Feast of Souls

  It was the ultimate violation of her person. The fact that she was not truly a witch only made it worse. How long would he play with her like this—toying with her as a cat does with a mouse—forcing her to use up more and more of her life essence, seeking that moment in which her prideful soul would expire of exhaustion at his feet? The fact that such moment would never come, and he did not know it yet, only made the game more repulsive in her eyes.

  I am no mouse, she thought. It ends now.

  Rage was a conflagration within her, and she loosed it in all its heat. Not as she had in the Quarter, blindly and desperately, fearing her own power. This blow was focused and deliberate, and targeted to the seat of his male pride. He wanted to play dominance games with her? Very well, let him learn what violation felt like.

  Perhaps he did not expect her to strike at him, or else the time between impulse and action was simply so short he had no time to respond. The battering ram of her power broke through his defenses—if there were any—and slammed straight into his gonads. The force of it drove him backward against the far railing, and for a moment he acted like any man would, gasping for breath as he tried to master the pain and do something other than vomit. You chose the wrong whore to play with, she thought, as she made the rail shatter behind him. A cascade of stone fragments rained down upon the street below as he struggled for balance, but his weight had been too far committed to the railing for him to save himself now, and—

  He fell.

  She stepped quickly over to his side of the bridge to watch the fall. Any sorcerer could save himself, of course, but how would he do so? Would he turn himself into a bird, perhaps, or some great cat that could land safely on its feet? Or simply slow his own fall so that he landed safely, still in human flesh? In the end it was all about power, of course, and whether one wished to make modest demands upon one’s consort, or suck a stranger dry for the sake of some dramatic flourish. She had little doubt about what choice this kind of man would make. But would he save himself first and then strike back at her somehow, or combine the two intentions into one smooth action in the hopes that she would not see his attack coming? That was an answer that mattered.

  She watched as he fell, and she made ready to defend herself yet again.

  And then he struck the ground. The sound of the impact echoed between the towers. It was not unlike the sound a man’s head might make when struck with an iron bar, but ten times louder, and a hundred times more final. It passed through her flesh like a shockwave and left a cold knot of dread lodged in her gut.

  He did not move.

  She waited.

  He still did not move.

  There were voices coming now, approaching from below. Seeking the source of that terrible sound.

  Get up, she thought desperately. Strike back!

  He did neither of those things.

  She leaned over the edge of the railing and expended enough power to magnify her senses in order to study him more closely. It was hard to see him in the shadows of the towers, but she thought that his robes no longer seemed to be that sorcerous black, but rather something more normal. There was no rise and fall of his chest, nor any heartbeat she could detect. And the angle of his neck was wrong, all wrong. Living men did not lie in that position.

  Cold, afraid, she backed along the bridge to the nearest wall and leaned against it, trembling. The fall shouldn’t have killed him. No fall could kill a Magister. The only death a Magister need fear was one that came too swiftly for him to react to, and a fall was not that kind. A fall was a long, leisurely end, full of opportunity to reach out with sorcery and save oneself—

  Unless his power failed him, she thought.

  Unless he went into Transition.

  Unless he could not claim a new consort in time.

  There were men down by the body now, shouting things. She heard them as if from a great distance, without understanding, as if they spoke a language she had never learned.

  She had killed a Magister.

  There is but one Law, Ethanus had told her, paramount above all others: no Magister shall ever kill another.

  Someone came out of Tower Savresi, to see what the ruckus was about. She wrapped the shadows of twilight about her closely, that none might see her. Her legs were weak, and without the strength of the wall behind her she might have fallen.

  I have broken the Law.

  Any minute now, one of the visiting Magisters would come out and see the twisted body. She did not know what would happen if they looked her way. Probably they would see right through her trembling sorcery to the pale, frightened woman within. She could certainly not return to the fete and try to pretend that nothing was wrong; any sorcerer who looked at her would be able to sense the deception.

  I cannot stay here.

  The thought was horror and despair and failure and fury all bound up together, emotions too hot and terrible for one living soul to contain. It burst forth from her and she screamed, screamed to the skies above and to all the hells below, screamed till her throat was raw and her voice began to fail. Though she bound enough power to keep any other living creature from hearing her, still she could hear herself, and she trembled to have such a bestial and terrible sound issue forth from her own throat.

  There were more figures coming from the tower now, and some of them were wearing black. With a final sob she drew enough power from her consort to saturate her flesh with power, preparing it to transform. It was a high order spell, and almost more than her trembling spirit could handle. But she had only seconds to see it to completion before someone would look upward, surely, and that added fear gave her strength.

  One of the men did look upward a moment later, seeking the place the Magister had fallen from.

  One of the black-robed sorcerers followed his gaze, seeking the kind of clues that morati eyes might miss.

  There was nothing for either of them to see. Only a single broad-winged owl circling overhead, that dipped low once as it passed, and then turned its course southward, and soon passed out of sight.

  Chapter 20

  AT SUNSET Andovan thought he could see the towers.

  He was high on a hill at the time, with a clear view to the west, and the orange light of the setting sun blazed fiercely along the horizon, as if the earth itself were burning. Against that light, if he peered closely enough, he thought he could see Gansang. Or at least its towers: high enough and clustered together closely enough that the light of the setting sun could not break through their mass; a black spot upon the orange horizon where the sunset fires did not burn, beneath a sky of swollen purple clouds with salmon underbellies.

  It was Gansang. It had to be.

  There was no telling how far away it was—the landscape was the sort that distorted one’s sense of distance. But surely it could be no more than a day’s ride, or two at the most, from where he stood.

  He drew in a deep breath, trembling despite himself. Each night the dreams had been stronger, clearer, the image of the towers etching itself into his brain. Each morning he was more and more certain it was Gansang he had dreamed of. Now he was almost there; it made him dizzy to contemplate it.

  And dizzy for other reasons as well.

  The Wasting had progressed, just as all the doctors and Magisters had warned him it would. Slowly, inexorably, as if some unseen serpent were slowly squeezing all the life out of him. Sometimes he had to stop at midday and dismount, no longer able to bear a whole day in the saddle as he had once done so easily. In the morning, when the dreams faded, it was harder and harder for him to force himself to rise and dress and begin the rituals of morning. When he made his final camp at night it took everything he had to see to his horse’s needs before he retired, rather than simply collapsing upon the ground in a faint.

  Only sheer willpower kept him going. That and the distant siren’s song of hope, that if he found the woman responsible for his illness, if he could figure out how and why she had done this to him, surely he could find a way to
save himself. Even if that meant killing her.

  Tonight, the sight of the towers energized him. The moons were high and the light was good and his mount did not seem overly tired. He decided after a break for dinner to go on a bit farther, and see if he could cut down the distance before him to a single day’s ride. He rarely had good days anymore, and wanted to take advantage of this new rush of energy before it expired.

  Sunset gave way to twilight, the sky a brilliant blue. He could no longer see Gansang ahead of him but it seemed to him he could feel it there, waiting for him. Was it an illusion that he could sense her, as well? Was Colivar’s spell that strong? Would he, when he arrived—

  —black fury engulfing him, turning to fire, molten hatred—

  He gasped, clinging to the saddle with both hands lest he fall—

  —black hatred, fury, I WILL NOT KNEEL! stone shatters, twilight screams—

  He could not breathe. A wave of dizziness overcame him and despite the best of his efforts he could feel himself losing his grip. And then his horse reared up in fear, sensing the wrongness of the moment, and he was falling, falling—

  —plummeting into blackness, blood-filled, shards of stone and screaming, screaming—

  He managed to fall free and roll, far enough that his mount did not trample him, but it was all that he could do, and pain shot through his shoulder—

  —and hits the bottom and does not move, broken black-robed doll, FIGHT ME FIGHT ME FIGHT ME!

  Gasping, he struggled to remain conscious. This was by far the worst attack he’d had yet, and he was terrified that if he gave into it he would never wake up again. But it was not only weakness that assailed him this time, but a fearsome storm of images and emotions pouring into his brain with a hurricane’s force. Was all this really happening somewhere, these images he was seeing, or had the nightmares taken hold of his waking mind as well? Was his illness driving him mad?

  The towers of Gansang fell. He saw them fall. Slowly at first, their upper stories shattering one after the other, balconies and balustrades crumbling, silken curtains catching fire as they fluttered to the ground like dying birds . . . then a rumbling shook the earth and the broad, solid bases of the towers split, fire licking outward between their stones. It was as if he were there on the street himself, watching the destruction, too fascinated—too horrified—to run. Chunks of granite and marble and concrete and wood rained down like hailstones, but there was nowhere to take shelter. Nowhere to hide. The ground buckled beneath him as the towers fell, one after the other—all save the surreal tower in their center, without doors or windows, that stood strong and tall, a sentinel overlooking their destruction.

  And he knew with sudden despairing clarity why he was seeing this vision, what it must surely mean. If he had been stronger he would have cried out in rage at the heavens, cursing the gods for their cruelty, but as it was he was too weak to do anything more than whimper his anguish as the visions slowly faded from his sight, giving way to utter exhaustion and a weakness so terrible he wondered if he would ever be able to move again.

  She was gone. No longer in Gansang. He had lost her . . .

  And then the final tower faded, and there was only darkness.

  Chapter 21

  THERE WAS a bath waiting for Gwynofar when she returned to her bedchamber after her meeting with Danton and Kostas. Apparently her maidservant Merian had grown accustomed to the fact that she liked to bathe after meeting with the Magister and had anticipated the request. On another day that might have bothered Gwynofar—it meant she had been less than perfect in hiding her true feelings about the man—but the truth was that right now she was too tired to care. Her body and soul felt as if hordes of roaches had been scuttling across them, and experience had taught her that soap and water would at least make the physical sensation go away. The rest—the rest just took time. Kostas’ foul presence was something she had to digest and then purge before she could be free of it.

  She smiled gratefully over the bath, glad for once not to have to be giving orders. She knew that if the older woman ever did guess just how much Kostas disturbed her she would never speak of it to another soul. Such loyalty was rare among the High King’s staff, but Merian was of northern blood, Protectorate born and raised, and had come to this land in Gwynofar’s own retinue. Her first loyalty was to the Lord Protector’s bloodline and to the gods that were their patrons, not to this castle full of iconoclastic foreigners, no matter how fierce and feared its royal master might be.

  Gwynofar let Merian help her off with her black gown and the thin chemise she wore beneath it, then lowered herself gratefully into the iron-bound tub, letting the late summer heat seep out of her flesh into the cool fresh water. Sprigs of rosemary and summer mint had been sprinkled into the water, and the smell helped open her pores and relax her mind. The soap was likewise perfumed, and after holding it to her nose for a moment she began to rub it languidly along her skin. The smells reminded her of the world she had grown up in, always filled with the scent of fresh bread baking in the great ovens and the sound of children’s laughter. So different from this dank place. No one ever seemed to laugh here except her husband, and his laughter was deemed by many a thing to be feared. With a sigh she sank down deep into the perfumed bath, letting images of the past comfort her as the knotted tension in her body began to give way.

  It made no sense, really, this need she had to scrub herself clean after leaving Kostas’ presence. But whatever the foulness it was that she sensed within him, it seemed to cling to her skin like a skunk’s smell afterward, and she never felt right until she had washed it away. Ah, would that mere soap could cleanse the spirit as easily as it cleaned the flesh! She leaned forward and let Merian attend to her back, ordering her to rub harder when her first gentle strokes failed to banish the Magister’s perceived stink. Yes, she knew in her heart that it was all nonsense, this fantasy of hers, but it gave her some small comfort to indulge it. She could not make the Magister leave her life in fact, but in the privacy of her bath she could banish him from her presence. Soap had that power at least.

  Why do you hate him so much? Rhys’ voice whispered in her mind. Why does he make you feel so unclean?

  I don’t know, my brother. I wish I did.

  “Shall I wash your hair?” her maidservant asked.

  She nodded, and shut her eyes as Merian began to remove the ivory pins that held the twisted blonde coils tightly against her head. There was some noise in the hallway beyond the chamber’s door, but Gwynofar put it out of her mind. Her other servants knew enough not to bother her when she was bathing, and they would doubtless waylay anyone who would seek to do so.

  A long coil of blond hair slipped down onto her shoulder and she began to stroke it with a soapy hand, drawing it into the perfumed water, separating the strands—

  —and the door swung roughly open then, and Merian’s gasp made Gwynofar look up.

  High King Danton stood framed in the doorway.

  “My . . . my lord?”

  He strode into the room as if it were his own, this sanctuary which was hers, this private room which he had never invaded. He nodded sharply to the maidservant to leave them and for a moment Merian just stood there frozen, like a deer staring down the shaft of a hunter’s arrow. Then, with trembling hands but great dignity, pointedly not leaving, she lifted Gwynofar’s robe from off the bed and held it out to her.

  There was no point in ordering the woman away, even though her disobedience put her at great risk; she would not leave her mistress in this state. Gwynofar stood up silently in the bath, determined to be dignified even in nakedness, and let Merian wrap the thin linen robe around her, its lower end trailing into the soapy water. Then she looked at her and said softly, “Go.” She could see the doubt in the woman’s eyes but her own queenly gaze did not waver, and after a moment Merian lowered her eyes, curtseyed low, and scurried from the room. Danton did not blink as she passed, nor avert his eyes from his wife, which was probably a good s
ign for Merian, though an ominous one for Gwynofar.

  The High Queen felt herself tremble inside as she stepped out of the tub, but she steeled her flesh so that Danton would not see it. The king had never made any formal promise he would not visit her bedchamber. It was just that in the years after their daughters were born, he simply had not done so. Very well. Now he was here. She was his queen, and would receive him appropriately. Never, ever would she let him see that she feared him, that she feared his temper, that she feared most of all what he was like in the moments when he had just left his Magister, when Kostas’ black sorcery seemed to swirl palpably about his soul and bring out all that was worst in his nature.

  “You wish to speak to me, my husband?”

  He huffed and looked about the room, taking it all in in a glance. His eyes lighted briefly upon the bedside altar, strewn with talismans of northern manufacture and set with half a dozen blood-colored candles. He knew that when he wasn’t around she would prepare for sleep with a litany of prayers to the ancient gods and their mystical rocks, which had as much meaning to him as if she skipped around the bed chanting children’s rhymes. But the practice seemed to comfort her and so he had never forbidden it, just asked that it not be performed in his presence.

  Today however he scowled at the altar directly and she felt her heart grow cold, wondering what had brought him here so soon after the meeting with Kostas, and dreading the answer.

  The Magister must know how much I hate him. One cannot keep secrets from his kind.

  “A strange hour to be bathing,” he said quietly.

  The knot that was forming in her stomach tightened a bit more. Danton was a direct man—some said brutally direct—and the fact that he was commenting upon something so innocuous as her bath hour did not bode well for his purpose here.

  “I was not aware there was some specific custom here regarding bath time,” she replied evenly. “Of course if there is, I shall be glad to accommodate His Majesty.”