Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (71 page)

Night falls for Geadhain, and only the forgotten Daughter of Fate will shine the way
. Elissandra and the bees grew so clamorous in Morigan’s head that her knees gave way. Elissandra was there to catch her, and she whispered,
I am as blind as any in the dark night that will swallow us. But I have Sight sharp enough to see that you might guide us through. To the end of an age, the end of the kings, to a victory over this Black Queen who would rule us and cast our world into darkness. How do I know that this is you? Because you are
forgotten
, because you should not be, because I know, just as you know, the truths when they are thrust into our heads. All these threads that lead to you, this spindle of fate. You have no idea of your own importance
.

Elissandra caressed her as though she were a precious newborn child. For the mistress of Mysteries could see the countless patterns of possibility: these magnificent incantations that floated about Morigan as snowflakes of magik and silver, and she had never seen an object, a person, so resonant with destiny. Without question, this was the Daughter of Fate.

You are shining like a torch, if only you could see
, murmured Elissandra, awed.

Morigan allowed herself to be fondled by Elissandra until the woman’s actions turned uncomfortably sensual, and then she pushed her away. She had forgotten who this woman was. A maniac. Not a friend.

We are family
, said Elissandra, perceiving Morigan’s distaste.

Morigan had no retort to that, for as with all that Elissandra had told her, this grand confession was enough of a truth that the bees did not contest it. As valiant as she had been moments before Elissandra’s appearance, ready to tackle every possible trial with bared teeth and grit, this was too much: too much importance, too much weight, as if the protection of the world was her responsibility alone. She shook her head against the absurdity of it, while the bees hummed
yes, yes, yes
, affirming her destiny.

I said that we had sands, and that time is almost up
, said Elissandra.
I know that you will remember all that we have spoken of
.

Morigan would, everything.

Good
, nodded Elissandra, and she stepped away from Morigan.
I am glad that we had this chance to know the other, fellow Daughter of the Moon. The future echoes with sounds that I shall see you again, though you will be a woman so very changed from the child before me when that time comes. I look forward to that meeting. You should hurry back to your slow-born friends, for I am not the only one with senses to track you. And while the hounds of Gloriatrix are slower, the one with the sharpest nose and sharpest teeth has caught up. Beware of him; he is not what he seems
.

“Hounds?” exclaimed Morigan.

But Elissandra did not explain herself. She reached up and took hold of something that could not be seen: a handhold of reality, an invisible curtain. Whatever the mystery was, she pulled on it and the air before Morigan split. Starry matter floated in the fissure the enchantress created, and Morigan glimpsed misty, cosmic things. In a speck, the tear had manifested; in another, Elissandra had glided into it; and in a final instant, it winked shut. By the time Morigan stumbled out of her surprise, desperately fumbling for this strange woman and her revelations, the wrinkle and Elissandra were gone. She hit the floor with a thud.

Daughter of Fate? A black star? A Black Queen? Our time is up
. The last line was the most significant, and it slammed Morigan from her whirling doubt and shoved her to her feet.
Hounds
, she thought. Elissandra had left her with a warning. As she raced across the storeroom and into the atelier, the bees stung her with a premonition. If only she had a bit more training as Elissandra had suggested was necessary for these gifts of hers, she might have known of what. In the absence of knowing, she shouted for her
companions as she ran across the atelier; yet there were so many boxes, stacked high and deep as a warehouse, that she could not be certain that she was heard.
I can reach them first
, she hoped. When the crashing and screaming began up ahead, she realized that she would not.

A shadow leaped to the top of the crate canyon. Morigan didn’t get a good look at the clacking, slavering shape above her—a dog, though wrong in every way—but shoved the nearest box with a ferocious she-Wolf strength that sent the whole stack falling upon itself like a game of tiles. That wasn’t enough to kill whatever she had stalled, and it scrabbled and barked from the dusty cloud that concealed it, splintering wood and breaking glass in its bid for freedom from the mess. She had mere specks to act.
A pole
, she thought calmly, looking at the rusty shaft that pronounced itself against the boxes opposite the chaos. She pounced for the weapon and snatched it up. The shadow sprang from behind her. She spun and charged with all her might, and the two forces met in the middle, flesh invariably softer than the thrust of metal. Triumphantly, she roared while spearing the pole about, until her fists were wet with blood. As the bloodlust lessened to a haze, she saw that she had killed a felhound: a limp and massive beast, patched with iron about its leprous hide and with yellow slitted eyes that belonged to another animal before being inserted into its head. She had gored the felhound just beneath the throat and right through to the rectum, and she wouldn’t be getting her weapon back without laboring for it.

No time for that
, she knew, for shouts were rising. She seized a pipe that came rolling to her from nowhere and rejoined the hunt. Commotion was breaking out over the atelier now, dusty landslides were all around her as men and felhounds tore up the building. She knew what she had to do, and hoped it would work, but she first needed to see if her companions were safe.

Another shadow tried to tackle her. She faintly identified it as a numberman and whacked it as if it were a naughty mole.
Good luck catching me now that my chains are off
, she cackled, the Wolf in control of her sanity. How astutely Elissandra had ascertained her nature, for as the pulpy thing that had been a man fell away from her, she was heated with satisfaction. Off she loped, moving like a true bride of a lord of fang and claw, her bloody pipe thumping like a happy tail behind her.

Somewhere a fire had started and smoke was reaching black fingers through the room. The least primal part of her realized that a catastrophe was
imminent when the more volatile substances in these crates were exposed to flame. This inspired her to run faster, and she soon passed the desk and her crumpled-up bedroll, jumped over roadblocks of ruin, and came to a trail of man and beast bodies. She had an instant of relief when she saw her companions were nowhere among the dead, and followed familiar shouts to spot Vortigern’s pale face in a melee that had broken out at the end of the atelier. Apparently, the Broker wanted them alive, which was proving problematic, and besides hamstringing his forces, her companions had thrown together a barricade of heavy tables. They were beating at the heads, swords, and snouts that appeared. Alas, for all the casualties they had inflicted, there were only three of them with a line that could not be held and no place to go once it was crossed. Even as Morigan arrived, more felhounds and numbermen lurched from the shadows and flung themselves at her companions.

Enough!
screamed Morigan, though it was not a word, but a Will that left her. A shriek as beautiful and as piercing as a siren’s call. The spellsong pulsed from her in a single silver current through flesh, wall, and floor. Next came the clatter of steel as numbermen dropped their weapons. Then there was clownery as they bumbled into one another or swaying felhounds, and finally there was hard slap of bodies upon the floor. Cheers rose from her companions, who had felt the tingle, seen the flash, and known that Morigan had saved them. They began to kick down the barricade. Their victory was short-lived, however, for a hungry spark had at last found a crate in the atelier that was hemorrhaging incendiary blood.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The explosions erupted around them like cannon fire, and Morigan was pitched in several directions before her head connected with a sharp surface. She groaned and looked up, squinting through the blood, smoke, and wavering orange light for a friendly face. She saw a metal smile instead.

“Nice trick,” hissed the Broker. “But tricks don’t work on me.”

The bees were screeching in alarm, and with hardly any senses to defend herself, Morigan wildly swung with the pipe she had managed to hang on to. But the Broker was faster, faster than her Will, faster than a man, as fast as Caenith, and he caught the weapon, ripped it from her hand, and clubbed her soundly on the skull with it. His strike didn’t even hurt, it happened so quickly. There was only darkness.

II

During the explosions, the company had seen the Broker abscond with Morigan: watched him toss her upon his shoulder like a merry traveler and disappear into the walls of flame while they struggled from their barrier. Even Vortigern, with his speed, could not catch the Broker. The three scoured the flaming building for as long as they could—until their faces and clothes were as dark as chimney sweeps’ and they were wheezing Morigan’s name in the choking blackness. Thanks they owed to Vortigern, who hauled them from the atelier when the living of their number were sapped of strength. From the porch of a deserted house, the three watched the atelier burning: it was a cathedral of flames now, in which no living thing could possibly exist. Kanatuk pounded his fist into the bricks.

“He took her!”

No one spoke. They didn’t know what to say. For every triumph, it seemed that fate was ready to smack them down with a defeat. Kanatuk would not have it. Morigan’s last words echoed inside him. He still had choices to make, choices that would bear powerful results.

“I did not see the nekromancer, so I know where he has taken her,” declared Kanatuk. “Where he takes all his prey. I am going after her.”

“I shall come, too,” said Vortigern.

At first Mouse chewed her lip, not ready to throw in her lot. She was uncertain of how to treat this instant compulsion to help the witch. Yet her father’s smile—yellow and dead as it was—and the seedling of compassion that wriggled in her heart told her simply that this is what she must do.
I promised to be with her, even if only until we are free of the Iron City
. In truth, the sentiments ran deeper than that, though she was reluctant to admit them.

“L-lead the way,” stuttered Mouse.

Crowes were hovering in the smoky clouds above the atelier. The alchemically fueled fire had only begun to burn, and Ironguards would soon be swarming the ground. They had not a speck to tarry. They did not set out on their journey with bravura or promises, as they understood what was to be done and what the stakes were. Three against the Undercomb. As they descended, they accepted that they would not see this dark sky or any
other again without the company of Morigan. Kanatuk knew the paths into the Undercomb like the lines upon his palm, and in sands, they had delved beneath the city.

III

Just like that, more fates flock toward her. Incredible. She is an axis of possibility
, mused Elissandra. The three who escaped the flames had not seen her as she hid behind the wrought-iron gates of a nearby garden, peeping out through her tiny window in the bushes. They moved into an alley, and she lost sight of them there, though she was certain where they were headed: to the Broker.

Over many nights now, she had been having the same dream, and with each dive into that other world, she returned with a larger fragment of the story. Before she understood the importance of the visitation, she had slipped Gloriatrix perhaps a bit more information than the Iron Queen should have. Nonetheless, she always shared a
bit
of what was necessary with Gloria, and she kept the juiciest morsels to herself. Such as how the dream of the Wolf and maiden ended. With a storm.

The maiden is in the woods. Hair as red as fire, clothes as white as winter. Chasing her is a wolf: a king among the lords of Pining Row. He is important, as important to this mystery as the maiden is, she feels. Has he been hunting her? Is he hunting her? She senses that the answer is yes to both questions. And he is nearly upon her. Nipping closer and closer. Trees fall as if felled by invisible axes, and in their place rises a barbed thicket as tall to the sky as the white moon itself. In the dream, she can smell the tang of metal—iron—and she understands that this is Menos. So they are racing through Menos, then; the maiden and the king
.