Feast of Souls (37 page)

“No doubt it was your first suggestion,” he said. “She served a Magister.”

There is one other possibility
, he thought,
but it is so foreign a concept that you do not even think to name it
.

What if the woman were a sorcerer in her own right, he wondered. That would not only explain the signs she had left behind in Gansang, but it might shed light on Andovan’s situation as well. Or perhaps she was not a sorcerer proper, but some new sort of creature that had no name yet. More than a witch, but less than a Magister. An equally intriguing possibility.

Tirstan came to his side and inspected the trunk’s interior himself, as Colivar had done. After a moment he too sat back on his heels, looking thoughtful. “You may think this is mad, but I have thought that this woman may be linked to that prince Ramirus called us in to study.”

He kept his voice carefully neutral, devoid of any emotion. “How so?”

“If her patron was the Magister that had claimed him as consort, so that she had an indirect connection to that bond, it might explain the prophecy Andovan was given, yes?”

He did not trust himself to speak, but simply nodded. It was a respectable theory. It might even be true.

There was a time when the world had no Magisters at all, and it was unthinkable that anything like us would ever exist. Now we are here, and no man dares question us. Who are we to say that nothing new will come after us, or that a new kind of woman might not arise, one who could master the old forms?

How much did he
want
that to be the answer, he wondered suddenly, rather than some more mundane explanation? How much did he hunger to believe that there was something truly new in the world, a puzzle worth exploring? Life was long for a Magister, with few real challenges; like most of his kind he hungered for novelty. Was this mysterious woman truly worth his efforts, or was he weaving theories out of moonbeams to convince himself that she was?

He would know soon enough. The spell he had cast on Andovan was beginning to have its desired effect; the young man was being drawn toward the source of his illness. Sooner or later the prince would reach his target, and while Andovan might not recognize a sorceress if he saw one, Colivar would. Then he would know if the same woman was responsible for both incidents. Until then, it was best to leave the others following false trails that suited them, so that they stayed out of the way of his own investigation.

He walked back to the pile of silk garments that the witch had so meticulously ignored, and lifted up a gold scarf from the top of the pile. “May I take this with me?”

Tirstan looked confused. “It holds no trace of her. She never identified with it—”

“I understand all that.” He held it up. “Call it a whim. May I?”

For a moment there was silence. It was the kind of silence Magisters suffered often: one of them hinting at secrets, the other hungering to share them… but never being trusted to share, because that was not the way of their kind.

“I will tell you what I discover,” Colivar promised.

“I will not hold my breath waiting for that,” Tirstan said with a wry smile, “but you may take whatever you like.”

…and he chuckled darkly and added, “It is not like Ravi will be taking inventory any time soon.”

The dream was a desolate one, set on a landscape swept clean of life by wind and hail, chill in the way the northern wastelands are chill with the coming of winter, so that the lungs grow colder with each breath. For a moment Ramirus considered turning back and waiting for a more auspicious night, a better dream. Normally he could mold a morati dream to his needs with little effort, but such sorcery was not subtle and was likely to be noticed. And that would be bad for the dreamer. This time, alas, he had to work with what his subject provided.

He fingered the object in his hand and considered. Carrion birds circled overhead, screeching their hunger as they looked for fresh meat, and finally spiraled away into the distance, having found nothing.

No, he decided at last. He would talk to her now. The link was strong, the dream was clear, and if its tenor was a bit on the ominous side, that only reflected the mindset of the dreamer. His subject was restless and did not sleep that often; already he had wasted a week trying to establish himself in her dreams, and each time he did so he risked discovery anew. There was no guarantee that if he left now he would do better next time, and meanwhile the risk would only increase with each new attempt. No, this was the night it must be done, and this was the dream he must use.

There were stormclouds ahead, pregnant with thunder, that cast long shadows upon the earth beneath them. Given the dreamer’s dark mood he guessed that she would be there, where things were darkest. He headed that way quietly, gathering soulfire about him as he walked, drawing upon bits and pieces of dreamstuff to mask his presence from other men of power. It was little more than a token effort, really; any Magister who looked her way right now would sense the presence of another of his kind, as clearly as if Ramirus had trumpeted his arrival. But one who was not looking directly at her might miss the signs if they were well camouflaged, and so he made the effort. He owed her that much.

A short while later he saw the ring of stones ahead of him; aged, pitted, crumbling. Not the Spears as they were in the real world, nor in Gwynofar’s courtyard simulacrum, but as her fears had sculpted them. Time and weather had reduced these dreamstones by half to mounds of gravel, and he knew that in the eyes of her faith it meant they had lost an equivalent amount of their power. He understood enough of the legends of her people to understand just what kind of a warning that was, and how she must fear to see them thus.

The High Queen knelt in that circle, centered among the wounded stones, eyes shut, perhaps praying. He approached slowly, silently, and for a moment just watched her. She seemed a thing too fragile to survive in this place, but he had done enough research into the Protectors’ bloodlines before Danton’s marriage to know that was just an illusion; her family line was renowned for its strength, both physical and spiritual, and she was no exception. That was the one thing Danton had never fully appreciated about her, and other men rarely thought to question. Most men were such shallow creatures at heart, he mused, and when you set before them such a delicate waif, with her soft voice and slender hands and skin the color of moonlight, they assumed her to be fragile in truth, and thus easily dominated. With luck that would play in her favor now, and whatever Magis-ter served the High King would never think to check on her while she slept, or search through her waking mind for signs of betrayal.

For it would be that in Danton’s eyes if he knew she had contacted me
, Ramirus thought.
Gods help her if he ever finds out
.

He waited a few minutes to see if she would notice him, and when she did not, bound a wisp of soulfire to alert her to his presence, and to let her understand that it was in fact a dream they were sharing. Sometimes when one contacted dreamers they were so lost in the landscapes of their own imagining that they never realized that someone from the outside was really speaking to them. Any information given to them in that case was likely to be forgotten by morning’s light, along with their own fantasies.

Though nothing in the surrounding landscape changed she looked up suddenly, and rose to her feet as soon as she saw him. He could see immediately that she had been stressed near to the breaking point by something; given that she’d spent years dealing successfully with Danton and his moods, that was an ominous sign indeed.

She is no longer your queen
, he reminded himself.
It is no longer your job to worry about her
.

“Ramirus!” The look of relief gave way to one of confusion. “This dream then, is it of your making?”

“No, Lady Protector. It is your own. I merely use the tools at hand.” He held forth the token her servant had given him—a golden ring with a silken scarf knotted around its band—and scowled at her. “You were foolish to send such a personal object into unknown places. Even a witch can bind enough power to harm you with such a focus.”

“I knew of no other way to contact you—.”

“Then perhaps you should not have tried,” he said curtly. “By your husband’s own words I am enemy to your House. Banished from your realm, forbidden any contact with the royal family. Are you so sure it is wise to seek out such an enemy, much less place your essence into his hands?”

She said it softly. “You are no enemy of mine, Ramirus.”

“Your husband would beg to differ.”

“My husband—” She bit her lip. “Is a fool, sometimes.”

He nodded shortly. “On that we are agreed, at least.”

She sighed heavily; one hand fluttered up to her stomach and remained there, resting against the silk of her gown as if guarding some secret pain. “I have need of answers, Ramirus. For questions I cannot entrust to strangers. What would you have me do?”

“You believe I can be trusted?”

The blue eyes fixed on him, their depths pleading. He wanted to hate her as he hated Danton, he wanted to make her part of that bitterness and dismiss her as callously as Danton had once dismissed him, but he couldn’t. She didn’t deserve his hate. He might not be a compassionate man—no Magister was—but he prided himself on being just. And it would be unjust to turn his wrath upon this woman merely because her husband had offended him.

“You are a foolish woman,” he said at last, and he sighed. “One should never trust a Magister. Didn’t I teach you that much?”

“I am foolish,” she agreed. “And stubborn, as you often noted.”

“Indeed. Though so beguiling in your stubbornness that few men ever object to it.”

She smiled faintly, sadly, an expression edged with shadows. “Will you aid me then, Ramirus? For I tell you truly, if you deny me in this, I have nowhere else to turn.”

“There is risk in it,” he warned her. “Do not mistake that. In making contact with your spirit I am trespassing upon another Magister’s territory, and every moment we share this dream increases the chance of discovery tenfold. If Danton were to find out about it… you will lose your head, milady. At the very least.”

“I know that,” she whispered. “I knew it when I sent out men to search for you.”

“You are that desperate for aid?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Ramirus, I am.”

If she had made one move to pressure him then, if she had hinted through gesture or tone that he owed her the service somehow, perhaps in memory of past affection, he would have blasted the dreamscape to a smoking ruin and left her to find her way out of it alone. Indeed, that was what he had half intended when he had first entered her dream. But there was no pride in her manner now, no regal authority, no sense of entitlement such as a High Queen was taught to have, only humility. And that was as it should be. He had known her for twenty years, since the day she first came to the High King as a virgin bride, he had seen to her education in all things royal, had watched with almost a father’s pride as she proved herself a true queen in every sense of the word—but the day Danton had banished him all that was swept from the record. Magisters did not cling to past affections. Clearly she understood that. Clearly she respected it.

She’s worth more than Danton will ever understand
, he thought.
And is ten times more woman than he deserves
.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I will hear you.”

The clouds overhead lightened a bit as he spoke; her dream was responding to her mood. The increased bit of sunlight let him see clearly just how drawn and pale she was. A morati would have felt great concern for her.

“What do you know of the Magister named Kostas?” she asked him.

He frowned. “Danton’s new Royal? Next to nothing. His name isn’t recognized by others of my kind; I know, for I’ve asked after him. The face he wears is not one any Magister has seen before. Which means either he is a very new Magister… or perhaps very old, and he has changed those things because he wishes not to be recognized.”

“You could not see through such a spell?”

He scowled. “Were I to look upon him directly, perhaps. Are you suggesting I do that? He would surely know if I tried, and then we should become embarked upon the sort of relationship I do not relish.”

It was not quite true—a good adversarial relationship was as sweet to a Magister as the finest of wines—but that was not something he was going to reveal to a morati.

“There is a darkness in him, Ramirus. I don’t know its name, but I can sense it. Not like the darkness in other Magisters I have seen. Not like anything human.” She shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself as if guarding against sudden chill. “He plays my husband like a puppet, encouraging all that is worst in him to come to the surface… I do not know toward what end.”

All princes are our puppets, dear Gwynofar. The only question is how openly we pluck their strings, and how much effort we will expend to maintain our puppets once we tire of them.

“He is a Magister Royal,” Ramirus said quietly. “The one that Danton has chosen to support his throne. If you are asking me for help in protecting him from the consequences of that choice… I am sorry, Lady, that service is not being offered.”