Feast of Souls (22 page)

“I knew then such fear within my soul as I cannot describe to you. If this was a Spear in truth, why was it so weakened? I tried to urge my horse forward, to test it, but at that point he would go no farther. At last I had to leave him behind. Yet even so he was not so frantic as beasts normally are that close to the edge of the Wrath. It was an ill omen.

“As I came closer to the spire, picking my way across the earth, I could feel the Wrath envelop me at last. Ah, you do not know what it feels like, Gwyn, to be in such a state without sorcery to support you! The nearest I can describe it to you is that it is like standing in a terrible storm, where you must lean into the gale merely to keep your footing. For every step you take forward, the wind might drive you two back. So it was with the Wrath as I approached, for the power of the gods’ fury by its very nature drives back all living creatures. Yet despite the terror in my heart I knew I had to go forward, to learn what details I could, that I might report them to my order.”

Gwynofar nodded solemnly, captivated by his tale. In her youth she had strayed as close to the ancient spires as a simple maiden might, but the maleficent power of the Wrath had forced her to flee like a frightened deer from their proximity. Later, as daughter of a Lord Protector, she had been given a role to play in the annual sacrifice, and in the company of Magisters had come even closer to the monuments, but even sorcerous rituals were not enough to protect one from the gods’ ancient magic entirely, and she remembered shivering to the core of her soul even then, wanting nothing more than to get the ritual finished so that she could go home.

To walk up to one of the ancient monuments by oneself, to
touch
one… that was a thing she could not even imagine doing.

Rhys continued. “Against that gale I forced my way to the foot of the spire itself. It was a vast and twisted thing that towered overhead as high as the turrets of father’s keep. I kept expecting the gods to crush me like an insect for daring to come so close, but they did not. And at last, may they forgive me… I reached out and touched the cold stone surface.” His voice dropped to a whisper; his eyes glittering like ice in the moonlight. “I
touched
it, Gwyn. And then suddenly I could hear all the voices that had been silent before: the screams of the earth god whose sacred flesh had been ripped open when the Spear first fell, the howls of all those men and beasts whom the Wrath had possessed down through the centuries, the roar of all the demons that had thrown themselves against that malevolent barrier, failing to break through… their screams poured into me like a black whirlwind when I touched the stone, and I fell to my knees, overwhelmed… and I think that had my hand not fallen from the spire at that moment, I would have been swallowed whole by that terrible screaming, and never returned to you.”

She saw him shudder in the moonlight. It was an uncharacteristic gesture for him, and as such it sent a chill through her heart.

“But Guardians do touch the Spears at other times,” she said softly. “Do they not?”

“Aye, when they need repair, when wind and ice have threatened to crack their surface, then we must mortar them freshly, and seal them against winter’s ire… but the men who do that are of the blood of the Protectors, whom the gods have fortified for just that purpose, and they do not go alone. I am only that on my father’s side… barely enough to approach it in their company.”

He touched a hand to the underside of her chin, gently. “You, sweet queen, possess what this humble bastard lacks. You could face the Wrath directly and not back down, if you needed to.”

She shuddered. “Don’t even suggest that.”

“Why? The time may soon come. If it does, all those who bear the Protectors’ gift must play their part in defending the world, else we may witness the Second Age of Kings fall to madness and barbarism, as the First Age did.”

“Do you believe that?” Her voice was a whisper. “Do you say these things to frighten me, or do you honestly believe that the Wrath is about to fail us?”

“Gods willing it will stand strong forever,” he responded solemnly. “Riders have been sent out to inspect the other Spears and find out what the situation is; it will be months before we have the larger picture. Be grateful the summer is upon us now, at least, so that such travel is possible. In the meantime I am a Guardian, and must be prepared for the worst. As you must, being of the Lord Protector’s blood.”

Perhaps sensing that the moment had become too intense—perhaps regretting he had brought such thoughts to one in mourning—he glanced back toward the keep. “So tell me of other news. Danton is vile-tempered as usual? Rurick still a strutting ass?”

Despite herself she smiled. “Choose your words carefully. Rurick will be High King someday.”

“Aye. Gods help us all.” He ran a hand through his braids, which set a few of the tokens bound in it to tinkling. “What of your Magister Royal? I take it someone new has replaced Ramirus? He has not shown his face since I arrived.”

Her expression tightened. It was a reflexive reaction, beyond her control, like the instinctive hissing of a cat. “Kostas.” She nearly spat the name. “Gods curse the day that vile creature came into our house.”

He glanced back at the keep again. “Are you not worried—”

“He never comes here. He disdains these”—she indicated the spires—“and the
northern superstition
they represent. Indeed, sometimes I come here just to escape him. He has left his mark all over the keep like wolf piss. Sometimes I feel like I should bathe just to get out the stink.”

Rhys blinked in surprise. “I’ve never heard you speak like that of a man before. What has he done to earn such venom?”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “Taken all that is worst in my husband and encouraged it to new excess. Ramirus was a temperate man, a fit counselor for a High King. Kostas is a snake. No. Worse than a snake. He is a pestilence, an infection. Ten minutes in his presence and Danton is raging like a bull in season, desperate for some enemy to gore, or else perhaps a rival to mount. Ramirus knew how to calm him. Kostas… Kostas does not even try. He seems to take pleasure in Danton’s rage.” Quietly Rhys said, “Is that all?” Startled, she asked, “What do you mean?” His eyes glittered darkly in the moonlight. “We have known each other a very long time Gwyn. Granted we do not see each other often these days, your duties and mine being what they are, but I think I know you well enough to know when things are not right. Even the reasons you offer me do not match the hatred I sense in your heart. There is another cause beside these things, clearly.” When she did not answer him he prompted gently, “Is there not?”

With a sigh she turned away from him; her pale hand reached out to rest upon the surface of the nearest spire, as if she might draw strength from the gods through such contact. “I do not know,” she said at last. “With any other man I could capture his essence in words and be content. But Kostas—my feelings about him defy the bounds of language, my brother. It is… it is a sensation almost animal in tenor, that comes upon me when I am in his presence. Like the deer mouse must feel when the shadow of a hawk passes over it. I want to run, or I want to strike at him, to see his blood flow… I want to do
something
other than pass courtly pleasantries and pretend nothing is wrong when everything in my soul cries out to drive him from my castle, away from my home and my family, at any cost…”

She stared off into the darkness for a moment. “Sometimes I have dreams,” she whispered, “in which I come to him while he sleeps and slit his throat. Or I stab him in the heart, so that his blood spurts out across my hands… and it is ecstatic. In those dreams he is not a Magister at all, but something… something else, that I cannot give a name to. Something that I know must be destroyed at any cost.

“When I awaken from those dreams that feeling remains with me for a time. I must struggle to hide it from him, and yet… yet… he
is
a Magister, beyond question. He serves my husband as dutifully as Ramirus ever did. And if he is cruel at times, if he manipulates Dan-ton’s darker instincts for some private purpose, or even just for his own amusement… that is what men become when they live centuries beyond their natural lifespan. I have met enough Magisters in my days as queen to know that. And I accept it, as must all royals who rely upon their sorcery.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Why is this one different, Rhys? Why can I not accept him as I did all the others?”

Gently he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. When he saw she did not pull away he drew her gently to him, until she rested her head against his chest. “You bear the blood of the Protectors in your veins,” he said softly. “There is a magic in that we do not understand, save that we know it was given to us by the gods to protect us. Trust in it to guide you.”

“They think we are ignorant savages, you know.” Her voice was fierce with bitterness. “They will never say it to my face, not even Danton, but I can hear it in their silence. Superstitious savages with strange blood rites who worship rocks and talk to trees, like the men of the Dark Ages did. Danton would never have asked for my hand if had he not feared that the Lord Protectors would look askance at his northern ambitions… this marriage bought him a border treaty that lets him swallow up other nations at his whim, provided he leaves the Protectorates alone.” She sniffed. “Apparently he did not mind wedding a
barbarian
for that.”

“It is the fate of royalty to be bartered for treaties,” he said quietly. “Especially the daughters of royalty. You know that.”

She shivered against him as if she were cold; he wrapped his arms around her. “I know,” she replied.

He kissed her gently on the top of her head and sighed. “Ah, Gwyn. I wish I could stay with you longer than a few days. You need to be with your own people for a time… more than even I guessed. But I cannot.”

Silently she nodded. “I understand. I have my duty as Protector to be sold into foreign lands, to safeguard my father’s domain… you have a duty to see that the Wrath never wavers.” She sighed. “Had you not told me that tale before I might beg you to reconsider… but with that in mind I cannot.”

“We are both creatures of duty, yes?” Gently he released her. “Not a thing I expect a ‘civilized’ king to understand.”

Despite herself she smiled faintly, sadly.

“I will ask Father if he can send you more servants from home,” he told her. “You need the comfort of your own language, and to be surrounded by those who do not need to be taught your customs. Servants whose silence is only silence.”

“I would not ask that of him, Rhys.”

“I know, little sister. You are far too proud… and far too stubborn. That is why I will ask him for you.”

He knelt down in the moist bed of pine needles that covered the ground and picked out a slender white object from among them, where she had dropped it. It was made of bone and carved with figures in an ancient style, of creatures whose names had long ago been forgotten. “You were going to make offering.”

“Yes.”

He handed the pin back to her. “So tell me then. Will the gods accept the sacrifice of a halfbreed?”

She put her hand over his and gazed into his eyes.

They no longer seemed dark but comforting, familiar. “The gods will welcome the offering of a Guardian,” she told him gently. “And I that of a brother.”

In the light of two moons, in the circle of House Kierdwyn’s ancestors, they offered up a drop of blood to each of the stone spires in turn, and prayed that the world would not be destroyed a second time.

You are the witch from the tavern?” Startled, Kamala turned around. She half expected it to be some sort of local authority addressing her, backed by members of the guard perhaps, and as she turned she braced herself to let loose such power as was necessary to keep them at bay, but it was only a single man, and one not even carrying weapons. She blinked, surprised, but no guards appeared. Nor was there anywhere nearby for them to stage an effective ambush.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And why do you ask me this?”

Truth be told, he looked less than happy about being there, in one of the worst neighborhoods of the Quarter, and he glanced back over his shoulder repeatedly as he spoke to her, as if expecting an army of thieves and whores might descend upon him at any moment. When his woolen cloak parted once Kamala could see flashes of fine silk clothing, but he quickly grabbed the edges of the cloak and wrapped it tightly about himself, denying her any more insight. No doubt that was the reason there were beads of sweat running down his face; it was a warm day to be wearing such a wintry wrap.

“My master sent me to search you out. He said…” He hesitated. “He said, ‘look for a tall girl dressed like a boy, with hair as red as the Hunter’s Moon, for that is how they have described her, they who were at the place.’”

“Who is your master?” she demanded. “And what makes him think this is a witch he describes?”

He pulled at the neck of his woolen cloak, allowing the sweat to trickle down inside the collar, and glanced back down the narrow street once again. “It is said by those who were there at the time that this woman stood single-handed against a gang of ruffians and killed them all, and must either therefore have witchery of her own, or have as a patron someone of power.”