Feast of Souls (38 page)

She whispered, “I would not ask that of you.”

“Then tell me what it is you wish.”

She told him then, in halting words, of her husband’s last visit to her. Of what she had sensed in him that night, the frightening power that attended his assault. Of her fear that this unnamed sorcery had affected her newly made child, perhaps even altered it into something less than human.

“Who else could I turn to for answers?” she whispered finally. “What witch could I ask to search my flesh for signs of a Magister’s curse, that would give me the truth, while keeping it a secret from all others? Or what Magister could I ask for help, when by custom all are rivals to Kostas, and will not hesitate to lie if it gains them political advantage over him? Only you, Ramirus. No one else would give me the truth. But you will do that for me, yes? Even if it is something I do not wish to hear.”

There was a long pause. The clouds overhead stirred darkly, and in the distance on all sides of them a thin veil of rain began to descend to the earth. Only within the circle of crumbling Spears was the rain held at bay… for the moment.

“What you ask,” he said slowly, “will put you at great risk.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” He drew in a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “Lady, in order for me to enter this dream I needed only to touch your spirit with my own. If this Kostas is watching your dreams he may detect the invasion, but otherwise it could well pass beneath his notice. What you ask for now requires considerably more effort. You ask me to read the truth of what is in your flesh, and in the flesh of your child, and to do that I must extend my sorcery to actually touch your body where it lies, in Danton’s own keep. If Kostas is watching you… I can disguise the fact that the sorcery is mine, I can try to hide its purpose, but he will be aware that something has been attempted. And that will not be good for you, Lady.”

If his words had caused her to have second thoughts she gave no sign of it. Which was little surprise, really. Other women might whine and wring their hands and beg for mercy with tears in their eyes; Gwynofar was made of stronger stuff.

That is why men are willing to serve you
, he thought,
even when they are not obliged to do so
.

“Kostas is arrogant,” she said, “as my husband is arrogant. He will not be watching me.”

“Arrogance does not mean carelessness,” he warned her. “And your husband keeps close watch upon friends and enemies alike.”

“Kostas has no reason to suspect I know of his sorcery, and my husband will assume that if I had the power to defy him I would have done so that night. Neither has any reason to watch me now. After all…” Her tone was bitter. “I am merely a weak woman, easily raped into submission.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that assessment?”

“Ramirus…” Her gaze was clear, compelling. “My life is more threatened by ignorance right now than by the risk you describe.”

He sighed.
Fair enough
.

First he focused his Sight upon her person, looking for any overt sign of sorcerous taint in the athra surrounding her. It was a bleak aura, that trembled with fear and despair, but there was nothing unnatural about it. Nothing that came from an outside source. He told her so and then commanded, “Lay bare that place where the child resides.”

She hesitated, then began to unbutton the front of her gown where it lay over her belly. She opened that and then pulled her chemise aside, until the skin beneath was bare.

He put his hand upon her flesh within the dream, and in the real world he reached much farther with his power, to that canopied bed where her true body lay. It was a feat he probably could not have managed without her token to aid him, but with that in his hand it was as if he was truly standing in the room beside her. He hoped for her sake Kostas did not sense his power entering the keep. When Ramirus had been Magister Royal he was always alert for the tricks of his fellow Magisters, but perhaps Kostas was different.

Gwynofar’s body, like her aura, was pure of any sor-cerous manipulation. He did find a few lingering wisps of soulfire apparently left over from some spell that had been worked upon her in the past, but the source was now safely expired. If Kostas had indeed used sorcery to influence her child’s conception it might have left just such a trace. There was nothing active within her now, which was good, but that also meant there was no way to discover what the purpose of that spell had been. Not enough had been left behind to analyze.

He told her that as well, and could feel the relief pass through her body in a shudder.

Then he began to look for the child.

Tiny… it was so very tiny… A normal woman would not even have known she was pregnant yet, but the women of the Protectors’ bloodlines were unique in that regard, and seemed to know instinctively when they were with child. In the north it was believed that the gods of the Wrath had given the Protectors the ability to control their reproductive arts in ways that normal women could not. Having watched Gwynofar manage her own births with ease, unconsciously manipulating when and how each child would be born, bringing them to term in relative comfort and safety, Ramirus saw no reason to doubt it.

Now, searching deep within her flesh, he focused his senses upon the whispering flame that was her child, that tentative flickering of soulfire which was the first sign of a new life being created. At this point the child’s athra could hardly be distinguished from that of the mother, and looking for it was not unlike trying to focus on a candleflame in the midst of a blazing fire. But he had experience in this matter, and knew how to search. Unbeknownst to Gwynofar he had watched each of her pregnancies closely, curious about the innate magic her bloodline was rumored to have. It was in fact the real reason he had suggested that Danton take a bride from a Protector’s line—he had wanted one to study.

As far as he knew, neither Gwynofar or Danton had ever suspected that. Which was as it should be.

At last he found the tiny thing, close against its mother’s flesh, weaving the nest of blood and tissue that would secure it for the next nine months. It was neither male nor female in body yet nor even remotely human in form, but that was no hindrance to his sorcery. He had learned long ago that the mere seed of a human coupling contained all of its potential, and by observing that seed closely one might gain a hint of what the adult would become. So he did now to this child, studying the ebb and flow of its tiny life, marking the tenor of its fledgling aura, and plucking at the tapestry of Fate that surrounded it, seeking insight into its unique patterns.

He spoke as he did so, though his voice seemed to him a distant thing, echoing as if in a cave. “I see no sign of foreign sorcery in your child’s flesh, Lady. Nor any sign that sorcery has altered his flesh or spirit. Whatever spells might have accompanied his conception, they have not changed his identity, nor wedded any power to him that you should fear.”

“Thank the gods!” she breathed. And then she whispered, “You say ‘he.’ Is it a boy? Can you tell?”

“It will be a boy, when such things are determined.”

“Can you—can you tell me more?”

Ramirus hesitated. Normally he regarded divination as an art better left to fortune-tellers in the marketplace. Most divination was simply an illusion, the wishful thinking of witches applied creatively to earn a few coins. Men did not like the fact that the future was uncertain, and so were willing to invest money in any proclamation that would allow them to pretend it was otherwise.

Nevertheless, a child’s flesh bore within it clear signs of what it might become. And there were greater fates that had been set in motion by the very fact of its conception. A skilled Magister might observe such things and take counsel from them. A truly skilled Magister might weave them into a story reflecting the child’s possible future.

He did not do it often, but for this woman he would try.

And so he opened himself up to the tides of power surrounding the child. Not only Gwynofar’s own athra but all the strands of consciousness that were present in her castle, those emanating from Danton and Kostas and far beyond… all the thoughts and intents that touched upon this child and his future. There were some Magisters who believed that in doing so one enjoined oneself to some sort of universal consciousness, while others claimed to commune with a god who himself knew everything the future would hold. Ramirus was much more down-to-earth, and simply believed that every thought and action in the world left behind ripples in the tides of fate, which one might observe and interpret if one looked closely enough.

With that in mind, he studied the child. It was strong and healthy in its substance, and likely to come to term safely. That was no surprise, given its mother’s heritage. The boy would take after Gwynofar in coloring and temperament, as Andovan had. He paused to tell her both those things, and could observe the mixture of love and sorrow that coursed through her at the reminder of her lost son.

Then he steeled himself for greater effort and reached out to touch the boy’s future. A flood tide of raw potential washed over him, and he struggled to make sense of it all. Such strange images! There was nothing in them that reflected a normal life, nor even a Magister’s twisted existence—it was as if the boy was fated for something else entirely, so powerfully that all the normal signs of a future were swallowed up and lost.

He felt himself speaking and let the words come, sor-cerous instinct bringing phrases to his lips without conscious thought. “He will not be a hero himself, though he will help bring a hero into existence. His strength will never be measured, but he will test the strength of others. He will attend upon Death without seeing it, change the fate of the world without knowing it, and inspire sacrifice without understanding it.”

Slowly he opened his eyes. Gwynofar was gazing at him with frank astonishment and not a little bit of fear. He was no less surprised, though he hid his emotions better.
No, High Queen, I do not know myself what alt that means, only that it is true
.

She was about to speak when he suddenly caught sight of something dark in the sky coming swiftly toward them. He waved her to silence and focused his sight upon it, willing the soulfire to sharpen his senses so that he could see what it was.

When he did so he drew in his breath sharply.

“Ramirus? What is it?”

“This is your dream,” he breathed. “So it is something drawn from your spirit… or from
his
. You tell me.”

The darkness was coming closer now, and resolving into individual winged shapes arrayed in a triangular formation, like birds. But they were not birds. Their wings were not shaped right, their motion was all wrong, and the essence of the creatures besides was somehow… foul. Ramirus could sense the
wrongness
of them in his flesh, a repellent knowledge, as if he had swallowed something poisonous and needed to vomit it up. A wave of raw terror washed over him—terror!—and knew it came from the creatures overhead, for nothing that resided upon the earth could inspire such fear in him. He found suddenly that he wanted to flee, but could not do so. He could not even move, save to put his arm around Gwynofar as she moved closer to him. It was as if the presence of the creatures had frozen him in place, and not all of his sorcery could countermand it.

What in all the hells are those things?

Vast they were, vast creatures with wings too long to measure, powerful wings that stirred the stormclouds into eddies and funnels as they passed. Where a fleeting bit of sunlight fell upon them it was quickly absorbed, their skin glistening like ice for a moment before it passed into darkness again. Rain came in their wake, as if the beating of their wings had torn the stormclouds open, and he could hear it pounding along the ground as they approached. To fall into the shadow of their wings was death, he knew that as certainly as the hare knew there was danger in the shadow of a hawk, yet he could not run from them, nor even gather the power to defend himself. It was as if the mere presence of the creatures turned him to stone.

Gwynofar screamed then. It was more than a mere sound, it was a howl of anguish such as an animal might make while predators slowly tore it to pieces. His arm about her tightened instinctively, and with a herculean effort he managed to bind enough power to confirm that their appearance was no more real than the rest of the landscape, however terrifying they might be.

“It’s your dream,” he whispered fiercely. “Take control of it.”

She shut her eyes and nodded. He could feel a shudder pass though her body as she struggled to shut the creatures out, to deny them existence. It did not seem to help. The shadow of their wings were nearly upon the two of them now, and Ramirus instinctively lent her strength, not wishing to discover what would happen if they fell prey to such creatures, even while dreaming.

Were these the ikati that legends spoke of? Had they truly been that fearsome when they lived? Could they have overcome a Magister’s power as easily as these did? The thought was a chilling one, yet not half so chilling as the question that followed: what were these ancient creatures, supposedly extinct, doing in the High Queen’s dream?

Then, with a shriek that made the very air shiver, the first of the great creatures wheeled in its flight, turning back the way it had come. Others followed, likewise keening their rage at the power that was forcing them back. The movement of their wings struck up a black funnel that touched the ground briefly just outside the circle of stones, then disappeared. And in another few seconds they were swallowed up by the clouds overhead, and were gone. Ramirus felt himself breathe a sigh of relief, and forced his hand to release its death grip on Gwynofar’s shoulder. Where the clouds were parting now there was a glimpse of a bloody, swollen sunset, as if the sky itself had been bruised by the creatures’ passage.

A tremor passed through Gwynofar as Ramirus released her. Her eyes met his; he wondered if his own expression looked as fearful as hers. It was a strangely naked feeling.