Feast of Souls (52 page)

“He cannot hurt me.” The words tasted strange on her lips, but somehow she knew they were true. “He lacks the power.”

“I will kill him if he tries, I swear it, milady—”

“Shh. Shh. There is no need.” It was oddly comforting to focus on the other woman’s fear instead of her own. “He is gone now.”

He had not been able to touch her. He had tried to, he had reached out to her with his hand… and he had not made contact. What had stopped him?

“Find me a room he has never been in,” she whispered. “Have my things moved there tonight. I will not sleep in a place that creature has befouled with his presence, not ever again.”

“But milady…” Merian glanced back nervously toward the door, no doubt imagining how well it would be received when she started waking up servants to see to the task. “I do not know—”

“And a new bed. There must be a new bed. I will not sleep in this one again.”

She sighed. “Yes, milady. As you wish.”

Gwynofar would wait in the garden, by the Spears, while a new room was prepared. She would sleep there if necessary. Kostas would never approach the Spears, she knew that now. Maybe that was the power he had referred to. Maybe he feared her family’s gods, and because of them, feared her. But why would the gods hurt her child?

My spirit is poison to you, Magister. I do not know how yet, or why, but I saw the truth of it in your eyes.

I will not forget.

Of all the sorcerous obstacles Fadir encountered, the fifth one was the most annoying of all. It appeared to be a garden maze of the sort one might find outside a grand manor house, the kind of thing that rich men created to show off how much money they had. The walls of the maze were made of cropped hedges taller than a man, so that once entered the way out could not be seen. Presumably one was supposed to wend one’s way through the labyrinthine pattern of the maze, admiring its botanical display with a lady on one’s arm, perhaps, and feeling no particular urgency about reaching one’s destination.

It should have been easy enough to divine a way out, but apparently the owner had taken safeguards against such an action, and the best of Fadir’s sorcery only brought him visions of more hedges. He had wandered about for almost an hour, wasting precious time, when finally he decided enough was enough. He gathered up his power into a ball of seething, molten athra, and loosed it in the direction he thought he should be traveling. As it crashed into each viridian wall it seared a hole through the tangled leaves and branches, leaving a black, charred path in its wake. So much for parlor games.

He was not in a good mood when he finally climbed through the last hole and reached the house that lay beyond. Fortunately there were no more games to be endured. No doubt the series of obstacles had accomplished its true purpose, causing him to waste enough power that he would be more hesitant to summon vast displays of sorcery while he was here. Either that, or Ramirus’ exile had unhinged his mind.

Right now he was willing to bet on the latter.

No servants scurried to meet him as he approached the house, or any other manner of living creature. He bound a wisp of soulfire to locate Ramirus and exhaled a sigh of relief when it worked. He didn’t have any more patience for games. He followed the sorcerous trail into the house, up a vast curving staircase, and to a library of sorts, that overlooked the gardens he had just been in. Through the diamond-paned window he could see the black path of his rage cutting through the maze like a carriage road. Ramirus could see it too. He was standing by the window as Fadir entered, gazing out at the ravaged gardens.

“You could have levitated,” Ramirus pointed out. “It would have been simpler, though arguably less dramatic.”

“I felt I had to destroy something,” Fadir replied shortly. “Be glad it was only shrubbery.”

Ramirus chuckled and turned from the window. He appeared much as he had when he had called them all to Danton’s palace a small eternity ago. If the stress of recent events weighed upon his soul, it did not show.

“I do not get many visitors here,” he said. “Though the ones that do come rarely make it as far as the gardens. Usually by the time they discover my giant monitor lizards they are having second thoughts about bothering me.”

“And the morati?”

The piercing blue eyes fixed on Fadir. “When I have need of morati I seek them out. Otherwise they know better than to come here.”

“Yes, speaking of which… where is ‘here,’ exactly?” Fadir looked about him as if expecting that a map might be pinned to the wall somewhere; the primitive ornaments in his hair clattered and tinkled as he moved. He looked extraordinarily out of place in this polished, sophisticated environment, but that was an image he enjoyed. In fact it had been many mortal lifetimes since he had been rightfully called
barbarian
, but some things were hard to leave behind.

“Does it matter? You sought me out, I allowed you to come. Now do sit down and tell me what this visit is about.” He waved to a pair of leather-covered chairs flanking a mahogany desk; there were books and manuscripts strewn across the latter, as if he had just been interrupted in the midst of some complicated research project. “I assume you can conjure any refreshments you desire.” Ramirus waved one hand and a glass of red wine appeared in it. “Make yourself at home.”

Yes, like I am going to waste one more bit of power in this place than I have to
. Fadir was irritated, but only that. By Magister standards Ramirus was being downright hospitable.

The chair creaked as he sat down in it. After a moment he did indeed conjure himself a tankard of ale, despite the cost. The waxed leather vessel he created was better suited to a rustic tavern than this polished sitting room, which he hoped would annoy his host.

“I hear you have not taken patronage again,” Fadir said. “Any truth to that rumor?”

“I hear you are developing an unhealthy interest in other men’s affairs,” Ramirus responded pleasantly. “Any truth to that one?”

The visitor sighed.
So much for small talk
.

He put his tankard down on the table—a sorcerous breeze moved several papers out of the way just in time—and then said simply, without prelude, “The Souleaters are back.”

The wine glass that was halfway to Ramirus’ lips stopped there, frozen in place.

“And Danton is going mad.”

“Danton was always mad,” Ramirus said quietly. “Tell me about the Souleaters.”

So he did. All of it. The appearance of the witch Antuas in Sankara, the interrogation that had followed, the slaughter in Corialanus, the nest, the bodies, Colivar’s theories… all of it. Ramirus was silent and still as he listened; he moved only once—to let go of the wine glass, which vanished from sight before it could hit the floor—and then steepled his fingers thoughtfully, his white brows furrowed above eyes that had suddenly become colder than human eyes should ever be.

When Fadir was finally finished, Ramirus said quietly, “Colivar always did have a taste for offering up fantastic tales—

“Do not mock what you know nothing about,” Fadir warned. “I was there and I saw—”

The white-haired Magister held up a hand to silence him. “As I was about to say… he also knows more of these matters than any man alive.”

“You believe him, then.”

“No man would lie about such creatures.” He smiled darkly, an expression without warmth or mirth. “Not even Colivar.”

He rose up from his chair and walked to the window again. For a long while he just stood there, gazing out at his ravaged gardens.

Finally Fadir said, “They have allies, Ramirus. Human allies. Danton may be one of them.”

He said nothing.

“It has been suggested that if he understood what the Souleaters really were, he would surely keep his distance from them.” Still the white-haired Magister said nothing. “Colivar said that you were the only one who would know how to reach him.”

“It takes no great art to know how Danton should be ‘reached.’” Ramirus’ expression was grim. “But our Law dictates we cannot harm him directly while one of us is bound to his service. So what would you have me do? Show up at his door and offer him counsel? Send him flowers, perhaps, wrapped in some spell that will make him a gentler, kinder king?” His tone was harsh. “Danton is a ruthless bastard, who wants one thing and one thing only. Power. If a Souleater showed up at his door I do not doubt that his first thought would be how to bind it to his purpose… and if any morati could accomplish that, it would be Danton Aurelius.”

Fadir exhaled sharply. “Surely he would understand that the return of such creatures puts the whole world at risk—”

“—and he will not live long enough to see it happen. That is both the gift and the curse of the morati, is it not? What does a man like Danton care if five hundred years in the future someone else must do battle with these creatures again?” He turned back to his guest; there was a blackness in his eyes that was terrible to behold. “If the monsters will serve him now, if they can help him strengthen his empire, let future generations worry about the consequences.”

“Do you really believe that?” Fadir demanded. “Conquerors like Danton care passionately about what kind of legacy they will leave behind. You tell me this High King is different, you tell me the future means nothing to him, that he would sell out the world in which his own son would be High King for some fleeting military gain… and I will say, you know him better than any other Magister. From you alone I will accept those words. But they strike me as wrong, by all of my own experience with kings.”

For a long time Ramirus just stared at him. His expression was unreadable. “No,” he said at last. “The Danton I knew would never make such a bargain. Not because he was unwilling to pay the price. Because he would not trust that anything so powerful, so innately malevolent as a Souleater is said to be, could be controlled indefinitely.” He shook his head. “He is many things, Danton Aurelius, but above all else, he likes to be in control.”

“He appears to be losing control,” Fadir said quietly.

Ramirus said nothing.

“Those who know him best say his manner is becoming more and more erratic. Violent fits of anger are more commonplace, provoked by the most innocent cause. Allies whisper of him being ruled now by impulse and emotion, rather than ruthlessness and reason. They fear that his judgment is floundering because of it. They whisper he has even turned on his own family.” He saw Ramirus stiffen at that suggestion, and paused to give him a chance to comment, but the white-haired Magister said nothing. “Is it not possible that in such a state of mind Danton might do the unthinkable? Perhaps cross the line between ambition and recklessness, where he has always backed down from it before?”

For a moment Ramirus shut his eyes; his brow furrowed briefly as if in pain. “I’ve heard these things,” he said at last. “From one who would not lie to me. Yes, Danton is changing, and not for the better.”

“What can be done?”

“Nothing. He is Danton Aurelius.” His eyes flickered open; their depths glittered like ice. “And he has a new Magister Royal, so our Law dictates that none of us may work sorcery upon him directly. Not my favorite rule, granted, but I understand why it was enacted. So what do you propose we do?”

“Surely his Magister Royal understands the danger of allying with Souleaters.”

“Why? No Magister existed back when they ruled the skies; our time came later. We know of them in the same way the morati do: from legends and songs created long after they were gone. All after the fact, as they say. Man did not have the spirit to write songs or create legends when they ruled the earth.” He shook his head. “Still, a Magister should know the risk, at least in theory. And if Danton is serving these creatures in any way, even unknowingly… that is bad, very bad.”

“Will you help, then?”

Ramirus looked up sharply. “Help with what?”

“Colivar suggested that if Danton could be made to understand the larger picture, he might change his course.”

“Colivar is a fool,” he said shortly. “Danton ‘changes course’ for no man.” He came back to his chair and sat down in it once more, stroking the carved wooden arm like he might the soft skin of a lover. “There were once three people in the world who could broach such a matter to Danton Aurelius without suffering his wrath for their honesty. I was among them. My counsel is no longer welcome, for obvious reasons. The second was his wife, the High Queen Gwynofar.” A muscle along the line of his jaw tightened briefly. “I have reason to believe that their relationship is… let us say, it has changed. So she cannot help.”

“And the third?”

“The third was Prince Andovan. Gods alone know why Danton valued his word so much, but he did. Perhaps because the boy had no great desire for political power, and thus could never be a rival to his father. Perhaps it was simply because he had his mother’s eyes. Who can say what manner of sentiment rules the heart of a tyrant? A prince who does not desire his father’s throne can say things straight from the heart without the worry that his every word will be dissected for motive.”