Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (70 page)

Throughout her speech, Kanatuk’s anger ebbed. When she was done talking, he was trembling with pride, humility, and happiness. He bowed upon a knee and hung his head.

“I would have done what you asked, only because you wished it,” said he. “Now I understand that I must, and I am privileged to make that choice. I would like to see what we create together, too. Where my strokes land on the great picture.”

After sands of silent prostration by the silent warrior, Morigan became uncomfortable and asked her friend to rise. He emitted a harmoniously ringing melody that the bees found enticing.
Duty
, this was, and he was brimming with it.

“I shall tell Mouse what I know,” he promised.

“Thank you.”

Kanatuk began to slink away. He turned when he noticed that Morigan was not following him.

“Are you coming?”

“I think I shall stay for a moment,” she replied.

Although she never heard his footsteps, she sensed his departure. She was relieved to have only her silence and not the worries of another to manage. From the day her gift had awoken, there had been so little time inside her own mind, or to think of things as an individual. Even her joining with Caenith was a small sacrifice of herself; though for him she would make it again and again. She thought of the Wolf, clawing his way toward her, and wondered how near to the Iron City he and Thackery had come. If all went as planned, she might cross the Iron Wall before they did. As wrenching as their separation had been, there were positives to their distance if she chose to see them. As she had explained to Kanatuk, she was beginning to identify the patterns in their destinies and had found—or created—reasons for her existence. She now had some rather extraordinary goals, which she would not have had the inspiration or courage to set for herself before, mostly on account of their seeming impossibility.
I want to know my mate, every secret, beauty, and darkness of his soul. I want to see this great world from end to end and make my place in it. I want to meet my father, if he lives, or find the stones that bury him if he does not. I want to be a warrior, a poet, a lover, a mother. I want more experiences than I can fill a lifetime with, and I swear that if I am given more years, or if I steal them from fate, I shall not waste a single day
.

She had not the slightest notion if her life would be as spectacular as she portrayed it to the Seal Fang. Yet she was excited to discover where her choices would lead her and eager to make more, no matter how daring. She wondered what had become of her fear, and laughed at its cowardice.

As brave and untamed as the rivers of Alabion
, echoed the voice of Elissandra in a conversation that only they could hear.
To think that I believed I ever had the right to tame such power. I would ask you not to scream. I am not here to harm or thwart you. Your Sight will tell you that
.

Shouting for her companions was indeed Morigan’s first impulse. However, Elissandra was either weaving a spell of deception or telling the truth, for the bees were calm. Cautious still, Morigan peeked past the planks and into the gloomy city. Nowhere amid the ghetto of broken fences and abandoned dwellings did she spot a spectral woman wrapped in gray—she knew that this is how Elissandra looked, even without ever seeing her.

Where are you? I do not speak to spirits
, she said.

Then I shall appear
, announced Elissandra.

There came the tiniest rip, and then the faintest breeze tickled Morigan: a wind risen from inside, not outside. Morigan spun to see a white and fair woman in a flowing gown and cloak. Surely as alarming as the woman’s inexplicable appearance were her delicately lined eyes that flashed with a hint of silver. Not as sterling as Morigan’s, though with the same twist of light to them. The hostilities flew from Morigan.

How did you do that? Where are your men? What do you want?

Too many questions, and I cannot answer them all
, Elissandra said, smiling.
The greatest lessons are those we learn on our own
.

Tell me or I summon my companions
, demanded Morigan.

Elissandra was displeased.
Direct your anger elsewhere, child, we are closer than you would care to know. The Ironguards who were with me were dealt with, personally, so that our privacy could be assured. No one can or will know that we have met or spoken. I am as much in jeopardy in being here as you are. What I did is an Art that you have not yet been trained in, the Art of shifting through the wrinkles in Dream and reality. It is no crude propulsion through time and space, like sorcerers do, but a true mastery of what is real and what is not. Such power is not beyond you. It is, in fact, beneath you. And that is why I have come. Our time is finite, and you must trust me and listen true, for what I have to say will change everything you know
.

Trust her? thought Morigan. An Iron sage? A woman who just confessed to killing the men who serve her? Maddeningly enough, the bees were complacent in the company of this cold-blooded murderess.

Do not judge me
, stated Elissandra.
Death without a purpose is senseless. What I have done was a blood sacrifice for our meeting. Those men would have traced a connection to our fates. You have tasted blood before, and you would taste it again. I’d say that you like it
. She waved her hand in the air as if defogging a wintry window and seeing some invisible sign through the pane.
Ah yes, the lord of Pining Row. The Blood King himself. You are promised to him. You are so deeply rooted in our traditions and yet so blind to what you are
.

Morigan held a final debate with herself about alerting the others, yet her daring was rapidly outgrowing her caution. She sighed and leaned against the wall. While she was willing to hear this woman’s words, she kept a fair distance between them, and felt ready to call upon that strange somnolent power again at the merest hint of aggression.

Good. You are listening
, said Elissandra.
We would need hourglasses for me to tell you all that you desire, and we have only sands
.

Sands?

Sands
, said Elissandra with finality.

As Elissandra started speaking, she glided around the small space behind the boxes. She did not cross the unspoken boundaries that Morigan had placed, not for the moment at least. Some of what the Iron sage spoke of Morigan already knew, though there was much to pique her mind with interest and disgust.

We come from the East
, said Elissandra.
Those with the blood of the Gray Man: the ancient spirit of the moon. Daughters, mostly, but there are sons, as it is a brother and sister that we are descended from—they were the first of our kind. Our people came West when the forests turned against us and have not returned to Alabion since. The wisest of our ancestors found favor with the masters of Menos, who would pay to know whatever paltry fate. Here we thrived, though elsewhere in Geadhain you will find those with the blood of the moon reading fires or palms, hearing whispers of fate, and as ignorant as you as to how noble their lineage is. They are not true daughters or sons. They are mongrels
.

Mongrels? That is a harsh characterization for those of your blood
, countered Morigan.

The derision was thrown back by Elissandra.
My blood? You are not listening, which I instructed you to do. My ancestors, those who settled in the Iron City, ensured that no slow-born mongrels were bred into our line. Brothers to fathers, sisters to wives. My blood is pure
. She paused and hooked a finger at Morigan.
You, however…you should not be. You who call down lost Arts. The Song of the Gray Man? Do you even know what you have done? We speak of that in our legends. Of the spell that can lay all of Alabion to sleep. A melody unsung since the earliest ages. How has this power come to you, and not to me? That is the question, and I ask it without jealousy and with genuine stupefaction. For there is no unbroken circle to be found outside Menos. No pure womb that could bear a creature like you, and you are surely not a bastard child of the House of Mysteries. The Voices I have courted say that you came from a slow-born mother
—

Morigan clenched her fists.
Do not insult her!

Elissandra was gliding again, and the threat rolled off her like water off a duck.
She is what she is. Just as you are what you are. Which is a mystery. To some, but not to all. I believe I have figured you out
.

Instead of revealing this mystery, Elissandra wandered into another topic.
Do you know who Malificentus Malum was? Of course not, you wear your ignorance like a badge of pride. I shall tell you of this legendary man, then. The male children of the moon, they’re not as good with the Arts as you and I. Better made to physical and intellectual pursuits: extraordinary warlords, hunters, and masters. Malificentus Malum was the great-great-great-grandfather of my house, and a brilliant tactician. His dream was to undo the reign of the Immortal Kings
.

Morigan was certainly paying attention, but the darkening logic of this woman was tearing at her nerves.

Yes, I can sense your opinion on that
. Without warning, Elissandra spun and passionately hammered a fist into her palm.
You think like a slave to the teat of Eod, and you see me as an enemy and a Menosian, when I am neither. My spirit, your spirit, and the loyalty of souls like ours belongs to Alabion! That is what my forefathers protected, and why we have and shall always stand against the kings
.

Why? I don’t understand, when they have done so much for us
, refuted Morigan.

Have they?
questioned Elissandra, stepping closer to her company. Her eyes were daggers of silver and her voice was a serpent’s lisp of rage.
Such powers do not exist in isolation of all else. One cannot be a storm and move through a forest without uprooting trees and slaughtering animals. That is what they did. Well, one of them, at least, and in a manner of speaking. When the Everfair King came to Alabion a thousand years past to consult with the Sisters Three. We, the oldest families of the woods, know what history does not. The selfish reason for his quest. He sought a bride, or the truth of where one “worthy” of his love could be found
. Elissandra spit upon the floor in contempt.
He got his bride, but he twisted the woods. He broke the covenant of our people with the land. Intentionally or not, it was done, and he is to blame for the lifetimes of culture and harmony that he shattered. The woods would not have us, and what Alabion doesn’t want, it turns against, and it destroys. We could no longer live in our home—no longer weave spells or make the music of the moon. All the ancient
orders were destroyed. All so one man—who is not even a man—could have his love. Malificentus did not fight for the petty grudge of Menos, but for a far, far more noble triumph. For the protection of us all, really, from the immortal masters—crueler than any here in Menos—who break the world simply by walking through it. Better that they stay in their mountains, breathing storms and farting earthquakes, than to ignorantly sow disaster through the lands of Geadhain
.

With a snap, Elissandra’s mania morphed into sanity. She stayed where she was—standing close to Morigan—and continued with a measured and airy tone.
To save Geadhain, Malificentus went east, into the Mother that did not want us. He braved Alabion to consort with the Sisters Three on how the kings could be ended—once and for all removed from this world, along with all that they influenced. Alas, that journey ended him and his ambitions, or so we of the House of Mysteries always felt it to be. But our magiks cannot pass the green walls of Alabion, so even our strongest Sights could not see that while he himself had died, his legacy had been preserved. A scroll he left behind, one scribbled with the Sisters’ words and ripped of his own flesh. What guile he had, for he protected the treasure through time by rites of blood, which is the only sorcery that one can work in Alabion since the Exile. While the woods, the spell, or the surgery to create the scroll ended Malificentus, the Fates have seen this message delivered to those who would complete his mission. I shall tell you what it says, dear Daughter of the Moon
.

Elissandra was close enough to kiss Morigan, and the madness and passion once more possessing her implied that she might do it. Impossible, was all that Morigan could make of the witch’s ramblings on chains of incest, the true loyalty of the House of Mysteries, scrolls of flesh, and the great exile from Alabion. She was waiting for the bees to sting her with vicious admonition at this woman’s lies, and yet they were illuminating with their silence. Elissandra resumed her mindwhispering.

Brother will rise to brother…a black star will eat the sky…the old age will crumble to the rise of a Black Queen. Those are three of the
four
lines of the Sixth Chair’s scroll, and that is all that the slow-born bitch who rules this Iron City or those who bow to her need to know. For you, my sister of soul, I shall tell you the rest. For the scroll is actually complete, and you are the final piece of the Sisters’ prophecy
.

Morigan’s bees were ecstatic:
this
was the nectar for which they had been patiently waiting. The room began to whirl.

Brother will rise to brother
.

(She sees a field of flame writhing with shapes. All she can smell is scorched meat. All she can hear are screams and the triumphant laughter of a man like a bassoon.)

A black star will eat the sky
.

(The constellation is above her: pulsing like a heart, unfurling like an ebony anemone. Even its dark light blinds as a sun would, for it is an abomination.)

The old age will crumble to the rise of a Black Queen
.

(Again, the ageless voice of the void is chasing her
.
Flee, little fly. Flee and await the coming of my reborn son, the Sun King. Await your turn with his gift and worship me as I rise to the throne of Geadhain
.)