Wings of Wrath (56 page)

The air in the room was close and humid, its smell a mixture of sweat and fear. There was no point in trying to air it out, Anukyat knew. As long as he kept a talented Seer within range of the Wrath, the supply of sweat and fear was endless.

He stood by one side of the bed, watching while the maidservant sat down on the other side, blotting at her mistress' forehead with a linen handkerchief. “She was muttering something about sorcery,” she told Anukyat. “It didn't make any sense to me, but I came to get you right away. I thought that maybe—”

With a wave of his hand he silenced her so that he could listen for himself. The Seer was not saying anything now, but that did not surprise him. Sanity came in fits and starts to such a talent, coherence likewise. An unfortunate necessity of bringing such a rare and vulnerable talent within range of the Wrath.

As he watched, the Seer began to toss and turn, clearly in the early stages of some new nightmare. With the Wrath pouring its malignant essence directly into her brain, unfettered by the kind of mental defenses that most humans took for granted, it was nothing short of a wonder that she ever woke up at all.

Then her eyes shot open. For a moment she just stared at the ceiling without focus or comprehension. Then, turning her head in Anukyat's direction, she stared intently at him. Or through him.

“Dead flesh,” she whispered hoarsely. “Dead flesh, un-shaped. Should have left with the others! Should have run! Look, even the maggots are afraid. . . .”

“Sorcery,” he prompted. She was not sane enough to comprehend direct orders, much less respond to them, but sometimes she could be prodded in the right direction. “What about the sorcery?”

She shut her eyes and shivered violently. “Cold, so cold. The power is death. Stolen from far away. Someone else's death. Can you see it? Blacker than ink. Colder than ice. So near to the Citadel. Will anyone notice it? No one looks for sorcery here.”

Her body shuddered suddenly and then became still; her breathing was rapid and shallow, like a dog panting. Anukyat waited for a short while to see if she would resume her description and when she did not, touched a hand to her cheek. Her body lurched as her spirit rose to consciousness once more, clearly a painful process.

“Where?” Anukyat demanded. “Where is the sorcery?

For a moment it seemed like she did not hear him. Then, just as he was about to ask the question again, she whispered, “The setting sun, the setting sun! Shadow of the smallest Sister. Look at the blood on the ground! The flies will not feast, they are afraid. Go back, go back! Now we can kill. Now we are strong.”

A chill coursed through Anukyat's veins as he heard those words. But no matter how he prodded her after that, physically or verbally, he could not coax forth more details, only the same cryptic phrases over and over again.

Finally, with a scowl, he rose from the bed. “Record everything she says,” he told the maidservant. “Call me immediately if there is anything new.”

He left her in the chamber to tend to the Seer. It was an unhappy job, but she was paid well for it.

There was sorcery being worked within his domain.

Thelas had assured him that was impossible. Neither witch nor sorcerer could raise any kind of power within range of the Wrath, the Magister Royal had said. Even before the barrier had become unstable, the Guardians had needed a phalanx of spell casters, guarded by ancient rituals, to tame it. Now even that was no longer possible. For Anukyat to be without magical defenses, therefore, meant nothing, because magic could not be wielded against him. Nothing for him to worry about.

Anukyat had never really trusted that assessment. So he had ordered the Seers to assign one of their number to him, despite the obvious risks, and unhappily they had obeyed. This Seer had come to him nearly a year ago, a young woman with stars in her eyes, ready to take on the nightmarish power of the Wrath in order to serve the Guardians' cause.

She did not yet know that her cause was a false one, and that while she slept it had been abandoned. She did not know that in order to bring justice to the Kannoket it would first be necessary to teach their so-called allies the cost of past betrayals, and make sure they could never offend again. She did not know that the nightmares she endured, and the visions she channeled, were all in service to that task.

So what was the source of this mysterious sorcery? And what was its purpose? He could not believe a Magister would enter this region of his own free will; even Thelas, who was accustomed to dealing with the Wrath, had made it clear he never would do so. Yet this Seer had picked up on something. And his Seers were rarely wrong.

The setting sun,
the Seer had said.
Shadow of the smallest Sister
.

To the west, then. Somewhere close by the smallest of the three monuments. Would his Guardians be able to find the source of this sorcery if they went there? Even more to the point: would the Citadel be safe in their absence? He cursed Thelas under his breath for taking so many of his men away from him. It was almost as if the gods were mocking him now, with this new bit of trouble.
Choose between security and reconnaissance,
they teased him. Knowing that he no longer had enough men for both duties.

This region is mine,
he thought fiercely. Feeling a black and terrible anger toward whatever sorcerer had dared to leave his mark on his land, so close to his Citadel. He would no more tolerate it than he would let a stray dog piss on his battlements.

Come dawn he would send out a few men to investigate this matter—there was no way to avoid that—but he would also send out one of the birds that Thelas had given him to carry news of this sorcerous outrage directly to Alkali's Magister Royal. If the sorcerer did not respond promptly—immediately!—well, then, next time he would find that his word had little weight in this region.

And with the Kannoket and their winged allies returning from long exile, that would not be a good thing for him. Not good at all.

Quiet. The darkness of midnight. Fire crackling low in a circle of stones. Fitful snoring from one of the sleeping Guardians.

Gwynofar lay awake, absorbing it all. A final taste of peace. Tomorrow they would pass into the blighted region (as Kamala called it) and who could say when there would be peace again? If ever?

Slowly she shut her eyes, turning her attention within herself. Sensing the flow of blood within her veins, the slow throb of her heart within her chest . . . and lower down, cradled between her hips, the fluttering of something that was almost a heart, the stirring of something that was almost a child, the fire of something that was almost a soul.

Allowing her
lyr
gift to guide her, she embraced the tiny spark of life inside herself and felt the world about her shift in response. Gone now was the darkness of the forest night, gone were the huffs and snorts of her companions, gone was everything that spoke of stress or uncertainty or fear.

Surrounded by sunlight, she cradled a baby in her arms. He was a beautiful child, with wisps of blond hair that curled about his temples and pale blue eyes that reminded her of Andovan. The sight of him made her heart ache, even if it was only an illusion. How young she had been when her third child had been born! It seemed an eternity ago. Another lifetime.

You were conceived in an act of violence,
she thought to the pink-cheeked infant in her arms,
but that was not your fault. You are the son of a great king and brother to princes, and your mother will love you as dearly as she loved those who came before you. Even more, for you comfort her in her mourning.

Carefully she inspected the infant, looking for any signs of ill health. If there were any problems with her pregnancy they would manifest thus, and she could channel the power needed to fix things by attending to the child appropriately. The baby in her arms might be an illusion, but by tending to it she could channel healing power to her real child as he needed it. It was part of the gift that the gods had granted to every
lyra,
allowing her to tend to her son's needs even while he was still in the womb. But despite the long hours on horseback and all other stresses of the journey, the child in her arms was healthy, which meant that all was well with her pregnancy.

She held the illusionary baby close to her breast for a long time, taking comfort from the warmth of his flesh against her own, from the sweet scent of his skin and then, regretfully, she let the illusion fade. Gods alone knew if she would be capable of such visions once they entered the area where the Wrath held sway. It was a form of witchery, after all. But for now, at least, her child was healthy and safe. And that was what mattered most.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to forget about everything else in the world and surrendered to what might be her last peaceful sleep for some time.

T
HE SKY was a sullen, swollen purple with dark and angry clouds that seemed about to split open, spilling their festering contents upon the earth below. The air was thick with poisonous smells, a strange and sickening mixture of putrid elements that made Salvator's stomach lurch. If he closed his eyes and judged by smell alone he could easily believe the whole earth was rotting, a bloated corpse beneath his feet, too vast for man to comprehend. He shuddered at the image and for a moment it was all he could do to fight off the urge to add to its putrescence with his own vomit.

For a moment he wondered if he had died and been sent to some kind of transitional underworld where he would be judged by his god before being committed permanently to eternal reward or suffering. Could a man die and not even know that it had happened? Then, a moment later, the answer came to him, and with it a modicum of sanity:
This is a dream
.

It was easier to deal with his surroundings in that context. He could even open his eyes and take a look around without being overwhelmed by it all. He found that he was standing atop a mountain, bare of vegetation, that dropped down precipitously into a deep gorge. At the bottom, where a river had probably flowed in wetter seasons, a column of men was now marching. Soldiers, grim-faced, who ignored the occasional bones at their feet, not stopping to take note of the fact that some of them appeared to be human remains. Salvator saw one man step upon a long femur and snap it in two. His stride never faltered, and the soldier behind him ground the fragments deep into the ground as he stepped on them in turn.

What was this place?

“King's Pass,” came a voice. Its soft, feminine substance parted the foul winds like a knife. “The troops of Corialanus, heading north.”

He turned to find the source of the words. Behind him stood Queen Siderea. She was dressed in a gown of amethyst silk that clung to her body like a second skin with streamers of chiffon that fluttered from her shoulders like dragonfly wings. Her arms were bare, her breasts nearly so; and her copper skin gleamed against the dismal landscape like the final fires of a setting sun.

“You sent this dream,” he said. Both offended and intrigued by the concept.

The full lips smiled; a secret amusement glittered in the depths of her eyes. “A vision, King Salvator. Not a dream.”

“What is the difference?”

She waved one long, sleek arm out across the gorge; golden bracelets along its length shimmered with the motion. “What you see before you is really taking place, hundreds of miles from where you sleep. I have merely enhanced your power of vision with my own, that you might witness it from a distance.”

He could not keep the edge from his voice. “Without my permission.”

A slender eyebrow, plucked to perfection, arched upward. “The offering of an ally, my King. Would you not wish to have such a service?”

He looked back down at the scene below him. The river-carved gorge twisted and turned in its course, and not far from where he stood it curved out of his line of sight, both to the right and left of him. Thus he could not see the front of the line of soldiers, nor guess at where the end was. But the part that was passing before him was long enough to hint at a major campaign. Hundreds of men, at least. Perhaps thousands?