Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (30 page)

“You make me feel like I am a pup,” muttered Caenith, when they came up for air. “All spry, short-furred, and rubbing myself against the nearest warmth I can find. I’ve never desired a creature as much as you, Morigan. We must not forget our purpose. You are more to me than my desire. Besides, I hear men around the corner, and I don’t think we are supposed to be here.”

Indeed, this area of the Court of Ideas was quite abandoned—by scholars, at least. But another wall away from them, he could hear a shuffling of metal feet and hissed commands to
check out that noise
. Caenith didn’t consider what so many armed men were doing—or guarding—this deep in the Court of Ideas. Instead, he scooped up his Fawn and sped them through the hallways so quickly that the startled scholars who looked up noticed nothing
except a ruffling of papers and a musky wind. He placed Morigan on her feet once they were out of the court, and they continued hand in hand.

Food was next on the Wolf’s mind and his nose guided them to a banquet hall, a place where hundreds could eat on long tables draped in green, white, and silver, the colors of the king. A place as lavish as a king’s feasting hall should be, with Magnus’s gauntlet and sun banners hung from the walls and chandeliers of floating lights. Cobbled arches led off the chamber and into glowing kitchens, from which salty, spicy drafts spoke of the culinary delights being prepared. Serving staff were abundant in the hall and a bit chattier than elsewhere in the palace, so it took a moment for anyone to notice the two of them. Soon the whispers reached the ears of a stocky, aproned woman laying runners and issuing orders to the maids and porters. She dispatched herself to greet the visitors standing at the entrance to the hall. She had a motherly and natural air, expressed most sharply in her face, which was round, red, and pleasant as an apple; and noted in her sturdy frame and large hands, which were used for rolling, cooking, and fluffing—perhaps spanking, too, Morigan wagered. The woman’s hair was frazzled and wild, and her smile of welcome about the same.

“King’s mercy, you’re large! I’ve seen smaller warhorses!” exclaimed the maid. “And what a rose of a thing you are, my dear. Never have I seen a girl so lovely, besides our Queen Lila! My name is Lowelia Larson, mater of the White Hearth, and you must be the two guests of our sage that everyone is chattering about. I’d ask what you’re here for, but that one looks like he needs an ox to sink his teeth into, so follow me, and let’s see what we can find that’s red, dead, and ready to be eaten!”

Caenith liked the woman at once. Even more so when he strode through one of the nearby arches into a hopping scullery and witnessed the symphony that she commanded: the clattering of knives on wooden blocks, the dancing butchers, the sloshing sinks, the singing maids, and the clanking stoneware. What a marvelous, harmonized performance it was—no slips or bumps to be seen—and it was little wonder that the king’s army was so daunting when even his cooks were masters of their domain.

“Quite incredible!” shouted Morigan.

“Ha! Hardly!” laughed Mater Lowelia, and prodded them over toward a corner where a handful of tables were set aside for resting. A few servants
were about the tables, sipping ale or steaming drinks, and they scattered at the mater’s approach. After seating the pair, Mater Lowelia rushed off through a sizable archway from which enticing fragrances of smoke and seared meat billowed. Caenith twitched in his seat, sniffing the air. He didn’t have much of a wait to test his hunger ere the mater and a shy maid returned, each carrying a platter of steaming food and a flagon of watery mead.

“You poor thing, your eyes beg for food like a starving mongrel!” Mater Lowelia joked.

Caenith cracked off a mighty clap at the kingly feast arranged before them: shanks of hog, lamb, and ox, quail, potatoes, and greens dressed in spring herbs and brandy, from the scent of it. Even if Caenith wasn’t a man who needed to flavor what went into his stomach, the taste was as excellent as its scent, and he was asking Mater Lowelia for bread to sop up the juices on his plate and then quickly diving into Morigan’s helping.

“Quite the appetite,” noted Mater Lowelia.

She had decided to use her guests as an excuse for a well-deserved break and was soon nursing a mug of watery mead herself with her feet up on an empty chair. Simply by studying the matron in her moment of repose—relaxing as if this instant was life’s greatest pleasure, seeming to sigh from every part of her, shoulders to toes—Morigan felt that she was a woman unaccustomed to rest. A woman propelled by incessant demands, orders, and duties, and rising to every challenge. Rarely had a person so instantly endeared herself to Morigan, and much of this was due to the similarities between the matron and Mifanwae. The two women weren’t identical; this one seemed coarser in manner and lighter in spirit, yet the relation was present—the steel that ran in each from the same vein of responsibility.
She could be an aunt I’ve never met before
, mused Morigan.

“What’s the story with you two, then? I’ve heard all manner of wild tales,” said Mater Lowelia, putting her feet down so that she could lean in and hear what they had to say. “You’re in love, that much is as plain as my dogs barking. How did you meet? How do you two know the great Sage Thackery?”

Morigan gave a small laugh. “Great Sage Thackery? I’ve only ever known him as a troublesome but affable fellow whose tower I clean. Just as my mother did before me.”

“A maid! I can see that! A strange fit, granted, as you seem like so much more.” Mater Lowelia reached out and stole one of Morigan’s hands, turning it over for inspection. “You’ve managed to keep such supple skin, though you can’t hide the wear around your nails. I can see the diligence in the rivers across your palm—from squeezing many a rag or gripping many a handle.”

“Are you a palmist?” asked Caenith.

“Fortunes? Kings, no!” exclaimed Mater Lowelia, and dropped Morigan’s hand to snatch Caenith’s as it lay on the table. She examined it, as well. “Hmm…a workman’s hands are these. Honest hands. They’ve seen blood and war—those are the callouses of a warrior. Old, though, quite old. And the slivers of metal or minerals, deep in the skin…I’d say you’re a mason or a metal worker.” Caenith eyed the woman with wryness and respect; she could sense that she was close, yet not exactly on the mark. “A smith! I can see the sparks in your stare! You are surely a smith,” declared Mater Lowelia, releasing his hand.

“Impressive, Mater. You have a hawk’s eye for detail and a keen wit to match,” said Caenith with a tip of his head.

“We who toil often watch, and we are learned in ways that our masters are not,” the mater said with a smile. “So a maid and a smith. I feel like I have only a crumb of the story here. There’s nothing plain about either of you, aside from your jobs.”

“What were you saying earlier about the great Sage Thackery
?
” asked Morigan, dodging any further shrewd insights.

“You know the man and you don’t know what he’s
done
?” gasped the mater. “For Eod? For all the free people of Geadhain?”

“I’m sorry,” admitted Morigan, shrugging. “I work for the man, as did my mother, but he’s never been more than our employer and—in some ways—caretaker. I know that he values privacy above all else. I knew that he had connections to the powers of Eod, though I never could have guessed how grand those ties were. A sage…a friend of the queen.”

“There, there, love.” The mater came out of her seat to give Morigan a hearty hug, and then ruffled her hair as if she was someone precious. “Up here in the land of the Immortal King, we often can forget that there are those on the ground who live very different lives from us. I think Thackery wished that kind of difference for himself. Anonymity, you could say. Perhaps just
a comfortable sunny room to read in and wait out his days. My grandmum knew him—mater of the White Hearth back in her time, was she—and this Larson earned, not inherited, her present honor, let that be known. I cared for my gran when the twinkle of her star was almost gone, and on the better days, she told me the fantastic tales of the comings and goings of the palace. Stuff I thought I’d never see. Gran told me of the sage, spoke of him with the highest regard. He liked to read, she said. Always with a book, that one. And he liked his solitude, too. He ate quite late, apart from the other scholars, and Gran fed him on just about the very same chair you’re sitting on, each night, as if he was her own child.”

To prevent anyone from overhearing what was said next, the mater came right to Morigan and whispered in her ear, “My gran said he was a sad man, and that’s why she cared for him so. I’m glad to see that he’s being well cared for by one with a golden heart. I don’t think there’s a wrong bone in your body, love.” That said, Mater Lowelia backed away, waving. “A pleasure to meet you each. I’ve really been off my feet for far too long. The kettles are singing for my attention! The pots are weeping from their filth! And it’s a shame that with all this magik, turnips haven’t learned how to wash and peel themselves! I look forward to the tales you two will grace these halls with. I am sure I shall see each of you again!”

Morigan raised her hand to stall the woman. “Wait! You never told me of Thackery’s deeds!”

“His deeds?” In veneration, the mater touched her chest. “He’s the sage of the Nine Laws. Penned them himself with our Everfair King!” chimed Mater Lowelia, and thereafter vanished into the crowd of workers, though her formidable voice could still be heard over the clangorous music of the scullery.

“The sage of the Nine Laws,” muttered Caenith, impressed. “The very framework of freedom, ethics, and law in Eod.” After draining the dregs of his mead, he said no more.

“How curious that he would never say anything,” pondered Morigan. “Not a word of who he was. All this time, and he’s been living like a recluse. A man who changed our world. Incredible. Perhaps the mater has it right, and he was crippled by his sorrow. He was only waiting to pass.”

The bees sang that yes, this was true.

“We still haven’t found what will inspire us,” said Morigan. “Though apparently Thule—Thackery—found what he needed here. I would like to think we shall have the same fortune. Let’s keep looking.”

The two shouted a good-bye to the mater and went back to the web of hallways to see where Caenith’s senses would lead them next. Hourglasses raced along with them as they discovered the hidden beauties of the palace. Caenith’s ears took them to a concert hall, framed in a mesh of silver-and-glass plates that pulsed with lights and colors in concurrence with the orchestra that played in the pit below. They sat in the sparsely filled pews for a time, enjoying the music, and Caenith waved to the roof and told Morigan of similar displays made by nature that could be seen on certain nights, from atop the highest rocks in Alabion.
Faefire
, the Easterners termed the sight.
I would like to see it one day
, said Morigan, and Caenith swore that she would.

When they tired of the music—more of sitting still for so long, on Caenith’s part—the Wolf sniffed his way down an invisible path of soil and leaves, and the two found themselves out on one of the terraced gardens of the palace. From Thule’s remote tower window, Morigan had never discerned much detail, though she presumed that the gardens were beautiful. How pale an assumption that was to the truth, and even Caenith was quiet as they strolled through the sunny woodland—under the canopy of bird-chirping trees that seemed as old as the ones the Wolf knew in the East; down paths fenced in living bushes of ice, their veins and innards bare to Morigan as she bent to examine them; over root-woven bridges covering streams with crystal beds; and through pergolas of perfumed flowers with blooms of cold green fire that did no harm. They ambled by benches and hammocks strung together by twined saplings and occasionally occupied by contemplative scholars, folk so lost in thought that the lovers were unnoticed in their passage. Often the two stopped to bask in the shafts of sunlight or inhale the earthy spice of such bountiful life. All conjured from magik, yet so harmoniously cultivated that, to the Wolf, it did not reek of the sulfur of new magik.
You managed not to break Geadhain, not to whip her to your Will, but to soften her and shape her with kindness, Sorcerer King
, applauded the Wolf. As the noon sun peaked and faded, and their wandering wound them back to a grand stone arch, they were no closer to finding what they would create, though their spirits were calm and primed for invention.

Not long indoors, the sweat and clash of battle drew Caenith; he grabbed his Fawn’s hand and chased the source. In a few sands, they emerged onto another tier of the palace, a long flat field of stone on which white tents and flapping banners of the king were set up. A training grounds, this certainly was, and Silver Watchmen bustled through the arch by which Caenith and Morigan stood. They strayed along the outskirts of the field, keeping close to Kor’Keth, and watching the spectacle of hundreds of His Majesty’s army drilled by the shouts of legion masters. They saw lines of men sweeping into one another like silver winds. They saw rows of thunderstrike archers volleying electricity toward scorched sandbags, or sometimes upon circles of shrouded sorcerers, who would throw their arms out and bat the projectiles away with twisting currents. Across the stone field, there were obstacle courses of snares, hoops, and walls, which the Watchmen grunted past without complaint, not cursing even come a tumble, merely picking themselves up and forging on. The King’s Cavalry pranced up and down the stone, too, and their thundering charges made Caenith’s blood boil with passion.

Soon they discovered a rocky rim with a clear view of the field and the open sky—they were at quite an altitude, for the city was not on the horizon. They sat and enjoyed the exhibition of war until the men began to sparkle with the fiery light of evening. Although their presence could not have gone unobserved, no one bothered them, and few looks but the most fleeting were cast their way.

“I’ve never seen men and women so disciplined. So strong,” exclaimed Morigan—the first words spoken since their arrival at the training grounds.