Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1)

by Christian A. Brown

  “My Fawn,” said Caenith, placing the smoking spinrex on the grass and trapping Morigan with both his arms. “I am sorry that your gift brought you such horrors.”

  “That’s not the last of it, nor the worst,” replied Morigan. “The cord that connects them. The bees wanted me to follow it. I didn’t have much of a choice and I was taken to…” A blood-sluiced hall of organs, sex, and writhing flesh. She swallowed her bile and continued. “Brutus’s court, I think. I always believed the Sun King to be a noble man, a keeper of nature. Or so it is told. He’s become something else, Caenith. Something evil. Or there is something evil that has twisted him to that end. A shadow over his soul. Black and ageless. I have never felt so small. And it spoke to me, this shadow. Threatened me. It knew that I was there.”

  “What did it say?” grumbled Caenith. His coddling had hardened, his heartbeat quickened. He wanted to kill this thing, whatever it was.

  The bees had no problem reconstructing the words of the Black Queen; Morigan echoed them as if in a trance. “Begone, little fly. This is not your place. These children are my flesh, my puppets, my slaves. Come to my Dreaming again and I shall trap you in my web and suck out your insides. Flee, little fly, flee and await the coming of my reborn son, the Sun King. Await your turn with his gift and worship me as I rise eternal to the throne of Geadhain.”

  Morigan, trembling, took a breath afterward and did not want to speak. Caenith held his silence, too, though his twitching body betrayed his agitation. Slowly, his ire cooled, and he hugged his Fawn. He purred into her ear.

  “History does not teach the West the oldest legends of Geadhain, and even in the East there are few who remember, or remember more than myth. The oldest tales of the land speak of a time of an endless winter and before that endless darkness—a nothingness where life was dreamed into being. I find this curiously similar to your wanderings with your bees and your insights. As for this…thing that would claim the throne of Geadhain and who—rightly or wrongly so—calls the immortal brothers her children…she is a monster I have not heard of. For the kings have no mother to speak of. At least none that is known. And my memory is long.”

  “About that, Caenith,” whispered Morigan. “I had a second journey in the Dreaming. Much nicer than the first. The bees took me to see my mother, to walk among memories I had forgotten. There was a book that she and I would read together. A book of Eastern tales. Stories from the Untamed, stories of Alabion. One story, I never read. Mother would not have it, told me it was too sad. But the picture stands out. A black wolf, larger than any bear, standing atop a cairn and howling—I think with sorrow—at the moon. I saw a single word, too, a name, before the page was turned.”

  The Wolf flinched as she uttered it. “Caenith.”

  Morigan said no more and gave Caenith time to sort out a reply. The fire was dancing bright, and she turned her glorious bracelet in it, watching the leaflets come alive. Caenith’s hand spoke first, stopping her admiration by clasping her wrist.

  “An offering, like this that you wear, I have given once, and only once before.”

  “To whom?” asked Morigan.

  “To my bloodmate, Aghna. She-wolf of Pining Row. A hundred lifetimes of men have passed since her death, and I did not think that I would ever forge another gift for the Great Hunt.”

  A hundred lifetimes, thought Morigan. Is he an immortal, too?

  He answered this question ere she could voice it. “Most of our kind age slower, as magik things do, but they still fall to wrinkle and time. I…do not. I am condemned to see those that I care for waste to bone. It is my curse to lay stones over those I love and sing to the moon,” Caenith said with a sigh. “When Aghna passed, I swore—against her wishes—that I would never run in the Great Hunt again. Until the wind of fate, you could say, unlocked my door and blew you into my den.”

  Morigan could not find her voice; she was consumed with doubt. So that’s it. We are doomed before we even begin. What are you thinking, girl? Running amok with an ageless wolfman. Bees in your head. Kings and dark voices. This whole world is going to shite, and you’re along for the ride. I don’t think anyone has ever been so magnificently fuked.

  “I can taste your soft despair, my Fawn. It is like sour currants on my tongue. Do not think me hasty, or merely feeding the beast in my pursuit of you. I pondered, deep and long as a mountain spring, about what I was to do with you. Could I build another cairn? Or should I merely walk the night alone, as I have for so long. In the end, I could not resist your pull. For it was stronger than Aghna, stronger than my spirit to resist. I am a lord of fang and claw. I rule; I am not ruled. And yet I submit myself to you.” Caenith released her hand, swept her hair away, and kissed the back of her neck, and her cold composure steamed away. Between kisses he continued. “The well of old magik is bottomless within you. It is a power that will not be denied. Do not fear that you will walk this world alone. Do not fear the kings or nameless monsters. I shall stand with you, and you will stand with me. I do not think that even death could separate us once we have chosen to be together.”

  Not a line on your face, nor a freckle to your skin, remarked Caenith, and started to lick and bite in passion, moving from her neck to her ears and shoulders. You could be ten years younger than you are. I can’t even place your years, and my nose never lies. I would not be surprised if the world worked slower for you, so that it might savor your beauty, as I am. I would not be surprised if the lifeblood of fate itself keeps you youthful as I at last grow gray. You are a wonder, Morigan Lostarot. The world has never seen such a creature. And you are mine, and I shall never, ever surrender you.

  Caenith did not share his deepest thoughts with Morigan. She had enough surprises to deal with; these other lessons would be learned in time. Turning elsewhere, to the needs of his Fawn, Caenith warmed up Morigan’s spinrex and then tore off pieces of it for her to eat—stringy, salty meat, she found, and not altogether horrid. After she ate, they discussed what was to happen next.

  “We need to warn Eod,” she announced. “I don’t know how, but we must get word to the palace. They will think me mad, but if even one person believes me, that will be a start.”

  Caenith studied the sparks thoughtfully. “Perhaps they are already aware of a threat. There was some kind of commotion echoing from Eod: music and light and noise. A formal ceremony with the thrum of marching hooves and clattering metal. So loud that I could hear it even while I hunted the dunes spans away. I have heard armies move before, and the noise was not dissimilar, if happier.”

  “Well, that’s good!” cheered Morigan. She crept over to Caenith and threw her arms around his neck. “I did not think I could have a more magikal, peaceful, or strange time than any of the hourglasses you have spent with me, but I think that I am ready to return to Eod.”

  Caenith nodded.

  “I believe that the bees and I have an understanding, too. That they will stay quiet so long as I am master of myself. Regarding masters, we should speak to mine, Thackery Thule. He and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but he is a father to me, and I imagine he’s feeling as regretful as I am about how things played out. Thule is quite connected, too, though I’ve never known how far or high that goes. Perhaps to the palace—or at least to an ear in the palace, we can hope. At least then my part shall be done.”

  Thule? Caenith frowned. He knew Menos and its history better than he cared to. That is an old powerful house from the City of Iron. And your part, my dear Fawn, my darling weaver of fates, will not end so shortly. Though I am here, with you. Walking together until whatever end. Caenith crushed his mood with a smile.

  “To Eod, then,” he said.

  Caenith stamped out the fire, left his vest for the birds and mice to nest in, and was back in a blur to gather Morigan in his arms. She knew what to expect and held on tight, and soon the warm wind bore her down a near vertical drop. She laughed at the thrill of it, cackling like a wild-born witch of Alabion.

  II

 
; “M-morigan!” cried Thule.

  The old man threw himself out his door and into the arms of the young woman. He didn’t care what her strange magik did to him; he wanted to hold her. In his enthusiasm, it took a moment for Thule to sense the towering shadow beside them. At once, he pushed Morigan behind himself and glared at the enormous, shirtless barbarian on his doorstep. Coldly, the brute stared back with a wildness that was as dangerous as fire. A deceitful villain, or a ruthless, ancient killing pet of the house of El—Thule hadn’t yet decided which this man was, though it was surely one or the other.

  The bees hummed Thule’s fear to their mistress, and though they could not penetrate Caenith, no prescience was needed to sense his huffing crossness. Old man, said the Wolf, you stink of sadness and death. I know your family: Thule. Monsters like I can be. Only I was greater than they. You should ask the spirits of El. I watch you as a hawk waits for the mouse to show its head from its burrow, so that I may swoop and chew it off.

  Morigan quickly intervened, stepping between the two men.

  “This is Caenith, the man who I told you about.”

  “I know who he is. Do you?” sniped Thule.

  At this, the bees buzzed their interest and flew off into Thule’s skull to see what they could find. They returned with scraps of a conversation about blood pits and hundred-year-old debts, stuff that made little sense to Morigan in the context in which it was delivered. She shook it from her head and addressed the men.

  “Enough, please. Caenith and I are…well, together.” Thule threw his hands in the air. “I came because of how unpleasantly we parted. I came because I missed you, Thule. I would like to think that you have missed me, too.”

  Petulantly, Thule shrugged. He had missed Morigan, worried for her for every speck and with every fiber of his being. Morigan took his shoulder and leaned in for a whisper.

  “I have dark tidings that we must speak of together. In private.”

  “Very well,” said Thule, defeated. Inquisitive faces and strolling masters were beginning to spy on the activity on Thule’s doorstep anyhow. “He’s not welcome, but I doubt you’ll listen to my wisdom at this moment. Don’t dent my door frame, you giant thing.”

  Caenith snorted and followed his Fawn and the son of Thule into the tower. At the threshold, a tingle washed through him, and he sensed that he had just been granted passage through a warding: he wondered how big of a shock he would have received had he not. They climbed stairs that circled the curving walls; the place had a ghostly brightness from the many sconces and their blue spheres of sorcery. Occasionally Thule or Caenith grumbled to himself, but for the most part their climb was silent and moody. The bees continued to feed Morigan with wafts of Thule’s unease; nothing excessive or unbearable, only whatever drifted her way. By her Will, the bees did not seek his secrets, and she was impressed at how behaved her magik was now that she was back in Eod. She and Caenith had entered the city cautiously at first: slinking on rooftops, sticking to alleys, worried that she might suffer another attack like the last one. And while the sea of whispering minds still hissed like so many rustling blades of grass in a meadow, she could filter out most of the noise and simply concentrate on what—if anything—she wanted to sense. By the time they reached King’s Crown, they were bravely walking in the streets together, and she was able to tune out the slanderous or salacious gossip that the masters were casting their way. Keep thinking your nasty little thoughts, but be careful that I don’t peek into your head and pluck out your nasty little secrets, she thought, smiling to herself, feeling more empowered with every mind she restrained her buzzing magik from examining. Slowly, her awakening was beginning to seem less of a curse and more of a blessing.

  I still haven’t figured you out, Caenith, she thought, sliding a glance over her shoulder at the Wolf. What are you keeping in that head of yours? And why can’t my bees get in there? Thule appeared to have a rather negative impression of her lover, and Caenith seemed to reciprocate the distaste. Once her own business was in order, she would sort those two out, as they were the most important people in her life and she couldn’t have them hating each other.

  Every so many twists of the staircase led to a landing, which they had to cross to reach the continued ascent on the other side. They passed a sparse, sunlit scullery and several rooms filled with must-peppered documents that made Caneith sneeze. On the second floor of the tower were sleeping quarters and an airy lavatory of polished metal and shining basins. Where are the shrunken heads, the bird’s feet, the stinking elixirs? wondered Caenith. He was familiar with witches’ lairs from the cold iron ateliers of Menos to the stone circles of the East, yet this magik maker lived as a common scholar would. For a son of Thule, there was a definite absence of blood or suffering—the piss and chemicals of fear that men excrete when tortured. Mayhap Morigan was not entirely unwise in trusting this man, even if she was unaware of her employer’s dubious lineage.

  The third floor housed a small alchemical laboratory that continued to defeat Caenith’s expectations of their host as a wicked conjurer. The beakers were gray with dust, the shelves sparse of reagents, and there wasn’t a smidge of blood that the Wolf could smell ever having been dropped there. Surely, the place had been unused for ages, and it was doubtful that it had ever been used for anything sinister.

  Morigan noted the Wolf staring at the workshop as they neared it and fought against the happy memory of Mifanwae cackling as Thule singed off his eyebrows at a burner yet again. Thule’s passion for potioncraft had died along with Mifanwae, she knew. Across from the workshop was Thule’s study, which they entered, Caenith ducking to make passage. Thule went directly to his seat, and Caenith squatted nearby as if he might pounce. While those two scowled at each other as a pair of old tomcats, Morigan went to open the window to let out the staleness.

  “That’s better,” she said as the golden breeze of day rushed over her.

  She walked to Thule’s footstool, removed the clutter he had heaped it with, and sat, placing herself between the two men. A bit of her mother’s prudence entered her, and she gave each man a stern look. “This is going to stop, right now. I care for each of you too much for it to continue, and there are graver events to focus on.”

  “We can sort out our differences later, I suppose,” said Caenith.

  “Yes, we shall,” said Thule.

  Each man sounded as if he was still making threats, but an uneasy alliance was good enough for Morigan. She sealed the peace by offering out her hands, which they took, one apiece. She pumped her arms, acting as their handshake, and held her fellows as she continued.

  “You remember, I’m sure, how I got into your head,” confessed Morigan, and Thule looked away from her. “I promise never to do that again—intentionally, at least. The problem, it seems, is that there are things that want to be seen. And kings be damned, I’ve been chosen as the conduit for that. While I was away, while Caenith took me somewhere quiet so that I could calm the voices in my head, I had a dream. Very dark and very real. In fact, I’d say that I wandered off into someone else’s head. You need to know what I saw there, as horrible as it was. Perhaps, Master Thule, whatever shadowy connection you have in Eod can get this information to someone of authority who can use it. I don’t know, but I have nowhere else to turn.”

  Concerned, Thule leaned to the edge of his chair and cupped another hand over Morigan’s; Caenith did the same, though from jealousy of this man’s affection for his Fawn.

  “My poor child,” said Thule, his eyes watering. “I never should have forced you to leave. All the weight of Geadhain on your shoulders. What is it? What did you see? Tell me everything.”

  Everything, considered Morigan, who had not yet faced those black thoughts, not even with Caenith. Morigan shut her eyes, and the minutiae of King Magnus’s savage rape and his brother’s impeccable sin welled up like the tears of her master. The bees had found a task, and that was to remember and share. Down the pathways of her mind they buzzed, seeking t
he nectar of their mistress’s memory. What Morigan did not sense was the flash of silver light from her face or the charge that ran down her arms and into the bodies of those attached to her. When the energy entered Thule, he was suddenly elsewhere. Even the Wolf, with his mystic protection, felt the steely stingers of Morigan’s magik pierce him, and his head wavered with images. He was not so lost as Thule, but captivated still.

  “I was in a gray, formless mist,” said Morigan.

  Thule is not with her, not in his study, but among billows of nothingness. Alone, he thinks, until a cloud of silver midges appears about him, a thousand glints of light, and then he is swiftly moving and just as jarringly inside another’s mind. He sees his friend, the fair and kind Lila, under him. She is covered in blood and mauled of her beauty. He has done this. He is doing this. No, King Magnus is doing this, he realizes, and strikes her again. Tears, so many tears. And so much blood and sick.

  “The bees, they followed the link between the brothers,” continued Morigan. Both her listeners appeared glued to the tale, not even blinking.

  Another whirling journey, ending with a brightness that fades, and Thule is deposited into a new horror. He knows Brutus’s Court of Roses, he has seen their beauty once, and this horror cannot be it: the squirming crimson bodies, the stink of waste, seed, and evil, and the sense of power and foul lust in the body he inhabits.

  “And then I heard the voice.”

  As it whispers to Thule, he shrinks. His soul hides like a snail within itself. For the Black Queen speaks the truth. He is the gnat on her skin, the meal in her web. She will rise to claim Geadhain. She will eat the moon, sun, and stars, and, finally, the darkness that remains.