Wings of Wrath

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For
Feast of Souls:
“Imaginative, deftly plotted . . . Readers will eagerly await the next installment.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Friedman's storytelling acumen and her ability to create unforgettably complex characters make this series opener an essential addition to any library's fantasy collection.”

—
Library Journal

 

“Well-fashioned and often absorbing. A good start to the trilogy.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“Powerful, intricate plotting and gripping characters distinguish a book in which ethical dilemmas are essential and engrossing.”

—
Booklist

For
Wings of Wrath:
“Beautifully written . . . set in a casually grim world where cloak-and-dagger political intrigue is necessary for survival.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“The author of the ‘Coldfire' trilogy offers moments of both beauty and horror and characters who find themselves questioning their deepest beliefs.”

—
Library Journal

 

“
Wings of Wrath
is an excellent second volume of a trilogy, and a solid work in its own right. It is an emotionally charged, sensual, and thought-provoking novel . . . I think Friedman is on the way to another standout trilogy.”

—
sffworld.com

Novels by
C. S. Friedman
available from DAW Books:

 

The Magister Trilogy
FEAST OF SOULS WINGS OF WRATH

 

The Coldfire Trilogy
BLACK SUN RISING WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS CROWN OF SHADOWS

 

Other Novels:
THE MADNESS SEASON

 

THIS ALIEN SHORE

 

IN CONQUEST BORN THE WILDING

Copyright © 2009 by C.S. Friedman.
www.csfriedman.com

 

All rights reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1464.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Printing, February

eISBN : 978-1-101-19665-6

 

For Betsy Wollheim
Amazing editor
Priceless muse
Beloved friend

B
Y FAR, the best part of researching any book is getting to sit down with experts in various fields and hear them talk about the stuff they love. Special thanks for this volume go to John Woodson, whose love of traditional climbing was as infectious as his knowledge was impressive.

Thanks also to my reading team, who really worked their butts off on this one. That's Carl Cipra, Kim Dobson, Paul Hoeffer, Zsusy Sanford, and David Walddon. Couldn't have done it without you guys! Also Fonda Nichols, Steve Rapaport, and Beth Tobin for additional reading support.

Special thanks to Joshua Starr for all his help, especially with the map.

Last but not least, thanks to all the wonderful people at Sylvan for helping to keep me sane while I finished this manuscript . . . Emily Habermeyer and Elise Nicely for being the best bosses ever, and all my students (especially the writing students!) for filling my heart with joy and pride. You guys work so hard that it inspires me to do the same. Keep it up!

T
HE GODS were coming.

The boy pressed himself down against the hot ground, clinging to the mountain with blackened hands. Broken bits of lava and clumps of ash came loose beneath his fingertips, searing his skin like hot coals, but he hardly noticed. His attention was fixed upon the view overhead, in particular those few places where the thick clouds parted and the sky itself was visible.

They were coming soon. They must be.

They would not refuse the offering.

Beneath his vantage point, in the vast gray bowl of the caldera, a half dozen girls whimpered in pain and terror. They were small things, his age or younger, and bright red blood streamed from cuts on the backs of their legs. The priests had decreed they should be hamstrung before being cast into the caldera, lest they do what the last group of sacrifices had done: flee to the lava pit at its far end to throw themselves in, rather than embrace their destiny. The gods were not pleased when the offerings died too quickly. And when the gods were not pleased the Sleep came, and children died, and crops stood untouched in the fields until they rotted for lack of strong men to harvest them.

The girls were terrified, of course, and the boy winced as one of them screamed, unable to see which one it was, trying not to wonder about it. The Land of the Sun was a small place and he knew the name of everyone in it . . . but once a girl was chosen to be sacrificed she gave up her former name and identity and became only Tawa, a hand-maiden of the gods. It was too terrifying to think of them as anything else now, to remember that the girls who had once run with him, jested with him, and played “show me yours and I will show you mine” in the shadow of the great mountain, were set out like lambs for the slaughter, awaiting the gods who would devour them.

Food. The priests never called them that, but that was what they were. Everyone in the Land of the Sun knew it, though no one ever said it aloud. A man could offer up his daughter to be a bride of the gods and feel there was honor in the act, but once he admitted that she was little more than a herd animal being staked out for slaughter, that honor died a cold and miserable death. The flowers woven into the girls' hair ceased to be bridal circlets, no longer crowns of communion but simply a macabre garnish; their cries were no longer the songs of welcome a virgin bride might offer to a majestic and powerful bridegroom, but simply squeals of primitive, overbearing terror.