Feast of Souls

  That night she slept on a real bed, beneath a roof that morati had built, and ate food and drank wine that had not been conjured, but rather farmed and fermented in the morati way, without a hint of sorcery. It was refreshing.

  At night the merchants came.

  Some of them were travelers, tired and dusty and brusque with their servants after a long day on the road. Some had come by sea, and were taking advantage of a night’s berth in Bandoa to seek a bed that did not rock with every wave. There were at least a dozen true foreigners present when Kamala arrived, not counting the servants and retainers who gathered in shadowy corners to await their need, and the locals who had come to hear their tales. A charcoal-skinned man from Durbana, whose ears gleamed with golden hoops, as elegant and exotic as a jet statue. A fair-skinned Eynkar from the Protectorates, whose pale blond hair gleamed albino-white in the lamplight. A swarthy Anshasan wrapped in desert-style robes, with indigo tribal markings tattooed upon his face, who called for a round of some fermented mint drink for all those who would tell tales of foreign places, then settled back quietly to listen as the stories flowed.

  Whatever these men asked for, Three Moons supplied. Never mind if it was a rare honey wine from the Free Lands, sour-spice cake from Calash, or bread baked in the style of some obscure town at the edge of nowhere; even a half-jesting call for the flesh of some rare beast from the Forest of Midnight resulted in half a dozen dried strips of flesh being supplied, that had been donated to the Inn by a traveler from the Dark Lands. It cost them a pretty penny to have such things served up, of course, but these were men who had money to spare, and they seemed to consider it a kind of competition to see who would spend the most for some foreign treat . . . all the while eyeing one another like wolves over a fresh kill, knowing that tonight’s drinking mate was tomorrow’s business rival. While the same proprietor who had given Kamala such a hard time beamed with sweaty pride as the tables of his inn were piled high with rare delicacies, knowing that no other establishment could rival his offerings.

  Well, it explained the prices, anyway.

  Not a woman was among the crowd save for an occasional servant, and of course the whores who came from Bandoa to court the favor of these wealthy men. Kamala sank into the shadows in her corner of the room and pretended not to notice the various expanses of flesh they bared in their attempts to seduce one merchant or another. The sight of them brought back memories that made her stomach churn, but she didn’t blame them for it. A woman alone in the world had very few options open to her. Kamala would have had few options, and might be baring her breasts in rivalry with the rest of them right now, had not her special gift pointed the way to a different fate.

  She wanted to do something for them. Change their fate—change the world that had shaped them—change the very nature of mankind, perhaps. But she couldn’t. Not all the sorcery in the world could alter the forces that had made these women what they were.

  There was food in front of her, but her appetite was gone. Every time one of the men ran a hand up the skirt of one of the women, or fumbled drunkenly at half-bared breasts, she flinched inside. The pain was hypnotic in its intensity, freezing her in place. Dark-skinned hands reached out of the past to stroke between her legs, leaving a slug’s trail of scented oil in their wake—

  “A tale of Sankara!” someone called.

  There was laughter. Kamala shook her head and tried to shut out the images of past abusers that gathered around her like a wolf pack. Why had she come here? This was a mistake—

  “Ah, the Free Lands!” A stout man with red hair almost as bright as Kamala’s own rubbed his greasy hands together lustily. “A dozen prosperous cities within a day’s ride, and all with rivalries enough to make any man’s fortune.”

  “I hear the Summer Feast in Deshkala nearly caused the island itself to sink beneath the weight of the food.”

  “Or the weight of the guests,” the Eynkar chuckled.

  “Well of course, they must outdo the Spring Feast of Orula.”

  “And the Winter Feast of Lundosa.”

  The man with the ebony skin stood, a tankard in his hand. He swayed a bit as he did so; the whores on both sides reached out to steady him.

  “An ode to Sankara,” he said, bowing slightly. The whores applauded as he cleared his throat and began to sing, in a tenor of surprising clarity:Oh tempt me not to pleasure, lass,

  For I have been where bliss resides

  And kissed, beneath an azure sky,

  That secret place where lust abides.

  And tempt me not to travel, lass,

  For I have traveled far and wide

  And found within a witch’s grasp

  The key to earthly paradise.

  Oh, tempt me not to warm embrace

  Within your arms, however blessed,

  For I have known a Witch-Queen’s

  grace

  And cannot bed the second best.

  So tempt me not to speak of love.

  My heart’s entranced by witchery

  I will not love, save by her spell,

  Nor dream of my soul’s liberty.

  The brief performance ended with a bow and received much laughter and applause. One of the whores tried to kiss him on the mouth as he fell into his seat, but his tankard got there first.

  “Aye, that’s Sankara,” said the redhead. “I remember the Witch-Queen’s midsummer feast. There were fireworks enough to fill the sky, and she made them dance as if to music.”

  “I’m surprised she did not dance among them,” the Eynkar said.

  The redhead chuckled. “She could have if she had wanted to.”

  “Aye, and died young for it.”

  “Die?” The redhead snorted. “Didn’t you hear? She has the favor of the gods. They won’t let her die.” He winked. “She is lover to all of them.”

  “The women too?”

  “Aye, goddesses most of all. They are frustrated creatures, you know.”

  “Too often ignored by their husbands for thunder-bolts, or chariot races across the sky.”

  “Just so.”

  Quietly Kamala said, “Tell us more of this Witch-Queen.”

  A few of the merchants turned about to see where the new voice was coming from, but most were too busy drinking or fondling their whores to care. “What do you wish to know?” the Durbanan asked, without turning around. His accent was liquid, foreign, exotic.

  Is she real? Kamala wanted to demand. Is there truly reason to think she is not dying of her witchery, as others do, but has found some other way? But she dared not ask those things. These men were well traveled and educated and knew much of the world; she was an ex-whore, a hermit’s student, who knew nothing of current affairs in distant lands. If the depth of her ignorance became obvious, they might not accord her respect enough to answer her questions.

  Or they might, if they sensed the intensity of her need, ask too many questions of their own.

  She tried to keep her voice casual as she said, “How much of the story is legend, and how much truth? Do you know?”

  Now the dark-skinned merchant looked back, scanning the room for the speaker, but Kamala had drawn the shadows around her so that she could not be found. “It is truth that her palace overlooks the port of Sankara. I know this, for I have been there myself. And that she holds parties to which not only the rich and the noble are invited, but anyone who amuses her, where all manner of foreign entertainments are offered. These things also I have seen. Whether she beds those men as well . . .” he shrugged. “Who can say when a monarch’s flirtations are meaningful, and when they are merely . . . diplomacy?”

  “And her power?” This time she made the words seem to come from somewhere else, and in a more familiar voice, so that she would not draw attention to herself. “Tell us of that.”

  “What of it? She is a witch, renowned for her skill. No drought has ever come to Sankara that she has not transformed to rain. No enemy has ever laid siege to her lands, but some great
disaster laid them low before armies even met. Plagues travel around her city rather than through it, and likewise avoid the lands of her allies. Winds blow when the merchant ships in her port have need of them. Her fireworks are more magnificent than any I have seen a Magister produce . . . and I have seen many.”

  “Yet she does not die,” Kamala’s fake voice mused softly.

  “Not yet. Kantele be praised.”

  “For how long?”

  “Who knows?” He chuckled, and chucked a whore gently under the chin. “A woman does not tell her age.”

  “She’s been in power forty years,” the redhead offered. “No one seems to know where she was before that.”

  “Birthed full grown from a giant clam shell, no doubt.” The Eynkar chuckled. “Isn’t that the kind of thing the southern gods like to do?”

  Forty years!

  Kamala asked nothing more, but let the men go back to their own drunken chatter. Leaning back in the shadows, she exhaled sharply. Forty years! If one assumed this woman was not a child when she claimed her throne—could not have been younger than the age of majority, or legends would surely have immortalized that fact—that meant she had already lived a respectable lifetime, nearly as many years as morati were ever given. Yet if these reports were true, she used her power more freely than any Magister.

  Is she perhaps a Magister herself? she wondered. Or is there some other path for women that is possible, that this one has found?

  Somewhere deep inside her, a cold ache reminded her of the price she had paid to be become what she was. What would it be like to face eternity without the need to murder an endless succession of innocents? The thought brought with it sharp recall of the dream-child she had murdered, and a sudden wave of nausea that reminded her of the cost of human compassion.

  You dare not regret what you are. Not even for a moment. Human sympathy is anathema to the power that keeps you alive.

  Quietly she shut her eyes and tried to center herself anew. The murmuring voices of the merchants rose and fell in the distance, unheard, as she envisioned herself back in the forest with Ethanus. Remembering that first day when she had come to him, so determined to become his apprentice, so utterly intolerant of the suggestion that a woman would not, could not, be a Magister. She had sworn back then that she would let nothing stand in her way. Now there were hints that another woman had found an answer—perhaps a different answer than the one Ethanus had provided—and Kamala knew she could not rest until she learned the truth.

  When her heartbeat was steady again and the feeling of nausea had safely subsided, Kamala got up silently and left the common room, binding enough power that no one saw the front door open as she passed through it, nor heard it as it fell shut behind her.

  The inn had been built upon the rise of a hill facing Bandoa. The stables where guests’ mounts might be sheltered, the open fields where wagons and tents might be pitched for the night, as well as the more prosaic accommodations that all men require, were over the rise of the hill, out of sight of passing travelers. There were guards present, no doubt, but they could not be seen by any casual observer, and Kamala doubted they would make their presence known unless some thief or vagrant decided to test their readiness.

  Standing at the top of the hill, Kamala gazed at the lights below. A caravan had parked its wagons on the lee side of the slope and torches still burned outside several of them, no doubt to hold thieves at bay. From one dark corner of the camp she could hear soft singing, too distant for her to make out if the singer were male or female. The merchants within the inn had partied their way to a far later hour than their servants had kept, apparently, and all but the guards and a few stragglers seemed to be soundly asleep.

  She waited in silence a few moments, drinking in the quiet and the darkness. After a few minutes she saw a figure approaching. His black face was invisible in the darkness, but the gold hoops in his ears and the shimmer of his garments shone like fire in the moonlight.

  He passed by where she stood, saw her, and stopped. The scent of ale and whore’s perfume clung to his silken robes.

  “You have a fine voice,” Kamala said.

  He cocked his head to one side. “You are the one who asked after Sankara.”

  “Your ear is good.”

  “Your accent is a strange mix. Western Delta, perhaps, overlaid by something more northern. Hard to mistake.”

  A faint smile twitched her lips. “Your ear is very good.”

  “My business rewards those who are observant.”

  “And you travel much.”

  He inclined his head. “That is also true.”

  “I was intrigued by your tales of Sankara. Do you go there often?”

  He was silent for a moment. His black eyes studied her, seeking . . . what? She did not know enough of the standards being applied to use sorcery to convince him he had found it.

  At last he said, “It is a place where I occasionally have business. Why do you ask?

  “Your tales intrigue me. I would like to see that city for myself.”

  “Truly?” Now it was he who smiled dryly. “Now, see, I would never have guessed that.”

  Gently she twisted the threads of his consciousness, cutting short those which were wary of strangers, strengthening those which responded well to novelty and challenge. It thrilled her down to her toes to feel her spells take hold of him, to sense his very soul being reshaped at her command. Ethanus had taught her the skill in a theoretical sense, but she had never had the opportunity to use it before. One did not practice such arts upon one’s own master.

  “I wish to see the world,” she said. “You would be valuable to me as a guide.”

  If not for her sorcery he might have been displeased by her forwardness, but as it was his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if considering whether the youth he saw before him might actually serve some purpose. “You must have something of great value to offer,” he said at last, “or you would not speak to me thus. Judging from your attire, I would guess it is not money.”

  “Again, you are insightful.”

  “What, then?”

  She raised up her hand before him, and in her palm made small lights appear and dance. It was a child’s trick, but it had the desired effect.

  He looked at her sharply. “You are a witch?”

  She nodded silently. And held her breath. There was no way now to guess what he was thinking now, which made it dangerous to try to influence him. Altering the threads of a man’s consciousness when you did not know what they were to start with was bound to cause a terrible tangle. If your assumptions were wrong enough you could destroy a man’s mind entirely.

  She settled for binding a whisper of power to support her disguise. It would not do to have him guess her true gender. Merchants rarely took women into their retinue unless it was to see to their more private needs, and Kamala had no desire to play that role again.

  Finally he said, “You are offering . . . what? I do not wish to mistake you.”

  “Fair winds if you sail. Safe roads if you ride.”

  His black eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “That is a lot of witchery to expend upon one journey.”

  “I expect to travel comfortably.”

  The night was silent, but for crickets. The singing in the distance had stopped.

  “I travel by land,” he said. “And, as it happens, I am headed to the Free Lands. Though not directly.”

  “I am in no rush,” she said casually. A necessary lie; she did not wish anyone to start asking questions about why this journey was of such pressing interest to her. “I am sure I could amuse myself along the way . . . shopping, perhaps.”

  “No doubt.” He reached up a hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully; his gold earrings shimmered in the moonlight. “And if there were a business deal along the way that was not going as well as it should. . . .”

  “That is a more difficult art,” she said, “and costly.” The corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “The shopping wo
uld have to be very good.”

  “Of course.”

  “So we have a deal?”

  He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk noise, smiling ever so slightly. “A wise man never signs a contract after a night of drinking. Lesson number one if you mean to be part of my business. Now, I am going to do something I should have done a long time ago, and seek my bed. In three days’ time I will be done with my business in Bandoa and prepared to move on. If you come to the Third Moon on that night and ask for Netando, then we can discuss our terms. Is that acceptable?”

  She nodded.

  “And here.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a small purse; red silk embroidered with gold. He threw it to her. “Buy yourself some decent clothing. A man is judged by the company he keeps, yes?”

  “My name is Kovan,” she told him.

  He chuckled. “And I am sure I shall forget that by morning. Do remind me, will you?”

  Without a further word he turned toward the inn once more. Even that place was quieter, now. Even the whores had fallen silent.

  Three days.

  Did she dare remain in one place for that long? What if some unnamed power really was pursuing her? Could this be what her dreams had been trying to warn her about, the danger of slowing down to rest, of giving it time to catch up with her?

  Downward, the whirlpool is dragging her downward, into an unnamed and terrible darkness . . . the whirlpool closes over her head . . . beyond it, beneath it, is nothingness, utter nothingness—

  Three days.

  “Her fireworks are more magnificent than any I have seen a Magister produce,” Netando had said, and another had added: “She does not die.”