Feast of Souls (26 page)

“It was decided that they would seek out those last few warriors who still had the spirit to fight—for you must understand that the demons’ magic robbed men of all aggressive instinct, so this was no small thing—and they would launch a final campaign against the enemy. Not to kill the demons in the lands they had invaded, the ruins of the First Kingdoms, for all efforts to do that before had failed. Rather they would attempt to drive them to the far north, to the lands of ice and snow, where the kingdoms of man had never taken root. For it was believed that the deep cold weakened them, and perhaps in such a place they would become feeble enough that men might destroy them at last.”

“Tell me of these demons,” Kostas said quietly. His eyes upon hers were like a lizard’s, cold and unblinking; she dared not look at them directly, lest her revulsion show.

“It is said they were born of the souls of corrupted men who feared entering the lands of Death, yet who might remain in the world of the living only by feeding upon the souls of others. They took on the forms of great flying creatures with wings so vast and black they cast shadows upon the earth beneath them as they flew. It is said that their gaze could turn a man to stone, so that no warrior could stand before them. Many armies tried when they first appeared, and many stone monuments remain to bear witness to their failure.”

“But this time would be different,” the Magister offered.

“Yes.” She glanced at Danton. He believed in some of this, she knew that, though he did so in the manner of his own people, preferring to believe the demons were merely fearsome beasts and the tales of their supernatural powers no more than legends. Yet
something
had ended the First Age of Kings and plunged mankind into spiritual and intellectual darkness for the span of ten centuries, she thought stubbornly. No man doubted that. And
something
had then killed all the invaders, so that the Second Age of Kings could begin. No man doubted that either. Why was the tale of a sorcerous war less credible than believing mere beasts had been the cause?

“There are many tales told in the north of the witches’ quest to find the few remaining heroes among men. If the Lord Magister has interest in that…” Kostas gestured with a short wave of one bony hand that he did not. “Some believe the gods aided the witches in their search, for otherwise it would surely have been impossible. At last they succeeded in finding a handful of warriors whose spirits were resistant to the demons’ power, seven men in all, to whose banners others would flock in order for an army to be mustered.”

She was remembering the epic tales of her childhood now, offered up by minstrels before a roaring fire in the darkness of the northern winter. It was hard not to fall into their cadence, or offer up half-remembered fragments of their songs, as she tried to distill centuries of speculation and myth into a few simple sentences for Kostas’ consumption. In truth as a girl she had been more interested in the tales of the exciting search for the Seven Heroes and of the magical exploits that were said to attend them, but that was clearly not what Kostas wanted to hear, and so she skipped over it.

“All the witching folk who existed in that day came to fight by their side, for the gods had revealed to them in dreams the importance of this battle, and they knew that mankind would rise or fall based upon their efforts. Terrible war was waged across the whole of the earth then, not merely with weapons, but with sorcery as well. In all the places where great kingdoms had once stood, the bodies of fallen soldiers were now strewn, some torn to bits by the claws of their enemies, some whole in body but with their souls rent by the demons, their ghosts howling in agony. The bodies of countless witches lay beside them, empty shells from which the life had been drained as fuel for magic. The whole of the earth had become a place of blood and death, and those who could not or would not fight fled and hid trembling in holes like rats, lest the enemy find them and devour them for strength.

“In time the seven great warriors and their armies drove the demons to the far north. Ice froze upon their wings then, and it robbed them of strength, just as the Seers had foretold. Yet even such an advantage could not turn the tide of battle completely. The blood of countless men was spilled in that great battle, rivers of it churned to scarlet mud beneath the soldiers’ boots. Long summer days began to give way to the darkness of winter as the fighting went on, and the armies of men knew then that they were not strong enough to carry the battle to conclusion by themselves, not before the Great Night enshrouded all the northlands in darkness.”

In the springtime, maidens of the Protectorates would make themselves garlands out of the crimson daisies that grew in the northern plains, which the legends said had once been white but were stained with the blood of heroes. She still remembered the look on Danton’s face when he first caught sight of her in her wedding dress of that same arterial color. Why? she had wondered. Was not the color of courage and sacrifice suitable for weddings?

“So the witches offered up their lives in final sacrifice,” she whispered, “if the gods would free mankind from the Souleaters and let the battle be won. And the gods heard them, and accepted their offer.”

Kostas stiffened slightly. He seemed to be listening to her more intently than before. With his long thin limbs, staring eyes, and bony edges he reminded her of nothing so much as a praying mantis about to strike.

“The gods forged spears out of lightning and cast them down into the earth one after the other, in the midst of the battle, between the demons and the men. They struck in a line that stretched across the snow as far as the eye could see. The blood of the earth gushed upward where they pierced, and was frozen into fearsome spires many times the height of a man as it struck the air. The Wrath blazed forth from each earthwound, so terrible in its power that no living thing would go near it, nor could any living creature pass between the spires without going mad.

“The demons to the north fell back shrieking in fury, for they knew themselves bested. It is said the whole of the night sky blazed with fire, then, and veils as red as blood flickered from horizon to horizon. The soldiers killed those few demons that had been caught on the southern side of the barrier, and then an army of witches—the last ones living—crossed the Wrath to hunt down the last of the creatures. Trapped in the winds of the icy north the demons were truly helpless, they believed, and might be destroyed at last.”

How could any outsider understand what it was to be born in a land that still echoed with the cries of that great war? The demons were still out there, or so the priests taught. If the Wrath ever faltered and the battle resumed, her kin would be in the front ranks. Even the women. That was their duty.

She thought of Rhys and the other Guardians, traveling from spire to spire along the edge of the Wrath, braving its terrible power to inspect the frozen founts of earth’s blood, to repair them if necessary, and to lend the strength of their prayers and their offerings to the gods who maintained them. For if and when the demons did return, the Wrath was the only thing standing between them and the fertile, civilized southlands, and not Danton and all the High King’s armies could muster a defense against them if it faltered.

“This is why,” she concluded, “when the Second Age of Kings began, there was no sorcery. All those who could work the soulfire had been sacrificed.”

“Tell me of the Protectors’ bloodlines,” Kostas said quietly. “Their… special powers.” His tone had not changed, nor was their any change in his demeanor… yet the question cut into her soul like a knife. She had felt such things before with Ramirus, when he used his power to read the truth behind her words. It was chilling to think this hollow-faced Magister was weaving his power about her now, but she kept any sign of the knowledge from showing on her face as she responded while hating him silently for daring to touch her with his sorcery, an invasion so unclean and intimate it felt like rape.

Yet even while she hated him she wondered why it was so, and she remembered Rhys’ words in the courtyard:
The reasons you offer me do not match the hatred in your heart
.

The King’s hounds do not like the new Magister either
, she told herself.
They do not have to know why
.

“They are descended from the surviving leaders of the great battle. The priests decreed that those bloodlines should serve as kings in the north, and so they have, ever since.” She paused, watching him closely. “What more do you wish to know?”

“It is said the gods gave them gifts, is it not? Special powers that would help them protect the world against the demons, should they come again. At least that is the rumor.”

Like a deer catching scent of a hunter, she stiffened.
This is the question he wished to ask all along
, she thought.
This is why he called me here, rather than letting Danton tell him tales of my people
.

It made her wary. It made her want to hide the truth. “There are many rumors, my lord.”

“Superstition,” Danton snorted.

She blushed and looked down in what she hoped would seem to be feminine embarrassment; sometimes with men that could deflect suspicion. “Perhaps, Sire.”

“You have not answered my question,” Kostas pressed.

She shrugged, attempting to make it seem like the matter was of little import to her. “It is the duty of the Protectors to guard the Spears, hence it is said that the gods granted them the ability to approach them more closely than the common man is able to. I do not know if you would call that a ‘gift,’ Lord Magister. They are fearsome things, and only those bound by duty would ever wish to be near them.”

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But it is said the blood of the witches runs in your veins.”

She felt her heart skip a beat, and drew in a slow, measured breath to keep her outer aspect calm. If his power was focused upon her now she could not lie to him, but neither did she wish to give him the whole truth. “I do not know what legends you have heard,” she told him. “Some claim that seven witches survived to become the wives of the great generals, to bear them their firstborn sons. Some claim that the power of all the witches who died was absorbed into the land itself, and that the first Protectors were bequeathed luck in their name. But the first generations are long dead now, Lord Magister, and witchery is not a thing inherited along with a father’s name, nor transferred by the telling of tales.”

“She is not a witch herself,” Danton said. “If that’s what you are asking after. Ramirus made sure of that before we were wed.”

Now Gwynofar flushed with genuine embarrassment. “Magister Ramirus—?”

“I ordered it,” Danton told her. He cut any protest short with a wave of his hand. “What did you expect? I was not about to take a wife from a family of some enchanted race. And you are rumored to be that, you know it.” He looked to Kostas. “Apparently the gods promised the Protectors something like,
if and when you need the power you will have it
. Whatever that means.” He chuckled softy. “Gods are nothing if not obscure, yes?”

“So it seems,” the Magister said quietly.

“Well the Lord Protectors have built an empire based upon such legends, and I respect that. But you’d best look elsewhere for your enchanted races, Kostas. My wife is as pure blooded as Protectors come, and Ramirus assured me she had no more witchery about her than any other noblewoman.” He looked at Gwynofar. “I’m sorry, my dear, but you know that’s the truth.”

Acknowledging the point with a nod did not require her to answer. Without an answer, Kostas’ truth-sensing magic had no hold on her.

She nodded. “Is the Lord Magister satisfied, then? Or does he need anything more from me?”

It was impossible to ask the question without meeting Kostas’ eyes. A shudder ran through her as she did so. Their pale gray substance, not dissimilar from Rhys’ in color, seemed utterly unlike anything human in their essence, and for a moment she imagined she could see dark things slithering in their depths, hungry things, ready to swim down the conduit of his gaze to feast upon her soul the moment she gave him an opening. Or else ready to celebrate her weakness if she looked away. So though it took every bit of fortitude she had, she did not look away. His unblinking eyes held her for a moment, then two, then a small eternity, testing her mettle. Finally he said, “No. You have given me enough,” and looked back to Danton. She did not even hear what he said then, but breathed a secret sigh of relief that the contest had not lasted longer. She was a strong woman, despite her fragile seeming, and doubly strong in the kind of moral certainty that came of being a Protector, but staring down a Magister, even of the ordinary kind, was a contest few people ever won.

Danton drank again, this time draining the goblet. Had he filled it yet again? If so he was drinking more than usual today; that was not a good sign. “I told the Magister there was little substance to your myths. But he insisted upon hearing them. Now then Kostas, you have heard the fairy tales, yes? For what they are worth.” He nodded toward the door, waving absently in Gwynofar’s direction. “You may go, my dear.” Even as she rose obediently and curtseyed, it was clear that his attention was already elsewhere, and she dared to breathe a sigh of relief to be officially released from the interview.

Not until she was safely on the other side of the heavy oaken doors did she pause to lean weakly against them, to draw in one long, shivering breath, and to wonder,
What was the purpose of that
? For the one thing that Ramirus had taught her was that all things had purpose to a Magister, and rarely were their intentions of the sort that a mere mortal might guess at.

But try as she might she could not untangle the twisted knots of it all, and at last with a sigh she returned to her rooms, where at least she could put thick doors between herself and the new Magister Royal, and try to forget the unclean touch of his sorcerous scrutiny.

Danton grunted and poured himself more wine. “Well? Did you get the information you wanted?”