Feast of Souls (2 page)

And then others would follow. The whole town, sooner or later. Maybe even Gansang itself, if the infection spread far enough. Very little could check the Green Plague once it had taken hold in a place.

He was still in the early stages. If she healed him now, if there were no others infected yet, the town might be spared.

Imnea turned away to stoke the fire. The new log wasn’t catching. The embers were growing dim.

“Please,” the mother whispered.

No bribes. No threats. No promises. Imnea was prepared to counter all those. But the simple heartfelt plea was none of those things, and all of them combined. Guilt stabbed like a hot blade into her heart. I should give her a knife and tell her to end it. For the child’s sake. If she doesn’t handle the body fluids when she kills him there’s a chance it won’t spread.

With a sigh she turned back to face the pair. They deserved that much, these villagers, that at least she would meet their eyes while she shattered their hopes. But it was the girl’s eyes that caught her own this time, not the woman’s. Clear eyes, remarkably so given the hollows of hunger and hardship that hung beneath them like dark moons. Green eyes, flecked with gold as if with fairy dust. Yet it wasn’t color or clarity that made the girl’s gaze so arresting as much as an indefinable
something
… as much out of place in these dim surroundings as a gleaming star would be.

Such depth, in that gaze. Remarkable in one so young. Imnea wondered briefly if she had the Power… but only briefly. She had no time to worry about matters of Power, least of all to appraise the potential of some fledgling witch who would probably die of hunger and cold in the gutters of Gansang long before she ever found a suitable teacher.

Perhaps it was that thought which plucked at her heart like a harp string. Perhaps it was the memories of the ones she had taught, and the children she had borne, and all those people who had turned to her for healing or counsel or simply comfort, in her thirty-five years of life. Maybe it was something about the power that made her hear their voices now, begging her to help this woman… or maybe it was Death playing tricks on her. Trying to hurry her along, so that he wouldn’t be late for his appointment with the next witch on his list.

Damn you to hell
, she thought.
My life you can have, that was mine to give up, but not this boy’s. Not yet.

In a voice as harsh as winter ice she said, “Give him to me.”

The bundle was given to her wordlessly. It was lighter than it should be, she noted; mostly blankets. The child hadn’t been big to start with, and the early stages of the Plague had probably stripped his bones of what little meat they’d had. Her own bones ached as she shifted his weight in her arms.
Poor child, poor child, at least if you live through this you can tend to any others who get sick. There’s comfort in that
.

For a moment she shut her eyes. Just resting, gathering her spirit, letting the aches and pains of her premature aging settle into the background so that her rational mind was foremost. The gods hadn’t taken that away from her yet.

I wouldn’t want to live through another Plague year anyway
, she told herself.
One horror like that is enough for anyone
.

She began to hum softly, a focus for her witchery. She could sense the woman and the girl watching, fascinated, as she prepared herself. If only she could show them what it felt like! If only she could share with another person—any person—the pain and joy and fear and exultation of such an act! For one of them to understand what the power was like, how terribly it cost her to use it, that would be worth everything. Because then her sacrifice would be understood. Then she would be loved for what she had given up, not hated for all the times she had failed.

At last, when the music was ready, when the room was ready—when the child and the mother and the time and the night outside and all the world were ready—she reached inside her soul to where the heart of all power lay. It was faint these days, so very faint, not the resplendent beacon of power she had discovered in her youth, but a much older soul, nearly exhausted now. It wouldn’t have lasted another year, she told herself. And it would have been a cold and lonely year to live through, with all the villagers hating her.

Are you sure
? Death whispered in her ear.
Very sure, Imnea? This time there is no turning back
.

“Go to hell,” she whispered to him.

The warmth of her living soul filled her flesh, driving out the chill of the winter night. Then outward it flowed, into the boy. Clean, pure, a gift of healing. She shut her eyes, trusting to other senses to observe as it bolstered his own failing spirit, feeding strength into his athra, giving it focus. Fire burned along his veins and the boy cried out, but neither the mother nor the girl flinched.

The disease was strong in his flesh, rooted in a thousand places; she burned them all, drawing upon her athra for fuel and the boy’s own soul for focus. Some witches said that a disease was like a living thing, that fought back when you tried to kill it; she thought of it more as a thousand living things, or tens of thousands, that might fight or hide or burrow deep into the flesh for protection from such an assault. You had to find them all or the disease would come back later with renewed strength. How much of her life force had she wasted in her early years, learning that lesson?

The log in the stove hadn’t caught; the fire was dying. Winter’s chill seeped into the cabin and into her bones, and she let it. There wasn’t enough power left within her to keep her flesh warm and heal the boy as well. Not that any witch with a brain would waste power on the former task anyway… not when there was wood to be burned. The power was too precious to waste on simple things. If only she’d understood that, in the youth of her witchery! A tear coursed down her cheek as she remembered the hundred and one little magics she could have done without, the tricks performed for pleasure or show or physical comfort. If she could undo them all now, how much time would they add up to? Would they buy her another week, another year of life?

Too late now
, Death whispered.

Dying. She was dying. This is what it felt like, when the embers of the soul expired at last. She could feel the last tiny sparks of her athra flickering weakly inside her. So little power left. How much time? Merely minutes, or did she have all of an hour left to wonder if she had done the right thing?

“It is done,” she said quietly.

The mother leaned down to take the boy, but hesitated when she saw his face. “He looks the same.”

“His soul is clean. The pustules will drain within a day or two. He will be safe after that.”

And you, his mother… if you have caught this thing too, I am sorry, there will be no one to beg for favors when the first signs show
…

She tried to rise, to see them out. Hospitality. But her legs had no strength, and her heart… her heart labored in her chest with an odd, unsteady beat, as if the drummer who had guided it for thirty-five years had stopped his music and left it to flounder.

She was cold. So cold.

“Mother?”

The eyes of the girl were fixed upon her. So deep, so hungry, so very determined. Drinking in knowledge as if it was the fuel her soul required.
See, child, what the power can do. See what happens to you when you use it
. There was no wonder in the child’s eyes, or even fear… only hunger.

Heed this lesson well, my child. Remember it, when the power beckons. Remember the price.

“Come, child.” It was the mother’s voice, nearly inaudible. Imnea’s hearing was growing dim; the world was an insubstantial thing, all murmurings, windsong and shadow. “Come away now.”

Are you ready
? Death whispered to her.

Imnea clung to life for a moment more. A single moment, to savor those dreams which had guided her… and to mourn those which had gone unfulfilled.

Then:
Yes
, she whispered. Voice without sound.
Yes, I am ready
.

In the stove the last embers of the fire sputtered and died, leaving the room in darkness.

The market in Royal Square was always busy, but this day in particular the crowds were so dense that it was hard to get from one end to the other without being jostled nearly to death. Some said it was because the weather was perfect, a fine spring day flourishing beneath a nearly cloudless sky, inviting one and all to leave behind their winter solemnity and come squeeze fruit and prod chickens while dreaming of the best of summer feasts. Some said it was because the harvest had been good last year, which meant there were many things to sell, and many farmer’s wives with money in hand ready to buy foreign delicacies.

Some said it was something else entirely.

The stranger stood at the edge of the crowd and watched the people for a long moment with a practiced eye. He was taller than most of the locals, and thin, with jet-black hair that hung down to his shoulders and eyes to match. His features were aquiline, cast in an exotic olive tone that spoke of foreign shores and mixed origins. More than one woman turned to watch him as he stepped forward into the crowd, which was only to be expected. Tall, lean, graceful in his movements, he had always attracted women.

He was dressed in a simple black shirt and breeches, and might have been judged a peasant in his Sunday best, or else a nobleman who had tired of all the extra layers which the display of rank required. A quick look at his fingernails—fastidiously clean—removed the peasant interpretation from consideration. Seamstresses might notice the shirt was of unusually fine cloth, but it took a practiced eye to determine that, and the cut of his garments was not so expensive as to attract undue attention.

Sometimes even peasants wore black.

There were some who said that the crowds in the Royal Square gathered today not for gossip, not for trade, or for anything so mundane as market business, but simply to
be
there. For it was whispered that today a Magister from Anshasa would arrive at the palace with full retinue, and this was the closest that the common populace could get to the main gates to watch him arrive.

Anshasa. How many of the men here had fought in the great wars against that southern kingdom, how many of the women here had mourned the loss of father, husband, son in those conflicts? Though a tenuous peace had endured now for several years there was no love lost between the two nations, and the gossips who had so fastidiously digested and disseminated the news of the Magister’s visit were at a total loss to come up with a reason why it was taking place. Surely it was all but suicidal—even for a Magister!—to journey to the heart of enemy territory with no more than a brief truce in an eons-old conflict to safeguard him.

The stranger gazed out upon the crowd, studying them as if they were all foreign beasts, and he a forester learning their ways. A gaggle of young maids in the livery of houseworkers passed him by, their bright eyes full of curiosity and flirtation; he smiled, which set them to giggling even louder. Predictable beasts.

He picked up a piece of fruit from a nearby wagon with the passing intention of eating it, then saw the bruised surface and put it back. Strangely, the woman behind him who picked it up in turn found it undamaged.

The wind had blown the blacksmith’s fire into itself, and filled his tent with smoke. It shifted as the stranger passed, and soon the air was clear.

A chicken about to be beheaded died an instant before the blade struck its neck, and was thus spared both fear and pain.

A minstrel’s mandolin, painfully out of tune, discovered its proper notes.

A pickpocketing child tripped and went sprawling in the dirt, his ill-gotten gains splayed out upon the ground for all to see.

A woman who, unbeknownst to her, had started the day with the seed of a deadly cancer in her breast, re-, turned home without it.

The stranger’s journey brought him to a tent that was set apart from all the others. Talismans strung from the tent poles tinkled like windchimes, and a small but colorful sign invited visitors to enter and receive advice from a “true witch.” He hesitated a moment, considering, then ducked slightly to clear the low door flap and entered. A heady incense filled the small space, which was decorated with richly embroidered throws and rugs. A woman sat behind a low table, upon cushions of silk embroidered with moons and stars, in front of a tablecloth of the same. Showmanship. There were cards laid out before her, and a sphere of flawed crystal, and a pile of runic stones.