Feast of Souls Read online

  Are you sure? Death whispered in her ear. Very sure, Imnea? This time there is no turning back.

  “Go to hell,” she whispered to him.

  The warmth of her living soul filled her flesh, driving out the chill of the winter night. Then outward it flowed, into the boy. Clean, pure, a gift of healing. She shut her eyes, trusting to other senses to observe as it bolstered his own failing spirit, feeding strength into his athra, giving it focus. Fire burned along his veins and the boy cried out, but neither the mother nor the girl flinched.

  The disease was strong in his flesh, rooted in a thousand places; she burned them all, drawing upon her athra for fuel and the boy’s own soul for focus. Some witches said that a disease was like a living thing, that fought back when you tried to kill it; she thought of it more as a thousand living things, or tens of thousands, that might fight or hide or burrow deep into the flesh for protection from such an assault. You had to find them all or the disease would come back later with renewed strength. How much of her life force had she wasted in her early years, learning that lesson?

  The log in the stove hadn’t caught; the fire was dying. Winter’s chill seeped into the cabin and into her bones, and she let it. There wasn’t enough power left within her to keep her flesh warm and heal the boy as well. Not that any witch with a brain would waste power on the former task anyway . . . not when there was wood to be burned. The power was too precious to waste on simple things. If only she’d understood that, in the youth of her witchery! A tear coursed down her cheek as she remembered the hundred and one little magics she could have done without, the tricks performed for pleasure or show or physical comfort. If she could undo them all now, how much time would they add up to? Would they buy her another week, another year of life?

  Too late now, Death whispered.

  Dying. She was dying. This is what it felt like, when the embers of the soul expired at last. She could feel the last tiny sparks of her athra flickering weakly inside her. So little power left. How much time? Merely minutes, or did she have all of an hour left to wonder if she had done the right thing?

  “It is done,” she said quietly.

  The mother leaned down to take the boy, but hesitated when she saw his face. “He looks the same.”

  “His soul is clean. The pustules will drain within a day or two. He will be safe after that.”

  And you, his mother . . . if you have caught this thing too, I am sorry, there will be no one to beg for favors when the first signs show . . .

  She tried to rise, to see them out. Hospitality. But her legs had no strength, and her heart . . . her heart labored in her chest with an odd, unsteady beat, as if the drummer who had guided it for thirty-five years had stopped his music and left it to flounder.

  She was cold. So cold.

  “Mother?”

  The eyes of the girl were fixed upon her. So deep, so hungry, so very determined. Drinking in knowledge as if it was the fuel her soul required. See, child, what the power can do. See what happens to you when you use it. There was no wonder in the child’s eyes, or even fear . . . only hunger.

  Heed this lesson well, my child. Remember it, when the power beckons. Remember the price.

  “Come, child.” It was the mother’s voice, nearly inaudible. Imnea’s hearing was growing dim; the world was an insubstantial thing, all murmurings, windsong and shadow. “Come away now.”

  Are you ready? Death whispered to her.

  Imnea clung to life for a moment more. A single moment, to savor those dreams which had guided her . . . and to mourn those which had gone unfulfilled.

  Then: Yes, she whispered. Voice without sound. Yes, I am ready.

  In the stove the last embers of the fire sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness.

  Beginning

  Chapter 1

  THE MARKET in Royal Square was always busy, but this day in particular the crowds were so dense that it was hard to get from one end to the other without being jostled nearly to death. Some said it was because the weather was perfect, a fine spring day flourishing beneath a nearly cloudless sky, inviting one and all to leave behind their winter solemnity and come squeeze fruit and prod chickens while dreaming of the best of summer feasts. Some said it was because the harvest had been good last year, which meant there were many things to sell, and many farmer’s wives with money in hand ready to buy foreign delicacies.

  Some said it was something else entirely.

  The stranger stood at the edge of the crowd and watched the people for a long moment with a practiced eye. He was taller than most of the locals, and thin, with jet-black hair that hung down to his shoulders and eyes to match. His features were aquiline, cast in an exotic olive tone that spoke of foreign shores and mixed origins. More than one woman turned to watch him as he stepped forward into the crowd, which was only to be expected. Tall, lean, graceful in his movements, he had always attracted women.

  He was dressed in a simple black shirt and breeches, and might have been judged a peasant in his Sunday best, or else a nobleman who had tired of all the extra layers which the display of rank required. A quick look at his fingernails—fastidiously clean—removed the peasant interpretation from consideration. Seamstresses might notice the shirt was of unusually fine cloth, but it took a practiced eye to determine that, and the cut of his garments was not so expensive as to attract undue attention.

  Sometimes even peasants wore black.

  There were some who said that the crowds in the Royal Square gathered today not for gossip, not for trade, or for anything so mundane as market business, but simply to be there. For it was whispered that today a Magister from Anshasa would arrive at the palace with full retinue, and this was the closest that the common populace could get to the main gates to watch him arrive.

  Anshasa. How many of the men here had fought in the great wars against that southern kingdom, how many of the women here had mourned the loss of father, husband, son in those conflicts? Though a tenuous peace had endured now for several years there was no love lost between the two nations, and the gossips who had so fastidiously digested and disseminated the news of the Magister’s visit were at a total loss to come up with a reason why it was taking place. Surely it was all but suicidal—even for a Magister!—to journey to the heart of enemy territory with no more than a brief truce in an eons-old conflict to safeguard him.

  The stranger gazed out upon the crowd, studying them as if they were all foreign beasts, and he a forester learning their ways. A gaggle of young maids in the livery of houseworkers passed him by, their bright eyes full of curiosity and flirtation; he smiled, which set them to giggling even louder. Predictable beasts.

  He picked up a piece of fruit from a nearby wagon with the passing intention of eating it, then saw the bruised surface and put it back. Strangely, the woman behind him who picked it up in turn found it undamaged.

  The wind had blown the blacksmith’s fire into itself, and filled his tent with smoke. It shifted as the stranger passed, and soon the air was clear.

  A chicken about to be beheaded died an instant before the blade struck its neck, and was thus spared both fear and pain.

  A minstrel’s mandolin, painfully out of tune, discovered its proper notes.

  A pickpocketing child tripped and went sprawling in the dirt, his ill-gotten gains splayed out upon the ground for all to see.

  A woman who, unbeknownst to her, had started the day with the seed of a deadly cancer in her breast, returned home without it.

  The stranger’s journey brought him to a tent that was set apart from all the others. Talismans strung from the tent poles tinkled like windchimes, and a small but colorful sign invited visitors to enter and receive advice from a “true witch.” He hesitated a moment, considering, then ducked slightly to clear the low door flap and entered. A heady incense filled the small space, which was decorated with richly embroidered throws and rugs. A woman sat behind a low table, upon cushions of silk embroidered with moons and stars, in front of a
tablecloth of the same. Showmanship. There were cards laid out before her, and a sphere of flawed crystal, and a pile of runic stones.

  “You wish your fortune told?” she asked him.

  “That depends,” he said. “Are you really a witch, or simply a performer?”

  She smiled. She was young—she looked young—and a small bit of gold had been set in the surface of one of her front teeth. “That depends on what you pay me, sir.”

  He drew forth a handful of coins from his pocket as if he neither knew nor cared what they were, and cast them down before her. Gold glittered in the lamplight and caught the banners of afternoon sun that streamed through the tent’s entranceway. She gasped in surprise and he smiled despite himself, certain that such a consummate performer normally prided herself on keeping such emotions to herself.

  “Is that enough for the real thing?” he asked her.

  She looked up at him, as if seeking understanding in his eyes. Another day he might have indulged her, but today he didn’t, so he made sure that any witchery directed at him would slide off him like water from oilskin.

  “What is it you wish to know, sir? And do you care which medium I use?”

  Ah, the paraphernalia, the paraphernalia . . . was it just part of the show for this one, or a genuine focus? Some home-grown witches were ignorant enough that they thought they actually needed tools to draw upon their own soulfire. It never ceased to amaze him.

  “You may use what you wish. And my question is . . .” He glanced out of the tent, to where the gossiping villagers milled and mingled. “The reception that the city has prepared for its foreign guest, is this a welcome in good faith? Or something less benign?”

  She had been reaching out for the deck of cards as if she were about to use them, but as his words settled into warm scented air that hand withdrew, and she leaned back and studied him.

  “You know I can’t answer that, sir,” she said at last. “If the king is keeping secrets then his Magisters are protecting them, and all the cards and crystals in the world won’t get past their safeguards. And if I did learn such secrets, and passed them on to strangers for a handful of coins . . . then I wouldn’t last very long in this city, would I?” She pushed the coins back towards him. “I’m sorry. Please take them.”

  There was hunger in her eyes, he noted. She wanted the truth but she dared not ask. It was always that way with the witching folk, for they could sense on a visceral level his true nature, yet did not trust their own instincts to name it.

  “Loyalty has its own value,” he said quietly. “Keep them.”

  He left the tent without further word. He was sure that as soon as he was out of sight she would pick up her cards again and begin asking questions about him. He did nothing to stop her from finding the answers this time. If she was willing to waste precious moments of her life searching out who and what he was, who was he to render that sacrifice meaningless?

  Towards the far end of the square was a place where the merchants had not been allowed to set up their booths and tents. Drawing near to it, the stranger could see why. From this place the palace itself was visible—or more to the point, this place was visible from the palace. Gods forbid King Danton should gaze out his window and see dirty peasants going about their daily business! No, this close to the palace there was a promenade where the clean and well-dressed might take the morning air, while the local princelings gazed out of their windows and admired them from afar. Maybe one would even spot some young and tender lass dressed in her Sunday finery and sweep down from the palace to take her away to a life of wealth and leisure. So did the comely maidens hope, no doubt, as they strolled along the promenade on the arms of awkward youths in whom they had no real interest, dreaming of the day they would be noticed by someone better.

  Today the press of crowds along the promenade was no less than suffocating, as peasants and tradesmen both strained to catch some sight of the great road beyond that led to the palace gates. That was where the foreign Magister would ride, swathed in black silks, upon a black horse, and accompanied by the gods alone knew how many dignitaries. There had not been a state visit from Anshasa in as long as anyone could remember, and the gossips who thrived on royal trivia chattered as they made ready to receive him, ready to read meaning into every detail of his retinue’s number, attire, and behavior.

  It never changes, the stranger mused.

  He watched for a while, but had no lengthy interest in the matter. After all, it was rumor, not royal announcement, that had gathered the crowd. There was the possibility that no grand retinue was coming at all. Hard for the peasants to grasp, with their innate awe of royal pageantry, and of course King Danton was known for putting on a great show at the slightest excuse, but that was not the custom in all places, and for one whose daily business involved the wealth and power of nations, such a procession might well seem a tedious display. Not to mention a hot and sweaty one. A true Magister was unlikely to relish such a show, the stranger thought, though he might send his luggage on ahead with all the trappings of royalty, to amuse the peasants and perhaps give vague offense to the king who was his reluctant host.

  He continued his wanderings, across the great road and beyond. A packet of dried venison from one pocket stifled his noonday hunger, and when he reached a place where food was served he bought a flagon of mead to wash it down. He could have made it taste like a king’s feast if he had wanted, but he was rarely so self-indulgent. As for his clothes, black though they were, they had accumulated by this time a patina of dust and sweat and would never be mistaken for a Magister’s attire.

  He could have cleaned them, of course. He didn’t.

  Around the back of the great estate, beside the great fence that guarded the king’s property, he paused. It was quiet here, for the thickly forested hunting grounds beyond offered no good view of the royal habits. Fine for him. He called a bird to him—a hawk responded, strong of limb and elegantly feathered—and he whispered instructions into its ear, gave it a fine silver ring he had been wearing, and set it free. It soared over tree and stream and quickly was lost in the distance, winging its way toward the palace.

  Minutes passed.

  Half an hour.

  He ate the last of his dried venison and reflected that he should have bought more mead.

  At last there came a change in the air that he could sense before he saw it. A shimmering, a shivering, that echoed in his own soul, stirring the fires within. When the air began to ripple before him he was prepared, and when the field of ripples was large enough and steady enough for his purposes he stepped into it—and through.

  On the other side was a vast, shadowy chamber, filled with black-robed men. The windows were narrow arrow slits that let in little light, and the vaulted ceiling and dark stone walls drank in the meager offerings of the only lamps in the room, a single pair set along the mantle of a man-sized fireplace.

  The Magisters stood about a long table of dark wood, their chairs pushed back behind them. They were all ages, all races, all shapes . . . and all male. Of course. The nature of women didn’t allow them to join such company.

  The stranger looked about him, studying each in turn. The few whom he knew received a nod of acknowledgment, but there were not many. Those who frequented Danton’s court were unlikely to visit the southlands, and Magisters of the southlands rarely braved these hostile latitudes.

  “I am Colivar, Magister Royal of Anshasa, bound in service to his Majesty Hasim Farah the Most Merciful, scourge of the Tathys, ruler of all the lands south of the Sea of Tears.” The northern language felt harsh on his tongue compared to the liquid resonance of his accustomed dialect, but he spoke it well enough to make himself understood. Little wonder the northerners did not revere poetry as his own people did; one could hardly scribe paeans to love in such a guttural and unsatisfying dialect.

  “You are welcome, Colivar. If a bit early.” The speaker was a man who had chosen to appear in the guise of a white-haired sage, though of cour
se that did not necessarily have anything to do with his real age. His long beard was impressive, and as snowy white as the fur of a meticulously groomed cat.

  “My luggage will be here on time.”

  A soft murmur of amusement that did not quite become laughter coursed about the room. Only the sage’s eyes remained cold.

  “The king might deem such levity offense.”

  Colivar shrugged. “I made no promise of pageantry for his amusement.”

  “And we made you no promise save safe passage to and from this place. Be wary of offending the one who rules here.”

  The one called Colivar laughed. It was hearty, heartfelt laughter that echoed freely in the vast chamber and set the dust to shivering off the window sills. “The king rules here? Truly? Well then you must be cutting the balls off your Magisters, for I don’t know another city where men of power would stand for such a thing.”

  “Hush,” one of the locals said, glancing toward the great oaken doors that guarded the room. “He has got ears, you know.”

  “And servants.”

  “And all of them have minds as malleable as clay,” Colivar responded, “and we are the potters.”

  “Maybe so,” the white-bearded Magister allowed, “but here in the north we pride ourselves on discretion.”

  “Ah.” Colivar brushed at the dust on one shirt sleeve, then the other. “So do you plan to tell me why you have asked me here, against all the tide of morati politics, or does this mean I have to guess? Mind you,” he said, his eyes growing hard for a moment, “you won’t like my guesses.”

  The white-bearded Magister studied him for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly. “Perhaps introductions will make things a bit more clear. I am called Ramirus, Magister Royal of King Danton.” He introduced two more men by his side, both members of the same company. “And this . . .” he indicated a swarthy man wrapped in a black burnoose and turban, “is Severil of Tarsus.”