Feast of Souls (30 page)

Tonight, the sight of the towers energized him. The moons were high and the light was good and his mount did not seem overly tired. He decided after a break for dinner to go on a bit farther, and see if he could cut down the distance before him to a single day’s ride. He rarely had good days anymore, and wanted to take advantage of this new rush of energy before it expired.

Sunset gave way to twilight, the sky a brilliant blue. He could no longer see Gansang ahead of him but it seemed to him he could
feel
it there, waiting for him. Was it an illusion that he could sense
her
, as well? Was Colivar’s spell that strong? Would he, when he arrived—

—
black fury engulfing him, turning to fire, molten hatred
—

He gasped, clinging to the saddle with both hands lest he fall—

—
black hatred, fury, I WILL NOT KNEEL! stone shatters, twilight screams
—

He could not breathe. A wave of dizziness overcame him and despite the best of his efforts he could feel himself losing his grip. And then his horse reared up in fear, sensing the wrongness of the moment, and he was falling, falling—

—
plummeting into blackness, blood-filled, shards of stone and screaming, screaming
—

He managed to fall free and roll, far enough that his mount did not trample him, but it was all that he could do, and pain shot through his shoulder—

—
and hits the bottom and does not move, broken black-robed doll, FIGHT ME FIGHT ME FIGHT ME
!

Gasping, he struggled to remain conscious. This was by far the worst attack he’d had yet, and he was terrified that if he gave into it he would never wake up again. But it was not only weakness that assailed him this time, but a fearsome storm of images and emotions pouring into his brain with a hurricane’s force. Was all this really happening somewhere, these images he was seeing, or had the nightmares taken hold of his waking mind as well? Was his illness driving him mad?

The towers of Gansang fell. He saw them fall. Slowly at first, their upper stories shattering one after the other, balconies and balustrades crumbling, silken curtains catching fire as they fluttered to the ground like dying birds… then a rumbling shook the earth and the broad, solid bases of the towers split, fire licking outward between their stones. It was as if he were there on the street himself, watching the destruction, too fascinated—too horrified—to run. Chunks of granite and marble and concrete and wood rained down like hailstones, but there was nowhere to take shelter. Nowhere to hide. The ground buckled beneath him as the towers fell, one after the other—all save the surreal tower in their center, without doors or windows, that stood strong and tall, a sentinel overlooking their destruction.

And he knew with sudden despairing clarity why he was seeing this vision, what it must surely mean. If he had been stronger he would have cried out in rage at the heavens, cursing the gods for their cruelty, but as it was he was too weak to do anything more than whimper his anguish as the visions slowly faded from his sight, giving way to utter exhaustion and a weakness so terrible he wondered if he would ever be able to move again.

She was gone. No longer in Gansang. He had lost her…

And then the final tower faded, and there was only darkness.

There was a bath waiting for Gwynofar when she returned to her bedchamber after her meeting with Danton and Kostas. Apparently her maidservant Mer-ian had grown accustomed to the fact that she liked to bathe after meeting with the Magister and had anticipated the request. On another day that might have bothered Gwynofar—it meant she had been less than perfect in hiding her true feelings about the man—but the truth was that right now she was too tired to care. Her body and soul felt as if hordes of roaches had been scuttling across them, and experience had taught her that soap and water would at least make the physical sensation go away. The rest—the rest just took time. Kostas’ foul presence was something she had to digest and then purge before she could be free of it.

She smiled gratefully over the bath, glad for once not to have to be giving orders. She knew that if the older woman ever did guess just how much Kostas disturbed her she would never speak of it to another soul. Such loyalty was rare among the High King’s staff, but Mer-ian was of northern blood, Protectorate born and raised, and had come to this land in Gwynofar’s own retinue. Her first loyalty was to the Lord Protector’s bloodline and to the gods that were their patrons, not to this castle full of iconoclastic foreigners, no matter how fierce and feared its royal master might be.

Gwynofar let Merian help her off with her black gown and the thin chemise she wore beneath it, then lowered herself gratefully into the iron-bound tub, letting the late summer heat seep out of her flesh into the cool fresh water. Sprigs of rosemary and summer mint had been sprinkled into the water, and the smell helped open her pores and relax her mind. The soap was likewise perfumed, and after holding it to her nose for a moment she began to rub it languidly along her skin. The smells reminded her of the world she had grown up in, always filled with the scent of fresh bread baking in the great ovens and the sound of children’s laughter. So different from this dank place. No one ever seemed to laugh here except her husband, and his laughter was deemed by many a thing to be feared. With a sigh she sank down deep into the perfumed bath, letting images of the past comfort her as the knotted tension in her body began to give way.

It made no sense, really, this need she had to scrub herself clean after leaving Kostas’ presence. But whatever the foulness it was that she sensed within him, it seemed to cling to her skin like a skunk’s smell afterward, and she never felt right until she had washed it away. Ah, would that mere soap could cleanse the spirit as easily as it cleaned the flesh! She leaned forward and let Merian attend to her back, ordering her to rub harder when her first gentle strokes failed to banish the Magister’s perceived stink. Yes, she knew in her heart that it was all nonsense, this fantasy of hers, but it gave her some small comfort to indulge it. She could not make the Magister leave her life in fact, but in the privacy of her bath she could banish him from her presence. Soap had that power at least.

Why do you hate him so much
? Rhys’ voice whispered in her mind.
Why does he make you feel so unclean
?

I don’t know, my brother. I wish I did.

“Shall I wash your hair?” her maidservant asked.

She nodded, and shut her eyes as Merian began to remove the ivory pins that held the twisted blonde coils tightly against her head. There was some noise in the hallway beyond the chamber’s door, but Gwynofar put it out of her mind. Her other servants knew enough not to bother her when she was bathing, and they would doubtless waylay anyone who would seek to do so.

A long coil of blond hair slipped down onto her shoulder and she began to stroke it with a soapy hand, drawing it into the perfumed water, separating the strands—

—and the door swung roughly open then, and Merian’s gasp made Gwynofar look up.

High King Danton stood framed in the doorway.

“My… my lord?”

He strode into the room as if it were his own, this sanctuary which was hers, this private room which he had never invaded. He nodded sharply to the maidservant to leave them and for a moment Merian just stood there frozen, like a deer staring down the shaft of a hunter’s arrow. Then, with trembling hands but great dignity, pointedly
not
leaving, she lifted Gwynofar’s robe from off the bed and held it out to her.

There was no point in ordering the woman away, even though her disobedience put her at great risk; she would not leave her mistress in this state. Gwynofar stood up silently in the bath, determined to be dignified even in nakedness, and let Merian wrap the thin linen robe around her, its lower end trailing into the soapy water. Then she looked at her and said softly, “Go.” She could see the doubt in the woman’s eyes but her own queenly gaze did not waver, and after a moment Merian lowered her eyes, curtseyed low, and scurried from the room. Danton did not blink as she passed, nor avert his eyes from his wife, which was probably a good sign for Mer-ian, though an ominous one for Gwynofar.

The High Queen felt herself tremble inside as she stepped out of the tub, but she steeled her flesh so that Danton would not see it. The king had never made any formal promise he would not visit her bedchamber. It was just that in the years after their daughters were born, he simply had not done so. Very well. Now he was here. She was his queen, and would receive him appropriately. Never, ever would she let him see that she feared him, that she feared his temper, that she feared most of all what he was like in the moments when he had just left his Magister, when Kostas’ black sorcery seemed to swirl palpably about his soul and bring out all that was worst in his nature.

“You wish to speak to me, my husband?”

He huffed and looked about the room, taking it all in in a glance. His eyes lighted briefly upon the bedside altar, strewn with talismans of northern manufacture and set with half a dozen blood-colored candles. He knew that when he wasn’t around she would prepare for sleep with a litany of prayers to the ancient gods and their mystical rocks, which had as much meaning to him as if she skipped around the bed chanting children’s rhymes. But the practice seemed to comfort her and so he had never forbidden it, just asked that it not be performed in his presence.

Today however he scowled at the altar directly and she felt her heart grow cold, wondering what had brought him here so soon after the meeting with Kostas, and dreading the answer.

The Magister must know how much I hate him. One cannot keep secrets from his kind.

“A strange hour to be bathing,” he said quietly.

The knot that was forming in her stomach tightened a bit more. Danton was a direct man—some said brutally direct—and the fact that he was commenting upon something so innocuous as her bath hour did not bode well for his purpose here.

“I was not aware there was some specific custom here regarding bath time,” she replied evenly. “Of course if there is, I shall be glad to accommodate His Majesty.”

He huffed again. His eyes flicked back and forth restlessly, as they did when he was angry about something—
about what
?—but as always her steady, soft tone seemed to disarm him. She had been his wife for two decades now and had weathered more than one storm by the strength of her serenity.

But that was before Kostas came
, she thought. The knot of fear grew at the thought of him but she kept her expression calm, steady, radiant.

The High King’s roving gaze took in the altar, the ironwood bed with its northern carvings, the hanging tapestries with their scenes of snow-covered mountains, winter hunts, and the Veil of the Gods. “This is more a foreign place than when I last was here.”

“You had less interest in the furnishings when you last were here,” she reminded him.

It should have brought a smile to his face, but it did not.

He came to where she stood, the fine linen of her gown now wet enough to cling to her body, revealing its contours. She bore herself as though she wore a fine gown with all its trappings. He fingered the edge of the robe, which she had scored with small cut marks in deference to her mourning. His fingers brushed the line of her neck, the damp curve of her breast. This close to her it seemed she could smell the stink of Kostas on him, and it took everything she had not to pull away in revulsion.

“‘Tis a hard thing, losing a son.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “So it is, my husband.”

“Hard for the kingdom as well, losing an heir.”

She simply nodded. Andovan would rather have been eaten alive by jackals than take upon himself the stifling responsibilities of the High King’s throne, but she was not about to tell Danton that. She and her son had whispered of it in the garden, in
her
garden, where only the gods were listening, and she would not betray that confidence even after his death.

“You served me well. Four sons in four years. Though some say there must be magic to such a family line, to have been managed so perfectly.”

Though his tone had grown colder by merely a single degree, she did not miss its sudden edge. “Sire?”

His finger caught her under the chin; his dark eyes narrowed. “Few women have managed such perfect fertility. Even those whose lives depended upon their success.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, allowing her time to remember his father and his habit of executing wives who failed to provide heirs in a timely manner. “I am grateful the gods have given me a wife so
skilled
in the womanly arts.”

She lowered her eyes humbly, hoping he could not hear her heart pounding, nor sense its rapid pace through his finger on her skin. “It is simply a gift of the gods, Sire, for which I am humbly grateful.”

“
Is
it that?” She could sense the barely tethered rage in him, held just beneath his surface. What had caused this? Was there some news about Andovan she did not know about, or had one of her other children committed some act that angered their father? Or was it simply that Kostas was interfering in her personal life, for gods alone knew what reason?