Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (32 page)

VI

“We’ve arrived,” said the Raven, sighing.

The veil and the other trappings of an Arhad woman were removed from Mouse, and she saw herself in a clean, pleasantly furnished white-stone room with twin beds, a door leading off to a lavatory, and a sitting table circled with golden light from a small window. The madman of the Undercomb, her captor, and the six numbermen, dressed as Arhad traders with their kohl-rimmed eyes and heavy cloaks, would pose the greatest hindrance to her escape. She wondered how steep the drop was out the window.

“Still a bit of sand in your hair,” frowned the Raven, as he fluffed Mouse’s bangs and tidied her clothing with his chilly fingers.

The sand on her personage had come from their short trek across Kor’Khul after landing their skycarriage somewhere in the desert and proceeding to Eod on foot. At the gates of Eod, no one asked many questions of a band of Arhad traders or inspected the heavy bags filled with kings knew what sort of diablerie that the numbermen had hauled from the skycarriage.
Spices
, declared the Broker, his metal teeth hidden by a wrap, his Arhadic perfectly accented and convincing. If she could have, Mouse would have
screamed and had them all captured or killed, but regretfully, the Raven’s power over her muscles and bones had prevented this. For hourglasses now, since their early dawn march in the desert, she had been at the mercy of his black magik. So efficacious was his power that he had puppeted her as naturally as she moved herself, and she followed along as if she were truly a doting, silent, sewn-up wife of his. More frightening was that this measure of control proved to be not even the smallest inconvenience to him. The nekromancer chatted with her, with
Lenora
, or stopped so that they might kiss now and again. At least she had made use of her imprisonment to listen to the Raven’s rambling and see what she could learn to help herself.

If I could just figure out who the fuk Lenora was, I’d have won half the battle
, fussed Mouse. She had reached a balance with her repugnance, fear, and logic, and entered the realm of calculating coldness. Thus far, the Raven was content to molest her and fawn over her as if they were the most besotted lovers in Geadhain, though he was careful to dance around any memories they might share.
As if he doesn’t want to recall them. A tragedy, yes…I get the same impression from the dead man. If only one of them would give me a morsel to chew on
.

As he adjusted her bustier, the Raven noted the twinkle of thought in his puppet. Perhaps the woman had remembered her manners.

“Speak, Lenora,” ordered the Raven, and the cold claw of his magik unclenched itself from Mouse’s spine. Last time, before disembarking from the skycarriage, Mouse had spit in the Raven’s face, and that had earned her a day as his marionette. Diplomacy was the wiser course, for now. A friendlier approach could possibly benefit her, as a happy lunatic was a pliable one.
I shall play your Lenora, if that is what you seek
, she thought, and gave a strained smile.

“My…my love,” she said.

Her greeting did not have the intended result.

Viciously, the Raven grabbed Mouse, turning her chin from side to side, appraising her countenance as he spoke. “You look like her. So very much. I am interested in what the connection might be, and we shall have to find out. But make no mistake, lost child of the Watchers.” She was forced into a meeting of stares. “You are
not
Lenora. I am not as mad as my friend shuffling through our bags over there.”

Noting the comment, the Broker glanced up from the sack he was looting—removing and counting bags that spilled bits of black powder onto the floor—and waved happily.

“Allow me to explain how you are to behave,” the Raven continued. “You are what I shall play with until the real Lenora returns to me. An object, a doll. You would be better off thinking of yourself this way: as property. I have bought you. If you will not be a willing dog, I shall cane you into obedience. Do not forget that. You may continue to play along as Lenora, in fact, I encourage it. Say her name, welcome her spirit to you. The more you invoke her, the more suitable your body will be.”

“Suitable? For what?” squeaked Mouse.

The Raven’s grin was as dark as murder. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Not until we’ve finished up our business in Eod. I wouldn’t have brought you along unless you weren’t so determined to escape.” He released her face. “A little bit of sunshine would do you good. Lenora had such a lovely complexion. You suffer from the pallor of Menos. Go sit and warm yourself in the light,” he commanded, and Mouse’s legs and arms moved according to his Will.

Mouse knew not to shout in distress, and was soon poised in a chair at the table like a proper lady: knees together, hands on her lap. The dead man, who had hovered somewhere behind her during the exchange, took the seat opposite to her. His side of the table was in darkness, and the sadness of his face was elongated by shadow. Now that she understood how helpless her outlook had become, her stomach crawled with centipedes of fear.

Help me
, she mouthed to the dead man.

The Raven must have seen her plea. He flew across the room in a wind of rage and backhanded Mouse. She cried out but did not pitch to the side, as her body would not allow it.

“How dare you ask
him
for help! Is it my destiny to be betrayed by each of you?” accused the Raven, his eyes swollen with insanity. Mouse had the sense that he had forgotten who she was, despite his reminder a moment ago. He hissed into her face. “Wait, you filthy whore! You just wait, Lenora! How easily you escaped your guilt! Not again, not again. If you think he has suffered, I shall show you the beauty of pain. What it is like to live without your eyes, ears, or tongue. To neither see, hear, nor taste death, but to
feel
the beaks as they tear and the maggots as they chew you from the inside out. Screaming, screaming.”

Mouse spit a bit of blood onto the table. “You’re right. I’m not Lenora, you fuking maniac, and you’re twice as crazy as the Broker. If I ever get my hands back, I’ll show you how to scream.”

The Raven woke from his bluster. “Iron sages be cursed,” he exclaimed. “I seem to have lost myself. Your likeness. Your expressions of sympathy. Even your anger. You are the perfect vessel. You could be her reborn. And soon you will be. So little stitching will be required.”

Mouse attempted to make her next wad of spit hit the Raven, yet without being able to twist her body, it barely made it out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. What’s more, the Raven laughed heartily at her resistance, while the melancholy dead man did nothing but stare. She felt the regret rolling off him, though she could not tell if it was for her or a different sadness. Unexpectedly, the Broker interrupted their respective mirth and misery by calling for the Raven.

“The stone!” he lisped. “The stone is warm and wishes to speak!”

If Mouse could have followed the Raven as he went, she would have watched him stride to the Broker, snatch something from the man’s hand, and hold it to his ear like a conch. Farspeaking stones were a valuable tool of a Voice’s trade, however, and Mouse assumed that one was being used as the Raven demanded complete silence
while the stone delivered its message
. She didn’t try to eavesdrop further, as the stones were as airtight as a wax-sealed jar. Mouse toyed with the idea of wailing and barking as loud as she could to ruin the message. But the realities of what would happen to her for her disobedience quelled the urge.

Not dead yet, old girl. Perhaps you’ll live to see your thirty-third name day still
, Mouse hoped.

Whatever the stone had shared with the Raven put him into a furor. Snippets of his hissing floated her way, and her trained ears caught what they could.
Mother’s ears have found him. The betrayer is here, at the palace. A witch, too, whom Mother says we are not to touch. He can wait. No, she considers this one more important. No, I don’t know why. Stop asking, I told you. We shall attack him where he feels that he is strongest. Not at the palace, you idiot, at his. At his…with…yes, I agree they make such sparkling music. We shall
have to pick out one today. Mother said to take both targets if we are able, the witch above all else. I know, I know. We’ll gut him if we can, and I’ll deal with Mother. I agree. I had so much more planned for Uncle, so many faces of death. But this will have to do
.

After conferring with the Broker, the Raven handed out orders.

“The six of you will stay. Vortigern, too. We can’t have too much attention. Watch our guest. Snap her neck before allowing her to escape. I can still make use of the body if it comes to that, though preservation in this heat could pose an inconvenience.”

“Yes, Master,” replied Vortigern.

Mouse held her tongue as the Broker and the Raven stormed from the room. In their absence, she sighed in profound relief, and also for reasons twofold. First, she noticed that the Raven’s magik was immediately not as potent outside his presence, and she could already move a finger and a toe. She wondered how much more or how quickly the rest of her mobility would return. And finally, in his haste to exit, the Raven had neglected to reseal her mouth. She could speak if she wanted to and she intended to make use of that small freedom. The Broker’s men remained about, hunched unseen in corners away from the light, though surely watching her as instructed, so she made the words without sounds to the only creature who might feel mercy toward her. She asked the question that brought him pain and to which she desperately needed an answer.

Who was Lenora?

Initially, the dead man ignored her and found a distraction outside to spy on, yet she could tell that he was pondering by the creasing of his brow. Once more, Mouse pressed the issue, in the slightest whisper, and the dead man turned to her. When asked a third time, the frown folded to the deep lines of time and memory. At last, something was returning to him.

“I…I knew her. Can’t…can’t remember,” muttered the dead man. While staring at Mouse, he pulled out his pocket square and leaned across the table to dab at the drying spittle on her chin. He paused at their contact, his gray fingers skimming her swelling lips, and then dropped his handkerchief in shock. A shudder ran over him—not a normal reaction for one whose nerves were dead. The dead man retreated to his chair and clutched at his chest, trying to calm a spiritual thudding in his withered heart.

“I think…I think that we were in love,” he gasped.

Mouse gasped, too, and one of the numbermen snapped at her to stifle herself or he’d slit her throat and drain her in the tub. From then on, she and the dead man sat in the sun, sharing glances—of curiosity, fright, and suspicion. One, grasping at the shattered mirror of thoughts in his head—memories that cut him as he clawed for them and cast bloody reflections that did not reveal themselves clearly. The other, realizing that finally she might have found her way out.

IX

BLOOD PROMISE

I

A
ll through the night, Caenith’s forge belched smoke, glowed with embers, and clanged metal tunes. Smithing was the hardest work Morigan had ever done, and surely the dirtiest. Before the first cast of metal had been filled, the forge needed a feast of coal, which left her soot-painted, sweating, and blistered on her hands. Such a helping was only to start the fire, however, and she had more to shovel while Caenith pumped the bellows into the pit. His dark-faced smile, like a creature of the night, gave her encouragement to continue, and she did not slow, not even as the blisters burst or the fire seemed unsatisfied no matter how she fed it. She would look to the Wolf for relief, just as he drank in her body as if it were a cooling tonic, and by nightfall, the long-neglected forge was finally hot enough to smelt.

That leg of the task proved no better, and often Morigan had to return to her stoking, and Caenith to his fanning, in order raise the cylindrical crucible’s contents to bubbling. Morigan wondered what material could possibly withstand the temperature of the flames that they were creating, but there was no opportunity over the fire’s huffing to ask. She remembered that she had another way, and she focused on the toiling man and sent her bees out to deliver some thought nectar. When the whisper entered Caenith’s head,
it startled him, and he stopped his pumping for a speck and then continued with a nod to his Fawn.
Grapharite, toughest metal one can forge, brought from the mines of the Mor’Keth
, echoed the bees in the deep timbre of Caenith’s voice as they returned to their mistress.