The trees behind her rustled. She turned, the tattered silk of her gown’s hem brushing at fallen needles. A man’s figure moved from the shadows into the moonlight of the clearing, and as he stepped between the twisted spires and became fully visible she let out a small yelp of surprise and then rushed into his arms.
“Rhys! I had thought you had forgotten me—”
“Shhhhh. Quiet, little sister. You know that is nonsense.”
She held him, trembling, and she wept a little. But they were tears of joy rather than pain and he knew them for such, and so he simply held her while they flowed. At last she moved back from him, drying her eyes with a sleeve on one side of her face, allowing him to brush away the tears from the other with his fingers. It was a freedom she would have allowed very few men.
“You came with a retinue?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Father wouldn’t have it otherwise. I left them at Danton’s table to eat themselves into oblivion.”
She rubbed her reddened nose with a dampened sleeve. “How did I not know, then? I should have heard of your coming—”
“Unless Danton agreed to keep it a secret so I might surprise you.” His pale brow furrowed as he studied her, seeing the signs of her pain. “You see? He is not so unfeeling. He understands that sometimes you need what he cannot give.”
She hugged him again, hugged him long and hard, and perhaps wept a bit more. He just held her quietly and let the tears flow.
He was a tall man, a handsome man, with hair so pale that in the moonlight it seemed it might have been sculpted out of freshly fallen snow. It had been curly in his youth, like hers, but he wore it in the style of the Guardians of the Wrath now, tightly twisted into dozens of slender braids that hung down straight to his shoulders. Moonlight played upon the tokens of rank and fortitude that had been bound to the braids in front, making them glitter like captive snowflakes. His skin was pale, like hers, but his frame was stockier, his broad shoulders hinting at a much more formidable wench for brood-mother than the delicate lady who had borne Gwynofar. In truth Gwynofar knew Rhys’ mother was no such thing, rather a mere slip of a girl who had caught the Lord Protector’s eye one winter evening and kept him warm till the sun rose. But the gods had visited her with fertility that night and apparently meant to bless her bastard child as well, for he had won favor with the Lord Protector, indulgence from his lady, and friendship with the true-born daughter of their household, the golden-haired Gwynofar.
Now . . . now Rhys was anything but a child. Gwynofar held him at arm’s length and studied him. Was it possible he had grown so much since she left, or did she just feel smaller in this foreign place? They were both much older than they had been when they had played in the woods together, making offerings to the wild pines as if the whole northern forest was their personal domain. He wore the uniform of a Guardian now, which spoke of some important promotion, but she didn’t know enough about the various ranks and initiations of the secretive order to know how to read his advancement, or to interpret the various charms that glittered about his person. The scar that had been made when he first joined the Guardians was no longer red but a livid white, and it coursed diagonally across his cheek like the war paint of some Dark Ages barbarian, drawing attention to his high cheekbones and cool gray eyes.
You are of the blood of the First Kings, as I am, she thought. You bear the same burden the Lord Protector does, at least in half. If the Wrath fails us, if the world is put to the test, you will stand on the battlefield beside the Protectors, while Danton and his children will shiver in their beds like frightened pups.
No, your burden is even greater than ours . . . for my birth was contracted by kings, but yours was decreed by the gods themselves. They have some special purpose in store for you, my half-brother, and I pray for you nightly, for the whims of the northern gods are rarely gentle or pleasant things.
“You came here just to see me?” she asked.
“To see you, bring you news, bring back news of your welfare. Father won’t admit it, but he’s worried. He knows how you felt about Andovan.” He picked at the tattered silk on her shoulder, biting his lip softly as he offered his own silent prayer to her mourning. “So what really happened?” he said at last. “No one is telling us anything of consequence. Least of all the High King’s messenger. We regret to inform you that Prince Andovan of House Aurelius, son of the High Queen Gwynofar, grandson of the Lord Protector Stevan of House Keirdwyn, is dead by his own hand. It is our custom in such cases not to hold a state funeral. Hardly informative.”
She sighed and wrapped her pale arms around herself, trying to make the words come without tears. “He had the Wasting. Danton did not want to admit it, but everyone knew. He even brought Magisters here to study him, to try to discover some other diagnosis.” She shrugged stiffly. “But they could not, for there was no other cause. So . . . I have told you of his nature, Rhys. He hated sitting around and waiting for decisions to be made, he always hungered to be active, independent . . . it was eating him alive, to know he would die an invalid. So one night he decided he would not let that happen.” She shivered and lowered her eyes; a tear trembled on the pale lashes. “He didn’t even tell me,” she whispered. “I’d have thought he would have. But maybe he was afraid I would try to talk him out of it.”
“Would you have?” he asked softly.
She bit her lip for a moment. “I don’t know, Rhys. What hope could I give him? The Wasting has no cure. It’s a terrible death, especially for a youth who hated so much to have to sit still for anything. Still I would have . . . I would have thought he would want to talk to me first . . . I would have wanted to say good-bye, at least.”
She turned away, toward the Spears. The night was silent.
“You didn’t come with the mourners father sent,” she whispered. “I’d hoped you would.”
“I had duties.”
She nodded, accepting that. As much as she would have valued Rhys’ company when Andovan died, his standing as a royal bastard might have sent the wrong message had he been included in the formal Deathcall. Danton disdained his own bastards and did not want them having any illusions about royal inheritance, thus he did not encourage them to attend his court, as was done in some other places. If Rhys had come with the Lord Protector’s official mourners Danton might have deemed it an insult.
A short time later, however, and by himself, to pay a social call upon his half-sister—that was acceptable. Danton was probably relieved that someone else was taking on the burden of comforting her. Gods knew he was no good at it.
“So tell me news of home,” she begged. “Good news, please.”
A shadow passed over his face. She felt her own heart skip a beat. “Rhys?”
For a long while he was silent. Finally he said, “The signs are ominous. I would be lying if I told you otherwise. I am sorry.”
She straightened her back. She was a Protector’s daughter, and must meet such trials with resolute strength. “Father hinted at such,” she said quietly. “But he would not give me details.” She put a hand on his arm. “I know I can trust you to be honest with me, yes?”
His eyes met hers. How deep they were, how dark in the moonlight, glittering like ice on the surface but shadowed with black secrets behind that. He is truly a Guardian now, she thought. She watched him as he struggled with himself over which secrets to keep and which to reveal, weighing his various obligations one against the other. That, more than anything else, told her how terribly wrong things were.
“What would you say,” he asked finally, “if I told you I had touched a Spear?”
“I would say that if the Guardians deemed it necessary—”
“I don’t mean with the Guardians.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Alone, Gwyn. No Guardians to flank me, to lend me strength, no Magisters to steady my hand . . . nothing.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That is . . . that is . . . not possible.”
“So we are taught,” h
e said quietly.
“When was this?”
“Early this spring. I was near to the edge of the forbidden lands, returning home, trusting to my horse to keep to the proper path. Animals are even more sensitive than we are to the power of the gods; he would not have turned northward without a spear prodding his flanks. Or so I thought. But at one point I looked up, and there in the distance I saw a black spire outlined against the horizon. He had brought me that close to a Spear, that I could see its shape clearly.” He paused, his expression grim. “Horses will not do that of their own volition, Gwyn. Not ever. They fear the Wrath even more than demons do, and we often have to leave them behind when we approach the Spears, lest they go mad from terror. But this time, the horse I rode did not even seem to be aware it was there . . . no more than he would be aware of any natural pinnacle of rock.
“That close to a Spear I should have been able to feel its presence, yet I could not. I should have been able to hear the screaming that emanates from the root of it, where the earth lies scarred from its terrible wound . . . I should have instinctively felt the urge to flee at any cost, and had to fight that urge with all my strength even to gaze upon the thing. But it was not so this time. So perhaps, I told myself, my first impression was mistaken. Perhaps this was not a Spear after all, but some natural monument in the same form. That was a simple explanation, and a far preferable one to my mind.
“I turned my horse toward this oddity of nature, determined to examine it. Yet as we came closer I began to feel what I had expected, the touch of the gods upon my spirit . . . only weaker than it usually was. Weaker than it should have been.
“I knew then such fear within my soul as I cannot describe to you. If this was a Spear in truth, why was it so weakened? I tried to urge my horse forward, to test it, but at that point he would go no farther. At last I had to leave him behind. Yet even so he was not so frantic as beasts normally are that close to the edge of the Wrath. It was an ill omen.
“As I came closer to the spire, picking my way across the earth, I could feel the Wrath envelop me at last. Ah, you do not know what it feels like, Gwyn, to be in such a state without sorcery to support you! The nearest I can describe it to you is that it is like standing in a terrible storm, where you must lean into the gale merely to keep your footing. For every step you take forward, the wind might drive you two back. So it was with the Wrath as I approached, for the power of the gods’ fury by its very nature drives back all living creatures. Yet despite the terror in my heart I knew I had to go forward, to learn what details I could, that I might report them to my order.”
Gwynofar nodded solemnly, captivated by his tale. In her youth she had strayed as close to the ancient spires as a simple maiden might, but the maleficent power of the Wrath had forced her to flee like a frightened deer from their proximity. Later, as daughter of a Lord Protector, she had been given a role to play in the annual sacrifice, and in the company of Magisters had come even closer to the monuments, but even sorcerous rituals were not enough to protect one from the gods’ ancient magic entirely, and she remembered shivering to the core of her soul even then, wanting nothing more than to get the ritual finished so that she could go home.
To walk up to one of the ancient monuments by oneself, to touch one . . . that was a thing she could not even imagine doing.
Rhys continued. “Against that gale I forced my way to the foot of the spire itself. It was a vast and twisted thing that towered overhead as high as the turrets of father’s keep. I kept expecting the gods to crush me like an insect for daring to come so close, but they did not. And at last, may they forgive me . . . I reached out and touched the cold stone surface.” His voice dropped to a whisper; his eyes glittering like ice in the moonlight. “I touched it, Gwyn. And then suddenly I could hear all the voices that had been silent before: the screams of the earth god whose sacred flesh had been ripped open when the Spear first fell, the howls of all those men and beasts whom the Wrath had possessed down through the centuries, the roar of all the demons that had thrown themselves against that malevolent barrier, failing to break through . . . their screams poured into me like a black whirlwind when I touched the stone, and I fell to my knees, overwhelmed . . . and I think that had my hand not fallen from the spire at that moment, I would have been swallowed whole by that terrible screaming, and never returned to you.”
She saw him shudder in the moonlight. It was an uncharacteristic gesture for him, and as such it sent a chill through her heart.
“But Guardians do touch the Spears at other times,” she said softly. “Do they not?”
“Aye, when they need repair, when wind and ice have threatened to crack their surface, then we must mortar them freshly, and seal them against winter’s ire . . . but the men who do that are of the blood of the Protectors, whom the gods have fortified for just that purpose, and they do not go alone. I am only that on my father’s side . . . barely enough to approach it in their company.”
He touched a hand to the underside of her chin, gently. “You, sweet queen, possess what this humble bastard lacks. You could face the Wrath directly and not back down, if you needed to.”
She shuddered. “Don’t even suggest that.”
“Why? The time may soon come. If it does, all those who bear the Protectors’ gift must play their part in defending the world, else we may witness the Second Age of Kings fall to madness and barbarism, as the First Age did.”
“Do you believe that?” Her voice was a whisper. “Do you say these things to frighten me, or do you honestly believe that the Wrath is about to fail us?”
“Gods willing it will stand strong forever,” he responded solemnly. “Riders have been sent out to inspect the other Spears and find out what the situation is; it will be months before we have the larger picture. Be grateful the summer is upon us now, at least, so that such travel is possible. In the meantime I am a Guardian, and must be prepared for the worst. As you must, being of the Lord Protector’s blood.”
Perhaps sensing that the moment had become too intense—perhaps regretting he had brought such thoughts to one in mourning—he glanced back toward the keep. “So tell me of other news. Danton is vile-tempered as usual? Rurick still a strutting ass?”
Despite herself she smiled. “Choose your words carefully. Rurick will be High King someday.”
“Aye. Gods help us all.” He ran a hand through his braids, which set a few of the tokens bound in it to tinkling. “What of your Magister Royal? I take it someone new has replaced Ramirus? He has not shown his face since I arrived.”
Her expression tightened. It was a reflexive reaction, beyond her control, like the instinctive hissing of a cat. “Kostas.” She nearly spat the name. “Gods curse the day that vile creature came into our house.”
He glanced back at the keep again. “Are you not worried—”
“He never comes here. He disdains these”—she indicated the spires—“and the northern superstition they represent. Indeed, sometimes I come here just to escape him. He has left his mark all over the keep like wolf piss. Sometimes I feel like I should bathe just to get out the stink.”
Rhys blinked in surprise. “I’ve never heard you speak like that of a man before. What has he done to earn such venom?”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Taken all that is worst in my husband and encouraged it to new excess. Ramirus was a temperate man, a fit counselor for a High King. Kostas is a snake. No. Worse than a snake. He is a pestilence, an infection. Ten minutes in his presence and Danton is raging like a bull in season, desperate for some enemy to gore, or else perhaps a rival to mount. Ramirus knew how to calm him. Kostas . . . Kostas does not even try. He seems to take pleasure in Danton’s rage.”
Quietly Rhys said, “Is that all?”
Startled, she asked, “What do you mean?”
His eyes glittered darkly in the moonlight. “We have known each other a very long time, Gwyn. Granted we do not see each other often these days, your duties and mine being what they are
, but I think I know you well enough to know when things are not right. Even the reasons you offer me do not match the hatred I sense in your heart. There is another cause beside these things, clearly.” When she did not answer him he prompted gently, “Is there not?”
With a sigh she turned away from him; her pale hand reached out to rest upon the surface of the nearest spire, as if she might draw strength from the gods through such contact. “I do not know,” she said at last. “With any other man I could capture his essence in words and be content. But Kostas—my feelings about him defy the bounds of language, my brother. It is . . . it is a sensation almost animal in tenor, that comes upon me when I am in his presence. Like the deer mouse must feel when the shadow of a hawk passes over it. I want to run, or I want to strike at him, to see his blood flow . . . I want to do something other than pass courtly pleasantries and pretend nothing is wrong when everything in my soul cries out to drive him from my castle, away from my home and my family, at any cost . . .”
She stared off into the darkness for a moment. “Sometimes I have dreams,” she whispered, “in which I come to him while he sleeps and slit his throat. Or I stab him in the heart, so that his blood spurts out across my hands . . . and it is ecstatic. In those dreams he is not a Magister at all, but something . . . something else, that I cannot give a name to. Something that I know must be destroyed at any cost.
“When I awaken from those dreams that feeling remains with me for a time. I must struggle to hide it from him, and yet . . . yet . . . he is a Magister, beyond question. He serves my husband as dutifully as Ramirus ever did. And if he is cruel at times, if he manipulates Danton’s darker instincts for some private purpose, or even just for his own amusement . . . that is what men become when they live centuries beyond their natural lifespan. I have met enough Magisters in my days as queen to know that. And I accept it, as must all royals who rely upon their sorcery.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Why is this one different, Rhys? Why can I not accept him as I did all the others?”
Feast of Souls Page 16
