Wings of Wrath (8 page)

Rhys was half
lyr
by virtue of the Lord Protector's indiscretion. That had great value among the Guardians. Others would trade places with him in a heartbeat, to have such a heritage.

So why did it make his head hurt? Why did he get angry whenever someone mentioned it?

Because it is not something I earned,
he thought bitterly.
Because no matter what battles I face, what dangers I brave, what victories I facilitate, my bastard heritage will always overshadow them
.

“Rhys.”

He turned to see who was calling him. It was one of the Skandir, a woman named Namanti. Like all the Guardian-women from that Protectorate she wore a man's shirt and leggings, the former with its sleeves cut off in deference to the heat of summer. Her well-muscled arms were adorned with wide metal bracelets running up and down their length, and Rhys knew that each one was etched with a design that commemorated some battle she'd won or some trial she'd endured. Her thick yellow hair was plaited with thongs and glass beads, her skin coarse and reddened from exposure to the elements. Skandir Guardians were fierce, he reflected, the women most of all. Sometimes that translated into activities away from the battlefield and sometimes it didn't.

“You missed the ruckus,” she told him.

“Over my departure?”

“Nay.” She grinned. “You're not quite so important yet,
lyr
.” She was using the title to ruffle his feathers and he knew it, so he let it pass without comment. “Favias wanted messengers to carry your news to the other Protectorates; he asked for volunteers. That's when we all realized that there were no Alkali among us.”

“None at all?” he asked, startled.

She shook her head. Wisps of blond hair had escaped from their confinement and the forest breeze scattered them across her face. She pushed them back absently, hooking them behind her ears. “Not a single one. Apparently no one has seen any Guardians from there for some time now.”

He frowned. “That is . . . odd.”

“Aye. Master Favias thought it so. Especially here, so close to Alkali itself. No one has inspected the Spears up there, either—or at least if they did they're not reporting it. Given that we think the Wrath has been breached somewhere, that's no small thing. He wants to send someone in to see what's what. Check the Spears at least, see if the trouble's there.” Her deep blue eyes sparkled. “Someone with
powerful blood
.”

She knew him well enough to know how the words would make him squirm, and for that reason he refused to take the bait. “Makes sense, if he wants the Spears looked at. Others would be too weak to get close to it without a week-long ritual to pave the way. I hear the Skandir are particularly weak-willed.”

She didn't go for his bait either. “Of course, I pointed out you were hardly up to the job, since you don't even speak the language.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The Alkali speak a different language?”

“Aye. Leadership does. Sometimes the priests. It's an ancient thing, from before the Dark Times. They don't use it around . . . ah,
outsiders
.”

How like the Alkali,
he thought.
Anything to set themselves apart.
They were a proud people—some would say arrogant—who never let the other Protectorates forget that they had been masters of the northlands long before the war against the Souleaters brought strangers to their shores. And they were masters of it still, at least in their own minds.

That the Alkali Guardians had dropped out of sight now, just when Souleaters were being sighted again, was ominous indeed. Had they tried to take a stand against the creatures and fallen? It was hard to believe that such a thing could have happened without them sending out a cry for help. But perhaps it had all happened too swiftly for that.

He shook those thoughts from his head. “All right, so who is to be my translator? Some myopic little bookworm, no doubt, that I will have to protect from tree branches as we ride? Assuming he can ride at all.”

“You should be so fortunate.” She slapped his chest lightly with a folded piece of paper. “Rumor has it you've been assigned an arrogant Skandir who has no great love for the Alkali. Oh, and she's a woman, too. No doubt she'll slow you down each time she needs to take a piss.”

He took the paper from her and quickly looked it over. Favias had provided them with a letter of introduction in case their presence in Alkali lands was questioned. That in itself was disturbing; normally Guardians needed no special clearance to go about their duties. “Maybe I'll leave her behind if she takes too long.”

“Maybe she's the best shot in the region and you won't get ten strides if you try it.”

He refolded the paper and tucked it into his shirt. “Maybe she has drunk too much Skandir ale recently, and thinks her talent is more than it is.”

“Ten
kroger
says it is better than yours. Your choice of target and terms.”

He shook his head. “I don't carry
kroger,
you know that.”

“Then you forfeit, do you?” She smiled pleasantly. “Too easy, Kierdwynner.”

He chuckled despite himself. “So who else is coming?”

“No one. Just you and me and the cold, high road. Favias wants us in and out quickly. Up to the Wrath and then across to the east, check out each of the Spears in turn until we find the source of trouble. Preferably before the Alkali even know we are there. Other Guardians have different assignments.”

Rhys nodded. He would have liked a witch to ride along with them, even if they never needed to use his power, but Seers were notoriously sensitive to the Wrath, and wouldn't survive that long an exposure. Supposedly it was the price they paid for focusing their witchery on visionary matters; it made them doubly vulnerable to powers that affected the mind. “Dawn, then?”

“If you can get up that early.” She pulled out a slender knife with a carved bone handle. “I wouldn't want to strain your noble blood.”

He grabbed her wrist and held it tightly. She stared at him for a minute, as if to assess how much real anger was behind the move, then shrugged off his grip. “Easy, Rhys, that's why they picked me as well, you know. Second cousin to someone or something of importance . . . I forget his name. Not as much of the
lyr
blessing as you, but some little bit of it, eh? They figured you'd need that with you, if you had to go close to the Spears.”

She looked down at her hand and made a quick cut along the side, shallow and short. Red blood welled up quickly, trickling down the side of her palm. “May the gods of the north guide us and protect us. May they grant us the sight to pick out the enemy, the courage to challenge it in battle, and the strength to send it to the worst bloody hell that the underworld has to offer.” She stepped forward and put her hand on the spire of twisted rock, smearing the blood across its surface before withdrawing it.

She offered Rhys the knife.

He cut himself slowly, carefully, along a line that had been cut and healed over many, many times in the past. Unlike her he did not speak out loud, but moved his lips silently as he made his blood offering.

If we are the generation that must do battle with demons, then so be it. Guide us to where our strength is needed. Help us to see that the Second Age of Kings does not end like the first
.

His fingers trailed down along the twisted stone pillar, thin lines of red trailing behind them.

And have mercy upon the
lyr, he added,
your most precious and ignorant children, who have been promised power without knowing its name, and who may be sent into battle without even knowing what weapons they bear.

It seemed to him that the ancestor spirits echoed his prayer.

C
OLIVAR HAD anticipated that Ramirus' domain would be guarded by sorcerous obstacles, but they were annoying nonetheless. None of them were serious threats, as a Magister measured such things, but they required him to waste time and energy, which was a threat of a more subtle nature.

But that was their purpose, of course. Such obstacles were the Magister's equivalent of a welcome sign, which set out in no uncertain terms what the status of a guest was to be in this place. Each challenge required a visitor to waste just a tad more power in flying over it, or burrowing under it, or burning or fighting or conniving his way through it, to reach the other side. For each such act a visitor must drain more of the life from a consort whose vital energies were finite. Would such exercises force a guest to the edge of transition, so that he might fall helpless later if he tried to use sorcery in Ramirus' presence? Or would he have second thoughts about the business that had brought him here, and perhaps question whether it was important enough to merit such a risk?

It mattered little to Colivar. His current consort was freshly claimed and unlikely to expire this soon for anything short of an all-out sorcerous war. Nevertheless the various entrapments did annoy him, and if he happened to damage a few of them as he flew overhead—setting fire to a forest of enchanted trees, causing a pack of mutated hounds to turn on one another, draining a moat so that all its carnivorous inhabitants were left gasping for breath upon the dry earth—surely Ramirus had expected no less of him. Indeed, even as Colivar flew over the final obstacle, a vast maze of hedges twice as high as a man, he could see rain begin to fall upon the land he had just passed, quenching his fire's fury, distracting the hounds, and filling the moat anew.

He smiled as he flew, for such weather-working was a costly affair that could drain whole days from a consort's life. He had judged Ramirus too proud to sit back and watch as his works were destroyed, and he had not been disappointed.

At the heart of the hedge maze was an imposing manor house built in the northern style, a large and somber building with narrow windows and ivy-covered turrets. It seemed to Colivar that a vague pall of sorcerous irritation hung over it, thick in the humid afternoon air. He reclaimed his human form, brushed a bit of dirt from his black linen shirt, and tried not to let his amusement show as he climbed the great stairs to the entrance. But it would be a mistake to think that the challenge was over merely because he had reached his destination safely. Magisters played a longer game.

The front doors opened at his approach with no human hand to guide them. A whisper of energy, sent to greet him, beckoned for him to follow it. Colivar expended enough athra to confirm its purpose and—when he was satisfied as to Ramirus' intentions—let it lead him deep into the house. Shadowy halls were punctuated by thin beams of dusty sunlight, a setting oddly reminiscent of King Danton's depressing keep.
You served Aurelius for too long, Ramirus.
He thought it loudly, just in case his host was trying to read his thoughts.
It has soured your taste
.

The chamber at his journey's end was a study of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing book, scrolls, and even a few clay tablets. Colivar resisted the impulse to identify the latter with his sorcery. Such tablets could be items of great age, and therefore of great value, or they could simply be another test, a trick, one last temptation for him to waste his power before negotiations began.

Ramirus stood when he entered; it would be hard to say whether his stern expression was meant to communicate respect or distaste. Probably both, Colivar thought. He looked much the same as he had the day King Danton had banished him—long white hair and beard flawlessly groomed, ebony robe falling in graceful folds, expression darkly serene. And why not? Danton was dead now, along with a good part of his family. Ramirus probably considered it divine justice. Even a high king should think twice before insulting a Magister.

“Colivar. What a surprise.” Ramirus' tone was dry. “I would offer you refreshment, but I find myself lacking anything . . . appropriate.”

The black-haired Magister chuckled. “Poison's all in the moat, eh?”

A cold smile flickered across those ancient lips. Age was an art form to Ramirus, each line and wrinkle applied to his face with the meticulous care of a master painter. It was more than mere aesthetic conceit, Colivar knew. Even by Magister standards Ramirus was said to be old, and for such a man the trappings of physical age were a badge of honor. Even with his eyes hooded by folds of flesh like fine aged vellum, the piercing clarity of his gaze was undiminished. “I would not insult a visitor in such a manner.” The velvet words masked a razor's edge. “Not one who comes in peace.”

Colivar bowed his head ever so slightly. “You no longer serve the Aurelius, so we have no reason to be enemies.”

“Indeed. No more than any two Magisters. Which is not saying much, is it?” He peered at Colivar, studying him closely, as one might do with some strange winged creature that had flown in the window of its own accord, trying to assess whether or not it could be trusted not to make a mess on the rug.