Feast of Souls (63 page)

For a moment he was silent. His black eyes stared at her as if they would pierce through to her very soul. “There is no need at the current time,” he said at last. “I will let you know if that changes.”

She bowed her head. “I thank you, Sire.”

“And I thank you for your concern, but I am as I have always been. Nothing has changed, save that I exchanged one servant for another.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “That is no small thing, when the servant is the king’s counselor.”

His expression darkened; she knew him well enough to recognize it for a warning. “Perhaps those who imagine they deserve the title better are not capable of being wholly objective in this matter.”

“Perhaps those who are most devoted to you understand the importance of objectivity in this case, and would not misdirect you.”

He sputtered something unintelligible under his breath and turned away from her.

She waited, heart pounding.

“I have not sent you away,” he said at last. “You may speak your mind.”

She drew in a deep breath, praying to her gods for the courage to say what was needed and the wisdom to say it properly. “You are a builder, Sire. A creator, a unifier. I watched as you took a dozen kingdoms that had never known anything but war, and melded them into the world’s greatest empire. Under your governance men now travel safely on roads that did not exist a generation before. Trade prospers. Some say for the first time that perhaps the Second Age of Kings will rival the original.”

He exhaled noisily, clearly wary of where she was heading, but said nothing.

“Some who would counsel you to violence do not understand all that. They see you not as builder, but destroyer. They note the severity of your justice, and do not see it as the tool that has built a great peace, but simply a sword to destroy other nations. They see—”

“Do you mean Corialanus?” he demanded. “If so, then just say it.”

Her heart fluttered wildly. “It is not only Corialanus, Sire. Or even this.” She nodded toward the destruction visible outside the window. “It is all those things, and more. It is a sense of who you are, and where your true greatness lies.”

“You speak like Ramirus,” he said angrily, “and in the end he showed us all how much his loyalty was worth. I am tired of his song. I am ready for change.” He looked around the room. “Do you wish to see where my
greatness
lies? Do you wish to see what blood has brought me? Here!”

He walked over to one of the large chests, reached down, and slammed its lid open. Inside were stacked plates of beaten gold, goblets with jewels set about the lip, and half a dozen candelabra with double-headed hawks at their center. Walking a few steps more, he threw open the second box. Rolls of fabric glittered against a velvet lining, samite and cloth-of-gold and a lustrous brocade worked in purple and gold, in the pattern of the Aurelius arms. Then he moved to the third. It was a long box, almost the length of a coffin, and as he threw the lid open she saw a full suit of armor fitted inside, its surface richly etched with the patterns of Danton’s ancestry. A pair of gold-hilted broadswords was lashed to the inside of the lid, each with a shield upon its crosspiece that bore the double-headed hawk. Even as a noncombatant she could recognize the quality of the manufacture, the obvious expense of the materials. The three chests together were worth a small fortune.

“These were all sent from Corialanus, with the king’s humble apologies for recent ‘misunderstandings.’” He snorted derisively. “He also sent me half a dozen human heads, supposedly of the traitors who had foolishly counseled their king to rebellion, when it was clear all along that his duty lay in obedience to me. Look at this!” His sweeping gesture encompassed all that was in the room. “More goods than I ever had from common tithe, delivered with such cowardly subservience that you’d think I buggered the poor fool, instead of just killing a handful of his troops. Pah!” He spat again on the floor. “Kostas understands the way of such things. He is a fit counselor for what the High Kingdom must become, an empire whose very name makes men tremble in terror. Then and only then we will have no more need of correctional displays… such as in Corialanus.”

For a moment she could not find her voice. All the arguments she had planned seemed insubstantial things now, and doomed to failure. She knew her husband well enough to understand that this new wealth translated to raw power in his eyes, and that not even a queen dared counsel Danton Aurelius to abandon a path which promised him greater power.

But she had to speak. She had to say something. If she gave up this battle no one would take her place, and if Kostas were truly allied to the Souleaters… that could not be allowed to continue. Danton had to be made to understand.

Suddenly she heard Rurick’s voice raised outside the heavy wooden doors, loud enough that she knew he was speaking for her benefit.

“Good day, Lord Magister. I fear His Majesty is occupied right now.”

Her heart sank.
Gods of the northlands, could you not have given me five minutes more
?

The wide doors swung open without any human hand to push them and Kostas entered. Rurick was right behind him, and it was clear that he did not intend to leave his mother alone in the room with the foul-smelling Magister. Filled with gratitude, Gwynofar backed away as far from Kostas as she could. She almost tripped over one of the great chests in doing so, and at last took up position between two of them… as if such riches could protect her from the malignancy that hung about the man like a cloud.

The Magister looked at the tableau before him, and no doubt expended a bit of sorcery to know what had just taken place. The filmy lizard eyes met Gwynofar’s own and his thin lips quirked into a mocking smile. “Your Majesty is out of confinement, I see. You do us great honor with your presence.” He looked at Danton. “Do I interrupt something… private?”

Danton dismissed the question with a short wave of his hand. “Not at all. In fact I was just about to call for you. These offerings came in from Corialanus… as you said they would.” He glanced at Gwynofar as he spoke the last words, to drive home the point. She flinched inwardly.

Kostas nodded his approval. “You wish to know they are not cursed.”

“That, or any other manner of treachery. The whole of that court has only one ball between them, but that doesn’t mean someone with more courage than sense didn’t tamper with the shipment en route.”

Rurick pulled the doors shut behind him, closing out the guards. What did he have planned? “A fine tribute indeed, Sire. And I am sure it is quite clean. No man in that kingdom would be so foolish as to tempt your ire again, after the last lesson you gave them.”

“So you approve now, do you?” Danton’s smile was utterly without warmth. “This is the first I am hearing of it.”

“This is the first I have learned of your success.”

“Well, it seems my family approves of me today.” His narrow eyes glittered coldly. “How very comforting, eh, Kostas?”

“A veritable reunion,” the Magister said dryly. He walked near to Gwynofar, ostensibly to run his hand along the edge of one of the chests as he admired its contents but she knew that the real reason was that he wanted to move nearer to her, to make it clear that he understood just how helpless she felt right now. She could not back away from him without tripping over the offering boxes; she could not elude him by any other means without running into her husband. Rurick met her eyes from across the room, trying to lend her strength, but unable to help her at all. Danton alone seemed unaware of the dance of tensions taking place before him. But that was appropriate, Gwynofar thought darkly. It was the blood of the Protectors that made her hackles and Rurick’s rise like cornered wolves with Kostas in the room.

And then he did the unthinkable, and reached out to touch her. The gesture would have been insufferably condescending if he were a normal man, or even a normal Magister. But he was more than that, and the thought that he would once more attempt to set his hand upon the face of a Lady Protector, and in front of her husband the king, evoked such fury in her that for a moment her composure cracked, and she knew he could see the raw hatred in her eyes. She could just as easily see the triumph in his, as he reached out to stroke her cheek in a mockery of human affection, knowing it was one offense she could never tolerate and that she would surely snap—

But she would not. She
could
not. She stumbled backward against one of the offering chests, steadying herself against its lid as he approached, whispering a prayer to her gods, begging them to give her the strength to stand her ground if this creature attempted to violate her again—

Rurick cried, “Magister Kostas!”

The moment shattered like glass. The Magister looked back at Rurick. Gwynofar managed to draw in a deep breath, her first in several moments. Her hand slid along the lid of the chest as she tried to regain her balance. Maybe if the Magister’s attention remained upon Rurick for a moment she could manage to get clear of him somehow.

Kostas’ tone was civil as he answered Rurick, but barely that. “Highness?”

“I challenge your counsel to my father,” Rurick said imperiously.

Gwynofar’s heart skipped a beat. She dared not look at Danton, only watched the back of the Magister with horrified fascination. He had gone rigid with rage.

“What nonsense is this?” Kostas demanded. “You dare to challenge me?”

Pride and arrogance were the qualities Rurick excelled in, and he resonated both those qualities as he announced, “I do not believe you truly serve this kingdom. Or my father.”

He is distracting Kostas for my sake
, she realized suddenly. What terrible, foolish courage! Kostas would surely destroy him for it, or if he did not, then Danton certainly would. This act would amount to insurrection in both their eyes—

And then her hand fell upon cold steel, and she understood.

Rurick did not meet her eyes. He dared not. Kostas would read him like a book if tried.

The Magister hissed softly.

And she grabbed the thing that was beneath her hand, and prayed for the gods to give her strength as she wrenched it free. For a moment it seemed that even her desperate strength was not enough… and then the bindings snapped and the sword came free, polished steel gleaming as she pulled it back, a prayer upon her breath—

—And Kostas sensed suddenly that something was amiss, but it was too late. Not even a Magister could foresee an act that had never been planned.

She swung the sword with all her strength, with all her soul, with all her prayers. She swung it knowing she would have one blow and one blow only, and after that her life would be forfeit. Her blood would be spilled in vengeance by the Magisters and her head perhaps dressed on a pike outside the main gates, but that was all right because she would have served her purpose; the Souleaters could not be allowed to control her husband, and she was willing to give her life if that was the cost of freeing him. Such was a Protector’s duty.

The steel struck flesh. Kostas’ neck was slender, and offered little resistance.

Bone snapped. Blood sprayed her face, her hair, her gown.

Something heavy went flying off to one side. The Magister’s body, headless, collapsed like a bloody rag doll to the floor. The sword went flying from Gwynofar’s hands and clattered onto the bloodstained floor halfway across the room. And she followed, falling to her knees, gasping for breath as the enormity of what had just happened set her whole body to shaking.

For a brief eternity there was silence. Then:

“What have you done?” Danton whispered hoarsely as he came around the table, as he knelt down in the pool of blood by Kostas’ side. “
What have you done
?” He looked at her then, and she saw nothing but madness in his eyes. He looked about for the sword she had dropped; she moved back from him as well as she could, while Rurick came running over to protect her.

And then suddenly a screech split the air, of such terrible volume and tenor that all three of them froze in place. It was an unearthly sound, unlike anything that human or animal throat had ever issued. And it was coming from outside the palace.

Danton moved toward the nearest window. Rurick came to Gwynofar and helped her to her feet. For a moment she just stood there, swaying. Not moving toward the window. Not needing to. She knew what was out there.

“Souleaters,” she whispered.

“What in the hells was that?” Kamala said.

“Outside,” Andovan whispered. His face was white. “It came from outside.”

They moved quickly to one of the windows. The narrow opening did not make for good visibility, and for a moment they both scanned the surrounding landscape anxiously, searching for anything that might explain the strange noise.

And then they saw it.

It rose up from the mountains in the distance, a great winged creature whose skin glittered like jewels in the sunlight. Even from this far away Kamala could see that it was immense, and it cast a shadow on the ground so large that the charred remnants of whole trees were swallowed by darkness as it passed. Its body was snakelike, and the long tail cracked once like a whip as it rose from concealment, the sound echoing across the devastated landscape. And those wings! They were unlike anything Kamala had ever seen before, or ever dreamed possible. Vast layered wings, as fine and fragile-seeming as panels of stained glass, a deep blue-black that transformed in color as it flew. Black one moment in the shadow of a cloud, and glistening the next with overtones of cobalt, violet, and green, as sunlight lanced through them.

It was fearsome. It was beautiful.

It was riveting.

Andovan put a hand on her shoulder; she could feel him trembling. Not from fear, though. She could feel his fingers biting into her flesh, could hear him mutter some curse under his breath; his voice sounded far more hate-filled than afraid. As for herself, she could not take her eyes off the creature. Its movement was hypnotic, compelling. It made her want to go outside and take a closer look at the beast, even if that meant climbing out the window and down the palace wall to do so. She wanted to be in the shadow of those wings, to feel their colors dancing across her face, to smell whatever scent that strange flesh carried and hear its alien cry resonating within her own flesh. She wanted—