Brood of Bones

by A. E. Marling

  “Perhaps he is right to doubt me.”

  “The Fate Weaver has selected your thread among thousands and blessed you with prosperity.” He waved from my gowns to the ballroom’s blue satin curtains. “The goddess does not choose idly. Now, Abwar rants about the pregnancies, and each web I read is chaotic. Should I worry?”

  I tried to think of a reason not to confirm Priest Salkant’s concerns but could not conceive of one. “The women, that is all the pregnant women of Morimound....It could be as the priest said.”

  He sighed. “She weaves as She wills.”

  “I am not yet ready to believe their futures will be snipped short. Morimound may have been infiltrated seven months ago by magic users. Find them, and we save the mothers.” I massaged my temples, trying to loosen my thoughts. “Which nations would benefit from our downfall?”

  Priest Salkant gripped his robes over his chest. “The realm of Nagra covets our gem trade. The people of Salarian depend on our rice fields and resent it. We’ve long skirmished with Rhiderac over water diversion for irrigation, and Pyridi’s merchants must pay to travel over our roads to reach eastern markets.”

  “If I met with representatives from each nation, then I could determine if any played a role in the happenings here.”

  “Could you? How?”

  “I can see guilt, if I know in whom to search.”

  “Goddess be praised! But you’ll want to see more than the ambassadors, they’re told nothing. We’ll summon members from the power castes of each nation, and I know the perfect pretext. A ball hosted by an elder enchantress.”

  “A ball? In my manor?”

  “What other purpose could this room have?”

  I bit back the words “wedding reception.” My gaze drew up inlaid columns to the ceiling’s four sloped sides, which formed the underside of a pyramid painted with a day skyscape. The mosaic included a depiction of my floating laboratory; should I ever wed, I would permit the sun to rise in my dream.

  “You may arrange a ball in my name,” I said. “As long as the guests are reputable.”

  “They will all be wealthy, I assure you. The event can be held in two months, on the Day of Return.”

  I needed a moment to figure out why that would not do. “It must be sooner. The eighth month will mean early labor and likely death for the youngest mothers. Worse so for the eldest.”

  “Sooner then. The eve of Flood Moon. Now, if you will excuse me, Flawless Hiresha, I must see to the day’s spinnings.”

  “I am not flawless,” I said once he had left through the ballroom’s triangular entranceway.

  I returned to my room, sleeping to analyze what steps I could take in the interim. Preliminary reconnaissance of the ambassadors might prove useful, I determined, and from there, my attention shifted to the foppish ambassador of Jordania.

  Although not from a suspect state, he had requested a conference with me, for unsavory reasons, I had thought, yet his powdered face betrayed neither greed nor lust. Then I detected something far worse. When he had interposed himself before the front doors of my manor, his composed face had momentarily bent inward, nostrils flaring, lips twitching upward into the beginning of a snarl of murderous contempt.

  The ambassador had suppressed all but the first traces of his expression, and no one could have noticed it at the time. Neither had I seen anything suspect in my prior evaluation of his statement concerning the “parade” of mothers. I had restricted my survey then, fearing to spot him winking in my general direction. Now I counted seven instances of loathing wriggling beneath the smooth control of his face.

  While I observed him in the mirror and heard his words, a chill settled into my spine as if a maid had forgotten to tend the fire and I had awoken freezing in the drafty Academy.

  “You do know,” the ambassador had said, “that nothing good will come of those full bellies.”

  I had thought him facetious, yet I would not dismiss my concerns a second time. His conversation raced past in the mirror; leaning forward and gripping the glass, I noticed something unexpected: Each time the contempt had flickered into view, his eyes had rested on the Bright Palm, who had healed Sri the Once Flawless.

  Another curiosity appeared between the corners of his curling lips, where his incisors shone with less luster than natural tooth enamel, and they clicked ever so softly on contact. I recognized the work of an artisan in Valest, who constructed false teeth for nobility who could not afford my regeneration services. His porcelain teeth, coupled with the menacing look toward the Bright Palm, were remarkable enough that I decided to search my mirror for an association, and I found a memory of Bright Palms chanting two days ago in the Bazaar.

  “...by three signs you will know him. The Lord of the Feast has no teeth to speak mercy....”

  I scolded myself for confusing a fop with the most deadly of Feasters. The latter was known to have paralyzed town militias with waking nightmares, frightening families from the safety of their homes with visions of horror while hundreds of Feasters descended for a slaughter. I did not care to imagine the same happening to the city of Morimound. I must have erred, and the subsequent signs would confirm my mistake.

  “...no ears to hear your pleas....”

  The ambassador’s hair covered any sign of ears, black locks falling straight down to sprawl over his shoulders. I would have expected the strands to displace themselves around the lobe of each ear, if he possessed any. This man had no ears, and my anxiousness hastened the jewels, which spun around the laboratory.

  “...and a black triangle on his brow, where soul left body.”

  The powder lent his face the pallor of a frosted cake, and as his visage expanded to fill the entire mirror, I detected that he had applied twice as thick a layer of makeup to the region above his eyebrows, at the center of his forehead.

  I reached into the mirror, and a sweep of my hand removed the powder, leaving me not with a memory, as I had never seen the skin of his face, but a prediction. A tattoo of a dark triangle pointed downward between his brows.

  With a small degree of uncertainty, I believed I had met the Lord of the Feast. The thought of him here, in Morimound, stiffened me; he could attack any night, and I feared that only Bright Palms could resist him. The two chantries in the city, which I had once considered too many, now seemed far too few.

  His coat showed the stitching styles of two different tailors, and I suspected he had refitted it after stealing it from the true Jordanian ambassador; if anything, he was the ambassador of night. I had requested the help of a pathetic boy illusionist, and the Lord of the Feast had replied.

  “I believe you requested my assistance,” the frilled menace had said, “and I am at your service.”

  Accepting was out of the question. Salkant of the Fate Weaver had warned me against associations with Feasters, let alone their lord. If testimony of any dealings with him spread, my reputation would be obliterated, and the Oasis Empire might declare war on Morimound.

  I wondered if the Lord of the Feast had been in Morimound before I arrived. He had to be here for a reason, possibly one tied to the mass pregnancies. However, his Feasting magic could only craft illusions, horrifying though they might be, and nothing so concrete and permanent as the unchildren. I wished I could know his purpose here, without meeting him.

  His countenance yielded few answers. He never gestured, not once lifting his hands from his sides, and one might guess his arms paralyzed, or false, like his teeth, although I deduced he tensed his arm muscles to keep them as low as possible. His shoulders slumped as if his hands possessed an inordinate weight. They remained on his saddle horn when riding, and his horse did not even have a bridle or reins for him to grip. His gloved fingers could not all bend completely, and some were crooked as if once broken.

  If he repressed animation in his arms then he stifled it in his face. He never smiled, although twice when speaking to me the skin lateral to his eyes began to wrinkle as if in mirth. At closer inspection of the m
oment he mentioned the “parade” of mothers at God’s Eye Court, I spotted the center of his brows uplift an eighth of an inch, hinting at sorrow.

  This twinge of emotion seemed to suggest he knew of the unchildren, perhaps even harbored qualms for the women who carried them, yet I reminded myself I could not converse with the person whose name mothers used to frighten their children. “The Lord of the Feast snatches little girls who don’t milk the goats every morn’,” I had once heard, as well as, “Lie and a fairy will have your eye, steal and the Lord of the Feast will make you a meal.”

  True, he did not measure up to the stories. He rode a brown horse, whereas in tales, the Lord of the Feast always charged in on the back of an eight-legged basilisk, and the man himself supposedly sported three heads, each of which devoured people whole.

  This man inked his brows, and he wore a wig, evidenced by the locks on his head from two people with slightly different shades of black hair. Reaching into the mirror, I pulled the wig off while he stood frozen in my memory. I felt powerful doing it, leaving his scalp exposed with a presumed stubble of grey hair. Perhaps the Lord of the Feast was bald. I imagined ragged stumps of cartilage and skin in place of ears, his auditory canals disconcerting holes on either side of his head.

  Growing bold, I Attracted his false incisors out of his mouth. Now only his canines poked from the corners of his lips, increasing his likeness to a predator that hunted at sunset, specifically, a bat. I wondered if he had extracted his own teeth and cut off his ears for the inhuman visage, or if someone had done it to him. I did not see why he would have mangled his own fingers.

  His magic would not affect the Bright Palms, and I imagined their placid expressions as they smashed his face with gauntlets, their fists imbued with magic strength.

  By telling me the inn where he stayed in the Island District, he had placed himself in my power. I could summon all the Bright Palms from the chantries and surround him during the day, when his Feasters could not help him. Today, Elder Enchantress Hiresha could vanquish the Lord of the Feast.

  I had no reason to delay in accosting him, yet delay I did, listening again to a memory of his words.

  “You have the power to see everything, while I know everything but see nothing. Together, we have much to discuss.”

  The Bright Palms had offered no information about the pregnancies. Feasters could have noticed something at night, six months ago, during the citywide conception.

  It mattered not. My associating with the one pubescent Feaster had strained Morimound’s reputation, and the damage to the city would be exponentially worse if I was to be seen with the Lord of the Feast. We would be ruined as surely as all the mothers dying to the venom in their wombs.

  I forced myself to rethink that last statement. The unchildren and the Lord of the Feast both posed potential threats to Morimound, of which the unmentionable things within the women were the most direct. Meeting with the Lord of the Feast would not in itself doom Morimound because I could claim I thought him merely an ambassador. He had disguised himself well as a fop.

  However, even if he did know something that could help Sri the Once Flawless, Alyla, and the rest, I could not bargain with the Lord of the Feast. He would demand payment, perhaps in hostages, or influence in the city. He might know how to dispel the unchildren, or find the magic users who had fabricated them, yet I could not form covenants with a Feaster.

  Neither could I accept the alternative, of shunning this line of inquiry. Doing so might very well mean hearing Alyla scream as bones shredded her insides, or listening to Sri’s gasps as venom smothered her breaths.

  I had to confront him, without accepting any of his terms. Rather, he would need to accept mine. The Lord of the Feast would assist me, today, or I would instruct the Bright Palms to execute him.

  I would save my city, even if doing so risked its destruction.

  “I must suggest against this plan, Elder Enchantress.”

  “Spellsword Deepmand, runners have already been sent to the chantries. We will depart for the High and Dry Inn immediately after lunch.”

  “Elder Enchantress, there is something you must know. A possibility exists, that is…I might not be able to protect you from the Lord of the Feast.”

  I blinked in both directions down the hall in which Deepmand and I stood, and as far as my sleep-filled eyes could see, no one had overheard. Janny was preparing my meal, and I had told only the Spellsword the nature of the man we would face.

  “When the Feaster cut off my arm with illusion, I did not just see it happen. I felt it.” Deepmand gripped the interlocking plates over his elbow. “It was not real, but it might’ve well have been. This man, if he is who you think, will be much more dangerous.”

  “You forget we will be approaching by day.” Strictly speaking, my research indicated that daylight might not save us, yet I felt Deepmand deserved some encouragement.

  “They say the Lord of the Feast brings darkness to day. He has overcome the weaknesses of other Feasters.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “If he attempts spellcraft, then our screams will be heard by the Bright Palms, who will be close.”

  “But you will be closer. Elder Enchantress, you cannot leverage the Bright Palms against him because he will leverage your life.”

  “You presume, Spellsword Deepmand, I have something in this life that I should fear to lose.”

  He rested one hand on his turban, the gauntlet leaving a dent in the gilded fabric. His eyes swept over my gowns then down the long hall. “You have so much, Elder Enchantress.”

  “You have a family,” I said. “If you think you cannot contribute to my safety, then you need not follow me into the inn. I will confront him alone.”

  The Spellsword bowed his head while I swept to the dining table. Maid Janny set my goat milk and mango cubes before me, which I abstained from eating. Across the table, Sri the Once Flawless asked which of two scarves set off the color of her eyes, and Mister Obenji said something to her, although my drumming heart prevented me from concentrating on his words. She laughed and patted his bearded cheek.

  I realized I might die today.

  The peace and calmness following that thought surprised me, and I felt as if I had Lightened myself. In the next hour, I would learn if the thread of my life continued, or if it ended. Until I found out which, I was free from obligations. The many hands of the Fate Weaver cradled me.

  On the carriage ride to the High and Dry Inn, I admired the rate of my heart, counting a hundred and thirty-five beats in a minute. Then I began to doubt myself, knowing I could never have made such a precise calculation when awake.

  The carriage stopped at the inn, and I let myself out to find a group of five Bright Palms waiting beside a cart.

  “We understand you wished to unburden your soul.”

  “Yes, a smidgen of unburdening is just what I needed today. Mister Obenji will be leading a procession of men here carrying expensive furniture. They may not come all at once, so I will thank you to be patient.”

  “You should have told us to bring the cart to your manor.”

  “I do believe you are right. Thoughtlessness is no doubt a side effect of an over-burdened soul. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  I strode toward the inn door; Maid Janny hustled beside me, carrying my ottoman. She glanced back at Deepmand.

  “Why is Gautam staying at the carriage?”

  “He will assist the Bright Palms.”

  “He’s looking after us like a hound with a bur in his backside.”

  “This is no time for your vulgarity.” I stopped before the inn door, waiting for someone to open it for me.

  With a gleam and a thump, Deepmand landed next to the door. “My place in life is by your side, Elder Enchantress, until life does end.”

  His words produced a tremor through my chest, and I hoped he would come to no harm.

  The door opened from the inside, and a man in an orange suit beckoned. His face appeared splattered
with a fleshy paste, his nose swollen and purplish, and the missing two fingers on his upraised hand confirmed him as a leper. More surprising still, above his shoulder protruded the jeweled hilt of a sword, which appeared disconcertingly familiar.

  Deepmand preceded me inside the inn, where two other lepers with swords and bright clothes led us with uncertain gaits into a parlor. One had silver triangles tied to his face, where he should have had a nose, and the arms of the last man ended in moveable stumps, all his fingers gone. I did not know whether to laugh at the fingerless swordsman or be horrified.

  “What’s going on?” Janny craned her neck to see around the ottoman.

  The Lord of the Feast sat on a couch, his suit and vest the red of aerated blood, lace spilling from his jeweled cuffs and surging from his collar in a silk spume.

  As I entered the room, he rose, only returning to his seat when I had positioned myself on my ottoman. His expression was neutral, his voice controlled.

  “Enchantress Hiresha, you’ve come at the perfect moment.”

  He slouched, arms limp at his sides. Beside him, a woman wore a low cut dress that revealed no bosom but ridges of ribs under sallow skin, gaunt as if she had nearly died of a wasting sickness. She lifted a cup to his lips, and he drank a steaming black liquid with an affected sigh.

  “Once brewed,” he said, “the bitter bean is an antidote to drowsiness. It may be the greatest necessity you’ve never tried.”

  The emaciated woman sipped from a second cup then lifted it in offering to me. I would not have expected the Lord of the Feast to invite me for a cup of bitter bean, and I might have doubted my assessment of him if not for the curious leper guards and the bony faces and twig arms of the women in the room; the four starving figures reminded me of the physique of the Feaster boy I had interrogated.

  “I will not partake,” I said.

  “It’s not poisoned.” He glanced at the painfully undernourished woman who had tasted the drink. “She’s a dear heart but couldn’t survive a drop of nightshade.”