Feast of Souls (13 page)

The captain’s eyes scanned the shadows below even as the figure above him moved, ghostly smooth, to the edge of the highest rampart. Had the captain looked up he might have seen the flash of blond hair in the light of two gibbous moons, and perhaps his heart might have caught in his chest for a moment as he realized who the figure must be. Only one member of the royal line had hair that color.

But he did not look, and the figure was eerily silent, so the motion went unnoticed.

The figure above was dressed in dark colors, like a man who did not wish to be seen or disturbed. He appeared from nowhere, it seemed, as if drawn from the substance of shadow itself, but the moonlight solidified him as he climbed to the highest point the castle had to offer. It was an archer’s nest atop the north tower, one of four narrow structures that marked the cardinal points of the structure.

There he stood for a moment, silent and still, as if contemplating what was to come. Or watching the guards below, perhaps, waiting for a moment when there were no men near the base of the tower.

When the moment came he spread his arms as if to embrace the night, and if anyone had been close enough to see his face, they might have seen fear flicker across it, a fleeting and furtive shadow.

Then he jumped.

It was a long drop to the stone walkway below. The impact was sharp and short and bloody, and brought the guards running with their weapons drawn. The captain was among the first, crying out the alarm as soon as he saw the body. His heart was like ice in his chest, imagining what Danton’s response would be if he thought he had failed in his duty—he feared the High King more than he feared any enemy—but years of training made him capable of focusing on the moment at hand in spite of everything.
Sound the alarm. Search the grounds
. The body had clearly fallen from above, which meant from within the castle itself.
Make sure there is no enemy hidden inside, seeking another victim
.

Then one of his men turned the body over, far enough to reveal what was left of the face, and the captain froze. One side of the face had been crushed by the impact, but there was enough left whole to allow for identification.

Andovan.

Those inside the castle were stirring now, responding to the alarm. Lamps flickered to life in the narrow arrow-slit windows as voices shouted orders within. After a moment the great bell in the south tower started to toll, warning all who sheltered within that there was an enemy at large. Let those who were capable take up their swords, and those who were not lock their doors and wait for word.

The captain stood by the body of his prince, trembling slightly in anticipation of Danton’s rage, wondering if perhaps his career as a Royal Guard was about to come to a bloody and unpleasant end.

“Sir?”

He blinked twice, then looked toward the guard who had addressed him and nodded for him to continue.

“He’s got something in his hand.”

The captain looked down at the body once more. Indeed it did seem there was something clasped in An-dovan’s hand—crumpled paper with writing on it—a note perhaps?

“Shall I take it up, sir?”

“No.” He said it quietly, in the manner of a man who knows the next hour is going to be bad, and what is on one piece of paper will not make it better. “Leave it for His Majesty to deal with.” Ramirus would be checking the castle for intruders even as they spoke; it was the kind of thing best done by Magisters. If there was an intruder, Ramirus would find him and deal with him.

If it was one of the foreign Magisters—as it well might be—that could take some time. The captain had never been happy about having so many strangers within the castle, least of all the type that could walk through walls or strangle a man with a thought. What if one of them was responsible?

Only when all that was done would the gates be opened. And the High King Danton—who was called Danton the Fierce, and Danton the Cruel, and sometimes Danton the Unforgiving—would come to see the bloody remnants of his royal seed, and would decide what was to be done.

My Father
—

Forgive me.

I know the name of my illness, though none will speak it aloud. I know the manner of death that awaits me, the growing weakness that turns a vital man into an invalid by stages, and I know that none can cure it. I know that at most I have a few years left of life, while my soul’s fire flickers and dies within me, leaving me no more than an empty husk of flesh into my last hours.

Forgive me, father, that I choose a swifter death this night. Forgive me that I choose to be remembered by you as a prince in the prime of his life rather than as a dying shell of a man who lacked the strength to leave his bed. Forgive me most of all that I did not seek your counsel in this, for I knew that you would forbid me such an act and cling to hope until time had drained me of the last of my living energy and left me to die that terrible death.

There is no hope. Not for this disease. A thou-sand generations of men have declared it so, and even these many Magisters you have brought here cannot make it otherwise.

Forgive me, my father. Remember me for what I was before I died, and take comfort in the time we had together, for it was precious while it lasted.

Now the gods have decreed that time is to be ended, and no man may stand against their word.

Andovan

King Danton was not a gentle man at the best of times. Now, with his swarthy countenance distorted by fury, grief, and utter shock, he could have stood among the demons of the nether gates without drawing notice. Indeed, in his current mood they might have been hesitant to stand too close.

No mortal man dared approach him. No man dared speak. Not even the Magisters who flocked about the scene like curious carrion-birds—some of them quite literally, having chosen bird form as the safest means of overseeing the scene in the courtyard.

Even Ramirus was silent. The greatest Magister of the greatest human kingdom knelt by the side of his prince’s body, weaving what magics he could to determine the cause of the tragedy. It was a dangerous undertaking, given the risk of connecting with a Magister’s consort, even as a corpse. For all he knew the bond between Andovan and his killer had left some anchoring trace in the prince’s soul, and if in seeking answers he were to make contact with that conduit, he might well become food for that unnamed Magister himself.

All of which could not be explained to Danton, of course. The only concepts the High King understood were outrage, failure—and blame.

“Who did this?” he demanded. “Who did this to my own flesh and blood? I will have his head!”

The Magister Royal spoke quietly, hoping his tone would help calm the man, knowing in his heart that it wouldn’t. “I do not see any signs that force was used on him, Majesty. There are no traces of violence on the body, save his own final act.” He looked up at the king. “I can tell you no more from his body. I am sorry. The power we draw on is a thing of life, and once life has left the flesh there is little left to be analyzed.”

Danton made a sound low in his throat that might, in a lion, be deemed warning growl. “I don’t want your excuses,
Magister
. Only answers.”

Ramirus’ jaw tightened as he regarded the body again. There was no answer he could give Danton that would satisfy him, he knew that, but failing to provide answers at all was an even greater risk. “Despair clings to his body like a shroud,” he said at last. “Not the despair of a single moment; that would have dissipated by now. This is something longer lasting, something of more significance.” He stopped at that. No need to state the obvious.

A flicker of pain—or was it anger?—crossed the High King’s brow. “My son was a strong man. Not a coward. He would not have let a
disease
defeat his spirit.”

He would have if he knew the source of that disease
, Ramirus thought.
If he understood that he had been reduced to the status of milk cow in some Magister’s herd
. “What is in the note, Majesty?”

The dark eyes fixed on Ramirus with unabashed hatred. For a moment it looked like Danton was about to say something, but finally, with a snort, he simply passed it over.

Ramirus read. He kept his expression steady as a stone as he did so, aware that not only Danton was watching but also Magisters that he might consider enemies.

Then, when he had finished, he drew in a deep breath and read again. Binding a whisper of soulfire to learn the essence of the letter—who had written it and why—tasting the tenor of the words, judging their truth.

It seemed the whole courtyard was frozen while he did so. Even the birds did not stir, waiting for his judgment.

Finally Danton had had enough. “My son did not write these words,” he said hoarsely.

“I am sorry, Majesty.” Ramirus’ voice was a whisper. “He did.”

“Then they were forced upon him.” The dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “One of
your
kind took control of him, perhaps. There are enough of them here now, yes? And some hardly friends of my throne. Do you know for a fact it was not one of them?
Can
you know that?”

Ramirus drew in a long, deep breath before responding. The truth of the letter was clear, and it was a truth Danton would never accept.

“There is no sign of coercion about this paper,” he said finally. “The words that are written here came from his heart, which no man controlled, and flowed through his willing hand to the paper. Nowhere is there trace of any other motive or cause.” He looked up at Danton. “I am sorry, Majesty, but that is the truth.”

With a roar the High King snatched the letter out of his hand. “
You
! I bade you cure him. Did you do that? I ordered you to
protect
him! Is this what I receive? Is this the service you promised me when I offered you patronage?”

“Majesty—”

“
SILENCE
!” In a fury he looked about at the birds, his dark eyes piercing through them as if he knew who each and every one of them were and what they were thinking. One of them stepped back a bit as the malevolent gaze fell upon it, a motion more human than avian.

“These!” Danton cried. He pointed at the birds. “I want them out of my kingdom! You understand? These and all those that came with them. Playing at consultation while my son’s spirit died within him. Did you laugh about that in the shadows,” he demanded of the birds, “while he wasted away? Perhaps some of you helped my son along in his despair? What a crowning glory to take home to your own masters, Danton’s own son destroyed!

“And
you
!” His eyes were black as he faced Ramirus again, his face red as a demon’s. “
You
invited them here.
You
showed my son to them as one would show a freak in a carnival, so that they might report my weakness to their masters, then sat back while he was dying and did nothing.
Nothing
!”

Danton drew in a deep breath; the guards who had gathered were holding theirs. “Hear me now, Ramirus. You are cast out of my presence, now and forever. I will give you such time as it takes a mortal man to walk to the borders of my kingdom, and after that, if you dare set foot in my lands again, may the gods have mercy upon your wretched soul.”

He turned his eyes from the kneeling Magister, with a totality that made it clear he was dismissing not only his presence but his very existence. “You!” he said to the captain. “Bring my son’s body inside.”

As the guard scurried to obey, Danton cast a last malevolent look at the sorcerous birds surrounding him. “You will all be out of this city by dawn,” he growled. “And gods help you if you delay.”

It was later than midnight, but not yet dawn.

The moons were near setting, and their light showed but dimly through the thick woods that surrounded the city. A small hooded lantern set on the ground shed a bit more, still not enough to make out more than shapes and shadows in the meager clearing, mere fragments of description:

A man on a rock. Still, still as the rock itself. Waiting.

A staff in his hand. A horse nearby, tethered in the darkness.

A traveler’s pack, canvas and leather, with a roll of woolen blankets affixed to the nether end.

After a moment there was a rustling in the trees surrounding him. Most men would not think twice about such a sound, assuming its cause to be the wind, or perhaps some small animal rummaging for food. This man knew the sounds of the forest better than that, sensed its wrongness, and marked its significance. Leaning down, he picked up the lamp beside him while his other hand loosened the hunting knife at his belt, just in case.

A figure stepped into the clearing. He was dressed all in black, and his long hair glistened like a jet waterfall in the lamplight. He gazed into the lamp for a moment, then made a small gesture with one hand; the light changed direction, so that it no longer shone directly in his eyes.

“You are wary tonight,” the newcomer said.

“Should I not be?” Andovan put the lantern back down. “You’re still an enemy of my father’s, Colivar; that much hasn’t changed.”

“With nothing to gain now from your death, Highness.”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was grim, determined. “Prince Andovan is dead. Let him rest in peace.”

The dark eyes glittered. “As you wish.”

Andovan stood, hoisting his travel pack to his shoulder as he did so. “It went as planned?”

“Exactly so.”

“Then I shall see the man’s family receives the money that was promised before I go.”

“It has already been seen to.”

Andovan looked at him sharply. “You are thorough, in matters of death.”

“I am always thorough,” Colivar informed him.

The prince drew in a deep breath and savored it for a long moment, as if sorting out all the tastes of the forest air. “So now I am free to travel, as my father would never have allowed. Free to follow what clues the gods will vouchsafe me, to find this witch of yours.”

“Hardly
mine
, your… Andovan.”

“My father would have killed them all, you know. Slaughtered every witch within reach, in the dim hope that the right one would die. He is like that.”