Feast of Souls (60 page)

It was a week now since Kostas’ sorcery had ignited the royal forest, sending clouds of black smoke high into the heavens for days on end. On the last day the wind had turned toward the palace, as if to admonish those who had sanctioned the destruction, and hot ash had rained down upon the turrets and parapets. It had gathered in gray drifts against the outer walls and gusted in through the narrow windows, and no matter how many servants Gwynofar sent to sweep it away there was always more of it somewhere, waiting to blow in. Kostas could have turned the wind away, but why should he? He clearly took delight in her despair, and no doubt watched from the shadows with pleasure as she stood upon the roof that last day, when the smoke finally cleared, weeping at the sight of the devastation. The forest had been Andovan’s favorite refuge, and therefore she had loved it for his sake… and like all the things she loved, it must therefore be uprooted or befouled by that creature, for that was his chosen sport.

Only her courtyard was safe from him. Even the ash had not fallen thickly there. Merian had said that was because the bulk of the palace blocked the wind, but Gwynofar preferred to believe that the gods wished to keep this one place sacrosanct. So that there remained one place where she could still find peace, unfouled by Kostas’ sorcery.

Now, raising her head up from the needle-strewn earth, she realized she was in that very place. Exhaustion must have overtaken her during her devotions, she thought. Either that, or perhaps she had chosen to rest her head upon the ground for a few moments and shut her eyes, trusting this was the one place in the palace where Kostas would not—perhaps
could
not—intrude. And then sleep had claimed her, the border between waking nightmare and dreaming nightmare so subtle that she never sensed the moment she passed from one to the other.

How far she had fallen, since the days when she had reigned as High Queen beside Danton’s throne! These days the rancid odor in the palace was so overwhelming that she could barely stand to remain indoors. Instead she must flee to this place several times a day just to be able to breathe clean air, or Kostas’ foulness would surely suffocate her. She could not explain ail that to Danton, of course. He would have labeled the whole thing lunacy—or even worse, witchery—and it would have driven yet one more wedge between them. As if they needed anything more.

She rose from the ground unsteadily, brushing dried pine needles from her mourning gown. She wondered if she should call for her maidservant to pick the mess out of her hair as well. But Merian was half mad with worry about her these days, so much so that Gwynofar almost felt guilty letting her see her in this state. Better to brush the dirt and debris out herself, before the woman saw her.

She had barely drawn a lock of golden hair forward over her shoulder and begun to pick at it when suddenly she heard a twig snap behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. The sound came from a far corner of the courtyard, where the blue pines were crowded so closely together that the sunlight hardly reached the ground; she could not see through the tangled branches to make out the source of the noise. Who would come to this place without announcing himself, and why?

There was no good answer to that question.

Heart pounding, she looked about herself for something which she could use for self-defense, and finally picked up a fallen branch that lay nearby. Her hand was shaking as she hefted it, knowing even as she did so that the effort was futile. It had been too many years since she and Rhys had sported in the meadows as children, waging mock battles with weapons fashioned out of broom handles as they pretended to be Guardians routing out the last defenders of some demonic stronghold. But at least she did not look quite as helpless holding it; perhaps that would be worth something.

Then a figure stepped out from the shadows, and a lean, pale hand pushed back the edge of the woolen hood it was wearing, that she might see its face.

Her legs suddenly grew weak beneath her. The makeshift weapon dropped from her fingers.

“Andovan?” she whispered in disbelief.

For a moment she thought it might be a ghost that stood before her, and not a real man at all. The visitor was pale and drawn, his cheeks hollow, his frame far thinner than Andovan’s had ever been. So she moved forward slowly, and raised a hand up to touch his cheek. His skin was dry and taut beneath her fingertips, but it was real.
He
was real.

“Andovan…” She could say no more; a mixture of joy and pain too terrible to bear choked off all words. He said nothing, simply took her in his arms and held her tightly. Despite the terrible wasting disease that had sapped his strength his embrace was strong and sure, and it gave comfort to her, body and soul.

Gwynofar wept. From joy, from fear, from sheer emotional exhaustion. She wept for Andovan’s death, for the misery of her mourning, and for everything which had followed that loss. She wept for all the nights she had prayed to her gods and seemingly gone unanswered. For all the indignities Kostas had forced her to endure, and the silence with which she had borne them. For the fact that she was High Queen, and being such, might not weep freely, except in such company as this.

At last, emptied of misery, she drew back from him. She looked away for a moment as she wiped her eyes dry, allowing him a moment of privacy to do the same if he required it. Men were not so public about their tears as women were. Then, finally she looked into his eyes—blue, so very blue, like the color of the rivers in the far north when the ice cracked in springtime—and whispered in wonder, “You are not dead.”

“No.” His smile was so tender it nearly broke her heart. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Does Danton know?”

His mouth tightened. “Not yet.”

“Then how… how is it you are here? Surely the guards must have seen you…”

“I used the same tunnels I did when I was a boy. Remember? You and Father would search the palace for me, but I knew all the ancient ways: servants’ passages, forgotten spaces between the walls, tunnels carved out in the days when siege threatened…” His fleeting smile reminded her of those days, and of the young prince who would rather play in the woods than attend to his lessons. How her heart ached to be reminded of that time!

“Everything is still the same as it was. Though not quite as spacious as I remembered it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “No one has seen me here save you.”

“You faked your death.” Her voice caught in her throat; she had to fight to get the words out. “Why, Andovan? Why do such a thing?”

A shadow passed briefly across his face. For a moment he turned away from her, as if he could not meet her eyes while he spoke. “Because I could not bear to die in bed,” he said at last. “Because if there was a cause for my condition I wanted to seek it out, and if I could not find it… then it would be better to die on the road, I thought, fighting my fate, than swaddled in blankets like a helpless infant.”

She shut her eyes and tried to make sense of it all. “Then the note you left—”

“That was truly mine, yes. And I meant every word.”

“But the body…”

“Not mine, obviously. Though it had that seeming.”

“But Ramirus said that it was yours. He said he used sorcery to be sure of it. Did he know the truth as well?”

“No.” A pained expression passed across his face. “He knew nothing of it.”

“He didn’t help you do this?”

“How could I ask that of him? His first duty was to my father, not to me. He would not have lied to Danton for my sake.”

“So then who—?” Her eyes grew wide as understanding came.
All the Magisters were here, back then. Enough power to fake a thousand deaths
.

“Which one of them?” she whispered.

For the first time, he seemed to hesitate.

“Tell me, Andovan.”

“Colivar,” he said. “It was Colivar.”

She breathed in sharply. “The Anshasan?”

He cut short her protest with a wave of his hand. “I know what you’re going to say—that he serves an enemy of our House—but in this case our goals were identical. The Magisters thought that someone had cursed me, and they were trying to find out who. Colivar said that I had the power within myself to seek her out, if only I had spells to help me focus. No one else could do what I could do. But I knew Father would never let me go on such a quest, and Ramirus would never help, so I did… what I did.”

She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to absorb it all.
Colivar. Of course
. Now that she understood that piece of the puzzle, all the rest fell into place. How easy it would have been for the foreign Magister to read her son like a book, to know exactly what words would move him to greater and greater frustration… until at last he was so desperate to act that he would follow his heart and not his head, embracing the suggestions of his father’s enemy without ever questioning where they might lead.

Oh, my son, my foolish, beloved son… you were strong and true in your heart and but you never had a head for politics, and now look at what it has cost us.

Of course Ramirus would never have helped Andovan flee the palace, much less fake his own death. Ramirus would have understood that the loss of Dan-ton’s son would throw the entire household into turmoil. Perhaps he might even have predicted the events that would come of it: Danton’s rage. His own banishment. Kostas moving in like a vulture to feed upon the soft, tender flesh of a kingdom in mourning. Every horror that had come to this kingdom of late had been set in motion by Andovan’s death… which Colivar had apparently orchestrated. Even by Magister standards, it was a masterwork.

That man is a viper, and through you he has poisoned the very heart of Danton’s kingdom.

It took effort not to let all that show in her face. She did not want her son to see anything in her expression other than love and acceptance. It would accomplish nothing to have him understand the magnitude of his error, save to make him feel greater remorse than any human soul could bear. No, this must be a secret that she kept locked up in her heart, where no other person could share it.

I will have vengeance for this, Colivar. Someday, somehow, I swear by the Wrath, you will pay for what you did to us
.

“Mother.” He said it softly, gentling her from her reverie. “I risked Father’s wrath to return for a reason.”

Wiping new moisture from her eyes, she looked up at him. Something in his expression made a cold shiver run up her spine. “What is it?”

“The demons of the north. The ones they call Souleaters.” His expression darkened. “They are back.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Impossible. The Wrath still stands. The Guardians would have told us if it had fallen—”

“They have been seen in the human lands. The young ones, at least. And there are witnesses in Corialanus who testify to having seen one of the adults, or something very much like it, attending upon a field of slaughter.”

She shuddered. “Who saw them? Colivar?”

“No. Others.”

“But he is the one that told you about them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “He spoke the truth, Mother. I have a witch traveling with me, I asked her to make sure of his words.” He paused. “I am not such a fool as to take that kind of report at face value, not when so much is at stake.”

No
, she thought bitterly.
Not this time, at least
, Souleaters. The legends all said they would return someday, for a battle that could bring about the end of the Second Age of Kings. Those same legends promised that ancient magics in the Protectors’ bloodlines would be awakened when it was needed. Was that the source of her dreams? Some ancient magic stirring now, responding to this threat, preparing her and her children for roles they were destined to play? If so, shouldn’t that same magic make her feel more confident about what was happening, shouldn’t it fill her with a sense of purpose, or, of… well, destiny? It didn’t. She just felt frightened.

“I have had strange dreams of flying beasts,” she whispered. “I wondered at their source. Perhaps the gods are showing us what is to come.”

“There is more,” he warned her.

She looked up at him, bracing herself.

“Colivar says that the Magisters have determined that the Souleaters are somehow allied with men. Men who are feeding them human souls. Serving their purpose. Paving the way for their return.”

She opened her mouth and was about to protest that surely no men would do such a foolish thing—

When the truth hit her, with stunning force.

Her mouth opened and closed silently several times. No sound would come out.

Oh, my gods
…

She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling, as she remembered the ancient prophecies she’d been taught as a child.
The Protectors shall know them when they return
. The gods had promised her family that, when they set them apart from all other men. That’s what the foul essence in the palace was. That cold, clammy feeling of
wrongness
that accompanied Kostas like a rancid wind everywhere he went. The gods had been trying to tell her the truth about him. She hadn’t known how to interpret their message.

What a fool I have been!

Her legs were suddenly weak beneath her. She would have fallen had not Andovan reached out and grabbed her; he helped her to the nearest bench, and did not let go of her arm until she was safely seated, her hands grasping its beveled edge for stability.

“Kostas…” she whispered.

That was why the new Magister had asked about her lineage. That was why he had wanted to hear the ancient legends. That was why he had done everything possible to separate her from her husband. If the tales of the ancient war were true, if the gods had indeed imbued the blood of the Protectors with secret magics meant to hold the monsters at bay—he wanted her to have no allies when they surfaced, no credibility. No hope.

“But why would a human being serve them?” she whispered. “We are food to them, nothing more.”

“Much can change in a thousand years.” Andovan’s expression was grim. “We sent them north to die. No man has seen them since. Who knows what they may have become in that time?”