Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1)

by Christian A. Brown

  “Are you a palmist?” asked Caenith.

  “Fortunes? Kings, no!” exclaimed Mater Lowelia, and dropped Morigan’s hand to snatch Caenith’s as it lay on the table. She examined it, as well. “Hmm…a workman’s hands are these. Honest hands. They’ve seen blood and war—those are the callouses of a warrior. Old, though, quite old. And the slivers of metal or minerals, deep in the skin…I’d say you’re a mason or a metal worker.” Caenith eyed the woman with wryness and respect; she could sense that she was close, yet not exactly on the mark. “A smith! I can see the sparks in your stare! You are surely a smith,” declared Mater Lowelia, releasing his hand.

  “Impressive, Mater. You have a hawk’s eye for detail and a keen wit to match,” said Caenith with a tip of his head.

  “We who toil often watch, and we are learned in ways that our masters are not,” the mater said with a smile. “So a maid and a smith. I feel like I have only a crumb of the story here. There’s nothing plain about either of you, aside from your jobs.”

  “What were you saying earlier about the great Sage Thackery?” asked Morigan, dodging any further shrewd insights.

  “You know the man and you don’t know what he’s done?” gasped the mater. “For Eod? For all the free people of Geadhain?”

  “I’m sorry,” admitted Morigan, shrugging. “I work for the man, as did my mother, but he’s never been more than our employer and—in some ways—caretaker. I know that he values privacy above all else. I knew that he had connections to the powers of Eod, though I never could have guessed how grand those ties were. A sage…a friend of the queen.”

  “There, there, love.” The mater came out of her seat to give Morigan a hearty hug, and then ruffled her hair as if she was someone precious. “Up here in the land of the Immortal King, we often can forget that there are those on the ground who live very different lives from us. I think Thackery wished that kind of difference for himself. Anonymity, you could say. Perhaps just a comfortable sunny room to read in and wait out his days. My grandmum knew him—mater of the White Hearth back in her time, was she—and this Larson earned, not inherited, her present honor, let that be known. I cared for my gran when the twinkle of her star was almost gone, and on the better days, she told me the fantastic tales of the comings and goings of the palace. Stuff I thought I’d never see. Gran told me of the sage, spoke of him with the highest regard. He liked to read, she said. Always with a book, that one. And he liked his solitude, too. He ate quite late, apart from the other scholars, and Gran fed him on just about the very same chair you’re sitting on, each night, as if he was her own child.”

  To prevent anyone from overhearing what was said next, the mater came right to Morigan and whispered in her ear, “My gran said he was a sad man, and that’s why she cared for him so. I’m glad to see that he’s being well cared for by one with a golden heart. I don’t think there’s a wrong bone in your body, love.” That said, Mater Lowelia backed away, waving. “A pleasure to meet you each. I’ve really been off my feet for far too long. The kettles are singing for my attention! The pots are weeping from their filth! And it’s a shame that with all this magik, turnips haven’t learned how to wash and peel themselves! I look forward to the tales you two will grace these halls with. I am sure I shall see each of you again!”

  Morigan raised her hand to stall the woman. “Wait! You never told me of Thackery’s deeds!”

  “His deeds?” In veneration, the mater touched her chest. “He’s the sage of the Nine Laws. Penned them himself with our Everfair King!” chimed Mater Lowelia, and thereafter vanished into the crowd of workers, though her formidable voice could still be heard over the clangorous music of the scullery.

  “The sage of the Nine Laws,” muttered Caenith, impressed. “The very framework of freedom, ethics, and law in Eod.” After draining the dregs of his mead, he said no more.

  “How curious that he would never say anything,” pondered Morigan. “Not a word of who he was. All this time, and he’s been living like a recluse. A man who changed our world. Incredible. Perhaps the mater has it right, and he was crippled by his sorrow. He was only waiting to pass.”

  The bees sang that yes, this was true.

  “We still haven’t found what will inspire us,” said Morigan. “Though apparently Thule—Thackery—found what he needed here. I would like to think we shall have the same fortune. Let’s keep looking.”

  The two shouted a good-bye to the mater and went back to the web of hallways to see where Caenith’s senses would lead them next. Hourglasses raced along with them as they discovered the hidden beauties of the palace. Caenith’s ears took them to a concert hall, framed in a mesh of silver-and-glass plates that pulsed with lights and colors in concurrence with the orchestra that played in the pit below. They sat in the sparsely filled pews for a time, enjoying the music, and Caenith waved to the roof and told Morigan of similar displays made by nature that could be seen on certain nights, from atop the highest rocks in Alabion. Faefire, the Easterners termed the sight. I would like to see it one day, said Morigan, and Caenith swore that she would.

  When they tired of the music—more of sitting still for so long, on Caenith’s part—the Wolf sniffed his way down an invisible path of soil and leaves, and the two found themselves out on one of the terraced gardens of the palace. From Thule’s remote tower window, Morigan had never discerned much detail, though she presumed that the gardens were beautiful. How pale an assumption that was to the truth, and even Caenith was quiet as they strolled through the sunny woodland—under the canopy of bird-chirping trees that seemed as old as the ones the Wolf knew in the East; down paths fenced in living bushes of ice, their veins and innards bare to Morigan as she bent to examine them; over root-woven bridges covering streams with crystal beds; and through pergolas of perfumed flowers with blooms of cold green fire that did no harm. They ambled by benches and hammocks strung together by twined saplings and occasionally occupied by contemplative scholars, folk so lost in thought that the lovers were unnoticed in their passage. Often the two stopped to bask in the shafts of sunlight or inhale the earthy spice of such bountiful life. All conjured from magik, yet so harmoniously cultivated that, to the Wolf, it did not reek of the sulfur of new magik. You managed not to break Geadhain, not to whip her to your Will, but to soften her and shape her with kindness, Sorcerer King, applauded the Wolf. As the noon sun peaked and faded, and their wandering wound them back to a grand stone arch, they were no closer to finding what they would create, though their spirits were calm and primed for invention.

  Not long indoors, the sweat and clash of battle drew Caenith; he grabbed his Fawn’s hand and chased the source. In a few sands, they emerged onto another tier of the palace, a long flat field of stone on which white tents and flapping banners of the king were set up. A training grounds, this certainly was, and Silver Watchmen bustled through the arch by which Caenith and Morigan stood. They strayed along the outskirts of the field, keeping close to Kor’Keth, and watching the spectacle of hundreds of His Majesty’s army drilled by the shouts of legion masters. They saw lines of men sweeping into one another like silver winds. They saw rows of thunderstrike archers volleying electricity toward scorched sandbags, or sometimes upon circles of shrouded sorcerers, who would throw their arms out and bat the projectiles away with twisting currents. Across the stone field, there were obstacle courses of snares, hoops, and walls, which the Watchmen grunted past without complaint, not cursing even come a tumble, merely picking themselves up and forging on. The King’s Cavalry pranced up and down the stone, too, and their thundering charges made Caenith’s blood boil with passion.

  Soon they discovered a rocky rim with a clear view of the field and the open sky—they were at quite an altitude, for the city was not on the horizon. They sat and enjoyed the exhibition of war until the men began to sparkle with the fiery light of evening. Although their presence could not have gone unobserved, no one bothered them, and few looks but the most fleeting were cast their way.

/>   “I’ve never seen men and women so disciplined. So strong,” exclaimed Morigan—the first words spoken since their arrival at the training grounds.

  “Aye, it is impressive,” agreed Caenith, and pulled his Fawn closer to his warmth as the chill of dusk crept in.

  “I had a dream last night…where I was very weak,” murmured Morigan, and her mind was lulled and sent wandering by the ringing sound of blades, the hoof-drums of horses, and the muffled thunderstrike explosions. “I wasn’t myself…I was Queen Lila. As a young woman, no more than my age. A daughter of the Arhad. She had such a difficult life, Caenith. More struggle than I’ve endured, but I feel that I understand her, even empathize with her. To watch a mother die or to throw away your needs at the commands of another are only different sides of the same helplessness. Magnus came to her rescue and brought her into all of this, just as you came to mine.”

  Morigan slipped out of Caenith’s heat and stood before him; she was as passionate and striking as the bleeding sun behind her. “It bothers me that I have to be rescued at all. That is not the sort of woman Mifanwae raised. The sort I want to be. I want to be able to protect myself, to protect you, should I have to. Reading souls and fates doesn’t help much when a sword is at your throat.”

  She crossed her arms, looked out over the field of warriors, and admired their endless dance. Even the stripped-down bodies of those taking a break near the tents were rendered in sinew and strength.

  “I think I should learn how to fight. Can you teach me?” asked Morigan.

  “A noble aspiration,” said the Wolf. “We shall make a warrior out of you. I can’t teach you even a scrap of what you should know in a day, but I can teach you how to hold a weapon.”

  She turned to see the Wolf smiling his sharp smile.

  “What is it?” inquired Morigan.

  “You’ve found it, my Fawn. What we shall make together!”

  “I have?”

  “Something as graceful and piercing as its wielder.” The Wolf pondered and frowned. “A mace won’t do for your slender wrists, too bulky and unfitting. Perhaps a rapier? No, no, I don’t want you burdened with a scabbard. A bow, then? Hmm, no, that wouldn’t work, either, not in close quarters, and too much finesse for the point you are trying to make. What then? What then? What would be perfect for the hunter of my heart?”

  The Wolf seized her and pressed her hand to his thudding chest. “Of course! The quickest way to any man’s heart is with a light and deadly point. A needle of death you can hide in boot or belt that is as strong as any blade in the hands of a master, which someday you will become.”

  “A dagger!” they declared over the other.

  The Wolf’s smile grew larger, as if he would swallow her, and he dipped so that Morigan could climb into his embrace. Not even the most eagle-eyed scouts in King Magnus’s army saw the pair move. One sand they were there, speaking intimately and close; the next, they had disappeared. Were anyone to look for them that evening, they would not be found in the palace.

  V

  “Thackery, you could at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” complained Queen Lila. “I called this feast in your honor.”

  “I never asked for it,” huffed Thackery.

  His mood was a foul, black storm today and nothing of White Hearth’s splendor could cheer him. Not the music of the two delicate, fair-haired windsingers that floated above the feast and whose voices and fiddle-songs whirled through the chamber on silvery breezes, kissing ears, bending flames, and mussing hair. Thackery found the ruffling an annoyance, and the strings were a bit shrill. The watersculptors were twice as abhorrent and loud as they skated about—schrrit, schrrit—on sheets of ice between the tables, and he hated them, too. Even the exquisite food was flavorless as it passed Thackery’s lips. He pushed it away and glanced to the two empty seats at his side.

  “Is that where your misery stems from, my friend? Because she is not with us? Do you feel that she has traded you for this man?” asked Queen Lila, and laid her grip on Thackery.

  The gesture appeared to cleanse him of his crankiness, and he sighed. “I believe it is. Yes. She is as much—no, and curse me for saying it—she is more of a daughter to me than my precious Theadora was. For I have watched her grow and stumble into womanhood. These pleasures I was never granted with my own child. I have watched her live. She has been my companion for over two decades now. Yes, I certainly miss her. And I am concerned at how suddenly she has surrendered herself to this…man. They have some hold over the other that I shall never be a part of. More than lust. I don’t…bah.”

  “They are off trysting, I am sure. We shall see them tomorrow or the day after,” said the queen. She patted her friend and then removed her hand. After a short silence, she added, “I rarely speak ill of others unless it can’t be helped, but that man—Caenith—he worries me.”

  Delicately, Thackery suggested, “Are you certain it isn’t simply his resemblance to Brutus?”

  “No, it mostly is,” replied the queen. She took a draft of her wine and then motioned for her glass to be filled. Once the servant left, she squeezed out the rest of her thoughts; though they were alone at the royal table, she spoke behind her hand, as if there were spies present. “There are enough differences, but there is enough that is the same, as well. It is highly unusual, impossible one could say, to meet a man who could be a cousin to the kings. I have not encountered one in my thousand-year rule. Mater Lowelia, Lady of Whispers, has told me that he is a smith, yet I do not see a smith when I look into his eyes. I see the other end of steel: blood. I know that taint well. It was the scarcely chained beast that rode Brutus before his surrender to darkness. Who is he, Thackery? What have you not told me?”

  There is a growing chance that he could be several hundred years old? Or that he speaks in old and tangled ways like your husband does? Or that you might focus your attention upon him, and perhaps Morigan, too closely if I am to say too much? More lies, old friend. I am sorry. Hastily, Thackery spun a reply for the queen.

  “He is a mystery. If it matters, I believe that he truly loves Morigan, and she feels as much for him. I think he would place himself in harm to protect her, and that right there is a man more noble than the Sun King, who never learned to love at all.”

  “Well said, I suppose,” she said, shrugging.

  She had more of her wine and watched Eod’s finest scholars and soldiers cut loose from their responsibilities for the evening: clanging cups, chaining hands about their waists while crooning rudely over the windsingers, sliding themselves down the ice, and generally acting like irresponsible fools. Good for them. They should celebrate each day as if it is to be their last. Soon, even the immortals might meet their end. One of them, I hope, she brooded.

  Thackery watched the queen’s golden comeliness darken, and wondered if his small lie was the cause. He hated that he had to deceive her, but a selective avoidance of the truth was necessary, which also brought to mind the queen’s task in that regard.

  “Have you told the king of Morigan’s vision?” he asked.

  Bitterly, the queen said, “No.”

  As she had predicted, Magnus’s wintry soul had visited her later in the evening, once his men had stopped the march for the night. It was a strange commune, far less vocal than anything they had shared in an age. A few faded images of a desert city built into a precipice like a honeycomb, and clips of broken conversation about his army’s movement were what she was given. From the striking sight, she surmised that they were in Southreach, which meant that her king had cleared the most desolate of the desert and would soon leave Kor’Khul. All right? he asked her, many times over. Nothing more composed than that came out of him, and she assumed that he was inquiring about her welfare. Fine, she replied, as short and curt as he was. His frosty, pimpling anger—toward Brutus—died down after that, and that was the sum of their exchange. As close as she and Magnus were to the other, there were portions of their minds that were their own, and she spoke in her qui
etest place, the corner that was only hers.

  Already our love is cracking. Why is your coldness becoming so weak inside me? What is happening to us, Magnus? Is this the cost of lies? First, the barb of deception pricks, then it bleeds, then it infects, and the rot sets in. I am sorry, Magnus, so sorry that we are now lying to each other. Thackery is right, an angry king is a motivated king. When this ends, and you have punished Brutus and his dark voice, will it all return as it was? I must believe that, and so I prick you again, and I shall not tell you what I have seen today.

  Gently, Thackery tugged on Queen Lila’s arm to gain her attention, as she was deep in thought with a face pinched in pain—not physical, but the pangs of betrayal.

  “I have thought of a way that we could find out who this passenger—this would-be queen—might be. I don’t think you’ll care for my suggestion, though. Should I tell you?” proposed Thackery.

  From his effacing tone, the queen could tell that she was not going to hear him suddenly pledge to undertake the quest to visit the three wise women of Alabion. A plan he had dismissed before the banquet began as pure rubbish. Apparently, he had designs of his own in mind. She should have known.

  “You are going to, regardless of what I say,” she replied.

  “Indeed, you know me too well. Like a felhound, once I have a scent, I cannot drop it,” admitted Thackery. “Hear me out, dear friend. If this thing that rides Brutus calls him its son, then it would stand to reason that our king is of the same relation as they are brothers. That much we can agree on.”

  The queen nodded.

  “Good,” resumed Thackery. “Perhaps all we need to do is examine those early memories, childhood ones, those as far back as our king can remember. If there is a mother or a father present, we shall know our true enemy. The kings couldn’t have come from nowhere, and it’s about time that someone investigated their mystery. Especially when so many fates are tied to their destinies. A seedling can follow a cycle through wind and fertilization that is difficult to track, yet it is still planted and grows the same as all life. There is an A and a B, which leads to a C. We need to find A and B. I suspect that the answer lies in the Hall of Memories, where our king ponders whatever he ponders, where all the knowledge of our kingdom is cataloged and kept—including his secrets.”