Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (38 page)

Her host wishes that he could be stronger like his brother, even though the winds whisper to him when they will be calm; this is not a skill that is as valuable as raw might. To pass the time, he sings along with the storm, or makes a familiar sound that is not of the land or beasts of the Long Winter
.

“Broo…tus.”

(Yes, yes, that is the name. Who taught you that?)

Conjuring his brother’s sound fills him with fire and hastens his pulse, and when the other knows that he is being thought about, it is not long before he
is summoned from his hunt. Soon after, Brutus climbs in from the crack in the roof, swings from stalactite to stalactite without a care and lands before him; even as a youth, his brother is thrice the size of himself, hairy in places that he is not, unscathed by the cruel winter but for a melting glaze on his skin. Disappointedly, Brutus shakes his frost-beaded mane. No meat was found. Lately, the Long Winter has been a bitterer garden than they are used to; its sparse corners of green where furry things live to be hunted is shrinking and vanishing under ice. Brutus will have to feed him as he has since they were smaller still, and he bites his hand and cradles his brother, who begins to suck on the wound like a teat—mewling in pleasure
.

(No one but each other…for how many thousands of years? No language, no comforts but love. Total dependence. Even acting as food for the weaker of you. One to hunt…one to guide. Have you ever been separate creatures? I wonder. For you seem like two halves of the same, my kings.)

Her bees were consuming every glowing drop of memory that floated around her as a rainstorm suspended in time.

She sees a landscape of split earth and magma, smothered under a cloud of ash. An Age of Fire. Her host is clinging to the mane of his brother, who crawls more than he walks, though is still large enough to ride. As young as they are, they know to rely on the other, and while Brutus hops over the scorching shale, Magnus leads them to murky pools that have whispered to him—deep down in charcoal shafts, where they can drink foul water or eat the tasteless, gelatinous fish that swim there. Failing that sustenance, they will bite each other and nurse of that nourishment. In these safer pockets, quiet from the rumbling of the world above, they sleep like sooty kittens and burble their name-sounds to each other
.

Younger. Show me the moment. The first moment. The names
, commanded Morigan, and the bees flooded their mistress with visions of lava seas, precipitations of flaming rock, and a sky torn with meteors. The bees peeled through age to that pinprick of recall, that one single memory that not even the king could remember, as his mind had not yet formed.

She is in a womb. If she could not feel the hardness of rock under her chubby infant flesh, she would have thought it to be natural cavity, so syrupy and dark the space is. For all the darkness, there is light. Two shimmers of movement. At first, Morigan cannot comprehend the details, and her host’s budding eyes
certainly do her perception no favors. But she hears the name sounds, though spoken by voices that are not mortal, but are akin to the crackling of earth or static. Elemental booms more than speech
.

“BRU-TUS, MAE-GUH-NUS.”

Dribbles of dirt fall from unseen reaches, loosened by the noise, and her host is dusted off by two sets of hands that are slickly black and silver as starlight. The touch electrifies and chills him, and as with the heat of his brother, these paralyzing currents convey what words cannot. Love, hope, promise, all the sentiments of a maker to its child. Magnus reaches for the fingers, clasps one, and it puffs away like smoke. Angrily, not wanting to leave, the Makers utter the names of their children in the earth-womb again
.

(They cannot stay, knows Morigan. They are only Dreamers to this world.)

The shouts of the Makers fade like thunder, and no hands are there to brush away the rain of soil. The Makers are gone. Before her host can muster a cry, something grunts and burbles beside him. As it pulls him into its warmth, he feels its fire spread across his skin, then inside, too, and he knows that he is safe, that this is his brother, and that they are all that they have and all that the other shall need
.

(There. This is what came before, thinks Morigan. Caenith waits for me with a fire of his own that beckons. I shall return to him.)

In the Hall of Memories, the pipes had trumpeted, and the memory-cloud roiled with scenes. The company’s astonishment escaped in gasps as the history of the king was unveiled inside misty panes. First they watched Magnus peer out over a wind-blasted wasteland and fumble through the rigors of primitive language.
Is he? Could that be?
cried Thule, as the implications of this vision rattled him. Time continued to reverse itself, through a primordial swamp, a shrieking tundra, and a world of fire. Through each of these inhospitable torments, the brothers bled, fed, and leaned on the other for support. They were mother and father, caretaker and teacher. They were the sum of what the other knew. None of the observers, not even the queen with her king, had seen or known such intimacy, and the chamber throbbed with color and warmth, regardless of how grim was the scene on display. For the hall understood the kings’ brotherhood, which was as unquenchable as the world was volatile around them. The queen was not jealous as much as she was cowed by how poor her love for the king was by compare.

What a fool I was to think that I could love only one of them
, she despaired.
They are beyond love or lovers, they are the same man. And curse you, Magnus, for allowing me to believe that you could be mine
.

When the womb of shadows appeared in the memory-cloud, not a single member of the company breathed until the vision rippled away. Even as it passed, when the pipes sputtered out their last smoke, the mist sizzled away, and the starry floor slowed in its orbit, the companions found their breath but not their words. They had heard the sonorous voices of the kings’ makers, seen the silhouettes of silver and deep starlight—skins of the cosmos, not mortal flesh—and knew that they were witness to the start of a mystery. Though as to what came next, no opinions were presented or even formulated in their stupor. Caenith heard Morigan stir and inhale, coming back from what fantastic spaces she had wandered; he caught her as she swooned from the bench.

“I’m tired,” she croaked.

The metaphysical journey through the Hall of Memories had taken a fair toll on Morigan. She could hardly keep her eyes open and had pins and needles running from her face to her feet. Gathering her up in his arms, Caenith said, “My bloodmate needs to rest. We are done here.”

As for the queen, she wanted to be alone, to find reason in what she had seen. As quickly as he had announced his exit, Caenith was gone. Thule lagged after him, muttering to himself and fidgeting with his fingers as if they played an invisible instrument. No doubt, he was burning with thoughts. Rowena stayed behind, quiet as she ever was. However, today she was not so inconspicuous and laid a hand atop her trembling queen’s. They did not speak; there was nothing to say, no words to console a woman as old as any remembered age, yet younger, weaker, and more fragile than any of the prehistoric specters that had haunted the Hall of Memories.

II

I feel as if we are being given the boot
, snickered Morigan, and behind her, Caenith nodded. How better to explain their sudden eviction from the palace the next morning, when they awoke to find an attendant knocking at
their door. With polite smiles and obsequious courtesies, he explained that their stay was at an end.
Oh, the queen would see you off, but she is in court today, tending to matters of justice
, the lad had stated. With his new senses, Caenith could smell the milky-sour stink of a lie on him and knew this was not the truth, but what the attendant was instructed to say.
If she is to be shunned for revealing the black skeletons in Eod’s royal crypt, then so be it
, spat Caenith. He wasn’t the greatest admirer of Eod’s sovereigns anyhow, as aloof and clandestine as they were. In the passageways, the glow-weave was still dim with early light. Serendipitously, they bumped into Mater Lowelia—always about, it seemed. The mater was distressed to see them go; she flung an embrace around Morigan.

“Deary mittens! Could my day be more soiled, I ask? My darling lovebirds are out of the nest! I suppose you have a tree of your own to get back to.”

“We do,” said Morigan, smiling.

Although she hadn’t thought over which house she would return to, now that she was bound to another, her tired suite in its noisy neighborhood felt inadequate to the rustic hole-in-the-roof den of her Wolf. At that, Caenith’s river raged in her, agreeing with her choice.

“Oh, just look at the two of you!” cried the mater, pulling Caenith into the hug. “Goodness, you’re a hard thing! Like a man of stone and bark!” After kissing each of their faces, she pushed the two away from herself. “Do come by the White Hearth, when next you’re in the palace. I’ll fix you up a proper feast, better than the one you missed.”

“That would be lovely, though I do not see us in these halls again anytime soon,” replied Morigan.

“Maybe not, maybe so. I have an eye for excellence, they say, and not only with what I spice my pots or how I can scrub a floor to shine your smile in. For
people
,” winked the mater. “The palace is a place for greatness, and you each have a dollop of your own. You two found your way here once, and I hope you’ll find your way here again. If not, I’ll invite you as a guest of the mater herself. This I swear!” To stop the tears, the mater bit on a knuckle. “Shoo, my rose. Go on now before I get misty.”

With heavy hearts, they parted. Of all their encounters in the palace, they would most miss the mater. As sad as their leaving was, the lovers
quickly discovered cheer at the thought of finally being together, unhindered by responsibility or nightmares. Those were for the queen to sort out now, and Morigan felt no remorse for leaving this dark riddle with Her Majesty until she was doubtlessly called to involve herself in it once more.

A break
, she excitedly panted to her lover.
From bees and kings and darkness. Only you and me and the current between us
. Whereas previously, back in their private glade, Morigan was apprehensive of losing herself to her mate, of forgetting where he began and she ended, she was excited to finally accept that surrender. Alone, in the privacy of their den.
I would like that
, growled the Wolf.

A winding jaunt had them out on the grand anchorage, with its many silver birds lifting off to parts unknown. In the skies were a scattering of unusually gray clouds, and the day was heavy with shadows. Gray and haggard, Thule matched the sentiment of the heavens and greeted the bloodmates with a nod as they approached the skycarriage set for their departure. Rowena was present and escorted her three passengers inside, seating them in a familiar cabin: in two groups across from each other, like before. As Rowena was to leave them to see to commanding the ship, she paused at the door. A skunky musk wafted to Caenith’s nose—a warning of threat.

“It goes without saying that you are to keep your silences on all that has transpired in your time at the palace. Failure to do so would be treason. Punishable by the strictest means,” warned the sword.

Rowena did not wait for a reply and left the cabin. The company heard the technomagikal engine cough and then settle into a purr, and in a moment, their stomachs dipped as they left solid ground. The vessel strayed beneath the clouds, and the cabin was hung in gloom. For a while, Morigan watched the shadows twist Thule’s face into heinous frowns, and the bees buzzed the black nectar of his unhappiness to her. Caenith could smell it, too, like a rotten fruit that had been squished, and he was grateful when his bloodmate spoke up about it.

“Master Thule, why the long face? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To get to the root of these matters?”

“Thackery is fine from now on, Morigan,” sighed the old man. “That name has a certain
repellence
to those with long enough memories to know
it. I never should have kept the name at all. But we are bound and cursed and damnably drawn by our blood.”

Repellence?
she wondered.

Do you not know, my Fawn?
Caenith held her closer as their minds whispered.
He is blood of one of the old ruling houses of Menos. The house of Thule. Among the masters of the Iron City, his lineage was feared for their brutality. I knew his grandfathers’ grandfathers, and they were wicked men indeed. Spiders in the guise of men, weaving infinite webs. He has that craftiness, too. I can smell it. His story, and how it has taken him from the Iron City to a sage of Eod’s Nine Laws is his to tell, though, and I know no more than that
.

Morigan’s bees and Caenith’s senses did indeed know more, despite his assertation otherwise, and their second senses brought them flickers of a black pit of sadness. Images of skin sacs dangling on curled fingers, cries carried in a rainstorm, and a dread name that Morigan could almost decipher the scratch of in her ear, trickled to the maiden. Likewise, the smell of charcoaled death, the ripeness of the fear that had driven the old sorcerer to Eod, and the carved lines of a hundred scowls of misery told the Wolf that Thule was never, not even for a speck, free of his torment. They knew he had a terrible tale to tell, one of love lost, and family, too, from how he treated Morigan. Wordlessly, the bloodmates seeped their pathos into each other, while the old man kept his watch on the clouds.