Feast of Souls

by C. S. Friedman

  You could always make yourself look like a man, she reminded herself. Sorcery could sculpt her flesh into any shape she liked. All she had to do was put on a man’s face, add a little height and breadth of shoulder, and drape herself in the occult black of a Magister’s traditional dress; she wouldn’t even have to transform the parts that mattered, if the gown were long enough. Who would think to question her then?

  But that was a kind of defeat, and one that she was not willing to accept. She had not slaved for long years in training and then risked her life in her first Transition only to have her status determined by some puerile masquerade. The Magisters will accept me as I am, she thought stubbornly, or I will go without their approval.

  Ravi’s party arrived late, which was apparently deliberate, a choice determined by the illustrious rank of those in his procession. Guests were announced as they entered the great hall, and Gansang’s ruling elite preferred there to be enough people present when they arrived that they might be properly admired. Ravi himself was one of the last of the group to enter—apparently a sign of his station—and Kamala entered on his arm, heralded as “the Lady Sidra” by a youth wearing the gold-and-black livery of House Savresi. Heads turned as she descended the marble stairs by Ravi’s side, and she could hear a thousand curious whispers surrounding her, details inaudible, like the humming of locusts.

  The great hall of Tower Savresi turned out to be immense, and crowded to its last inch with the most illustrious peacocks of the realm. It took up the entire ground floor of the building, and had a vaulted ceiling that faded into shadows high overhead. There were stained-glass windows set high up in the walls that must have been magnificent in the daylight, but in the evening the only light coming through them was torchlight from the bridges and streets beyond, a flickering, eerie illumination that caused colors to shimmer across the floor as breezes fanned the flames. One end of the great hall had vast tables piled with expensive foodstuffs, including sweets carved into the shapes of merchant ships, castles, and even exotic animals; the other was occupied by a raised stage upon which musicians played, a southern melody that suggested perfumed gardens filled with dancing girls. It was almost too much for Kamala to absorb; she looked about half-dazed by it all, trying to get her bearings, even as Ravi led her through a gauntlet of mandatory introductions.

  She had been taught how to greet the peacocks of Gansang properly, which was a good thing, because for the better part of an hour that was all she was able to do. It seemed that every man in the room must come to pay his respects to Ravi, and every woman must find some excuse to come inspect her more closely. She did not need sorcery to see the desire in the men who kissed her hand, nor the cold envy in the faces of the women who greeted her. Did her body entice the men, long and lean and gleaming in its carapace of jeweled silk, or was it simply that she was something new, a mystery, a prize that had been claimed by Ravi before anyone else had a chance to despoil it? She had seen enough of the dark underbelly of male desire to have no illusions about its source. Nothing inspired a man’s lust more than the presence of a woman he could not possess.

  Through all of this she did not catch a single glimpse of the Magisters. She found it hard to concentrate on anyone else with them on her mind, not even the entertainment, which ran the gamut from jugglers to fire eaters to a sextet of half-naked dancers from some exotic island. At another time she would have been fascinated to see it all—and thrilled to be watching them from a position of honor, rather than stealing a peek at them from some hiding place in the shadows—but tonight there was only one thing on her mind.

  And then she saw one. Or felt one, rather, for his sorcery was a cold thing that whispered across the back of her neck, and no Magister could miss its meaning. She looked up, high into the shadows of the upper hall, seeking the source of the spell. There were balconies and galleries perched all about the circular walls at a variety of heights, linked together by a network of staircases. The uppermost perches were small and dark and offered a modicum of privacy; she could make out pairs of lovers nestling together in their chosen roosts, merchants whispering bargains out of earshot of the crowd below, nobles politicking, and of course a few antisocial creatures who simply preferred the height as a vantage point, from which they might watch the festivities on the main floor without the need to smile at anyone.

  It was there she found one of the Magisters, standing as still as the stone itself, and as dark as the shadows surrounding him. As soon as she looked in his direction she knew with utter certainty that his eyes were fixed upon her, and she felt the chill touch of his power inspecting her, seeking information on her history, her identity, her purpose. It took little effort to turn it aside; it was one of the first tricks Ethanus had taught her. She was only sorry she could not see the Magister’s face more clearly as his spell failed, could not judge his reaction. Had he heard she was a witch, or was this the first hint he’d had that she possessed power of her own?

  She began to ascend one of the staircases, not heading toward the gargoyle-like Magister—it was clear from his aspect he would accept no invasion of his space—but seeking a higher vantage point from which to look for others of his kind. Holding her clinging skirts up perhaps a bit higher than a lady should, she ascended to a narrow balcony, where a group of young men who were clearly in their cups invited her to join them in making ribald comments about the crowd below. She smiled as politely as she could and kept climbing. A deep-set gallery lined with armorial displays finally offered her what she was looking for—a comfortable perch from which she might observe the whole of the great hall, balconies included; she pulled up a bench to the railing and knelt upon it, tucking her train underneath so that passersby would not trip over it.

  Now that she knew what she was looking for, she was able to locate them all. They all stood at the periphery of the gathering, watching over the morati like hawks. The unnatural black that they wore made them almost invisible in the shadows, but their power blazed forth like beacons to her sorcerous senses. Now and then one of the highborn guests would approach one, and they did so with such obvious humility as made her toes curl. Princes might drape themselves in jewels and silks, build great towers, and even send out armies to conquer nations but in the end, the real power lay in the hands of the Magisters, and the course of mortal empires was determined by whom they favored, and whom they did not.

  There were four of them in all. One kept to the shadows, drawing power about him so that only with the greatest effort could she make him out at all, and she could see no details of his person. Another looked almost youthful, and eventually he made his way down to the main floor and spoke to a few of the guests—though most stayed well clear of his path—but his presence was without warmth, and he allowed no one to touch him. Another had taken up station on a balcony opposite Kamala’s, and at one point she looked up to find him staring at her with an intensity that left her shaken. He had a deep scar running down one cheek that had healed badly, twisting the surrounding flesh like some grotesque sculpture, and when at last he moved she could see his long robes rippling as if stirred by a breeze though no breeze was present. You may know a Magister by the flesh he chooses to wear, Ethanus had told her. What kind of man could adopt any appearance he liked, yet preferred such a twisted, damaged countenance?

  The fourth Magister appeared so old and fragile it was hard to believe he was a living creature; that was a show of power all its own, she realized, intended to make the morati aware of just how ancient a sorcerer he might be. Like his youthful counterpart he eventually descended to the main floor of the great hall to greet several of the morati; like the other he offered his hand and cheek to no one, encouraged no false intimacy, tolerated no foolishness for the sake of polite society. These men were soulmates to her spirit, she thought, playing by their own rules, and she hungered to meet them, to begin the process that would win her acceptance as one of their kind. But she did not know how to begin. She’d been spoiled by Ethanus, and had perha
ps assumed that the others of his kind would be equally approachable . . . equally human. But these black-robed creatures seemed like a different species altogether, and she was beginning to realize just how difficult it would be to strike the right note when she finally presented herself to them . . . and how badly things might go if she failed.

  Take your time, she told herself. You have as many lifetimes as you need to work this out. But the words echoed emptily in her soul, where the fire of restlessness blazed with mortal heat.

  Your lack of patience, Ethanus had warned her, will be a greater danger to you than any enemy.

  A party of revelers was making its way up toward where she knelt; drunken voices promised a more aggressive invasion of her space than she was in the mood to deal with. Looking about for some convenient path of exit, she spied a small door leading outward from the next balcony over. The sudden thought of fresh air and a moment alone to gather her thoughts was appealing, and she hurried along the staircase that led from her current perch to that exit.

  It was a small door, and a mere whisper of power was sufficient to unlock it; she opened it and peered out into the twilight. There was a bridge beyond, a narrow thing, clearly not intended for grand processions but for more private use. It probably led to a subsidiary tower owned by the Savresi, permitting them to come and go without drawing attention to themselves. Whatever its intended purpose, its position out of sight of the crowded walkways near the main entrance of the tower promised a few moments of peace and solitude, a welcome respite.

  She stepped through and let the door close behind her, moving out onto the bridge, into the fresh night air. There were torches burning at both ends of the bridge but none along its length, and azure shadows danced before and after her as she walked to the middle of the bridge, sighed, and leaned against the rail.

  Her spirit was tired, she realized. Tired of letting strange men kiss her hand, strange women kiss her cheek, the things that were expected of her here. She had once sworn she would never let a stranger touch her, and now she had let dozens of strangers do so. She smiled at jokes she did not think were funny, admired jewelry she did not think was beautiful, and endured the suggestive comments of men whose brains were clearly in their codpieces. And all the while the Magisters watched, disdaining such social games, aloof and independent. She hungered to be one of them. No . . . she was one of them. She hungered for them to know it.

  Choose your time carefully, Ethanus had warned her. They are creatures of habit, more wary of change than any morati, and they will not accept a woman as one of them without considerable resistance. Do not let any of them know what you are until you are sure of what your reception will be. Remember that if they deny you are truly a Magister, their Law will not protect you.

  But how can I ever be sure? she despaired. For one brief, mad moment she wished herself back in Ethanus’ forest. There at least she had understood the rules.

  “Ravi’s witch.” The sudden voice startled her; she had not heard the tower door open. “Tell me, does he pay you in coin for the life force you sacrifice? Or is it love that buys death, these days?”

  A sharp retort came to her lips and she turned around to let it loose . . . and then stopped, the words frozen, and felt her heart skip a beat.

  It was the Magister with the scar.

  He walked out onto the bridge. She could see his black robes ripple about his feet as he moved, a strangely sensual movement, unnatural. Each movement of cloth cost some morati a moment of his life, she thought. Would she too someday reach the point when she would be willing to drain a consort of life for such a pointless affectation?

  The torchlight played upon the scar on his face, making the wound look livid, fresh. “You have not answered me, child.”

  A flush of indignation rose to her cheeks, but she managed to keep the worst of her temper bridled. “You assume you know what I am. Assume whatever answer pleases you.”

  Anger flickered in the backs of his eyes; clearly he was not accustomed to having mere witches talk back to him. “Your manners were better inside.”

  “Men were more polite to me inside.”

  “Morati men fawn upon you. Magisters watch in silence. Whose judgment is more meaningful?”

  A faint smile flickered across her lips. “Perhaps I did not come here to be judged.”

  His voice was knife-edged. “Perhaps it is not your choice.”

  He stepped closer to her and reached out a hand toward her face. Her smile vanished and she stepped back out of reach, hackles rising. I have not given you the right to touch me.

  The Magister’s expression darkened. “Afraid?”

  She said it simply, with an equally cold expression. “No.”

  He reached out for her again. This time when she tried to move away his power wrapped itself around her and held her in place. For one brief moment his hand fell upon her cheek, a mocking caress . . . then she gathered her own power and broke through the sorcerous bond, stumbling over her train as she backed away yet again. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it. Could he?

  “Don’t,” she breathed.

  “Do what?” His black eyes glittered in the torchlight. “Touch you as a man might—as Ravi no doubt does? But you are used to that, aren’t you? Whoring and witchery are the same art, after all. One barters one’s soul instead of one’s flesh, but the act itself is no different.”

  Her first instinct was to respond indignantly to his words. Her second, more intelligent one, was to say nothing, to keep her expression calm. Ravi did not know I was a whore, she told herself, and the Magisters at the fete who tried to read my past failed to do so. He is but casting out random insults to see which will make me lose control. He knows nothing of my past.

  “So . . .” There was amusement in his eyes, but it was a cold, reptilian thing, wholly divorced from any mortal concept of humor. “Will you best all my sorcery with your witch’s art, if I persist? Or simply run away?”

  I know your kind, she thought. When you were young you beat anyone who crossed you, and probably assaulted any maiden that took your fancy. Your peers feared you and your parents feared you and probably the authorities as well, and now that you have the ultimate power you expect the whole world to do the same. Only I won’t. I am your rival in power, your equal in fierceness, perhaps even your better . . . you just do not know it yet.

  “I do not run,” she said quietly.

  The hem of his gown suddenly stopped its obscene fluttering. He was drawing the power to him, she realized, readying it for some more significant purpose. A cold chill ran down her spine. Did he think he could toy with her like he would a morati? If so he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

  . . . and a voice whispered in the back of her mind that this was the not way she should be dealing with Magisters . . .

  But great waves of rage were roiling to the surface, the frustration of too many hours spent pretending to be something that she was not. She had not come this far in life, at so great a cost, only to have this snake of a Magister treat her like a common whore. Very well, if he wanted to spar with her, let him try. He was in for a bigger surprise than he could imagine.

  He struck.

  His power was a whirlwind that sucked the breath from her lungs, leaving her stunned and gasping. She grabbed the railing beside her as she tried to defend herself, but the raw power of the assault was like nothing she had ever felt before, and it broke through each spell of defense she invoked. She could feel tendrils of his sorcery winding themselves around her legs, sucking the strength from her muscles, forcing her limbs to fold, and she realized with a rush of fury that he meant to make her kneel to him. Not with some sophisticated spell, like the kind Ethanus had taught her to counter, but with a battering-ram assault, primitive in form, brutal in purpose.

  NO!!!

  Reaching deep into her own soul—and through it to the consort who fueled her sorcery—she called up all the power within her own reach. Stolen life raged through her
veins in a flood tide and she forced it to take the form she desired, she fed it on her fury, she armored it with her determination . . . and then she let it loose. It was a wild and terrible thing, better suited to her own fiery spirit than the studious habits of her mentor. It burst forth from her in a blaze of sorcerous light that would surely have blinded any morati spectator. Even so it could not drive back his sorcery entirely, though it was enough to break the stranglehold he had upon her flesh. Her legs straightened, her muscles regained their accustomed strength, and just in case the meaning of those things was not clear to him, she stiffened her back and raised up her head and met his gaze squarely with her own.

  “I also do not kneel,” she said quietly.

  He did not seem angered, but rather amused. For a moment she was startled by that and then, with a cold shudder, she realized the truth. The man believed she was a witch. That meant that, as far as he knew, every time she used her power to defend herself from him, she must sacrifice precious moments of her life to do so. That was what this was all about, she realized. He was daring her to waste the essence of her life in self-defense and laughing inwardly, no doubt, as she took the bait and hastened her own death. You are not my equal, his actions pronounced, and if you persist in pretending that you are, your pride will cost you your life.