the camp the horses were saddled and ready. Kamala gave the shirt back to the soldier whose pack she had borrowed it from, who looked at it suspiciously and then stuffed it in one of his bags. None of them really trusted her. During their last night in the castle she'd used sorcery to listen in on several heated arguments over why she was being allowed to come along at all. “Do you know who she really is?” Ullar had demanded. “Or where she's really from? For all we know she could be Anukyat's own agent, sent here to spy upon us. That would certainly explain how she appeared at just the right moment to rescue Rhys when only Anukyat knew where he was.”

But Rhys trusted her, and Gwynofar trusted Rhys . . . and so the others were eventually overruled. A
lyr
thing, apparently. In matters such as these, the instincts of their ancient bloodline were considered sacrosanct.

What was it like to be raised your whole life to serve a cause like that? To be expected to put aside your entire life to chase after legends? The depth of their faith was something Kamala could not comprehend; her world was a much simpler place.

The camp was silent when they returned to it, all eyes fixed upon a point in space where the air had just begun to ripple ominously. Kamala heard steel being drawn as both soldiers and Guardians braced themselves to meet . . . what? If a Magister came through that portal, were they going to confront him with simple steel? That battle would not last very long.

And then the spell was completed and a sorcerer stepped through. When she saw his face, Kamala's heart almost stopped beating.

Colivar.

His dark eyes glittered with cold amusement as he saw how his arrival had disconcerted the company. His black shirt and doublet were of a simple black—morati black—but everyone present seemed to know what he was. A few of the men sheathed their weapons as they recognized him, but a few did not. Clearly those men were willing to go down fighting a sorcerer if that was what their duty required.

Fine olive skin. Long black hair, sweeping down to his shoulders. Jet black eyes above finely chiseled features. The hint of a cold, condescending smirk, as if the entire world existed for his amusement. Kamala remembered him well. She also remembered his last words to her when they had arrived outside Danton's palace, hinting that he knew her darkest secret: not only what she truly was, but what she had done.