Feast of Souls (65 page)

Rurick stood. “Father, please, don’t do this. Let her explain—”

“You, too? Also a traitor?” The High King’s eyes narrowed in fury. “Is my whole family turning on me now?”

“Your family only wishes to protect you—”

“Protect me?
This
is protecting me?” He gesticulated wildly at Kostas’ body, then toward the window. “Summoning a Souleater to my realm is protecting me?”

“Kostas did that,” Gwynofar whispered hoarsely. “Kostas fed him human souls from your kingdom. And in Corialanus. He
used
you, my husband. That”—she nodded toward the window—“that creature out there is what it was all about.”

But it was clear that Danton was not listening to her words any longer; madness had taken possession of him, and no mere morati could reason with it. With a sinking in her heart Gwynofar realized that whatever spell Kostas had worked upon the High King, it was too deeply ingrained now to be banished by a handful of words. Her husband was lost to her.

Proudly, she stood. She would not die kneeling.

Growling deep his throat, Danton drew the sword back and stepped forward—

And Rurick stepped in front of her. Gwynofar held her breath. Her son was clearly banking on the fact that Danton would not be so mad as to kill his own heir.

He was wrong.

His face black with fury, Danton thrust the sword through his son’s body. Rurick was so surprised he did not even cry out, merely stared at him in astonishment as his lifeblood began to seep out. Danton twisted the sword once, then yanked it out. The trickle of blood became a river, and then a flood.

Gwynofar screamed.

Rurick put a hand to the gaping wound, not so much trying to staunch the flow of blood—that was hopeless—as if trying to convince himself the wound was real. When he withdrew his hand and saw it covered in blood, he stared at his father in astonishment.

“You are a fool,” he whispered. “May the gods have mercy upon this kingdom.”

He swayed once, and for a moment it seemed he would be able to keep to his feet, but then his legs folded beneath him. Gwynofar caught him from behind, but his weight forced her down to one knee again, struggling to support him. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered his name, pleading with him to live. But the river of blood was thinning now, and slowly his eyes glazed over.

Lowering her head to his shoulder, she wept.

“No need to mourn,” her husband told her. “You will not be parted long.”

Gwynofar’s scream cut through Andovan’s awareness like a knife. The fog of weakness that had slowly been enveloping him was suddenly gone. Or rather, it was still present, but he was no longer willing to submit to it.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he took a few seconds to fight back a wave of dizziness that threatened his balance, then took off at a run down the hallway. Sheer determination took the place of physical strength, sustaining him at a speed he could not have managed for any other purpose.

Other guards were coming, but they had not been as close to where Gwynofar was, so they fell in behind him. He was grateful for the uniform he wore, not only because it meant they would not question him, but because he was armed. He pulled out his sword as he ran, not knowing what to expect, but preparing for the worst.

He slammed open the doors which separated him from Gwynofar, not caring who or what was on the other side, so long as he reached her in time.

The tableau which greeted him was horrific. A headless body in Magister’s robes lay in a pool of blood on the floor. Gwynofar knelt in the blood, cradling the body of Rurick in her arms, weeping. The royal heir appeared to be dead. And Danton stood over them both with a sword in his hands and madness in his eyes. Even as Andovan entered he was preparing another blow, this one directed at the High Queen.

Something in Andovan snapped. Too many months of feeling helpless while other people determined his fate had finally brought him to the breaking point. A sudden rush of strength suffused his limbs, not unlike the kind of desperate fortitude that allowed a mother to lift a fallen boulder off her child. With a cry of fury he threw himself at Danton. Maybe if he had been anyone else the High King could have responded in time to save himself, but because he was Andovan Aurelius, he did not. Danton looked up as the doors slammed open, he prepared to defend himself against this unexpected assault—from one of his own guards!—and then he realized who his attacker was. His eyes went wide. His mouth hung open. For a crucial second, his sword did not move quickly enough.

Andovan ran his own sword through his father to the hilt and held it there. For a moment they were face to face. Andovan stared into his father’s eyes, mourning the madness he saw there but regretting nothing. For a brief moment something else flickered in the royal gaze, that might have been sanity, or perhaps understanding… and then the High King slumped against Andovan, as the strength left his limbs along with his blood.

“No!” Gwynofar screamed. “Don’t! He is the prince—”

Something sharp and cold thrust into Andovan’s body from behind. Another thrust followed.

He could feel the breath leave his body in a hot cloud as his lung was pierced. Then another thrust. His brief moment of fortitude flowed out of him with his blood, and he sank to his knees. His eyes met his mother’s. I
am sorry
, he mouthed. Unable to find the strength to voice the words.

The guards did not know who he was, of course. All they had seen was a stranger in a uniform attacking their king. They had never seen his face. And they had to strike him down to protect their queen. Of course. He understood that. The assassin had to die so that Gwynofar might live. It all made perfect sense.

Then those thoughts left him, along with any others.

Death, who had dogged his footsteps for so long, finally stepped forward to claim his due. It was almost a relief, Andovan discovered. No more pretending to be strong. No more fear of being unmanned by his final incapacity. He had fought to the end. Now it was time to quit the field of battle in honor.

Take care of the kingdom, my mother.

In his last moment of consciousness he was dimly aware of Lianna. It was almost as if they were connected, somehow.

Then that connection snapped, and all that was left was darkness.

Black, black, the universe is black, and so cold that thoughts shatter like ice even as they are formed.

Andovan is dead! the darkness screams. Life is gone! Find more!

Regret is lethal! the darkness warns. Do not mourn, do not mourn, DO NOT MOURN!

Bright shining prince, so full of honor

Blue eyes

Hope

Such resolve

Such strength

Willing to die for a cause

Are you?

Cold, cold, the place where a Magister’s soul goes to die. Warm, the world surrounding. Latch onto that warmth. Infect it with cold, with death. Suck the life from its veins until your own veins are full. If a whole world must die to sustain you, then you must kill it.

Never regret.

Mourning is death

Do you care enough to live, knowing the cost?

Is this the existence you want, for the rest of eternity?

Decide!

* * *

Gwynofar knelt by Andovan’s body. Slowly she turned it over so that she might see his face one last time… and in that moment the guards knew what they had done.

She heard their whispered prayers and curses, but it was as if they were a great distance away from her. There was nothing in Gwynofar’s universe save her and her child—her children—and the husband she had tried so hard to save.

Dead. All dead.

She wept.

One by one, with silent solemnity, the guards knelt before her, awaiting her word as High Queen, prepared to submit to whatever judgment she saw fit to pronounce.

She did not even know they were there.

Colivar saw the hawk fall. It dropped like a stone from the sky, and he realized as it did what must surely have happened… and what that would mean to the Magisters, if the hawk was indeed Lianna.

Transition.

Thus far he had avoided giving a name to what she was, but if it really was Transition that had just snuffed out her consciousness, there was no longer any question about that. Only whether she would survive the next few minutes or not to face the Magisters who would judge her.

He summoned up a whirlwind to break the bird’s fall, and while he could not bring the hawk down perfectly he did manage to divert some of its downward velocity into lateral movement. It rolled violently as it hit the ground, crashing into the charred remnants of fallen trees with all the force of a speeding boulder, snapping more delicate bones in its wings at every turn. When it finally stopped, Colivar’s sorcery assured him that the hawk was still alive, though not much more than that. It did not seem to be stirring, which was a bad sign. For all that Transition was terrifying when it came on at such moments, it did not usually last more than a few seconds. If she had taken enough damage in the fall that she was now genuinely unconscious, her life was still very much in danger.

But though he could save the bird from being killed by its fall, he could not save it from the ikati. The creature clearly had no intention of letting its attacker go free, and began its descent before the body had stopped its movement. Even on a good day Colivar would have been hard pressed to stop it. Given that he could not seem to attack the Souleater at all, he was forced to back away helplessly as it descended to claim the unconscious Magister.

She would not have lasted long anyway
, he told himself.
Not after breaking our Law
. Nevertheless he regretted that a genuine mystery should be destroyed at the very moment he had begun to unravel it. There were few enough diversions worthy of his attention these days, and the loss of one as promising as this was something to be mourned.

Suddenly there was a cry from behind him. It was a strange sound, human and inhuman all at once, and it stirred memories in Colivar so ancient, so compelling, that for a moment all present concerns faded from his awareness. The sound played like fingers along his spine, it made the blood rush hotly to his loins, it made him want to cry out in response with all the volume his lungs could muster, until his very soul was exhausted from screaming… and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone.

Shaken, Colivar turned back to locate the source, and saw a man standing atop a nearby rise. He was a tall man, pale and blond in the manner of the northern races, and well armed. As Colivar watched he raised his hands to his lips and made the strange noise once again. Its effect upon the Souleater was immediate and dramatic. The creature no longer had an interest in the fallen Magister, but wheeled in midair to head directly toward the stranger instead.

Colivar watched in amazement as the man went down on one knee, bringing up a crossbow to bear upon the beast. He was so still then that Colivar thought the Souleater’s power of entrancement had overcome him. Closer and closer the beast came—and then the stranger let fly his quarrel, and to Colivar’s amazement he managed a well-aimed shot into one of the wing joints. The Souleater screamed in pain, and though its wings remained extended, it began to lose altitude.
Of course
, Colivar thought, admiring the move.
Bring it down first. Deny it mobility
. Whoever this stranger was, he appeared to know what he was doing.

Given how long it had been since any man had last fought an ikati, that in and of itself cried out for explanation.

With a cry of bestial frustration the ikati hit the ground, beating its damaged wings upon the earth. The motion raised a thick cloud of black dust that spread quickly on the wind, and would have set Colivar to coughing had he not summoned a breeze to keep it away from him. Now one must concentrate even harder to see it clearly, which meant that its power would be more effective. This was becoming an interesting contest.

Knowing how dangerous it still was, Colivar watched with interest as the man took up his lance and approached the thing. Certainly he seemed unaffected by the creature’s mesmeric power, and that was half the battle. He appeared to be chanting something as he walked forward, low enough that Colivar could not make out the words. Perhaps it was some kind of protective spell, he mused. It was something to ask about later if the man survived.

As he approached the beast drew itself up to its full height, trying to intimidate him into retreat. It was a mating display pure and simple, and little wonder; the man’s strange cry, Colivar realized, had been a mating challenge. The ikati bared a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, stretching its jaw in the same odd, disjointed way that a snake might, and the stranger watched it closely. Too closely. Evidently for all his knowledge of such creatures, he was not prepared for reality of what was in its arsenal.

The long tail whipped about, low to the ground, and cracked with stunning force against his side. If he had been a few steps farther away the sharp plates on the tail’s end would have gutted him like a fish, but as it was, the ikati merely broke a host of bones and sent him reeling to the ground.
Give the man credit for being well-trained enough that he did not drop the spear
, Colivar mused. The man was lying still now, and it was very possible that the creature had knocked him unconscious. Either that, or the blow had stunned him hard enough that the ikati’s power could finally take hold of him.

The Souleater opened its jaws and stretched forward, clearly intending to claim its enemy as dinner—

And the man moved suddenly. Bringing up the spear in both hands, he thrust it into the creature’s mouth and upward, into the brain beyond. The ikati let out a bellow of rage and pulled back, snapping the spear free of the stranger’s hands, but it was too late. Blood gushed out of its mouth and the great wings spasmed against the ground as it struggled to save itself. Its tail whipped about wildly, with no conscious control behind it; once by sheer luck it hit the blond man again, and Colivar could hear his cry of pain as it connected.