Feast of Souls (40 page)

“Welcome, my teacher.”

Colivar brushed the long black hair out of his eyes, where the wind had blown it, and looked over the place that his former student had chosen for a landing point. From the hilltop where they stood he could see northern wilderness on one side, stark granite mountains with a stubble of pine trees clinging to their lower slopes, peaks capped in glistening snow. On the other side was a valley with a river coursing down its center, in which a small town was nestled. Narrow windows, multiple chimneys, and steeply canted roofs spoke of a region where snow and the omnipresent cold ruled every human concern. Yet there were places even farther north than this forsaken place, he knew, and even more inhospitable… places where it was said only Magisters and witches might survive.

He banished that thought with effort. Too many memories within him responded to that vision, including things he had promised himself he would not remember. That was the problem with living as long as Magisters did. After too many centuries the walls between memories grew thin and were easily compromised, letting the thoughts bleed into one another.

Sometimes that was dangerous.

He took a deep breath of the chill, bracing air, and forced himself out of the past and into the present. “You said it was important, Sulah. There are few I would trust to call me across the nations like this, but as you have not ever wasted my time yet, I give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“You do me great honor, my teacher.”

A brief sweep of his hand dismissed the honorific. “I am not that any more.”

The younger Magister shrugged, acknowledging the denial without accepting it. He was one of the few apprentices Colivar had ever taken, and he had never quite internalized the tradition which said that a Magister who had been released should be a rival to his teacher, not an ally. Colivar kept him at arm’s length most of the time to drive the lesson home, but there was no denying that his loyalty was… intriguing. Such emotions rarely survived Transition, and almost never survived the immersion in Magister politics that quickly followed. Sulah was unique.

The politics of immortals
, Colivar mused. After the first few centuries of life one came to commiserate with the ancient gods, who were said to have bickered and connived and cheated like a household of spoiled children. Why should a mere human do better than they? There came a time when all your lovers had died, your family was long gone, and your most treasured projects had sparked briefly and then descended into the abyss of the forgotten, and all that was left was those who were equally powerful, equally immortal, and equally bored.

Had Sulah’s teacher been anyone but Colivar, his loyalty would have been seen as a weakness and he would have been used, abused, and discarded in his first few centuries. But Colivar preferred more constructive projects, and was faintly amused by the fact that his idealistic young charge had managed to survive with his optimism intact for so long. Setting obstacles in his way—a traditional Magister sport—would have been poor answer for such a rare accomplishment.

“There was a boy you wanted me to see?”

Sulah nodded. He was a blond man, light-skinned in the way of the north, tall and lean but with a strength and agility that defied the Magister stereotype. Of course he might look like whatever he wanted, now that he had the power of the athra to draw upon, but he had always preferred his natural appearance. Yet another facet of his varity.

“In the town,” he said, nodding toward the settlement below them. “Easier to bring you to him than to bring him out.”

“Very well.” Colivar nodded. “Lead on.”

Sulah didn’t wear black, Colivar noted. Not that it was needed here. The chill northern wind posed a dangerous trial for merely morati flesh; only someone with the power of souls to draw upon for heat would dare to walk in it as they did, protected by no more than a single layer of clothing. The simplicity of Sulah’s garb was as much a sign of power and rank as any trick of color.

Still, it was… disconcerting.

There were houses scattered along the valley. Sulah led him to one of the larger ones and knocked on the door. A man passing by looked up at the sound of the noise, saw who had made it, and managed a hurried bow that nearly had him tripping over his feet.

How quick they are
, Colivar thought wryly,
to grant respect to those who feed upon them
.

The door opened partway and a ruddy-face woman peered out. She held a ladle in her hand, and it was clear she was less than pleased at having been interrupted. “Yes? What do you—” Then she realized who—and what—stood before her. “Oh—” She drew in a quick breath. “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t realize it was you. And with Magister company, too! Come in, please.”

The house was pleasantly warm, with a low-banked fire in the common room to sustain the heat. Cooking smells wafted toward them as their hostess shut the door: nutmeg, cinnamon, the aroma of fresh bread. “You weren’t waiting long, I hope? I’d never forgive myself if I kept a Magister waiting.” She was trying to look straight at Sulah, to ignore Colivar until he was introduced. It must be some local custom, the Magister mused. Nonetheless her curiosity was evident, and the bright blue eyes, rimmed with lines of age and hard work, kept sneaking glances at the black-haired visitor.

“Not long at all, Mother.” Sulah said the word as if it was some kind of official title, and Colivar took note. “I hope we do not disturb you.”

“Never a disturbance, never a one!” Another glance at Colivar. “I’ve got fresh bread coming out of the oven, if you want some… you and your visitor…”

Sulah nodded. “Colivar, Magister Royal of Anshasa.”

The woman’s eyes grew. “Oh my. I am… honored, sir. Will you break bread with me? My husband is out working or I would call him in to meet you, and the children all off on errands… what can I do for two such distinguished guests? Please forgive my humble abode, and I’ve no table set for you…” The worry lines about her eyes scrunched in dismay. “Magister Sulah, how could you bring me such a guest without any warning?”

The blond Magister smiled. There was a genuine warmth behind the expression but the edge was forced; whatever had moved him to call Colivar to this place, it did not lend itself to congeniality. “Your house is fine, Mistress Tally, and your table is not what we came for.” He glanced toward the farther reaches of the house, hidden behind closed doors. “I should like to show Mag-ister Colivar the boy, if that is all right with you.”

The color fled from the woman’s face, as did her smile. She recovered quickly and forced the smile back into place, but the paleness remained. “Of course, my lords, of course. Whatever you want.” She fumbled with flour-stained hands at her apron, withdrawing a key at last from somewhere in its depths. “Maybe you can do the boy some good—the gods know we have tried, I tell you that. Tried over and over again, my husband and I, and he not a patient one on the best of days…”

She seemed to be chattering to herself, Colivar noted, not to them, and so he was silent as she led the two to a narrow door at the back of the house. “We would have kept him upstairs if we could,” she went on, fumbling with her key in the lock, “but you see he tried to break out again and again, so it was really this or a closet. Or make him a room of his own without windows, to which my husband said no, this is too much for such a mad creature—”

The door swung open. Beyond it, steps led down into the earth. A dim light glittered from somewhere below, not a pleasant light but enough to see by. The smells were earthy and damp, but clean; whatever was in the cellar, the place was well maintained. There was something else besides, in the scent of the place, that it took Colivar a moment to identify. A human smell, normally masked by other things, but a clear note here, rising up from the depths.

Fear.

He glanced at Sulah, who nodded grimly and moved to lead the way down. Colivar followed him. The woman muttered something about how she would follow them were the bread not rising, but the oven needed tending to… and there was fear in her as well, Colivar ob-served, though this time he heard it in the voice rather than smelling it.

“Danger?” He said it in Sulah’s native tongue, which the locals would not understand.

“Not for us.” The blond Magister drew in a sharp breath. “Not yet, anyway.”

At the bottom of the staircase was an oddly shaped room that seemed to extend under much of the house. Supplies were stacked along several walls, and they had once filled the entire space—or so the pattern of dust suggested. Currently the boxes and sacks and racks of tools were pushed back from one corner, clearing a small square area not much larger than a pantry. In that space a small bed had been made up and piled with blankets, clean but worn. A chamberpot stood beside it, and a small table on which sat the remnants of a meal, untouched. There were a few other amenities as well, but Colivar had less interest in them than in the thing that was huddled under the covers, keening softly in terror as they approached.

“It’s all right,” Sulah said softly. He spoke to the mound of blankets in a northern dialect that Colivar had known ages ago. “We’re friends. Come out, it’s all right.”

A moment passed with no response. A lesser Magister might have used his power to press the issue, but Colivar knew Sulah and did not believe in using his power when other means would suffice. Sure enough, after a few moments had passed, the mound of blankets stirred. Something wriggled beneath them. A tiny hand came out, grimy and with broken fingernails, as if testing the air. Then the blanket’s edge was folded back and the whole of a small boy was revealed… pale, trembling, and clearly half mad with terror.

“That’s it, my boy. You see? No danger here.” Sulah sat down on the edge of the bed, and Colivar wondered if the boy might not shy away from him. But it didn’t seem as if he was afraid of men. Rather, his eyes flitted nervously about the room as if seeking something else in its shadows, and only when he had looked everywhere twice and found nothing did he relax a tiny bit and dare to look at his guests.

His eyes were terrible things to look at, young in their freshness and color but aged whole centuries in whatever they had gazed upon.

“Not here?” he whispered.

“None of them here,” Sulah assured him. “They can’t get in here, remember? Mother Tally has seen to that.”

He nodded slowly. The motion was painful to watch.

“This is my friend. His name is Colivar. He wanted to meet you.”

The haunted eyes studied the black-haired visitor.

“Colivar, this is Kaiden.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” the Magister said.

The boy said nothing.

“I told him how brave you were,” Sulah offered.

A tear rolled down the boy’s cheek, to join the sheen of dried salt already there. “Not brave,” he whispered. “I ran away.”

“Kaiden—” Colivar began to reach out to him, but the sudden motion startled the boy and he backed hurredly into the corner, as far as he could go, jerking the worn blankets tightly about him. Colivar’s hand froze in place, but he did not lower it. After a moment had passed, he waited until the boy’s eyes met his own, and then said softly, “Sleep.”

The tortured eyes closed. The muscles of the face relaxed a bit, though the channels etched by tears remained the same. The hand holding the blanket opened slightly, but not enough to let it fall.

“He cannot tell anything useful,” Colivar mused. “That much is clear.”

Sulah nodded. “His mind is gone. Sometimes he speaks fragments of things that hint at the cause… enough that I was called here to see him. But mostly he is like this.”

Colivar drew in a deep breath, willing the power to come to him and do his bidding. It took a moment before the athra responded; his current consort was likely near the end of his or her life, and not able to fuel many more endeavors. He would have to take care in the future, lest he be caught between consorts at an awkward moment.

For now, however, it was enough. He willed his power to wrap itself around the young boy, and then to reflect, like a mirror, the cause of his fear.

The athra-born force came into view slowly, at first in tendrils of hesitant mist, which then it solidified into a thicker fog. In front of the boy’s eyes it gathered together then, until all of it was in that one place, and a picture began to take shape. Bits and pieces of things flickered in and out of existence, as if the power was struggling to choose a focus. Feces. Dead flies. Rats. Bodies draped over a table. Then at last it seemed to fix on something, and the image that it formed became truly solid… so much so that it seemed one could pluck it from the air and set it free in the real world.

Black it was, with shimmers of purple and blue along its body and wings, and it hung in the air like a dragonfly, though it was nothing like a dragonfly in truth.

Sulah’s reaction was immediate, instinctive. With a gasp he took a step back, and sketched a sign of one of the higher gods over his chest. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”

When Colivar did not respond to him right away, Sulah turned to look at him. The black-haired Magis-ter’s expression was grim, and dark in a way that his former student had never seen before. The look in his eyes was daunting—ominous, fierce, haunted—as if some terrible memory had surfaced, and for the moment he could not see past it.