Authors: C. S. Friedman
Feast of Souls (67 page)
There was a figure in the shadows, and as it moved forward the shadows moved with it. In another time and place she could have banished those shadows and forced the speaker to reveal himself, but no longer.
“One who watches. One who understands. One who sees an ally discarded by those who should have valued her more.” The whispering voice was strangely accented; she could not place its origin. “But being a Magister does not make a man less of a fool, does it? Only a more powerful one.”
“What is it you want?” she said sharply.
“Only to inform you that their way is not the only way. And that not all allies are as fickle and inconstant as your black-robed lovers.”
Her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid he might hear it, but she kept her voice steady and calm. “You have another way to offer, then?”
He reached out suddenly; she backed away quickly, wary of his purpose. But the move had simply been to cast something small upon the floor of the terrace. It glinted in the moonlight and rolled a few feet away before it stopped.
“We will speak again,” the visitor promised. “In the meantime, a token to remember my words. So that those who bear similar signs will be known, and welcomed.” He paused. “You are worthy of much more than your current allies have given you, my queen. Others will not be so miserly with their power.”
He disappeared then, or seemed to. More likely he was still on the terrace, simply cloaked from her sight. In her current state there was nothing she could do to affect such sorcery, or even to detect it.
She waited for a time in silence, to see if some other surprise would manifest itself, but nothing did. At last she knelt down, wary, to retrieve the small object the visitor had left behind. It was a narrow silver ring, unremarkable save for the odd stone set in it: a cabochon gem of the deepest blue, that swirled with rainbow sparks when the light fell upon it.
Was there really hope for her? Or was this some new and cruel game of the Magisters? There was no way to know.
Cursing softly, praying secretly, the Witch-Queen returned to her guests, uncomfortably aware that a spark of hope had taken root with her… and dreading to find out what might be required to nourish it.
