Feast of Souls

  Colivar took a place a respectful distance away and gazed out over the ramparts himself. It was a pleasant view in the warm, sticky evening, shadows dancing in the woods surrounding the palace and the sound of distant voices carried faintly from stragglers in the marketplace beyond. The smell of trees was thick and lush, unfamiliar to his senses. Rain was a precious commodity in the south, with monuments of sculpted stone more common than this wet and wild indulgence. Colivar was not yet sure how he liked it.

  When it became clear that Ramirus had no intention of addressing him, he spoke first. “You know what they would say about you in the south? ‘He feeds camel dung to family.’ ”

  Ramirus glanced at him. “I remember when you dressed in northern furs and spent your time cursing the habits of glaciers.” He looked out over the ramparts again. “I liked you better then.”

  “The god of chameleons has blessed me with a rare adaptability.”

  “A fickle god, as I recall.”

  “He asks little for worship, save that I live each moment for what it is, and do not cling to the past. While you, my brother, never change.” He chuckled softy. “Though the beard was very impressive during the Balding Plague, I must admit.”

  “And each night cost someone precious minutes of his life, that I might keep it.” He stroked his beard lovingly, as if it were the milk-white skin of a courtesan. “I like to think it was a woman.”

  Colivar looked up sharply. “Can you tell when you draw upon a woman for power?”

  Ramirus shrugged. “I like to imagine that I can. The natures of men and women are so distinct that surely it must be reflected in their athra. But how can one ever know for certain? As consorts they live and die anonymous lives, faceless to us even in their dying, and our best guesses as to who and what they are can never be confirmed. Sometimes I wonder if we could do what we do, if it were otherwise.”

  He looked at his guest with eyes that were remarkably young for being framed in aged flesh. That, too, was a lie. “Why are you here, Colivar?”

  He said it softly. “Why does the boy’s life matter so much to you?”

  “I told you. In our meeting.”

  “Camel dung.”

  Ramirus sighed and gazed out again at the night-shrouded landscape. “Your manners really are execrable. I don’t know how King Farah abides you.”

  “You know the best road for us is one that ends in the boy’s death. All your fancy northern words can’t obscure that fact. So what, then? Why this song and dance to convince us otherwise?”

  A muscle tightened along the line of Ramirus’ jaw, but he said nothing.

  “Shall I guess?” Colivar pressed.

  “If it entertains you to do so.”

  “I think you are afraid.”

  Ramirus’ expression darkened, but again he made no answer.

  “Afraid of what, though? That’s the question. Not physical harm, I’m sure. When is the last time anyone dared to assault a Magister? No, it must be something else. Something more . . . subtle. Politics, perhaps? Oh, but the great Ramirus would not stoop to get involved in morati politics . . .”

  He said between clenched teeth, “You overstep your bounds, Colivar.”

  “I?” He bowed, a bit too expansively to be sincere.“I am but a weary traveler, traversing the dusty miles to give counsel to my colleagues. You are the one who summoned me here. Some might call it ill courtesy to do that, and then offer nothing better than half-truths and evasions.”

  “Some might remember where they are and guard their tongues, lest they give offense.”

  “My mere presence here is an offense and you know it. One can only imagine Danton frothing at the mouth when you first suggested it.”

  A faint, almost imperceptible smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “No, he did not quite . . . froth.”

  “You think I don’t hear the guards slinking about my door like furtive rats, playing eyes and ears for him? I’d put on a show for them if it wouldn’t burn out my current consort faster than I like.”

  “What do you expect? He is a king, you are his enemy’s servant. Surely such actions do not come as a surprise.”

  “Does he really think that spies will help him? Does he really understand so little of what we are that he thinks he can sneak up on any of us?”

  “Perhaps I play a more subtle game than you do, chameleon. Perhaps my patrons, unlike yours, are granted no more than a shadow of the truth.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It is hard to kill a Magister, but not impossible. And I have known a few who were indeed ‘snuck up upon,’ when their attention was elsewhere.” He turned his gaze to Colivar once more. “Do not underestimate Danton. Other men have done so, and they are feeding the worms.”

  “Magisters?”

  “Not that I know of. But I have seen him drive a witch to her destruction. It was . . . disturbing.”

  “She must not have been very skilled.”

  “On the contrary, she was most impressive, while she lived. He played a subtle game with her, encouraging her to see enemies in every shadow. She burned herself out in a fortnight guarding against them, never knowing that he was the cause.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “I wondered if she might not make Transition, despite her sex. She had the spirit for it. Wouldn’t that have surprised him!”

  “Not likely the moons will shine upon such a day.”

  “No,” he agreed. “There are some boundaries that nature will not allow to be compromised.”

  He turned back to the forest, clearly meaning to signal Colivar that the conversation was at an end.

  “And the boy?” Colivar pressed.

  Ramirus sighed. “Is a royal prince. With all the complications that come of such a position. Nothing more.”

  More out of curiosity than need, the black-haired Magister sent a tendril of power questing toward Ramirus, to taste the tenor of his lie. The power slid neatly off him, garnering nothing. Of course.

  “I think you are afraid,” he repeated quietly. “I think you fear that if Andovan dies you will be blamed. Not for having caused his illness, but for having failed to cure it.”

  “People die of disease all the time. The Wasting is notoriously difficult to cure. It would be no fault of mine.”

  “Yes . . . and I am sure Danton is the understanding type, who will respect that answer.”

  The muscle along Ramirus’ jaw twitched again.

  “And what if Andovan should die of some other cause? A stone falls from the ceiling of his room, let us say, and strikes him on the head. Why then, the blame would still fall upon you, wouldn’t it? Surely the Magister Royal should be able to foresee such things and forestall them! That is truly why you won’t let us act, isn’t it? That is why we risk this dangerous course, wherein all our secrets might be laid bare.”

  “What if he does blame me? He cannot do me harm. Though he may imagine otherwise.”

  “Perhaps not, but you could lose this plush position of yours.”

  “Then there will be others. What Magister has ever lacked for patrons?”

  “When you have failed Danton Aurelius, King of all the High Countries? His word has power, Ramirus, far beyond the reach of lesser monarchs. And if he were to condemn you now as a failure—or even worse, as a traitor—with all the volume attendant upon his rank, you would not be finding a perch as comfortable as this one for a long, long time. Of course,” he mused, “there are always petty chieftains in the desert who might be willing to harbor an incompetent Magister. Provided he doesn’t go too close to their sons. Or their goats. Do you like the desert, Ramirus?”

  “Your tone is insufferable,” he muttered.

  “Of course, there is another solution. Kill the boy first, and then, if the father causes trouble, kill him as well. Ah, but then the kingdom would fall to his firstborn, that strutting moron Rurick, and revolution would probably soon follow—yet another fine thing to have upon your record as Magister Royal when searching for your next ap
pointment.” He chuckled softly, a dark and humorless sound. “No, Ramirus, I would not want to be in your sandals right now, to be sure. Your reputation is about to be dashed to pieces, and all you must do to save it is convince a dozen or two Magisters that they should hunt down one of their own kind for you. And then do what? Kill him? Lock him away for the decades it will take Andovan to die naturally? Or have you come up with some solution so novel that Magisters haven’t yet thought to forbid it?”

  “It is my hope,” he said, picking his way through the words slowly, carefully, as if each one must be formed perfectly or it would fail in its purpose, “that once we find the one responsible, we will be able to find a way to break the bond between them. He will only need seek another consort then, and Andovan will be free.”

  Colivar applauded softly. “Excellent, Ramirus. You make that sound almost reasonable. Never mind that such a thing has never been done before—”

  “It has never been attempted.”

  “But you will still need allies, to convince the others. Yes?”

  A white eyebrow arched upward, incredulously. “You are offering that? Do I hear aright? Or did I drink too much mead with dinner, and it addles my brain?”

  “Depends upon the price.”

  “Ah . . .” He nodded approvingly. “Ever the vulture, Colivar.”

  “We are all of us vultures. Else we would have died long go.”

  “True enough.”

  “The word of an enemy has especial value to you in this. For when the others see that even Colivar is backing you, even the one most likely to wish you harm, that will carry more weight than the tepid support of friends, yes?”

  The corner of Ramirus’ mouth quirked upward in a brief, dry smile at the mention of “friends.” As if there could ever be anything between Magisters besides respectful rivalry at best, and at worst . . . at worst that rivalry gone sour, competition become something so dark and fearsome that the morati dared not even dream of it.

  Anything to pass the centuries.

  “So what is your price?” Ramirus asked. “I take it you have one.”

  Colivar spread his hands wide. “I am a reasonable man. Some minor favor, perhaps. A word whispered in King Danton’s ear, at a moment when he seeks advice.”

  “A small enough thing,” he said dryly. “I take it you have some particular advice in mind?”

  Colivar stroked his goatee with lingering pleasure; in more sensitive company it might have been judged a parody of Ramirus’ own mannerisms. “I was thinking perhaps . . . Auremir.”

  Ramirus breathed in sharply. “Now you do overstep your bounds.”

  “Such a lovely port city, don’t you think? Apparently Danton does, for I hear he means to war against its masters and take control of it.”

  “Ah, so your master has interests there. Good to know.”

  “My patron is not at issue here.”

  Ramirus raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Are you a player in morati politics now?”

  “Men die. Even princes. It is always wise to have interests that do not depend upon the good will of a single monarch . . . or even of a single nation.”

  “Very true. If not traditional Magister philosphy.”

  Colivar smiled darkly. “You will find I am far from typical.”

  “So I begin to see . . . and this port? You will want it for yourself?”

  “Not at all. It serves me well as it is now, a tiny free state surrounded by enemies. I merely have concern that if one of those enemies should upset the balance of power in that region . . .”

  “. . . it would be very bad for morati politics.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And one must always be concerned for them.”

  He bowed his head respectfully. “You understand my position, then.”

  “I understand you ask a lot,” he said quietly. “Auremir is one of the most valuable ports in the Free Lands. If Danton were to have his eye set upon such a jewel—note I say if—it would be very difficult to dissuade him.”

  Colivar spread his hands suggestively. “Equally difficult to save a Magister’s reputation, once such a powerful prince had fixed his royal mind upon his ruin. Yes?”

  There was a long, long silence. Finally Ramirus turned away from the ramparts, away from Colivar. A rising wind whipped his black robes about him like bat wings as he moved. “I do not see that it benefits Danton at this time to claim Auremir,” he said quietly. His voice was devoid of any emotion though his aura blazed with it. “I shall advise him accordingly.” And with those words he strode toward the tower, willing its heavy door to open before he reached it so that his angry stride need not be interrupted.

  For his own part, Colivar bound enough power to make sure that Ramirus couldn’t hear him laughing as he left.

  Chapter 6

  ETHANUS REMEMBERS:

  It is hard to concentrate on translating ancient runes this evening. Hard to concentrate on anything.

  She is restless.

  Sometimes he imagines he can feel her in his soul. It is a strange and disconcerting sensation. Intimate, on levels where he is not accustomed to intimacy. Is it this way because she is a woman? he wonders. Does the bond between master and student become something more when one half of the equation is feminine? Or is he just seeking excuses to feel close to her, to avoid admitting the truth for one night more: that she is a Magister now and will soon hunger for all the things that come with that rank. It is as inevitable as the summer rains and the winter snow.

  “Master Ethanus?”

  He looks up and sees her in the doorway. There is an odd stillness in her today; not a gentle stillness, but tense, anticipatory. He has seen similar stillness in a cat, while it paused to decide if it would eat a mouse or play with it.

  Is this the day? he wonders.

  She waits upon his pleasure as always, her habits as much that of servant as student. He rolls up the scroll that is before him and stands, stretching briefly. Outside it is twilight, with the moon already risen, and a faint chill that hints at autumn beneath the mask of summer warmth.

  “Come,” he says, “let us walk.”

  She falls in by his side easily, her long legs adapting to his pace. She follows him in silence down the path their feet have worn into the wooded brush on so many other nights, past deer that are just setting to their evening meal. Kamala has fed them often—a strange charity in one who now thrives upon the death of her own species—so they perk up their heads at her passing, as if to ask if today is a day when treats will be dispensed.

  But no, tonight she is preoccupied, and he can feel the questions stirring inside her, as if fighting over which one will be voiced first.

  Beyond the path, up the side of a rocky hill, is a promontory that gives a magnificent view of the sky and the surrounding forest, which he has used as the setting for many lessons. Now he leads her there yet again, and she stands beside him on the shelf of granite, while all around them the creatures of sunlight give way to the denizens of the night in a thousand rustling, chirruping exchanges.

  They stand in silence for a few moments, sharing the beauty of nightfall.

  “Why did you leave Ulran?” she finally asks.

  He sighs heavily.

  “If you do not wish me to ask, I won’t.”

  “No, it isn’t that. You have a right to know.”

  He sighs again, and rubs his forehead between two fingers. “The King of Ulran—Ambulis, his name was, Ambulis the Fourth—asked me for fireworks. You know, the kind that morati can make with black powder. Only he wanted something larger, something . . .” He shakes his head. “He wanted what black powder could not provide. A spectacle that would not only fill the sky with light but awe his people with its sorcery. A spectacle so beyond morati means that all would know that a Magister had created it, a Magister who served his will . . .” His voice trails off into the darkness.

  “And you refused?” she asks.

  “No.” He says it quietly. “I di
d not.

  “It is not so easy to deny a king when one is Magister Royal. One grows accustomed to the easy luxury of the life, and to the nearness of power, to the manipulative games that are possible from such a station, but there is a contract inherent in such a position, that one is there to do a king’s will, and short of defying the Magisters’ Law, one is expected to comply with all his requests.

  “The Law sets its own limits upon us, of course. Morati can never discover the source of our power, for if they did they would war against us with all their strength, and the earth would soon be drenched in their blood. Therefore we strive never to use our power in ways that would draw attention to our secret, and the death of too many consorts in one night would do just that. So we set our own limits on how we will use the power, and we give kings false reasons for those limits. Ironic, is it not? For if it were not for the Law we could obtain all that we desired with a wave of the hand, and not need kings at all.”

  He shakes his head slowly, remembering that night.

  “I could have said no. I did not.

  “I told him to gather all the supplies he would need were he to put on such a show himself. That angered him, for it seemed to him that I was refusing to honor his command, but of course I wished everything done by natural means that might be, to lessen the cost. And so he gathered fireworks made by the masters of the art, the best that a king’s gold could buy, muttering complaints about the cost all the while.

  “I could not say to him, Gold is cheap, lives are not. I could not give him any reason he would accept, save that it was the way of Magisters, our custom not to do for kings what they could do for themselves.

  “Those were tense days, filled with anger on his part, dissembling on mine. I remember wondering if I had made the right choice in coming to this position. Wondering if any convenience that a king might offer us was worth the price.

  “Then the day came. It was the celebration of a military victory, and the streets of the capital city were thronged with people. Any roof that seemed strong enough to bear the weight of men was holding more than its capacity in spectators, and I admit that I strengthened more than one, when I feared they were about to give way. Several Magisters had come from the outlying lands and were offering entertainment to the nobles while I prepared myself, and I remember watching them like a hawk from the corner of my eye, knowing that any one of them would unseat me if he could, perhaps because he truly coveted my position, perhaps just for sport.”