Feast of Souls

  Colivar nodded. “Wise.”

  “He fell from a bridge,” he said, gesturing with his cup, “a curiously mundane end for one of our kind. He was following a woman at the time, some witch that Lord Ravi had found in the foulest district of the city, cleaned up, and was passing off as a lady. He introduced her as Sidra. No information has been found regarding the woman or the name, apart from what little bit Ravi himself knew; it is as if she appeared out of nowhere.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Tirstan’s eyes glittered darkly. “If you were alone with a Magister and he died, would you remain in that place one minute longer than you had to? Whatever sort of witch she is, she had enough power to call all her personal possessions to her when she left, so we have nothing to trace her with.” He took another swallow of the ale. “All this we learned afterward, of course; that night, all anyone knew was that she was a mystery and Ravi believed she had power. Those were reasons enough for any Magister to show interest in her. There are also rivalries between the great houses here in which some of us have vested interest; Lord Ravi showing up with some sort of magical prize on his arm was a direct challenge to those who did not wish him moving up in the ranks.” He sipped from his cup again. “And witches, of course, must be taught their place. Many reasons for a Magister like Raven to show an interest in her. None of them shed any light on the matter of his death.”

  “You questioned Ravi about her, I assume?”

  “Of course. The information I give you comes from him. Apparently he heard news of some fight a witch was involved in down in the Quarter and took the chance that anyone who would throw her power around like that might also be interested in a little social advancement. For a price.”

  “Only a fool barters his life force to another, for any price.”

  “Yes, well, that is a safe statement from our perspective, yes? Not everyone has the option of bartering other men’s life-force instead.”

  “So tell me of this Raven’s death.”

  He shrugged. “Apparently he stepped out onto one of the city’s bridges during a fete, either for a moment of fresh air—these city affairs are stifling—or specifically to seek this woman out. We know she was there, for we have found traces of her presence on the bridge. Much power seems to have been thrown about, some of which shattered the railing near to him, but none of it looks like witchery, so it must all have been his. I myself believe that Raven was having his sport with her.”

  “And she did not respond in kind? Even to defend herself?” Colivar’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If she were truly a witch, I find that hard to believe.”

  “You are welcome to look for yourself, though by now most of the important traces have been muddled past recognition. And of course Raven’s body is dust. But I assure you, we found no signs of witchery having been used on the bridge, on the rail, or upon Raven’s person.”

  “Nothing to explain why he fell?”

  “Oh, we know why he fell.” His tone was dry. “A fitting end, if you do not mind my saying so.”

  “Go on.”

  “He was . . . ah . . . how shall I say . . .” He bit his lip for a moment as if considering. “Well, he was kicked in the balls.”

  Colivar blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “His nether regions were bruised. Dramatically so. It was the only wound on him.”

  Colivar sat back in his chair. “So you are telling me you believe she struck him, and he . . . fell? Just like that?”

  “Well, we are assuming he entered Transition during the fall, and thus could not muster power in time to save himself. If he was throwing that much power around, it is not an unreasonable theory. Of course, you are welcome to offer a better one if you like.”

  He shook his head. “There must be more to it.”

  “You would think so, yes? Yet there is no evidence of anything more than I have told you . . . you are welcome to inspect the site yourself, if you doubt me.”

  Colivar waved off the suggestion. “I am sure you have been quite thorough.”

  “Mind you, there are those who have suggested that his death was not necessarily a bad thing; he was not, how shall I say, the most personable of our kind—”

  “He was a prick,” Colivar said shortly.

  Tirstan sighed. “Yes, but he was an immortal prick, and that entails certain obligations on our part.”

  “You will avenge him?”

  “The death of a Magister cannot go unpunished.”

  “Even if it was his own foolishness that got him killed?”

  Tirstan shrugged. “If the morati see that a Magister is killed and we do not punish the offender, they may begin to wonder where our limits lie. A bad question for any man to be asking.”

  “You must find the woman, then.”

  “With such a dearth of clues? Every day we spend trying to locate her would cost us more in reputation than the hunt is worth.” He chuckled darkly. “It is hard to appear omnipotent when one cannot track down a single witch.” He reached for the pitcher and poured himself some more ale, chilling it anew with a touch. “No, we put the blame where it rightfully belongs, on the man who brought her into our company. A shame, that; Pahdman Ravi had his uses. But an example had to be made of someone, yes?” He sipped from his cup. “So now the morati see that we are swift and merciless in our vengeance, and they will tremble at the mere thought of displeasing us, which is far more important in the long run than hunting down one terrified witch.”

  “You will not seek her?”

  He waved expansively. “Please, search for her if you like. Bearing in mind that we have no personal objects to serve as a link to her, or any knowledge of her true identity. By now I expect she has taken a new name, wears a new face, and if she has half a brain she is so far from this place that one must learn a foreign language to ask after her.” He shrugged and drank deeply from his cup, emptying it. “At least, that is what I would do if I were in her shoes.”

  “She left nothing behind?”

  “She had a room in Ravi’s tower. I can show it to you if you like. I believed she lived there for all of a week before this incident.”

  “I should like to see that, yes.”

  Tirstan raised an eyebrow. “You find her . . . interesting?”

  Colivar was careful to keep his face impassive. “Let us say I enjoy a good mystery.”

  Tirstan stood with a sigh, dropping his pewter cup; it disappeared before it hit the ground, and the pitcher followed soon after. “As you wish. Though I fear you will find the visit unenlightening. So many others have, you know.”

  It was twilight by the time the two Magisters reached Tower Ravi, and they wrapped the shadows of early night around them so that none might see or hear them as they slipped past the gauze curtains and through the half-open window into what had once been Kamala’s room.

  Inside, Tirstan set the lamps alight with an easy gesture, and waved for Colivar to inspect whatever he liked. “There is nothing of hers here that we could find, save for those gifts that Ravi had given her.” Even though his sorcery would keep their voices from being heard outside the room, or the light from being seen, still his voice had instinctively dropped to a whisper. “Nothing she identified with herself, that might be of use in reading her. Or in calling her.”

  The room was a rich one, whose furnishings spoke eloquently of how much Ravi had wished to please its resident, but it was clear that most of his efforts had gone unappreciated. The fine gold toilet items on the marble-topped vanity were untouched, bottles of unguent unopened, flasks of perfume still sealed. Colivar picked up a comb and studied it closely.

  “Not a single hair of hers anywhere,” Tirstan informed him. “As I said, she either destroyed such things as might be used against her, or else she called them to her later that night. Nothing was here by the time we came to search.”

  A pile of finely embroidered silk garments lay neatly folded on a chair near the window, probably in the same position they were in
when they were first delivered; she had never even looked at them, Colivar guessed. “Not as vain as her host assumed she would be,” he said quietly. Then he looked up at Tirstan. “Do you know where she might have kept her personal things while she was here?”

  He indicated a leather-bound trunk set in the darkest corner of the room. Colivar went to it and lifted the heavy lid. It was empty.

  “Not so much as a speck of lint left behind,” Tirstan said. “You’re not the first to look, you know. What do you hope to find that we did not?”

  Colivar knelt by the trunk. Propping the lid open, he reached down into the dark space within until his hands pressed against the bottom of it. “If she called her things to her, as you suggest, there should be some trace of her witchery here.”

  “Yes,” Tirstan agreed. “And there is not.”

  Colivar looked for it himself, drawing enough athra from his consort to alter his senses so that he could detect such things. But the interior of the trunk was dark. His questing hands felt nothing. As Tirstan had said, there was not the faintest trace of witchery present. If she did indeed have the power, it had clearly never been used on anything inside the trunk.

  Tirstan picked up a perfume bottle from the vanity, took note of the fact that the seal was intact, and put it back down. “Magister Tamil has suggested that perhaps she was not a witch at all, but secretly served one of our kind. That the power she had called upon in the Quarter was not her own witchery, but rather the sorcery of her patron. Perhaps it was not even an accident that she was attacked that night, he has suggested, but rather the whole scene was staged, to draw the right kind of notice and win her noble patronage. As it did.” He shrugged. “It is a curious theory, and not the kind of game a Magister usually plays, but it would explain why she left no signs of her own power behind her.”

  No witchery had been used on the bridge either. Colivar recalled him saying that. Only sorcery, pure sorcery.

  “That is one possibility,” he agreed.

  There was another one, but he would not speak its name yet. Not until he was sure.

  Slowly he reached his hands into the trunk again, running them along the bottom. This time he did not look for witchery, but for something more subtle. Not for the hot, fiery residue of mortal magic, but for the cold, whispery touch of true sorcery. Not for life force sacrificed in passion or need but power coldly stolen, wielded by men who were no longer alive in their own right, who could no longer leave the kind of hot imprint on the mortal world that was the birthright of living creatures. To the morati world, the powers of witches and Magisters seemed all but identical; to one who truly understood them, however, they were as distinct from one another as life and death.

  After a moment he leaned back on his heels. He stared into the darkness without words, trying to gather his thoughts.

  “Colivar?”

  “Tamil may well be right,” he said at last. “There are traces of sorcery here as well.”

  “Magister Kant has suggested she might even have been a Magister herself, shapechanged to pass as a woman.” Tirstan shrugged. “I find that theory hard to credit, myself. It is difficult to imagine a Magister willing to pass as a woman for any length of time.”

  Colivar nodded his agreement. Technically it was possible, of course—a Magister might alter his appearance however he liked—but the kind of man who survived First Transition was unlikely to find the social station of women a comfortable refuge. Those few instances Colivar had heard of where sorcerers had tried such a thing, they had been quickly unmasked; Magisters could make their bodies appear female easily enough, but they could rarely play the role that went with it.

  “No doubt it was your first suggestion,” he said. “She served a Magister.”

  There is one other possibility, he thought, but it is so foreign a concept that you do not even think to name it.

  What if the woman were a sorcerer in her own right, he wondered. That would not only explain the signs she had left behind in Gansang, but it might shed light on Andovan’s situation as well. Or perhaps she was not a sorcerer proper, but some new sort of creature that had no name yet. More than a witch, but less than a Magister. An equally intriguing possibility.

  Tirstan came to his side and inspected the trunk’s interior himself, as Colivar had done. After a moment he too sat back on his heels, looking thoughtful. “You may think this is mad, but I have thought that this woman may be linked to that prince Ramirus called us in to study.”

  He kept his voice carefully neutral, devoid of any emotion. “How so?”

  “If her patron was the Magister that had claimed him as consort, so that she had an indirect connection to that bond, it might explain the prophecy Andovan was given, yes?”

  He did not trust himself to speak, but simply nodded. It was a respectable theory. It might even be true.

  There was a time when the world had no Magisters at all, and it was unthinkable that anything like us would ever exist. Now we are here, and no man dares question us. Who are we to say that nothing new will come after us, or that a new kind of woman might not arise, one who could master the old forms?

  How much did he want that to be the answer, he wondered suddenly, rather than some more mundane explanation? How much did he hunger to believe that there was something truly new in the world, a puzzle worth exploring? Life was long for a Magister, with few real challenges; like most of his kind he hungered for novelty. Was this mysterious woman truly worth his efforts, or was he weaving theories out of moonbeams to convince himself that she was?

  He would know soon enough. The spell he had cast on Andovan was beginning to have its desired effect; the young man was being drawn toward the source of his illness. Sooner or later the prince would reach his target, and while Andovan might not recognize a sorceress if he saw one, Colivar would. Then he would know if the same woman was responsible for both incidents. Until then, it was best to leave the others following false trails that suited them, so that they stayed out of the way of his own investigation.

  He walked back to the pile of silk garments that the witch had so meticulously ignored, and lifted up a gold scarf from the top of the pile. “May I take this with me?”

  Tirstan looked confused. “It holds no trace of her. She never identified with it—”

  “I understand all that.” He held it up. “Call it a whim. May I?”

  For a moment there was silence. It was the kind of silence Magisters suffered often: one of them hinting at secrets, the other hungering to share them . . . but never being trusted to share, because that was not the way of their kind.

  “I will tell you what I discover,” Colivar promised.

  “I will not hold my breath waiting for that,” Tirstan said with a wry smile, “but you may take whatever you like.”

  . . . and he chuckled darkly and added, “It is not like Ravi will be taking inventory any time soon.”

  Chapter 26

  THE DREAM was a desolate one, set on a landscape swept clean of life by wind and hail, chill in the way the northern wastelands are chill with the coming of winter, so that the lungs grow colder with each breath. For a moment Ramirus considered turning back and waiting for a more auspicious night, a better dream. Normally he could mold a morati dream to his needs with little effort, but such sorcery was not subtle and was likely to be noticed. And that would be bad for the dreamer. This time, alas, he had to work with what his subject provided.

  He fingered the object in his hand and considered. Carrion birds circled overhead, screeching their hunger as they looked for fresh meat, and finally spiraled away into the distance, having found nothing.

  No, he decided at last. He would talk to her now. The link was strong, the dream was clear, and if its tenor was a bit on the ominous side, that only reflected the mind-set of the dreamer. His subject was restless and did not sleep that often; already he had wasted a week trying to establish himself in her dreams, and each time he did so he risked discovery anew. There was no guarante
e that if he left now he would do better next time, and meanwhile the risk would only increase with each new attempt. No, this was the night it must be done, and this was the dream he must use.

  There were stormclouds ahead, pregnant with thunder, that cast long shadows upon the earth beneath them. Given the dreamer’s dark mood he guessed that she would be there, where things were darkest. He headed that way quietly, gathering soulfire about him as he walked, drawing upon bits and pieces of dreamstuff to mask his presence from other men of power. It was little more than a token effort, really; any Magister who looked her way right now would sense the presence of another of his kind, as clearly as if Ramirus had trumpeted his arrival. But one who was not looking directly at her might miss the signs if they were well camouflaged, and so he made the effort. He owed her that much.

  A short while later he saw the ring of stones ahead of him; aged, pitted, crumbling. Not the Spears as they were in the real world, nor in Gwynofar’s courtyard simulacrum, but as her fears had sculpted them. Time and weather had reduced these dreamstones by half to mounds of gravel, and he knew that in the eyes of her faith it meant they had lost an equivalent amount of their power. He understood enough of the legends of her people to understand just what kind of a warning that was, and how she must fear to see them thus.

  The High Queen knelt in that circle, centered among the wounded stones, eyes shut, perhaps praying. He approached slowly, silently, and for a moment just watched her. She seemed a thing too fragile to survive in this place, but he had done enough research into the Protectors’ bloodlines before Danton’s marriage to know that was just an illusion; her family line was renowned for its strength, both physical and spiritual, and she was no exception. That was the one thing Danton had never fully appreciated about her, and other men rarely thought to question. Most men were such shallow creatures at heart, he mused, and when you set before them such a delicate waif, with her soft voice and slender hands and skin the color of moonlight, they assumed her to be fragile in truth, and thus easily dominated. With luck that would play in her favor now, and whatever Magister served the High King would never think to check on her while she slept, or search through her waking mind for signs of betrayal.