She must have sensed the nature of his inspection, for she held her skirts out at the sides as if to show them off. The gesture was so unnatural for her it seemed almost like a parody of its type, a caustic comment upon the habits of the feminine sex. “They thought this was more appropriate than a soldier’s uniform.” A wry half smile flickered across her lips. “Or a grimy man’s shirt, no doubt.”
A rush of gratitude filled his heart. If not for her he would still be trapped in Anukyat’s dungeon. “You will never look more beautiful to me than you did when you appeared in that place,” he told her. “Grimy man’s shirt and all.”
She was clearly shaken by his words. How strange. He’d never seen a woman so startled by a compliment, though many played at it for flirtation’s sake. “I’ll tell them you’re awake,” she said quietly, and she slipped out the door. He couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was sorry to be leaving him after such an exchange, or grateful to have an excuse to do so. Maybe both.
With a sigh, he pushed his blankets to the side and swung his feet down over the edge of the bed. His arm and leg ached dully where his wounds had been, but that was more memory than real pain. Her witchery had banished any sign of damage, inside and out. Likewise, it appeared to have banished all signs of dirt from his skin. Or maybe someone had bathed him in his sleep.
If not for her, he thought, he would still be in Anukyat’s dungeon.
Which meant he would not have seen the Spear.
Which meant he would not have learned the truth.
Thus do the gods torment our souls for their own amusement.
Gathering up the clothes that had been laid out for him, he tried to focus on the task of getting dressed and not think about anything else. But it was hard not to stop and stare at the strange figures etched into his arm, or wonder what in all the hells he was going to say about them to the Lord Protector when he was finally asked.
There was sorcery in the palace.
That was the warning Stevan Kierdwyn’s Seer had sent to him.
Not witchery. Nor even a vaguely descriptive term like power, that might mean any number of things.
Sorcery.
So Rhys’ witch must have a Magister as patron who had transported her and Rhys to the palace. Either for reasons of his own, or because he owed her a favor.
Or his Seer could have been wrong.
The last possibility was in some ways the least disturbing, but he knew it wasn’t likely. The two uses of soulfire were supposedly so distinct from one another that there was no chance of a Seer confusing them. Witchery was a hot force, molten power spewing forth from the furnace of life. Sorcery was like ice, and chilled the soul if you came too close to it. Or so a Seer had described it to him once when he had asked about it.
So what other sorcerer was active in his Protectorate? And why?
Magisters hated the north. They accepted contracts with the Lord Protectors in order to protect them from the assaults of other Magisters—the same as they did for kings in other places—but for the most part those contracts were in name only. None of them lived this far north. None of them traveled here unless they had to, and if they did, then they stayed only for as long as a given assignment required. Was that because the Wrath was so close by that it disturbed their sorcerous senses? Or were they uncomfortable amid a race of men that claimed that the gods had entrusted them—and not the Magisters—with the saving of the world?
Stevan opened his hand to look once more at the crumpled note within it. It bore the seal of his own Magister Royal and one simple line of script.
I have worked no sorcery upon or within your palace since last we met. Lazaroth.
Was he telling the truth? The Magisters often followed dark and twisted paths and their true motives were always suspect. The Lord Protectors called upon them for aid only when it was absolutely necessary. There were enough witches in the Protectorates who were willing to sacrifice a portion of their life for the common good that Magisters were rarely needed. Like the lyr, the Seers had been born for a purpose. Like the Guardians, who honed their weapons and skills in order to prepare to meet the Souleaters in battle, they knew that sacrifice might be required of them, and accepted that. How did the ancient song go?
Our blood was cold and feeble, until Sacrifice lent us strength
Our witchery was earthbound, until Sacrifice gave it wing
Our steel was blunt and brittle, until Sacrifice honed its edge
Our prayers were mute and fearful, until Sacrifice made them sing.
The Magisters were creatures of self-interest, as unlikely to sacrifice themselves for a worthy cause as any soulless beast. Now it looked as if an unknown Magister was active in Kierdwyn—in Stevan’s own palace—and he was not at all pleased by it. In fact he was infuriated by it. How dare a Magister (or anyone!) distract him now, just when it looked like the ancient enemy was returning to the human lands? Just when his people needed him most? The fact that the sorcerers served no higher purpose did not mean they had the right to interfere with his. A Lord Protector answered to the gods themselves. Who was their master?
His anger meant little to them, of course. No morati could stand up to a Magister.
But with the Souleaters returning, the lyr would have power of their own. Great power. Or so the legends promised.
Be careful, he thought to the nameless offender. For if you fly too close to this fire, it may just singe your wings.
Chapter 17
YOSEFA’S FAMILY was just sitting down to dinner when the screaming started. It had been a quiet day until that point. Her husband had worked hard loading and unloading ships in the harbor, and she could see from how he leaned on the table how grateful he was to finally sit down and rest. Her oldest child had been helping her cook and for once hadn’t made a mess of things. Her two younger children, both boys, had managed to get through the day without getting into trouble, which was nothing sort of a miracle.
Then the screams had started.
Her daughter was bringing a pot of stew to the table at the time; the sound startled her so badly that she stumbled and fell, spilling the hot contents across the table and into the lap of the youngest boy. He opened his mouth and was about to start screaming himself, but Yosefa reached over and covered his mouth with her hand, forcing him to be silent.
Men were screaming in the distance. Women also. More of them now, voices rising in pitch and volume with each passing second. The sound of raw, unadulterated terror.
It seemed to be coming from the harbor.
Her husband rose up. She could see his eyes going to the heavy cleaver by the fire, and knew what he was planning. “Sorran—” she began, reaching out her hand to stop him. Whatever was going on, she didn’t want him in the middle of it.
Then, somewhere in the distance, a child added its voice to the rest. Shrill and terrified, infant lungs stressed beyond tolerance, squeezing out a single note of terror. The terrible sound vibrated across her motherly nerves like fingernails on slate.
She let her hand fall. “Go,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“I’ll find out what’s happening and come right back. I promise.” He grabbed up the cleaver and a heavy staff from beside the door. “Keep the children safe.”
And then he was gone.
“Mama, what’s happening?” Her daughter was pulling at her skirts. The youngest boy was starting to cry, which meant that the other one would join in soon.
They had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere that no enemies could find them.
“Take a blanket off the bed,” she ordered the girl.
“Gather food into it. Quickly!”
Shaken, her daughter ran off to obey. She was so frightened she didn’t think to ask her question again. How could Yosefa have answered? She did not have a clue what was going on. She only knew with a mother’s certain instinct that they needed to get away from the house as soon as possible, before something terrible happened to them all.
Kneeling by the hearth, she lifted up one of the flat stones, uncovering a small secret space beneath it. A handful of coins were in there, along with a few pieces of silver jewelry. Bridal adornments mostly, now tarnished by time; a dowry they had never spent. She fingered the pieces for a moment and then thrust them into her pocket along with all the rest. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
“Come,” she ordered, gathering up the youngest boy, gesturing for her daughter to take the hand of the other. “Shush,” she told them both. “Stop crying now. I need you to be quiet. I need you to be brave.” To her amazement, it seemed to work. At least they subsided to a quieter form of terror, whimpering softly as she led them all out.
The town bell was tolling in the distance now, a deep, resonant sound. Usually it was used to mark meetings of the elders or to announce the arrival of important visitors. Clearly this time it was being rung as a warning. But of what?
“Come!” she whispered fiercely, as she set off westward, wending her way down the narrow streets. Women and children huddled in doorways and peered through windows as she passed; hungry, worried faces turned to her as she passed, begging her silently for news. I don’t know any more than you do! she thought wildly. Why weren’t they fleeing? If their menfolk had gone off to see what the trouble was, as her husband had done, surely they’d rather have their wives and children safe in the hills than clinging to their homes out of some mistaken belief that mud-patched walls could protect them!
There was less screaming from the harbor now. Was that good or bad? She feared the worst. Finally a few women did join her, dragging terrified children along with them. Too few, too few! What was wrong with all the others? Couldn’t they smell the danger in the air?
Then a bloodcurdling scream arose from within the town itself. A woman’s voice this time, and not from very far away. Yosefa broke into a run, dragging her terrified children along with her. An older girl who was joining the exodus caught up her other boy in her arms and began to run by her side so they could all move faster. Yosefa had no breath to spare to thank her.
Out of the narrow streets they ran, into the open field near the trash pits. Yosefa could smell fire behind them now, and the acrid smell of burning meat. Tears ran down her eyes as she finally reached the far end of the field and started up the hillside that was beyond it. In better days she and her family might have come up here to relax, eating a meal in the open air as they watched the ships sail in and out of the harbor. Now, with the thickets of trees that crowned the hill, it seemed the safest place to go. To hide.
A few children stumbled and fell, trying to run up the slope. But no one cried out. Their mothers grabbed them by the arm and dragged them up the hill, but no one complained. White-faced with terror, they all seemed to understand the need for silence. Even Yosefa’s two boys were quiet now, though they whimpered softly in their throats like frightened puppies.
Finally she and her family reached the top of the hill and with it the shelter of the thickset trees beyond. Not until the greenery had swallowed them up did Yosefa fall to her knees, trembling as she gasped for breath. Leaves weren’t much of a barrier, but at least whatever nightmare was in the town would not be able to see them easily. And with the open field behind them, they’d be able to see anyone or anything that tried to take up their trail.
“Look,” one of the women whispered hoarsely. Yosefa saw her standing by the edge of the thicket, gazing back at the town.
She stood up to where she could see in that direction also, and looked.
The town was burning.
Thick black clouds billowed up from the streets they had just abandoned, and from the rest of the town as well. Here and there the smoke would part for a moment, allowing her to see that bodies lay strewn upon the ground. Silent and still—so very still—lying in pools of blood. Some of the bodies were whole, and might have seemed asleep save for the red puddles surrounding them. Some had limbs missing, or even heads. It was all so surreal she could hardly absorb it.
Then one of the women gasped, and pointed to the harbor.
There were three ships there, narrow and long and shallow of draught, with prows that were carved into the shape of great bestial heads. Scales along the hull seemed to transform the whole of each ship into a vast serpentine creature, ending in a high, curling tail at the stern. Yosefa had never seen such a thing before, but had once heard a street minstrel sing of snake-ships that had existed in an earlier time, in a faraway place. How was it that they were here now?
Men were returning to the ships now, and a few armored women as well; bloody weapons were thrust into their belts, bags of booty slung over their shoulders. Yosefa saw two burly men herding a group of terrified young girls onto one of the ships, roped together by their neck. The oldest could not have been more than ten.
Instinctively Yosefa reached out for her own children and gathered them close to her, as if to protect them. She could feel their hearts pounding against her own as she watched the bloody procession
“What is it, Mama?” Her daughter pressed herself close to her side. She, too, was trembling. “What are they doing?”
The town of Soladin had always been a peaceful place. Its harbor served all travelers equally, so all travelers respected it. Long ago it was said that princes had fought over who owned the surrounding territory, but Danton Aurelius had put a stop to all that. The peace of the sword, he had called it. He had made it clear to everyone in the region that disturbing Soladin would cost them dearly, and none had dared test him. The harbor and its surroundings had become a center of regional trade and had prospered accordingly. The yearly tithe that was required of Soladin seemed a small price to pay for the High King’s protection.
Salvator Aurelius must be told about this, she thought feverishly. The new High King would surely step into his father’s shoes and crush the ones who had done this. He would know what to do.
The monstrous ships were loaded now. Children huddled together in the center of the open decks as long oars were thrust out over the water on both sides, then dipped down into the waves in perfect unison. The ships began to move out of the harbor; slowly at first, then with increasing speed. As they reached the open sea their sails were unfurled, brilliant sheets of white canvas with some kind of crimson serpent painted upon them.
Sorran may still be alive. Yosefa thought. I need to go find him. But nothing in the town was moving now except twisting columns of fire and smoke, roiled by a restless wind.
And then the horror of it all was simply too much for her, and she fell to her knees upon the damp, mossy earth and wept.
Reckoning
Cry sorrow, mothers, for brave sons devoured!
Cry sorrow, fallen kings, for glory lost!
And when you tell the tale, a hundred lifetimes hence,
Say that you failed your god, and paid the cost.
Book of Penitence
Lamentations 24:13
Chapter 18
NYUKU REMEMBERS:
From his vantage point high above the plains, Nyuku could see the place where the world ended.
Shimmering in the air above the snowbound landscape was the hateful spell that divided his universe, a wall of eerie iridescence that was visible to his mind’s eye but not to his human vision. To see it he had to close his eyes and let the ikati’s senses pour into him, along with all the primitive emotions they inspired. He could taste the wind under his belly then, could feel the thin northern sunlight play along his broad wings, heating his blood (but never enough!). He could feel currents of air shift beneath him as he passed over an expanse of naked granite, then over snow once more, and somewhere in another world his human thighs tightened around the great beast as his powerful wings beat against the cold arctic air, striving to maintain his height. But most of all he could taste the ikati’s rage, his bestial fury as he approached the sorcerous barrier that kept him from entering the warm lands to the south. An obscene creation that kept him from chasing the sun southwa
rd, as all of his animal instincts cried out for him to do.
The rage filled Nyuku as well, which is why he made no protest as the ikati suddenly canted in midair and headed directly for the barrier. Crouching down low against his consort’s back, his legs pressing into natural hollows just behind the rear wings, he was one with the ikati and with his rage. When he howled in fury, Nyuku did so as well, as loudly as he could, until the whole of the sky seemed to shake from the force of their defiance.
But the mystical barrier remained unmoved. It stretched across the land as far as he could see, and extended upward into the sky, a glimmering supernatural curtain without visible end or flaw. Or hope.
Soon the sun would set beyond the world’s edge for the last time that season and the Long Night would come once again. The air would grow cold and inhospitable and the ikati would be forced to crawl into narrow caverns, where the heat of the buried Sun Stone would keep them alive until spring. It went against every instinct that the great creatures had to be bound up in a confined space for so long, near enough to others of their kind that they could smell the scent of rivals seeping through cracks in the rock, maddening them with territorial fury. By the time the Sun returned every year the ikati were half mad from their confinement, and the first few flights of the season would often devolve into terrible duels as they vented all their pent-up frustration on one another. Sometimes their riders would channel that aggression into their own affairs and turn on one another on the ground, even as their mounts did the same overhead, until the snow-covered earth was soaked in scarlet and the weakest members of the colony, of both species, had gasped their last breaths.
After that the surviving men would gather up the bodies of the fallen ikati, stripping bone plates and skin to make into weapons and clothing. At first the creatures had reviled the practice, for the foreign smells that clung to the clothing of their human consorts made them feel as if others of their kind were mounting them—an intolerable offense!—but the humans were fragile creatures and needed the kind of protection that only the tough, supple hides could offer. So in time the ikati came to tolerate the practice, even derive a sense of triumph from it as the smells of the skins’ original owners faded over time, replaced by their living and powerful musk: the weak giving way to the strong.
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