Wings of Wrath (7 page)

Master Favias nodded darkly. He had been to the armory where the Protectorate's ancient weapons were stored, had noted the strange glassy material out of which many had been made. Tougher than steel indeed, and proof against all manners of rust and decay. Satisfying though it was to know at last what that material was, he was clearly not pleased to be reliant upon the Souleaters themselves for weaponry.

“The Lord Protectors will give us diamonds if we need them,” Master Favias said. “What else have you brought?”

Rhys opened another set of wrappings to reveal half a dozen long, curved spines that smelled faintly of rotten meat. “I removed these from the creature's back. They are constructed much like the horns of other creatures, save that the interiors are filled with some kind of spongelike substance. Not much of that remains at this point.” He turned one over so that the Guardians could see that the piece was hollow, with strands of some fibrous substance clinging to its inner surface. “Queen Gwynofar suggested that perhaps the Souleater contained within itself some virulent poison, or another vehicle of physical corruption, that was held in check while it was alive. As soon as it died the poison was set free to ravage its flesh, destroying it from the inside out.” He put the spine back down. “Needless to say we would need much more observation to confirm such a theory.”

He did not say what they all were thinking:
Gods save us from discovering that there are enough Souleaters around to make such a study possible.

Carefully Rhys unwrapped the third of his bundles. Unlike the others it did not contain a simple piece of Souleater anatomy, but rather a wide, flat box made of wood. This he opened, laying it in the center of the circle so that all might see what it contained.

“This is from the creature's wing.”

Even in such a dismembered state, the wing fragment was eerily beautiful. Jewel-toned colors rippled across its surface as Rhys turned it for them all to see, as if the thing were made of liquid gemstones. Slender black struts and the delicate veining between them seemed better suited to an insect's wing than that of a great carnivore; it seemed too delicate to bear such a great weight.

“When I first took this sample,” Rhys said, “it required great effort. My knife could barely pierce the wing membrane, fragile though it seemed. And yet, within hours of the Souleater's death . . .”

He picked up the wing fragment, held it in his hand for a moment, then closed his fist around it and squeezed. When he opened his hand again, only dust and tiny shards remained.

“That is all I was able to collect before the creature was past the point of being useful to us,” he said quietly. “I should have worked faster.”

“What about its mesmeric power?” Master Favias asked, pointedly ignoring the last comment. “Tell us about that.”

Rhys bit his lip for a moment as he sought the proper words. “The others who saw it told me afterward that it was . . . seductive. They felt drawn to it. Some even felt an urge to offer themselves to it, as a . . . as a lover might. Even wished for it to tear out their throat, as though that would be a pleasurable act. They knew that the feeling was wrong, that something unnatural was happening, but even so they could not fight it . . . or perhaps, more accurately, they did not
desire
to fight it.”

“And yourself?”

“I felt . . . a dullness of my senses. A heaviness of thought. And it was as if my limbs belonged to another creature and would not respond to my commands. Every move I made took monumental effort. I used one of the spellsongs to focus myself; without that, I might well have been overcome. But my emotions were never altered. I hated the thing, and I feared it, but I was never drawn to it. I never desired anything but its death, and the death of all its kind.”

“So that much is good news,” Master Favias approved. “The gods' protection is strong in their chosen warriors.”

“Maybe not,” one of the other Guardians said. Rhys recognized him as part of the Brusan contingent, a somber man who rarely came this far east. “Rhys is half
lyr,
yes? So he is better protected than most of us. What if the gods were not as generous to the rest of us . . . to mere
peasants
.”

Rhys' eyes narrowed in anger. He started to move forward, but Master Favias put a hand upon his shoulder once more, this time to steady him.

“Rhys. Please.” His tone was respectful but firm. “No insult was given here.”

“I am no different than any other man in this company,” Rhys muttered.

“In spirit, in strength, in dedication, no, you are not. But in blood? The question's a fair one, my brother. You can ride closer to the Spears than any of us, you know that. You can bear the Wrath beating down upon your soul past the point when other men just cower and flee. If it is your father's special heritage that strengthens you thus, and not just your personal fortitude, then we must be wary of assuming that the rest of us will enjoy the same immunity. Best now to assume that the Souleaters may indeed be strong enough to mesmerize some Guardians, despite this one's failure with you, and figure our tactics accordingly.” When Rhys did not respond, he pressed, “That is a good thing, yes?”

Rhys exhaled sharply, but said nothing. His hands at his sides curled into fists for a moment, as he tried to calm his spirit. The fact that Favias was right did not make it any easier. At last he nodded, somewhat stiffly.

“You say that Magister Colivar was present,” Favius noted. “I did not see him in the battle.”

Rhys nodded. “No. He stood by and watched. So did Ramirus, who had brought me there. Neither lifted a finger to help.”

“Perhaps they could not,” Favias mused.

“Or will not,” a Skandir Guardian offered. One of the few women in the group. “Gods forbid their precious Magister hides should be risked for someone else's welfare.”

“Aye,” the Brusan muttered. “They are not known for sacrifice, are they?”

Master Favias held up a hand. “Time enough later to complain about Magisters,” he said sternly. “Let us hear from our archivists now. Rommel, what have you found that might shed light upon this tale?”

The chief archivist for Kierdwyn, an older man with long gray hair pulled back into a tight queue at the base of his neck, cleared his throat before speaking. “There are records of ancient formulae that were used for treating Souleater hides so that they could be crafted into armor. If the body decays as quickly as Rhys suggests, that would certainly explain why those formulae were considered as important as they were, and why our forebears took such care to preserve them.” He stroked the gray stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Our tradition says that in order to defeat a Souleater, one must wear its armor and wield its weapons. Apparently that is not as simple a process as it sounds.”

Master Favias nodded. “We will need samples of all of those formulae. Let us see which ones can be stored without losing their potency. If the creatures do return in force—” he let the words hang in the air for a moment “—our Guardians may have to carry such potions with them to use on the battlefield. The bodies will likely be too far gone to preserve otherwise.”

The archivist nodded. “I will send out word to all the archivists and see that trials are begun.”

“Good. Good. Now, Rhys . . .” Favias turned back to Rhys. “What of this Magister, this Colivar? You say he gave you information about the Souleaters? Who is he and how much does he know?”

Rhys frowned. “All I can tell you is that he is an enemy of the High Kingdom—or at least he was while Danton was alive—apparently bound in service to one of the southern kingdoms. He is said to be very old, very knowledgeable, and dangerously deceptive. Which, according to Gwynofar, describes most of the Magisters.”

“Did you get any sense of where his information was coming from? If there is some ancient text we have not seen yet, we should search it out. Especially if it contains precise information on how to deal with these creatures.”

Rhys hesitated. “He spoke very matter-of-factly, as if these were things he'd actually seen, rather than something he'd learned about from written records or artifacts. Though that can't be the case, of course. There were no Magisters until long after the Spears descended.”

Favias nodded. “Very well. Then let us collect information on this
Colivar
as well and see what we can come up with. Not only regarding what he claims to have witnessed, but personal details as well. We may eventually have to barter with him for his knowledge, in which case I want to know what sorts of things he values, what peoples and places he favors . . . what sort of
games
he is known to play.” He scowled at the last item. The Magisters' penchant for secrecy, and the convoluted tasks they would often require of morati who wanted to learn something from them, were notorious in the northlands. It was the reason that the Protectorates generally relied upon witches for power, trusting to those who were willing to sacrifice a portion of their life-essence for a worthy cause, rather than becoming indebted to prideful dilettantes of sorcery who believed that the entire world existed solely for their amusement.

Not to mention that the Magisters hated the Wrath. Rumor said it wreaked havoc with their sorcery. Most of them preferred not to get within a hundred miles of it, if they could help it. When duty did call them closer they showed up grudgingly, lending their power to the rituals that helped keep the Wrath strong and allowed the locals to approach it . . . but no one doubted when they did that they would rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Maybe they are just afraid of it,
Rhys thought
, the way all men are when they come near it. And the rest is just a story they put out so we won't think they are cowards.

“All right now.” Favias' tone was strong and confident; if Rhys' news worried him at all, he wasn't letting it show. “We'll need all this to go out to the other Protectorates as quickly as possible. And all the relay houses should be checked to make sure they are manned and ready. When the call to war comes . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “. . . I doubt we will be given much time to respond. So let's make sure everything is in order before that happens.”

Forty generations, Rhys thought. It had been forty generations since the first Lord Protectors had established a cadre of warriors whose only purpose was to prepare for the return of the Souleaters. Forty generations of Guardians, each one praying that the world would never need to call upon it. Knowing all the while that such a prayer was futile. The gods themselves had warned that the monsters would return. Now it was happening.

We will be ready,
Rhys swore silently.

“Now let us choose who will carry our message,” Favias said.

It was the end of the meeting, save for Favias' task of choosing those who would ride to the other Protectorates, carrying word of their discoveries. Rhys knew he was not needed for that. His ties to the Kierdwyn court meant that he would be sent there, as always, to update the Lord Protector. Which meant that he should start on his way as soon as possible. Within days Lord and Lady Kierdwyn would be heading south with all their royal retinue to attend the coronation of their grandchild, Salvator Aurelius. If Rhys didn't handle his business before they left, he might wind up heading south alongside them, and having to speak to both Lord Kierdwyn and his wife on the road.

His stomach tightened at the thought of Lady Evaine.

She would be gracious to me,
he thought,
as always
.

That only made it worse.

He slipped out of the meetinghouse quietly, not wishing to disturb the others. Outside the sun was shining, and a brisk summer breeze was whipping the red-and-gold pennants atop the roof with audible force. One well-worn dirt path led down to the stables, another to the Guardians' offering circle. He hesitated for a moment, then chose the latter. He needed to steady his soul before setting out on such dark business.

The path led him into the edge of the forest, away from the smells and the sounds of the meetinghouse. Blue pines crowded closely on all sides of him and the air was filled with their sharp, resinous scent. The path wound between them, inclining slightly as it brought him to the top of a hill. There the pines had been cleared away, leaving a circle of ground bare, with nothing but a Spear in its center.

It was not as large as the ones at the Wrath, and it did not have their baleful resonance, but the pinnacle of twisted rock awakened in Rhys a visceral memory of what the real ones were like . . . and why they existed. For a while he stood still and silent in the clearing, reflecting upon their meaning and upon his mission. Surrounding him were ancestor-trees—or perhaps, more accurately,
protector-trees
—blue pines that had been carved into the likeness of the seven First Protectors. Abeja, Brusus, Han, Tonado, Kierdwyn, Alkali, Skandir. Bark had overgrown their features, making it seem as if the trees had grown into human forms of their own accord. Even being rendered in the same artistic medium could not disguise the fact that the seven were as different from one another as men could possibly be. And why not? They had come from all parts of the known world, brought together by terrible necessity. And when the great war had ended, and the Wrath of the Gods had entrapped the last monsters in a no-man's-land of ice and snow, these seven had stayed behind to guard against the fall of the Wrath, and to found the bloodlines that would someday stand against the Souleaters once more.

The gods had named them
lyr,
and placed special magics in their blood that would awaken when the Souleaters returned. So the legends promised, anyway. By now most of the inhabitants of the northlands had at least a distant blood tie to one Lord Protector or another, which meant that the gift of the gods was in all of them. But the
lyr
were special. They could trace their lineage back to the first Protectors by every branch of their family tree. In them the gift of the gods was concentrated, undiluted; in them, the legends said, lay the hope of mankind.