Feast of Souls

  You had the test all wrong, Ethanus. It is when you can steal someone’s life merely to improve a cup of wine that you know you are truly a Magister.

  “Your servant said you wished to speak to me.”

  “Yes. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the chairs again; after a moment she lowered herself onto one of them. He sat opposite her, set his goblet on the table, then steepled his fingers thoughtfully, as if musing over exactly what to say. It was a bit too studied a move to read true; she guessed that he had rehearsed these words in private many, many times.

  “I heard of your fight in the Quarter,” he said finally. “Impressive use of power, that.”

  She shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Witches rarely indulge their power thus.”

  “Witches don’t like to be raped,” she said curtly.

  Ravi chuckled his amusement at the image. Kamala felt a knot of distaste rising in the back of her throat, and fought it down with effort. Don’t underestimate this man, she warned herself. The fact that he looks and acts like a strutting peacock may simply mask the heart of a wolf . . .

  . . . or more likely a vulture.

  “And yet,” he said, “there are many witches who would submit to such an assault rather than waste a precious portion of their life essence. Am I wrong?”

  An easy denial rose to her lips . . . and died there. Was he right? Did the most powerful women in the world lie down in the mud and permit themselves to be used like whores because by defending themselves they would hasten their own deaths? The thought was sickening. And yet probably true. She knew that in the core of her soul even as Ravi spoke the words.

  I would rather die than live like that, she thought. And she looked up at Ravi and for a brief moment saw the intelligence that glimmered behind his painted eyes. He knows that.

  “Go on,” she said quietly.

  He leaned forward on the table. “You have so much power, so much potential, you can do things most men do not even dream of . . . yet you are shackled by necessity, unable to shape the world like the Magisters do because of the cost, unable to alter your own fate except in tiny fragments. It’s never enough for you, I am guessing. Never as much as you would like.” He leaned back again, his hands folding before him; his sharp eyes never left hers. “Am I wrong?”

  “You do not know who I am.” She said it quietly. “Or what I truly want.”

  “Perhaps.” He did not seem disturbed by her chill response, but took up his goblet and sipped from its contents as casually as if he were sharing an amiable dinner drink with an old friend. This was also a well-rehearsed move, she sensed. “Let me tell you then what I would offer to another woman who had your power, but perhaps wanted . . . different things. I would say to her, come into my service, and I shall give you all the things you dare not conjure for yourself. I will clothe you in silks and adorn you in jewels, and set before you all manner of delicacy in food, wine . . . even bring you men, women, boys, as you please, to serve your pleasure. Speak of a desire and my house shall do its best to provide it. Whisper a need and all my staff shall come running to attend upon you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And in return?”

  “In return?” He shrugged. “Only such small services as might be needed now and then by a businessman such as myself. The turning of a mind. The easing of a contract. The cultivating of favor where mere diplomacy could not manage it . . . or perhaps an occasional error in a rival camp, if that is required.”

  She drew in a breath very slowly, very carefully. Words and emotions were a wild storm within her; she had to pick her way through them carefully to find the proper path. “You understand the power that fuels witchery is one’s own life.”

  “I understand that spells have a cost, yes. I would not offer to pay you so well for them if it were otherwise.” He leaned back across the table again, intending the motion to seem relaxed, but the hunger in his eyes was undisguised. “Give me those few minutes’ worth of service, and I will make of all the rest of your life a thing other women will envy. Or if that does not tempt you, then state your price. I will meet it, and more.”

  He was offering her a Magister’s contract, but he could not possibly know she was a Magister. All he knew was that as a witch she was free with her power, seemingly unconcerned with the ultimate cost of wielding that magic. Willing to die young if that meant she might indulge herself now.

  It was an assessment so opposed to what Kamala truly was, so totally and absolutely wrong, that for a moment it left her speechless.

  “You are so sure I have a price,” she said at last.

  The answer was in his eyes; he did not have to voice it. A merchant’s answer: Every man has a price.

  Wordlessly she rose and turned away from the table. She did not want him to see her expression right now. The indignation, the disgust, burned too hotly in her to be disguised . . . but would he even recognize those emotions if he saw them? Would he understand the cause? In his mind he had done nothing wrong. He was just playing the same game that the rich and powerful had always played with the lower classes. Money could buy anything, including human life. Why not apply it in this case?

  “You would make me your whore,” she muttered.

  There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps he heard the razor-sharp edge in her voice and took warning from it. That was a good thing. It would take but a moment’s effort for her to release all that anger inside her in a blazing firestorm of sorcery, and she was sorely tempted to do so. Yes, he was only one fool among many—there were a million others like him in the world—but oh, how sweet it would be to give this one painted peacock the fate he deserved! She would let him know in his final moments just who and what he had insulted, and see the horror of it in his eyes as he struggled for his last breath.

  With effort she shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced the impulse to subside. You did not tell me, Ethanus, that the hardest part of my struggle to control the power would be learning to control myself.

  As insulting as Ravi’s offer was, it was also tempting. That was the distasteful truth of it. Not for the reasons the merchant had given her, or any reason he would understand. But she had realized after the fight in the Quarter that she was not yet ready to wander the world on her own. Her power was too wild and untested, and her soul . . . her soul did not yet know what it wanted. And now, in Ravi’s presence, she was acutely aware of the great divide between his class and hers, and the fact that it would take more than sorcery to cross it. She needed practice. She needed cover. This peacock could provide her with both.

  And then there were the Magisters. Some would be in Gansang, serving the powerful nobles of this prosperous city as they served princes and kings in other places. Ravi was clearly no more than a petty merchant in their eyes, not rich enough or important enough to merit a sorcerous attendant—else why would he be courting witches?—but he was an ambitious man, and that meant he would be moving in the circles where the black-robed sorcerers held sway. A cold fluttering filled her heart at the thought of them. As one of Ravi’s people she could meet other Magisters without having to reveal what she was. She could take their measure first, learn their ways, plan out the moment of revelation . . . what other arrangement could offer her that?

  Slowly she turned back to face Ravi. Her expression was cold, offering no hint of the emotions roiling inside her. She would never let him have any true insight into her, or anything else he might use as a tool for manipulation.

  “You will give me whatever I ask for,” she said, “without question, and without limit. You will introduce me into your society as you would one of your own blood. Your servants will attend me accordingly, and teach me anything I need to know. Yet none shall know what I am to you, save that I am a lady honored by your favor.” Her green eyes glittered. “Women shall envy me your generosity, men shall wonder at it, but none shall know its cause.”

  “And in return?” he asked. The hunger in his voice was undisg
uised now.

  “In return . . .” She smiled coldly. “You may request of me whatever service you like. I will measure your need against the cost, and decide if I wish to assist you. If so, you shall have what you ask for. If not . . .” She shrugged. “You are free to end our contract whenever you wish.”

  You would make me a whore, she thought, but you do not understand what a whore really is. There is power in having something a man wants and making him pay for it. There is power in knowing you can cast his coin in the dirt if it pleases you, that coin which he thought could buy him anything.

  He stared at her for a long moment in silence. She could have used her power to learn what his thoughts were, but there was no reason to drain her consort just for that. She could guess well enough.

  I am the only one who can give you what you want. You will pay my price or go hungry.

  “Very well,” he said at last. His tone made it clear that he was not pleased by her conditions, but he nodded. “It will be as you describe.”

  And he pulled the tasseled rope again, that his servants might come and be introduced to their new mistress.

  Chapter 17

  HIS BROTHERS could not have survived this journey, Andovan thought.

  Rurick, of course, would never have set foot outside the palace without a host of retainers to attend him. Part of that was the rightful caution of any royal heir—enemies would have much to gain by taking Danton’s firstborn prisoner—but really, it had more to do with Rurick’s perpetual need to be admired. While Andovan hated being fussed over by servants (he insisted anew each morning that he really could dress himself), Rurick would not so much as roll up his hose without a cadre of servants to prepare for the act, assist with its execution, and then comment upon its excellence. Left alone in the woods, as Andovan was now, he would probably drive himself mad trying to get the squirrels to sing his praises.

  Salvator was a different story. The High King’s second son was already mad, some claimed, and one could tell by the way the court doted upon Rurick that they desperately hoped he would inherit Danton’s empire, not because he was worthy of it but because the alternative was much more unsettling. Salvator claimed he could hear the voices of the gods speaking to him, and some years ago had entered a monastery to discover how to hear them better. Danton wasn’t happy about that, but didn’t go so far as to forbid it. There really was no precedent for refusing a royal prince the right to worship whatever god he chose, and even though Salvator had chosen some obscure deity that was focused upon the sins and failings of mankind rather than its passions or conquests, that really didn’t matter. Rurick was hale and hearty and already had a son on the way; it was unlikely Andovan’s priestly brother would ever be called to the throne.

  Salvator would not do well in the wilderness either, being accustomed to food appearing on his plate at the monastary table rather than having to hunt it down himself. But at least he was practiced in fasting. And he would not be so alone here as Rurick was; after all, he had his strange gods to talk to. No doubt they would have an excellent discourse upon how Salvator’s own failings had brought him to such a pass. Andovan shook his head in amazement. He was used to his mother’s gods, as cold as the land they inhabited, whose eyes were fixed upon battles and bloodshed and whose conflicts affected the fate of the mortal world. He found it very hard to respect a god who spent his time tallying up the personal faults of each worshipper. It seemed somehow petty.

  Valemar would not be completely helpless out here, Andovan thought. The youngest of Danton’s sons had even gone hunting with him a few times, though he nearly suffered a stroke when Andovan suggested they leave the retainers behind and go off on their own. He was something of a ladies’ man, which had more to do with his skill at seduction and his charisma than any physical advantage; like all of Andovan’s brothers he took after their father in appearance, and his harsh, eagle-like features were ill designed for seducing fair maidens. But power and station were equally seductive to women as looks, and Valemar was a master at playing those qualities to his advantage.

  Valemar was continually surrounded by retainers not simply out of royal custom, but out of Danton’s belief that someday he would wind up in the wrong bed and disaster would come of it. Thus it was that even in his most secretive trysts there were servants somewhere in attendance . . . though not always where the subject of his attentions would notice them. If left alone in the woods tomorrow, with neither maiden to court nor watchdogs to attend him, he would probably be so disconcerted he would not know which foot to put forward first.

  Not so with Andovan. He had always preferred solitude, and the woods were his favorite venue. To ride through the shadows of an ancient forest and suddenly come upon a deer feeding that had never learned the fear of man . . . that was a pleasure to him as great as any which Danton’s court had to offer. Once Rurick’s wife had announced her pregnancy and Ramirus had confirmed that the child-to-be was male, the High King had finally, reluctantly, accepted Andovan’s antisocial proclivities and allowed him to venture out into the royal grounds without a flock of retainers guarding his every step. But only into those bounded woods where commoners would not venture. He would never have allowed Andovan the freedom he had now, to do anything, to wander anywhere, without a phalanx of servants to guard him . . . a freedom that was as intoxicating as it was unfamiliar.

  If only he were not dying, he might have enjoyed it.

  He had left the crowded cities and shadowy wood-lands of the eastern kingdoms behind and headed, for the rolling green farmlands and open plains of the Great Plateau. Here, where trees were scarce, villages were few and far apart and were generally constructed from the earth itself, like some organic being. The people were generally hospitable—unlike the eastern farmers, who tended to attack strangers first and ask questions later—and he spent more than one night trading gossip for a night’s bed, or offering his advice on how best to break the wild horses of the region to a bridle.

  At night a jeweled sky stretched out from horizon to horizon above the grasslands, and one could almost believe that it went on forever, rather than ending, as the scholars taught, in the Sphere of the Heavens. The sight of it was strangely humbling. Andovan knew that his mother’s people had come of age in a similar—though far colder—landscape and worshipped their strange, violent gods beneath the same glittering skies. Indeed, in a place such as this the northern gods were said to have blessed her bloodline—Andovan’s bloodline—above all others, granting them secret powers for the day when their efforts would be necessary to save the world.

  But it was hard to feel like a savior of worlds with the Wasting sapping his strength. Hard to focus upon any earthly pleasure when he could feel Death breathing down his neck. And so he pressed on, westward, following in the wake of the murky dreams that seemed to be guiding him.

  What was the spell that Colivar had placed on him? How was it supposed to work? The Magister had not given him details, merely said it would “sensitize” him to his killer. What did that mean? How was the woman connected to him in the first place? Would he even know her when he saw her? These questions and others plagued him during the long hours when he was alone. He wished Colivar were there to advise him, and at the same time, knew he should not trust the southern Magister. The man was his father’s enemy, after all, and Andovan would never have turned to him for help in the first place had he not believed that any other Magister would have told Danton what he intended. Only Colivar could be trusted to keep his silence.

  Yet he had seen the hungry spark in the Magister’s eyes when he had broached his plans, and he knew with certain instinct—the sixth sense of royalty—that Colivar wanted to know who this woman was as much as he did. Which meant that, for his own selfish reasons, Colivar would serve him faithfully in this. That was how Magisters worked.

  Or so Danton had taught him.

  At night he dreamed dark dreams, sometimes terrifying dreams, filled with demons who tore the living flesh fro
m his body to feast upon, succubi who drained all the strength of his manhood, and worse. He awoke from those nightmares in a cold sweat, trembling. Part of him wished the dreams would stop, but another part of him, desperate for answers, clung to them even after waking, turning every detail over in his mind like a child turning over stones at the beach, looking for tiny creatures scuttling beneath. Yet there was no meaning he could find in them, beyond a simple expression of his fears. Certainly no clues that would help him find the source of his illness, if such a person existed.

  Open grasslands gave way to badlands, whose maze of twisting ravines marked the westernmost border of Danton’s territory. He had to hire a guide to get him through, a local who knew which routes would not circle back on themselves or terminate in a dead end at the brink of some serpentine canyon. The traveling was hard and his horse was tired and it was not until they reached the other side and his guide left him, that Andovan realized exactly where he was.

  Mountains reared skyward to the west of him, glowing an eerie red in the late afternoon sunlight. This was the Blood Ridge, supposedly named for the red maples that covered its lower flanks, lending the whole range a crimson cast. At least that was what Andovan had been taught back home. But out here the locals assured him the name came from something else entirely, and commemorated the brutality of Danton’s troops when they first entered the region. It was a border marked in blood, they said, and the gods had turned the trees themselves red so that the children of those the High King murdered would never forget.

  If they had realized that Andovan was of Danton’s line they would probably have added his blood to the mix.

  Now, standing in the shade of a vast maple whose leaves were like dark red hands grasping at the sunlight, he felt a sense of mixed exhaustion and awe. This was the end of his father’s territory, the gateway to lands beyond. Which meant that the woman he sought was in a place where the Aurelius line had no authority. Was she perhaps some distant enemy of his father’s House, working ill upon Danton’s line? He could think of no other reason for a person so far away to have given him this disease. If that was indeed what had happened.