Feast of Souls (66 page)

Then, slowly, the great beast stopped moving. Its glassy wings fell limp from its sides and lay upon the ground, black against black, all their colors gone. The ground beneath it was soaked with blood, as was the man who lay before it. Everything was still.

Colivar found that he could breathe again.

With one glance at the hawk that lay behind him, to assure himself that it was still alive, he moved to the side of the fallen warrior. The man’s wounds were severe, but nothing sorcery could not heal. He knit the broken ribs back together and repaired the bruised organs, including one collapsed lung. The stranger said nothing through it all, just coughed up blood now and then as he struggled to get enough air to remain conscious to the end of the treatment.

When at last his breathing steadied, and nothing inside his body was about to fail him, Colivar stood back and looked at him. A dry, pained smile spread across the warrior’s face. “Well, I see the legends did not exaggerate, anyway.”

Colivar helped him to his feet. “I take it this is the first time you have seen one?”

“Oh, yes.” He brushed at the dirt on his clothes out of habit; in fact there was way too much blood and ash adhering to him for any simple gesture to dislodge it. “First time anyone has seen one, as far as I know.”

Colivar said nothing.

“Well.” The voice came from behind them. “That was quite impressive.”

Colivar did not turn around. “You could have helped.”

“And miss the chance to see a Guardian tested? I think not.” Ramirus looked over the body as he joined them. “Besides, I am a scholar, not a warrior. But introductions are in order, yes?” He nodded toward the blood-stained Guardian. “Rhys nas Keirdwyn, Guardian of the Wrath, this is Colivar, Magister Royal of some little state down south, I forget the name of it.”

“Anshasa,” Colivar muttered. He nodded a curt greeting to Rhys. “May I say you have… remarkable timing?”

“Serendipity,” Ramirus assured him. “Rhys is Queen Gwynofar’s brother, and perhaps her most trusted confidant. I was bringing him here to see if he could inspire her to the task required, when we saw this… thing.”

He stepped over to the side of the great creature and put his hand upon its flank. “Is it what it appears to be?” he breathed. “Truly?”

“I am afraid so,” Colivar said.

“Then they have returned?”

Rhys cursed softly under his breath as Colivar joined Ramirus at the ikati’s flank. Its skin was cold and smooth, like a serpent’s. Down its spine ran a series of sharp spikes, many longer than a man’s hand. Colivar pulled the heavy body toward him, to where they could see a place where several of the spikes had been removed. The hide where they had once been anchored was covered over with scars; the surgery had taken place long ago.

“This one is from the north,” he said quietly. Even speaking the words made a shiver run up his own spine. “Beyond the Wrath. So…” He looked at Rhys. “They have found a way through it.”

The warrior’s expression was grim. “Then we must discover a way to repair the breach before more can follow.”

Colivar did not say what he already knew, that the move would come too late. Ikati were already nesting in the human lands, which meant that sooner or later there would be a flock of them to deal with. But the warrior who had just defeated a Souleater deserved his moment of hope. For now.

The world is at war
, he thought grimly.

He wanted more than anything to ask Ramirus if he had felt the creature’s power himself, as Colivar had. The Magisters must know if they were stronger than morati in resisting these creatures, or perhaps doubly susceptible for being such choice prey. But he could not ask that question without inviting others that he himself was unwilling to answer, so he kept his silence.

Rhys stroked the wings in wonder. “I have heard they once made armor out of layers of this stuff,” he said, “and from the hide as well.”

“They did once,” Colivar confirmed. “There are few substances that can protect a man as well. But it requires special treatment in the first few hours after death, and I suspect you did not come here prepared for that.” He nodded toward the end of the tail, where it lay some yards away from them. “There are sharp plates in the tip, there. Take them as trophy. Make blades of them, and spearheads as well. They will pierce the hide of these creatures as nothing man-made can.”

Rhys nodded and began to walk down the length of the tail, pulling out his knife as he went. Colivar was about to speak to Ramirus when a commotion sounded in the distance behind them. Glancing that way, he could see a small phalanx of guards leaving the palace, no doubt to investigate what had just occurred.

“There was a hawk,” Ramirus said quietly.

“A witch,” he answered, equally quietly. “I tracked her from Gansang, where she killed one of our kind. Apparently she was particularly susceptible to the beast’s power. Which should come as no great surprise, given how much hatred that species must have for witches.” He shrugged. “Justice is done, if not by our hand.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, if you will excuse me.” He nodded toward the coming crowd. “I really do not think it the best thing if I stay around to wait for the reception committee. Nor should you, for that matter.”

Ramirus looked toward the palace; his white brow furrowed as he concentrated. “Danton is dead,” he said finally. “And Rurick also. And… and Andovan.” His thin mouth tightened. “Not a good day for the throne of the High Kingdom.”

“That is your affair, not mine, Ramirus.” Colivar’s tone was dry. “I rule over sand dunes and tents, remember? Take control of the whole continent if you like, I have no plans for it.”

Ramirus put a hand on his shoulder. He waited until Colivar met his eyes. “We will have to cooperate on this matter. All of us. Anything less than that could get us all killed.”

And trying to work together could get us all killed even faster
, Colivar thought. But he merely nodded.

He made himself the body of a red-winged falcon and took off across the field, low to the ground, hoping that Ramirus did not take note of his direction. He wanted to collect the fallen hawk before the palace guards reached that spot, preferably without Ramirus noticing. He had no desire to share his precious mystery with anyone.

But the hawk was gone. Traces of sorcery clung to the ground where it had rested. Apparently she had left under her own power.

Keening his frustration into the air, the falcon circled higher and higher… then the air surrounding it shimmered, and it was gone.

Halfway across the world, in a field being readied for harvest, one of the workers paused.

“Liam?” another worker asked him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just… just a moment of dizziness. But it’s gone now.”

He waited a moment longer to see if the strange feeling of weakness would come over him again, and when it did not, shrugged and returned to his work.

The fields in the monastery had just come into bloom, and a half-dozen monks in coarse linen robes were picking the precious medicinal blossoms and gathering them into wicker baskets. In the distance several others had tucked up their long shirts into their belts in order to wade among close-set rows of gosberry bushes, and their bare legs were splotched with juice. Farther still, the hum of bees resonated in the warm summer air.

The messenger pulled up his horse at the main gate and dismounted. He was a young man, well dressed, and he walked with the stiffness of one who had been in the saddle too many hours for his liking.

“I seek the one you know as Father Constance,” he called out to the first monk that noticed him. A hand waved him toward the stone cloister beyond the fields, then the monk went back to his work.

The messenger walked toward the building as fast as his stiff legs would carry him. His somber expression caused several of the monks to look up from their work long enough to take his measure, but none asked him any questions, and he did not stop to invite any.

Inside the building he had to ask two more times after the one he sought, and at last was directed to a small chamber in the back of the cloister, a plain cell with minimal furnishings in which a young man sat reading.

“Are you the one they call Father Constance?” the messenger asked.

He shut his book. “I am. What is your business?”

The messenger pulled out a flattened scroll from his doublet and went down on one knee to read from it. “Prince Salvator Aurelius, son of Danton Aurelius, I bring to you the words of the Queen Mother Gwynofar, called the Fair. She informs you, with great regret, that the High King has passed from this earth, and his firstborn son and heir has also, and thus by our customs the throne of the High Kingdom falls to you. She bids you come as priest to preside over their funerals, and then if you will, set aside your priestly robes and take your rightful place at the head of Danton’s empire, that you may guide her people in their time of mourning and provide them with justice and leadership afterward.”

The messenger rolled up the scroll again, and waited.

Bells tolled in the distance, signaling the end of one task and the beginning of another.

For a few minutes the monk did not answer. Then he stood.

“Tell the Queen Mother,” he said, “Salvator will come.”

“No one noticed when the Witch-Queen slipped away from her guests. Wine was flowing, music was playing, and the carefully chosen guests were keeping each other occupied, mostly with ribald tales of previous gatherings. If one chose the right mix of guests to begin with, such things took care of themselves.

Quietly she slipped out of the great hall. The closeness of so many people was giving her a headache, and she needed a moment to herself. Such bouts of introversion had been rare things once, but now, toward the end of her days, they were becoming more and more common.

Or perhaps that was simply the natural result of discovering that one was soon to die, and that there was nothing any living man could do to change it.

No one knew the truth yet. No one saw any change in her. A few faint lines that the Magisters’ sorcery could no longer conquer had begun to creep across her face, but no one noticed them. A vague lethargy enveloped her at seemingly random moments, but she covered for it well.

The effort was exhausting, though. As was playing the perfect hostess when what she really wanted to do was stand up on a table and scream out her fury at the world, for the cruel trick it had played on her.

And the Magisters. Never forget the Magisters.

Wrapping her arms about her as if it were the depths of winter rather than a balmy summer evening, she slipped out onto one of the wide terraces that overlooked the harbor. Hundreds of boats bobbed on the water below, waiting for the morning’s tide, and lanterns lit the piers and walkways like rows of fireflies. From where she stood she could hear the drunken laughter of sailors, the wheedling promises of women, the thousand and one sounds of life as usual in Sankara. In the morning the sun would rise once more and merchants would make their deals, fisherman would set out with their nets, stray dogs would nuzzle strangers in the hopes of handouts. Life as usual.

How easy it would be, to cast herself off the balcony and end it all. One single, slow dive into the darkness, a brief kiss of midnight waters as they closed over her head, and then she might live on forever young in memory, a creature of legend.

Tempting. So tempting. But she had not become monarch of a keystone state of the Free Lands by giving up on things before their time, and she would not do so now. No, until the very end she would fight this thing and rail at her fate, and deny Death his due by every means she could, until that due could no longer be denied by any means.

With a sigh, she turned back from the view and prepared to return to her guests.

“It is a sad thing when a woman must leave the world in her prime,” a male voice whispered.

Despite the sudden pounding of her heart she turned about calmly, with true regal composure; in such situations proper demeanor could make the difference between life and death. “Who are you, that you speak to me thus?”