Salvator stared at the witch in silence for a few seconds, then nodded and held out his hand. Glad to be done with the matter, she gave him back the letter. Royal assignments paid well, but the new High King made her nervous. Especially today. His manner was calm enough, but she sensed that rage simmered just beneath the surface, and she wanted to be far away from him when it boiled over.
Salvator watched as the witch backed her way out of the chamber, offering repeated obeisance as she went. Not until she was gone, and the door was shut solidly behind her, did the High King open the letter and read it again.
My dearest Salvator,
I apologize to you for writing to you with this news, rather than delivering it in person. I had intended to return home by now, as you know, but some matters here in Kierdwyn require my personal attention, and so I will be staying a while longer.
I do assure you, upon the honor of my crown, that Kierdwyn intends no challenge to your authority, and has no connection to the raiders who have plagued the High Kingdom of late. I have also seen compelling evidence that the raiders who attacked Soladin were not from Skandir at all, but actors in a military subterfuge meant to turn you against that ally. In fact our true enemy appears to be in Alkali, a man named Anukyat, and though we do not yet know his true motivation or the extent of his power, it seems clear that he is planting the seeds of war where he feels they are most likely to bear fruit, encouraging allies to turn on one another. Including some of the Guardians.
You must deny him victory.
The Souleaters that have been sighted in the human kingdoms may have come south through Alkali. We do not yet know how or why. It is the search for answers that will keep me in the north longer than I had originally intended; please forgive me for my absence.
Even as I write this letter, my father is gathering his warriors to address these matters. He asks for your assistance. He requests that you direct your own military forces to the Alkali border as if you were preparing to invade. An actual invasion will not be necessary, but their presence on the border will help distract the enemy and thus facilitate the true invasion from my father’s lands.
There is one special condition required to make this work, and that is that no man other than yourself may know that this mobilization is merely a subterfuge. Each man you send to the border must believe, with all his heart and soul, that he is to be sent into battle. Please allow no exceptions.
I am sure you understand why such things matter.
Time is of the essence here. Before the eyes of the gods gaze down upon us again, action will be taken to address this matter. The more you can do to make a show of threatening the border by that time, the more lives may be saved on other fronts.
As your Queen Mother, and as royal emissary to Kierdwyn, I pass along this request to you, from your allies, the Lord and Lady Protector of the Kierdwyn Protectorate. As your Queen Mother, and as your counselor, I assure you that this is the best course for the High Kingdom at this time. You and may I disagree at times over interpreting fine points of our history, but surely the need for decisive action at this time is clear, and I hope you will agree with me on this.
There is no subterfuge here, Salvator. Not where you are concerned. The blood of the lyr runs in your veins, which makes your alliance with my parents a matter of sacred trust for them, not merely political expediency. I know that does not mean much by the measure of your faith, but trust me, it is a bedrock upon which you can rely.
My son, I know you must have many questions, and I deeply regret that I cannot return home to answer them. The shadow of war falls swiftly upon us, and I fear this is only the first campaign of many. Pray to your Creator god for strength and clear judgment, if you believe that he can provide such things, for surely this will be a test for us all.
Your witches can use this letter to send me a response, if you wish. Meanwhile trust in Ramirus if he contacts you, for I know what his interest is in this matter, and his loyalty is certain.
Writ by my hand this day, in love and honor, for House Aurelius,
Gwynofar
Salvator shut his eyes and counted slowly to ten, drawing in a deep breath as he did so, reciting such meditations in his mind as would help to settle his spirit. Anger was a bestial emotion the priests of the Creator taught, frustration a bestial response. A man who understood that could master his emotions, if he wanted to. A man who served the two-faced god had a responsibility to do so.
When he felt that his spirit was finally calm enough for him to think clearly he offered up a prayer to his god, but not as Creator. It was his god’s Destroyer aspect that would oversee this affair, deciding whether a given battle would be won or lost and how many men would die. The Souleaters were one tool of the Destroyer, but not his only one. Suspicion, doubt, greed, and fear were all part of his arsenal as well. Even the so-called ‘northern gods’ could serve his purpose, in tempting men away from their proper path. What were those idols after all but illusions of power, seductive legends of greed and violence that encouraged men to accept their baser instincts rather than struggle against them?
When he had finished with his prayer he opened his eyes and looked to his mother’s letter again. In his momentary lapse of spirit he had crushed it in his hand, and now he smoothed it open again and read it slowly, carefully, testing each word in his mind for all the hidden meanings that it might contain. The Magisters were conspicuous for not being mentioned in her strategy. Did Gwynofar think that he would believe they played no part in this? What other purpose could possibly be served by making sure that every last soldier believed a lie “with all his heart and soul,” if not to trick those who could peer into the hearts of men?
It was said that in the ancient days, before the coming of the Magisters, wars had been fought with blood and steel and courage. Nothing more. Strength pitted against strength, strategy against strategy, with the kind of brutal directness that had marked the First Age of Kings. Life had been simpler then. Easier for a king to manage. All was changed now.
I am my father’s son as well as my mother’s, he thought darkly.
What did they expect of him now? That he would perform the role his mother had scripted for him, crafting his strategy to suit the games of Magisters? That for fear of sorcery, he would keep his generals ignorant of their true purpose, and let his men be herded like sheep to a battle they did not comprehend, against an enemy whose name they did not even know?
What was it that his god would expect him to do? Since the day he had sworn an oath to serve the Creator, he had prayed that the final war would never come. He had served in the monastery to help make that possible, humbling himself to his Creator on behalf of all mankind, offering up his personal sacrifices to weigh against the sins of others. Yet clearly it had not been enough. All the prayers of all the priests, all the sacrifices of monks and acolytes, even the offerings of common worshipers—who might cast away a bit of bread in sacrifice, refrain from wine, or quiet a moment’s song—had not been enough.
Judgment had been rendered. Redemption denied. The Destroyer’s face was turned toward them at last. And he was a king now, not a monk any longer, and must accept a king’s duties.
His heart heavy, Salvator took up a fresh quill, uncapped a bottle of ink, and began to write out his orders.
Chapter 24
THE STONE tower was narrow and tall, with parallel furrows running vertically down its surface. Some were shallow and clean and looked as if a monstrous clawed hand had gouged them out with a single swipe; others were carved more deeply into the stone, perhaps giving access to whatever interior space existed; still others had been eroded by wind and ice into twisted, pitted channels whose depths were lost in shadow. The side of the monument that faced the Citadel was uneven and broken, with stairlike formations in several places, albeit sized for a giant’s stride. The outer face was much more forbidding, with no possibility of interior access on its lower half, and little hope after that.
“You have
everything you need?” Lazaroth asked.
The archivist scratched a few more hurried lines onto his drawing, added a few notes, and then nodded.
The image of the tower faded from their sight, leaving the table in the map room empty but for Rommel’s notes. Twenty men and women now filled it to capacity and a subtle current of shifting flesh coursed through the room periodically, as the casual movement of one required that all the others reposition themselves to keep an acceptable space between them.
“These have been prepared for the climb,” Lazaroth said. He put two heavy burlap bags on the table, then conjured a small boulder into place beside them. Removing an iron spike from the bag, he thrust it into the rock. Sparks flew and chips of stone went flying across the room as the spike sank deeply into the stone surface. After a moment it appeared to be held fast, and when Lazaroth lifted up the spike to demonstrate his art, the rock came with it. When he knew that everyone had seen it he nodded, and it vanished once more.
“The sorcery is intrinsic to the spikes and will be triggered when you strike the point against your target. Whether that will work or not once you get close to the Wrath I cannot begin to guess, but hopefully it will come under the heading of ‘spells cast elsewhere’ and function properly. As the witch Kamala suggests it may.” His lips curled in subtle distaste as he spoke her name. Was it because he disdained all witches, Kamala wondered, or just her in particular? “Do not bank your lives on these until that theory has been tested.”
He handed one of the sacks to Favias and one to Ullar. The lord constable hefted his briefly, as if testing its weight, then handed it off gruffly to one of the men crowding behind him. As commander of Kierdwyn’s armies he would have to remain behind to orchestrate the military phase of the campaign and that clearly did not please him. Was it because he wanted to see to Gwynofar’s safety personally, as he claimed, or was there something more subtle going on, some sort of rivalry between Kierdwyn’s common soldiers and the Guardians? Trying to catch all the subtle signs of it made Kamala’s head hurt.
Four Guardians would be accompanying Gwynofar, and four soldiers, with two more to watch over the horses once they were left behind. It was the best they had been able to agree on, with each faction fighting for control of the expedition. Both sides would have been happier sending a hundred men to guard Gwynofar, but the larger the expedition was, the harder it would be to hide it from the enemy’s surveillance. In the end the Magisters had advised no more than a dozen participants, and the Lord Protector had backed their call.
That night’s discussion had ended in a fierce argument between Favias and the lord constable over exactly who was going, who would not be going, why some particular combination of soldiers and Guardians would be better than another until at last Kamala had abandoned the field of battle to get some sleep. When she was given an update in the morning, she was told they had reached a compromise, but it seemed clear that both were less than happy with it.
Four Guardians would ride with Gwynofar, to master-mind the assault on the monument, and hopefully to get her safely to the top. Four soldiers would guard her rear from assault during their climb and later prepare the way back down. More than that would only be counterproductive, Ullar had argued, given the physical parameters of the situation. For once, Favias had agreed. It was clear they were both unhappy about that situation and wished that Gwynofar would pass the torch on to someone . . . well, to someone more expendable.
And then there were the Souleaters to worry about.
We don’t know how many of the creatures exist on this side of the Wrath, the Lord Protector said, or where they are located right now. The best we can do is try to draw their attention to another battlefront while you make your approach and hope they respond.
No one talked about what would happen to Kierdwyn’s armies if that plan worked. They all understood the sacrifice that might be necessary.
Colivar was coming from the south to help, along with Sulah, a student of his; that much had been confirmed by Lazaroth, with an ill-guarded smirk of triumph as he watched his rival’s reaction. But Ramirus was not taken by surprise this time and simply nodded his acknowledgment of the arrangement. His eternally impassive expression offered little insight into his true feelings, but Kamala sensed that he was far from pleased by that part of the plan. It seemed odd to her, given that she’d seen Ramirus and Colivar standing side by side when Rhys fought the Souleater, and she stored the observation away in the back of her mind for when she might make use of it. The Magisters would move Kierdwyn’s troops into position along a vulnerable flank of the Alkali Protectorate, hopefully with enough speed that true invasion appeared imminent. Ullar had seen to it that rumors of a coming campaign had been leaked to the right spies and Lazaroth had backed up the rumors with enough sorcerous obfuscation that any Magister who tried to confirm Kierdwyn’s plans would learn only what the Lord Protector wanted him to. So dense and powerful were the deceptive spells being cast in the castle that at times it was hard for Kamala herself to remember what the master plan really was. Magister Lazaroth’s skills were formidable.
Another piece of information to remember.
Then of course there was the biggest question of all, at least from Kamala’s standpoint. What part would she play in all this? Logic—and self-preservation—dictated that she should be as far from the affected region as possible. The first time she had approached the Wrath she had not properly understood its power and had been deep within its area of effect before she knew what the danger was. This time she understood that all her sorcery would not be worth a rat’s ass in that place. If anything went wrong—and it was a sure bet that something would—she would not be able help the expedition and she would not be able to protect herself.
But.
She had already experienced the power that arcane knowledge could wield when she’d bound Ramirus to a Magister’s oath for a single serving of it. More information would mean more power over more Magisters, leveraged against the day when she would need to call in those favors. For the first time since she had killed the Magister in Gansang, she really felt as if she had some direction. Now this insane expedition (and she did regard it as insane) offered a new opportunity. The very power that made it dangerous for her to approach the Wrath meant that no other Magister would dare go there.
Because they are intelligent, she told herself dryly. Because they understand what a fragile thing immortality can be, and how they should not take chances with it.
But the kind of knowledge that Magisters valued might not be the sort that morati would think to collect for her. Not to mention the Guardians had other priorities. So as the only Magister who would be present at the assault, she would have an unparalleled opportunity to gather the kind of knowledge the other Magisters would value. And be willing to pay for. And maybe even fight over, if she handled it well enough.
That was the real reason she was going. That was the only reason. No human sentiment was involved. No desire for the sense of elation that accompanied taking risks and surmounting them. No pleasure in outwitting the kind of men who had abused her so casually in her youth, no joy in robbing them of what they wanted most and leaving them with empty hands, to wonder what in all the hells had happened. Until that day when one of them (probably Colivar) called for her death and all the others were forced to defend her. And certainly no fondness for Rhys, or respect for the courage and honor of his family. No Magister would be so foolish as to let such emotions sway him. Especially not when his survival might be at issue.
It was just about knowledge, she told herself sternly. Nothing else.
“You are sure you want to do this, Majesty?” Ramirus’ sober expression made his own feelings about the matter quite clear. “You understand the risk?”
“I am lyra,” Gwynofar said quietly. “This is my duty.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So the gift of the lyr is named at last: stubbornness.”
Despite her dark mood Gwynofar smiled. “
What other gift could make us cling to a cause a thousand years after most men had forgotten its name? Danton asked me that once.” She sighed, twisting a bit of her mourning dress between her fingers, remembering him. “In his eyes all the lyr were foolish dreamers . . . but he admired our passion.”
“Dreams aside, you are a queen, not a mountain climber. Passion can accomplish much, but it does not negate the force of gravity.”
For a moment Gwynofar didn’t answer. Then she went to the window and looked outward, over the lands that surrounded her parents’ castle. It was a rugged terrain, spotted with pine trees and naked stone ridges. There were mountains to the west that soared high above the alpine line, their peaks clad in snow even during the reign of summer. “When I was a girl I used to run about freely; the servants were exhausted trying to keep up with me. I would climb trees and rocks, and wriggle into caves, and in general do everything I could that tasted of adventure. My parents encouraged such a spirit in me. They believed it would make me strong.” She looked at him defiantly. “And it did.”
Ramirus sighed. “With all due respect, Majesty, that was twenty years ago. And six children. How long has it been since the last time you climbed a tree? Or even rode astride on a horse?”
“The spirit remembers such things—”
Wings of Wrath Page 35