Feast of Souls (7 page)

“So” Ramirus said. His voice echoed in the vast chamber like a ghost’s cry in a crypt. “Prince Ando-van is dying. And a Magister is responsible.” He spread his hands broadly to indicate the room, its occupants, and all that their presence implied. “You see now why I have called you here.”

The one called Del made a sound in his throat that might have been a cough, or it might have been derision. “I see that the gods have played a cruel joke upon your royal patron, Ramirus. But truly, are you so surprised? Transition doesn’t give a devil’s ass about race, age, or station. It stands to reason that sooner or later a member of a royal family would be chosen. For myself, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

Ramirus’ voice was low, as a wolfs warning growl is low. “You do not understand.”

Colivar expended considerable effort not to smile. The subject matter was somber, true, but it was still a pleasure to see the Magister Royal of his enemy scorned in front of so many witnesses. A small reward for a long and dusty journey. “If I may…” He awaited Ramirus’ nod with the gallantry of a courtier. “The issue here is not whether Andovan is dying, which none of us truly cares about, or even if a prince of Danton’s realm is dying—which
most
of us do not care about—but rather, what men will do in the course of that dying. Yes?”

“Precisely,” Ramirus said. He nodded toward the two lamps on the mantle, forcing their wicks up higher. It was minimal compensation for the loss of the day’s sunlight, which could no longer manage the narrow angle required to work its way into the chamber. In truth, the dark wood and unpolished stone of the room’s vast interior made it feel as if night had already fallen; Colivar could not have guessed what the hour was. “We all know what the Wasting is in truth, and we know how hard the Magisters have worked to obscure that truth from outsiders. How many of us have not contributed toward that goal, at some point in our careers? Not granted an extra bit of fever to a sufferer, so that he might seem to be in the grips of a true disease? Or given him pockmarks or festering wounds or something else that might cause men to attribute his loss of strength to some more
natural
cause?

“Centuries of such tricks have caused men to believe that the Wasting is exactly what we say it is—a fearsome disease, no more, no less. Even doctors, while mourning the failure of their most effective concoctions, do not search for other causes… they merely waste their days seeking some new philter or paste that will grant the sufferers comfort. While we, knowing the true cause, know that there is no comfort to be had. Once the soul of a Magister has begun to drain a man of his mortal energy there is no end to the contract that is possible, save his death.”

“Well,” Colivar said casually, “there’s also the option of his just not using the power any longer, but it’s unlikely any Magister would agree to such a thing, merely to save a life.”

Ramirus nodded. “Precisely. And in this case it is no peasant we are talking about, content to die in obscurity in some mud hut while the world goes on about its business without him. This is a royal prince. He is guarded by a cadre of doctors as fierce and determined as Dan-ton himself. There is not a cure on earth that will not be tried on him, and its effects cataloged in minute detail. There is not an expert on disease who walks this earth who will not be found and brought here, whether of his own free will or against it. Already his sire has said that there are to be no limits in money spent or risks taken to save the boy—and that may well be our undoing.”

“Money can’t buy a Magister’s secrets,” Kellam of Angarra said dryly. “And without that, they’re not likely to guess at the truth.”

“Are you so sure?” Ramirus demanded. “Are you so very sure? Thousands of years of folklore and superstition have attended this disease—witches on their deathbeds have been less than a hair’s breadth away from discovering the truth—ignorant and drunken louts offer up paranoid ramblings in their cups that sound fear-somely accurate to peasant ears—how much will you wager that now, with a king willing pay for every stray rumor, those things will not gain a patina of respectability, and perhaps be investigated?”

“There are natural creatures that feed upon the athra,” Del said. “No reason for anyone to think men are involved.”

Ramirus’ eyes narrowed; the snowy brows gave him an oddly feral expression, like that of an owl whose territory has been befouled. “Your education is lax, my brother. There is only one creature that is known for a fact to feed thus… and none of
that
species has been seen in the lands of men for centuries. The rest are tall tales we have created, attaching them to illnesses and conditions that have other causes, to obscure our own nasty habits. How well will those tales hold up, once a man of Danton’s estate directs all his wealth and power toward investigation?”

“Sickness attacks the body,” Lazaroth muttered. “A Magister attacks the soul. Any witchling worth her salt can tell the difference—if there’s reason enough for her to be looking for it.”

“So,” Colivar said. A smile flickered across his face before he could stop it. “Kill the prince. Problem solved.” He glanced at the fading sunlight. “Just in time for dinner, too.”

“Not an option.”

“Why?” His dark eyes narrowed ominously. “Danton needs him? The country needs him? Those are mighty
political
concerns for a Magister, Ramirus.”

Ramirus scowled. “And your suggestion isn’t? What kind of bonus do you get from your royal master if you come home with word of Andovan’s death, Colivar? Much less the news that you caused it.”

“Gentlemen.” It was Kellam. “No offense, but we
are
discussing the survival of all our kind, yes? I myself don’t give a rat’s prick who sits on what throne or how many sons he has, in the face of that.” He turned to Ramirus. “Colivar may annoy you, Ramirus, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Tell us why the boy can’t die. And by the way, dinner isn’t a terrible idea. Most of us have been traveling since daybreak.”

Ramirus scowled, but he did go so far as to reach out to the bellpull that hung by the fireplace. Hospitality was hospitality. He waited until the faint, fearful knock of a servant sounded upon the heavy oak door and called for him to come in. A young boy did so hesitantly, clearly fearful of entering the Magister’s domain.

“A cold supper for my guests,” Ramirus told him. “Have the bell rung when it is ready.” He raised an eyebrow in Colivar’s direction as if curious whether he would trust the local food, or the local servants, but with a dry smile the Anshasan bowed his graceful acceptance of the offer. There was even a faint arrogance about the move, as if he were daring Ramirus to do something unworthy of a host, that he might be caught at it.

Don’t dare me to kill you
, Ramirus thought.
No man is proof against that much temptation
.

Not until the door was locked again and the boy’s footsteps had faded from the hall beyond did Ramirus speak again.

“The problem,” he said quietly, “is this. Should we move against the boy openly or even covertly now, the chance of discovery is great. Danton already has witches attending him, and several are marginally competent. How much effort does it take to trace such action? Any one of us could do it. Odds are one or more of them can do it.”

Colivar shrugged. “Kill the witches.”

Ramirus glared. “Have you no better advice than this? That all should die?”

“Magisters. Magisters.” It was Del. “This is unseemly.” He turned to Colivar. “Your tone ill befits a guest, brother.”

“The manners of the south,” Ramirus muttered.

“And
you
.” Del’s eyes narrowed as he turned to the Magister Royal. “You let this go on way too long. We should have held this discussion
before
Danton brought witches into the picture. Then we could have killed the boy with no repercussions and chalked it up to some accidental cause. Now…” he glanced back at Colivar, then to Ramirus again. “Now things are… complicated.”

“Exactly,” Colivar agreed. His eyes gleamed darkly in the lamplight.

“Heed me well,” Fadir said. He was a husky man, broad-shouldered and muscular; not for the first time, Colivar wondered if he had been a warrior in the days before he found his power.

“In my lands this would never have happened. In my lands I never forget the line we walk, that we must never stray from. If someone threatens Magister secrets, they die. That is the Law.” He met Ramirus’ eyes straight on. “I agree with my brother. You waited too long.” Then he looked at Colivar. “But what’s done is done, yes? Now we must deal with this mess as it stands. And perhaps, when it’s over with, set guidelines for our brotherhood in the future that such things will not happen again.”

“Agreed,” Colivar said.

“We must find out who is responsible,” the one called An-shi mused.

“Perhaps,” Kellam said quietly, “it is one of us.”

“No.” Ramirus shook his head decisively. “Do you not recall upon my invitation to you, I asked if any had claimed a new consort within the last two years? Even allowing for those who might have lied in their answers…” a faint smile flickered about the corners of his mouth “…none were even close.”

“And better to lie about a more recent Transition, if one is to lie at all.” Colivar mused.

“Exactly.”

“So it is none of us,” Fadir said gruffly. “What do you propose, then? Use the power to trace the link, find out who’s eating the boy? You know that can’t be done. Anyone trying to work his sorcery on a consort risks being dragged into the link and eaten himself. A piss-poor way to go out of this world, I say. Not how I intend to end my life.”

“And what if we do find him?” Del asked softly. “I will not kill a brother for the sake of any morati.” The reference to those who lacked the power to extend their own lives brought sneers from several around the table.

“Nor I,” others agreed; a chorus of rejection. “Gentlemen.” Ramirus’ tone was even and firm. “That is why I brought you here, yes? So that the greatest minds that have ever mastered the athra might seek a solution together, and perhaps come up with better answers than a single Magister could manage.”

In the distance, muted by stonework corridors, a bell rang.

“I believe, gentlemen, that is your dinner. I suggest we take refreshment and then retire, and meet again on the morrow to compare our thoughts, and seek a solution to this unpleasant situation together.”

“Your servants seem impossibly fast,” Colivar remarked. “Do you employ witches in the kitchen now?”

Ramirus glanced at him. Of the score of emotions glittering in his aged eyes, disdain was the most obvious. “I had food laid out in advance, of course.” He shook his head and tsk-tsked softly. “You would do well not to underestimate me, Colivar. For some day it may be more than dinner at stake, yes?”

The night was quiet, humid and warm but not beyond tolerance. The two moons held vigil at opposite ends of the sky, lighting a marketplace that would play host to its share of whores and wastrels until daybreak. A mere human could not see them from the palace, but it took little effort for a Magister to adjust his vision, making it possible.

Ramirus stood at the edge of the ramparts, staring out into the night. Colivar watched him from a distance at first, cloaked by the shadows of the eastern tower, then moved forward with a deliberate footfall, one meant to be heard. The white-haired Magister nodded slightly but did not turn away from whatever he was watching.

Colivar took a place a respectful distance away and gazed out over the ramparts himself. It was a pleasant view in the warm, sticky evening, shadows dancing in the woods surrounding the palace and the sound of distant voices carried faintly from stragglers in the marketplace beyond. The smell of trees was thick and lush, unfamiliar to his senses. Rain was a precious commodity in the south, with monuments of sculpted stone more common than this wet and wild indulgence. Colivar was not yet sure how he liked it.

When it became clear that Ramirus had no intention of addressing him, he spoke first. “You know what they would say about you in the south? ‘He feeds camel dung to family.’”

Ramirus glanced at him. “I remember when you dressed in northern furs and spent your time cursing the habits of glaciers.” He looked out over the ramparts again. “I liked you better then.”

“The god of chameleons has blessed me with a rare adaptability.”

“A fickle god, as I recall.”

“He asks little for worship, save that I live each moment for what it is, and do not cling to the past. While you, my brother, never change.” He chuckled softy. “Though the beard was very impressive during the Balding Plague, I must admit.”

“And each night cost someone precious minutes of his life, that I might keep it.” He stroked his beard lovingly, as if it were the milk-white skin of a courtesan. “I like to think it was a woman.”

Colivar looked up sharply. “Can you tell when you draw upon a woman for power?”

Ramirus shrugged. “I like to imagine that I can. The natures of men and women are so distinct that surely it must be reflected in their athra. But how can one ever know for certain? As consorts they live and die anonymous lives, faceless to us even in their dying, and our best guesses as to who and what they are can never be confirmed. Sometimes I wonder if we could do what we do, if it were otherwise.”

He looked at his guest with eyes that were remarkably young for being framed in aged flesh. That, too, was a lie. “Why are you here, Colivar?”

He said it softly. “Why does the boy’s life matter so much to you?”

“I told you. In our meeting.”

“Camel dung.”

Ramirus sighed and gazed out again at the night-shrouded landscape. “Your manners really are execrable. I don’t know how King Farah abides you.”

“You know the best road for us is one that ends in the boy’s death. All your fancy northern words can’t obscure that fact. So what, then? Why this song and dance to convince us otherwise?”

A muscle tightened along the line of Ramirus’ jaw, but he said nothing.

“Shall I guess?” Colivar pressed.