Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (85 page)

“
Her
,” he whispered. “My mother’s killer was a she.”

“A woman?”

“You seem amazed,” he laughed. “Women are capable of the worst cruelties. You cannot be a bearer of life without understanding the opposite side of that covenant, without knowing death. Some women indulge in this darkness. They become as drunk on evil as my mother was on good. Look only to the Iron Queen to see a woman who has disowned herself from everything noble about her sex. Beatrice of El, the wife of Iron Sage Moreth, is a woman wickeder than any Iron Queen, I say. For while the Iron Queen throws away her virtue for power—a pursuit that I can understand—the mistress of El is an epicure of pain. Her husband might rule the flesh of thousands, but she has cravings for their minds, their light. She can take things from people. Possessions that one should never be able to claim: beauty, hopes, dreams, an artist’s touch.”

“She is a sorceress, then,” muttered Rowena.

Galivad snorted at the notion. “She is a thief. A vulture of souls. There is some magik involved, I shall grant you that. But to call her anything more than a witch is a disgrace to the lowliest conjurer. If she has any spells, it is
only the one: a spell of reaping. Beatrice took something from my mother, and not only her life. I would see her burn for it, the whole of Menos, too.”

Rowena did not push to discover what the mistress of El had stolen, nor how far along Galivad was in hunting her. Being a wise listener, she could sense that he had attempted revenge before, probably coming as far as Menos, and failed.

“I hope you find justice one day,” she said. In what Rowena thought was a kindly tone, she added, “Do remember that we are not here for vengeance.”

“I do not need to be reminded of my duties, Sword,” snapped Galivad.

Huffing, Galivad shifted on the slippery rock to face away from his companion. Soggy arses and soggy sentiments were all that they had to share until Rowena pulled out the bit of bread the miners had given them and offered half of it as a token of apology to him. He was red from regret as he accepted the food, and he gave fluttering glances to Rowena while they ate.

“I would never place my wants over the responsibilities of our kingdom,” he mumbled between bites. “We are here to find the smith, the sage, and the silver-eyed girl. I have no greater priorities.”

“I know. I do not always express myself with delicacy,” admitted Sword Rowena.

“That you do not! However, there is a certain delicacy to you, Rowena.” His brown eyes were sparkling with reflection. “One would not say that you are a womanly woman. Not a waif in need of my or any other man’s protection. This is rare in a world where women so often seek the arms of men. Indeed, you shun many of the ideals of Western society, and there is courage in doing that. In being what you feel and not what you are told. If I had to liken you, it would be to the title that the queen has so aptly given you, a sword. Yes. Fine, crafted to perfection, glorious to look at, and deadly to be on the receiving end of. My mother had that same edge, and Queen Lila possesses it as well. I think that women like you will be needed in times ahead. Women who appreciate life, yet aren’t afraid of death. Women of pride and mettle who challenge the walls we have built around ourselves.”

Rowena had to consider the man’s words for a spell before deeming them a compliment. She had been given few of those, and it caused an unexpected blush. She might have found a voice to thank him, yet the storm had its say.

KRAKKLL!

When the light and fury did not end, the two became concerned. First, they ran to look out of their shelter, and then quickly splashed back to the rock as the winds beat at them. They each knew storms, the barrages of sand that could shear the skin off a man’s face in Kor’Khul or the tempests that could flood the River Feordhan and sweep entire villages into the mud—disasters after which the king’s forces had been dispatched more than once to assist the displaced. But what wailed and whirled around them, what shook the stone over their heads like a cheap ceramic plate, was a force that neither could define. Soon the gusts were so great that they could not huddle upon the rock and had to cower behind it in spuming water. For safety’s sake, they clung to each other, and Galivad could not have been more grateful for the strength of his companion. She was the anchor in this storm, already proving what he had declared about women of her ilk. She spit at the slashing rain as if it were any other enemy who would seek to down her. Not even when the drops came streaked with fire and ice, and the whole of the world outside their rattling stone roof was aglow like a madman’s painting of sunrise did Rowena wane in her fortitude. She was the oak whose branches he clung to, she was the shadow that he would peer out from behind once the storm of storms had ended.

In the moment that the chaos finally screeched away, she was so beautiful to Galivad that he almost kissed her.

II

How haunted the world was afterward: a realm of smoke and glowing fires, of mist risen from steaming patches of ice. The clouds and smog over Menos had been shredded, and dawn was bleeding into the sky. Walking in the eerie redness strengthened the sensation that Rowena and Galivad had entered purgatory. “What happened?” they whispered to each other. So many times the question was posed, and always without an answer—most often gaping disbelief sufficed. At least the alarms tolling in Menos broke the illusion that they were the sole survivors of the world’s end, and they wandered toward the noise as drearily as ghosts chasing the cries of the living.

With morning’s light came a greater appreciation for the power of the event, for how deeply the land had been purged. Far and wide, east to west, the storm had come and gone, leaving tracts of charcoal and frost behind. “It is like a field swept before the harvest,” remarked Galivad once. Which was the logic that suited him best for the moment, for everything was stripped and raw, as if the weeds and chaff had been pulled and cast aside to make way for new growth. Is that what they were witnessing? The turning of a cycle? The tilling of nature’s crop? Where was the place of men in the season that came after the fire and ice, wondered Galivad, and he was worried for the philosophical results of that line of thinking. The shells of skycarriages and road wagons caught in the storm smoldered in heaps along and off the road, momentarily distracting him from this debate before strengthening the argument that mortals were increasingly irrelevant to the events on Geadhain.

However, all was not death and despair. Not every heap had cindery bodies twisted into the wreckage. Animals were braving the new world. Galivad saw a mouse and nearly cheered. Stragglers, too, wandered ahead of them in the road, mortals who had found a sanctuary solid enough to fend off the storm. They could have been the vilest masters or criminals, but as Galivad and Rowena came within greeting distance, muddy faces broke with smiles, hands were clasped and pumped, and soon-to-be-forgotten introductions were made. Such were the exchanges of people who had danced with oblivion and returned, and for the moment, they were all brothers and sisters of the end. Galivad, who expressed himself best through charm and music, could find no outlet for his euphoria but singing, and the groups scattering the fields mingled into one another, drawn like happy moths to the fire of Galivad’s voice. In time, a rowdy clapping band of dozens marched toward Menos. Although this went against Rowena’s need for discretion, she restrained herself from interrupting her companion’s music. Admittedly, she liked it, and this was a time to be joyous.

So it was that the merry troupe came to the caved-in arch of one of the black city’s entrances. Once there, the sour Ironguards posted about killed their glee, and the company dispersed into its smaller original parts, though they all paid an honored farewell to Galivad and Rowena. When it was their
turn to be admitted, the Ironguards did not bother with the typical Menosian interrogation; they simply took their names—Cory and Merri Thorpe—and waved them through the valley of darkness that was the Iron Wall.

“Nice people, those folks we took the road with,” commented Galivad, when they were nearly into the light again. “They’re not all bad. I take back what I said.”

Too late, and it seems that you got your wish to see the city burn
, thought Rowena. Destruction marked the wide street they traveled, with soot or puddles in every step and whole tears in the road that were fenced off. Many of the black houses were burned and tumbled like ruined gingerbread. Yet cranes and technomagikal machinery were present at roadblocks or ruined sites, clearing rubble or conjuring new stone into place. Off in the distance, the Crucible dazzled in its perfection, unscathed by the storm. Rowena got a chill from seeing this, yet could not quite say why. Much like their tower, the Menosians were shockingly unfazed by the destruction, and the crowds were thick. Galivad and Rowena stuck tightly together so that they would not be separated. Triages appeared in the busiest areas, and tents were erected on the sidewalks or within the collapsed frames of buildings. For so many in need, the lines before the fleshcrafters and ration stations were impressively calm. Patiently, these people held their bleeding limbs or continued to tend to their master’s hair and clothing if they were slaves. As foreigners, the two were impressed that such aid was being bestowed and that the populace was so orderly in the aftermath of a disaster. While the Ironguard patrols found at every station and at many spots along the promenade were surely the main deterrent against unrest, there was another directive influencing these people that puzzled Galivad.

“I did not know that Mother Menos cared for her chattel,” murmured Galivad behind a hand. “From a military perspective, it’s a bit concerning how efficiently they’ve mobilized.”

Rowena muttered into his ear, “A weak slave is a useless slave. They only starve them to death in the pleasure houses or pits of blood. Or so I hear. And yes, their readiness is frightening and worth a certain praise. We must not forget that they are a people of iron, and I doubt even that terrible storm has done much to dent their ambitions.”

“We should find a Voice,” whispered Galivad. “A tavern might be our best bet for contact—I’m not hunting down a bloody carrier pigeon in the mess. I know of a place.”

The need for haste was implicit. For the ateliers and factories that remained with fires to stoke were burping smoke skyward again, and clouds were thickening around the Crucible. In no time at all, the sunshine would disappear, the darkness would be restored, and the city would be as it was yesterday. Some things, the most stubborn, the most
iron
, could not be transformed by catastrophe and were only hardened by it. Rowena hoped that Eod had the same resilience, as the storm they had endured would not be the last, and another—one of iron—was coming from the East.

III

Sshh, my Fawn, you are safe
.

Morigan stopped her clawing. Whatever had been chasing her in her nightmares ended as the warm presence of her bloodmate enveloped her. She couldn’t remember anything, only bumping along as though being carried and fading to and from the darkness. She breathed in Caenith deeply: he was woodsier than normal, and she could hear the tweeting of birds nearby.

No more separation. No more running
, she sighed.

No more running. We can rest, my Fawn. But first, a final task
.

The days had weathered her into a harder element than she could have predicted: a woman of nerve and steel. Another duty did not bother her, and the sweltering fire of Caenith’s spirit declared how important this was to him. Truly, the nectar he was emitting was delectable to the bees, and they drank all that they could, and in an instant, she understood everything about the young skin-walker whom she had never met: her name, her story, Caenith and Thackery’s promise to her.

Macha!
she exclaimed.

Groggy but determined, Morigan struggled to a stand, assisted by Caenith’s strong hands. Soon she was up and gulping the thick air in astonishment at where they were. Even Caenith was startling to her, as he was
wild, many days unshaven, and attired only in a loincloth. Still, the chattering forest that nearly surrounded them was worthier of her fright—from its gargantuan trees with their stringy manes of vines and gnarled trunks that stared at her as if they were ancient green witches, to the unwelcome musk of predators, the acridity of earth that was so old and pure that it reeked of raw clay, and the ferns and thornbushes that shook as if a beast was waiting to pounce in every one of them. One glance, and the woods were made to dissuade all passage.
Danger for ye who enter
, the hissing wind seemed to whisper, or perhaps that was merely the snakes slithering inside that Morigan imagined made the sound. Morigan had never been here, though she knew this place, remembered a poem of it even.
A weeping sky, a sea of trees that eats, what foolish hands and little feet. Do poke and tread upon its fright. Do dare to brave its darkest nights
.