Kamala lowered her own bundles to the floor. “How long has she been sick?”
The woman hesitated. “It began in late winter, we think, though the first signs were subtle, so we may mistime it. We thought it a lesser illness, at first. Been a short month now since she took to bed for most of the day, and she’s too weak these days even to rise to use the pot.” Her eyes met Kamala’s and for the first time were not filled with suspicion or even despair, simply with exhaustion. “Please do what you can,” she begged. “I’ve tried all else.”
Kamala nodded and moved toward the bed. She could not see the figure within it until she drew close, and when she did at last, she exhaled sharply in surprise.
It was a child.
She was a tiny girl—so very small!—with hair of that pale shade that never lasts to adulthood, now plastered by the sweat of sickness to her brow. A frail wisp of a girl, ghostlike. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of blue but they stared vacantly into space, lifeless, and she did not acknowledge the presence of others around her by either sound or motion. A tiny doll of a child, porcelain-pale, whose hollow cheeks and deep-shadowed eyes bore witness to some sort of wasting disease.
“Can you help her?” her mother asked, wringing a corner of her apron in her hands.
With effort, Kamala quieted the queasy feeling in her stomach. Was this really someone’s consort? What if it was her consort? The thought that she might have been killing a child for her sorcery should not have bothered her, but it did.
All life is the same, she told herself stubbornly. Young or old, male or female, it should not matter.
For a small eternity she stood by the side of the bed, staring down at the girl. Then she reached out to touch her small face, gently. A shudder ran through her as her finger stroked the colorless cheek. Should she feel a flow of power, if she touched her own consort thus? Or was the passage of athra a secret thing that flesh could not detect? If she summoned her power to gaze into this girl’s soul, would that be enough of a spell to claim the child’s last vital energy? What did it feel like to watch your consort’s soulfire expire, to hold a tiny body like this in your hands as the last living warmth bled out of it, until her flesh was no more than an empty husk?
. . . The young/old woman holds Kamala’s brother, cradling him in her withered arms, singing to him softly. Snatches of lullabies laden with witchery. Kovan cries out in pain as the fever in his blood flares up hotly, green pustules on his face throbbing. The old woman looks up at Kamala, just for a moment. Her eyes are deep-set and gray and filled with unfathomable sadness. Resignation. “For this young one I will die,” they seem to say . . .
“Can you help her?”
Erda’s voice brought Kamala back to herself. Gods above, how many years had it been since she had last thought of that visit? There was a time when the old witch’s eyes had haunted her dreams, even as the scar-faced Magister’s did now. Truly, she thought, there must be nothing more terrible than knowing you were about to die and not being able to summon the power to save yourself. The witch had spent her life helping others, the Magister had lived for centuries of unparalleled selfishness, but in their last moments, did that make any difference? Did Death care a whit how they had lived, when he came for them at last?
This girl was young. So very young. Kamala’s brother had been about that age when the Green Plague had sickened him. Kamala remembered sitting vigil by his bedside, listening to her mother offer up desperate prayers to any god that might intervene. Probably the same kind of prayers that this child’s mother had voiced, night after night. The gods were notoriously callous when it came to such things; they had not helped Kovan then, and Kamala doubted they would help this girl now. Especially if the cause of her dying was not some natural sickness, but the predatory power of a Magister.
Drawing in a deep breath—trying to banish the image of her dead brother from her mind—Kamala focused her Sight upon the tiny figure in the bed. It took little effort to see the shadows of death that hung over her, or the chill fog that accompanied each breath, like the mists of winter. But though the Sight could confirm that the girl was dying, it could not tell Kamala what was wrong with her. Only sorcery could do that.
You know what you came here to do. Why do you hesitate?
Slowly, carefully, she loosened the stranglehold she had imposed upon her power. As she did so the child moaned softly, twisting in her bed. Kamala’s heart lurched in her chest. If this was her consort, would she feel the life being drawn out of her? Would she suffer the kind of instinctive terror that animals did when the shadow of a predator fell over them? A sudden wave of sickness welled up inside Kamala. She had come to accept that she must kill strangers to remain alive, but that was a far cry from torturing a child.
A cold wind blew across her soul at the thought, and her vision began to go black; bands of ice suddenly wrapped themselves around her chest, choking off her breath. For one brief and terrifying moment she could sense the abyss that yawned at her feet, could feel the touch of that great nothingness which would swallow her whole the minute the link to her consort was severed. Too late, she realized her error. It does not matter if your consort is a child, she told herself desperately, or an infant, or a cripple, or any other manner of pitiful thing. The gods choose who is to die for you, and you must accept their choice. But words were clearly no longer enough. Her lungs were frozen and would not fill with air; she fell to her knees at the child’s bedside, the room spinning about her. Inside her she could feel the precious link that bound her to her consort beginning to fray, like a rotting cord, and the more she focused upon it, the more rapidly it seemed to disintegrate.
NO! She screamed the word inside her head, but could not draw in enough air to make the sound real. Black spots were spreading across her field of vision, bleeding into one another like puddles of ink. I WILL NOT DIE FOR YOU! Summoning up the last of her energy, she envisioned herself with a child in her arms, envisioned herself taking its head and tearing it off until blood gushed from its neck in a scarlet fountain, and she held the tiny body over her head and let its blood rain down upon her, holding its head aloft in her other hand like a talisman. I WILL NOT DIE FOR ANY CREATURE! As the child’s blood soaked her hair and her clothing it seemed to her that living warmth came back into her limbs; she could taste blood on her lips as she finally drew in a deep breath. The bands of ice that had been wrapped around her chest cracked in one place, then two, then melted and were gone. She could breathe again. Her heart was still beating. The black spots vanished to the corners of her vision, and the room was still once more.
Shuddering, she lowered her face to her hands, and for a moment just focused on trying to breathe steadily.
“What is it?” The woman called Erda was kneeling by her side. “Are you all right? Is it something you saw in her? Tell me!”
“I’m all right,” she whispered. “And it was not in her.” For a moment I forgot what I was. And almost paid the price for it. “I’ll be fine.”
The woman wanted to know more, but clearly sensed that further questions were not going to be answered. That was good. Kamala’s focus was on other things now.
Drawing upon the life essence of her consort, gathering power into herself, she looked at the child before her . . . and into her. Deep, deep into the girl’s soul she looked, searching for that place where all vital energy was anchored, the wellspring of life from which all natural creatures drew their strength. And she found it, with ease. The girl’s soulfire still burned with all the fierce strength of childhood, though it fluttered wildly against the sickly flesh surrounding it, like a candle flame beating against the wind. Clearly she was not a consort at all, to anyone. Which meant this illness was not the result of some Magister’s sorcery, but simply a mundane, finite condition. If it could be cured, she might still recover.
With effort Kamala surfaced from her trance just enough to whisper, “It’s not the Wasting.” Let her mother have that much to calm her. Distantly she hea
rd the woman weeping, though whether it was from gratitude or fear she could not say. Watching a Magister almost obliterate herself was apparently not a reassuring sight.
Deeply she gazed into the child’s flesh anew, seeking the source of her illness. Healing was an art she had never been good at, but Ethanus had taught her the basics. In fact, no great skill was required in this case. The culprit was not some secretive disease, or an imbalance of bodily fluids such as only an experienced healer might detect, but a simple parasite lodged in the child’s gut. Yet the word “simple” did not do it justice. From the place where its head had burrowed into the girl’s flesh to the last segment of its ghostly white body it was many times her length, and it lay within the convolutions of her intestine, throbbing gently as it stole the food that was intended for her, growing larger and stronger with every meal while its host slowly starved to death.
A healer’s potions should have been able to pry it loose and flush it out, she thought. Indeed, she could see in its flesh the signs of past poisonings, but apparently the thing was simply too large or else too strong for normal doses of medicine to have done the job. Or perhaps the child had been too small to endure the kind of dosage that was needed. The same potions that were used to kill such a parasite could also kill its host, if she were weak enough. In this case they seem to have done enough damage to the thing to keep it from shedding egg cases, which is why it had gone undetected, but only that.
Reaching out with her power, Kamala took the noxious thing and tore it loose from the girl’s flesh, then sent a wave of molten power coursing down its length, sufficient to sear the life from every segment of its body. The girl cried out in pain and doubled over as the sorcerous flames passed through her, but they did her flesh no damage. In time the charred remnants of the worm would pass from her system by a more natural route, and her body could begin to restore itself.
When she was sure that the job was done, Kamala withdrew her senses from the child’s body. For a moment she was silent, gathering her strength, restoring her composure. Her battle to keep hold of her consort had left her body filmed with sweat and all her muscles aching with exhaustion. She bound enough power to cleanse herself, deftly removing the filth from her skin without affecting the stains that were on her clothing.
“I have killed the thing that was stealing your child’s life,” she said quietly, not meeting the mother’s eyes. “Feed her often, in small portions, as much as she can accept. She will need strength to recover.”
The woman blinked her eyes. There were tears coursing down both cheeks. “She is going to live?” she whispered.
“She will live. She will be fine.” The words seemed a distant thing, almost as if someone else was speaking them.
With effort, Kamala stood. The room swam about her for a moment, then was still. Apparently she, too, would recover.
Erda’s hand fell on her arm. “You saved her life.”
She shrugged stiffly. “I did what I could.” The bands of linen about her breasts began to slip out of position as she moved, so she bound a bit of power to hold them in place. “As I said I would.” I have drained one morati to save another. Such is the power the gods have given us, to use as we see fit.
“You will let me feed you dinner? As I promised? My husband will be home soon. He will . . .” The words trailed off into fresh tears. “He will want to thank you himself,” she whispered. “He had given up hope.”
Kamala shook her head. “I must move on, I am afraid. Spare me what you can for the road, if you like; I require no more. My apologies to your husband, we shall have to meet some other time.”
“But the bed you spoke of—”
Kamala’s gaze was resolute. “I am sorry. I need to go.”
She did not even try to give the woman reasons. There were none that she would understand, and Kamala was too tired to weave convincing lies for her. Only a Magister would understand the need she felt to put as much distance between her and this place as possible, as quickly as she could, along with all the memories it contained.
You were right, my master. I should have heeded your warning. In the future I will, I promise you.
When Erda was finally convinced that Kamala simply would not stay longer, she scurried about the cabin, gathering up enough food to sustain a small army: loaves of bread, slabs of cheese, slices of salted meat and fish. She probably would have given Kamala everything she had in her stores had the Magister not stopped her; even so, when her generous offering was tied in a bundle for travel, and a fine woolen blanket had been added to it for good measure, she was clearly distressed that Kamala would accept nothing more.
“It is enough,” Kamala assured her.
Anything else that I need, sorcery can supply. There was a strange peace in the thought. I, too, have been cleansed tonight.
Night was falling as Kamala left the small cabin. She looked back only once. Long enough to see the mother cradling her child in her arms, tears running down her face as she whispered promises of eternal love and protection. Kamala felt a brief pang in her heart, a vague and uncomfortable envy which she refused to acknowledge. Then she looked past the mother, past the child, into the child’s flesh, to that place where the wormlike parasite had once lodged its assault. Nothing was left now but a charred length of flesh, which the natural tides of the girl’s body had already begun to force out. Soon it would be gone.
Farewell, brother, she thought to it.
Hoisting her pack to her shoulder, binding enough sorcery to ease the soreness in her muscles, she let the door fall shut behind her.
Chapter 25
A HAWK flew over Gansang.
It was an unusually large bird, though its distance from the ground disguised that fact. Its wings gleamed like fire against the orange skies of sunset, and the few other birds who saw it banked away warily, not certain what it was, but sensing that nothing so large could be natural.
It let out a cry. To most human ears—and to other birds—it was simply the keening of a hawk. Witches in Gansang looked up, however, wondering what it was that had just pricked their supernatural senses. And those for whom the message was intended heard it yet more clearly, and after a few seconds their answer came, in tones only the bird could hear.
It circled down lower over the city, following the directions it had been given, and in time came to a tower set apart from the rest. There were no merchants crowding around the base of this one, nor any sign of a door, nor any windows save for a row in the topmost story. There was no glass in those, nor curtains, nor anything to bar passage. The hawk landed on a sill, studied the place for a moment or two, then ducked inside.
A few minutes later an oversized falcon followed the same path. By the time it entered the tower Colivar had reclaimed his human shape, and was waiting for him.
The room within the tower was a large one, with chairs enough to seat perhaps a dozen men, and dust enough upon them to indicate the place was not used often. There were neither decorations nor other comforts, and as with the tower itself, no sign of entrance save the windows.
“Interesting meeting place,” Colivar commented, as the last of the other’s feathers faded into flesh. “I do like the privacy of it.”
“A city with so many Magisters requires some sort of neutral ground.”
Colivar nodded. “Of course. Will more be coming?”
“If your business requires it.”
“Very well.” He looked about the room. “You must forgive me, I have never before been in a city that had so many Magisters living shoulder to shoulder, and with equal claim to the greater territory. You must have customs worked out as to who does what that are quite . . . labyrinthine.”
His host smiled slightly. “It is not always harmonious, but it never fails to be . . . interesting.” He bowed his head a mere fraction of an inch, a gesture of polite acknowledgment to an equal. “Colivar, yes? I remember you from Ramirus’ little soiree. Magister Royal of Anshasa, as I recall? I am Tirstan. We do no
t bear such pretty titles here, but I serve House Iabresa.”
“Masters of the local silk trade, yes?”
He nodded. “You do your research.”
“Always.”
Tirstan waved his hand over the table; the air shimmered briefly, then a pewter goblet and two matching cups appeared. “You are far from home, Magister Royal Colivar. Shall I guess at the reason?” He poured both cups full of a deep-hued ale; a cold sweat was beginning to condense on the pitcher even as he set it down.
“Hardly a challenge, given the recent news here.”
Again the faint smile. “I do cling to hope that some visitor will surprise me.” He waved absently toward two of the chairs, binding enough power to clean the dust off them first. “Please, sit, relax.” He offered him one of the pewter cups. “We are a far flight from Anshasa, and travel is dusty business.”
Colivar accepted the cup but did not drink from it. “A good helping of news is all the refreshment I seek. The death of a Magister is not a common occurrence.”
“No, thank the gods, it is not.”
“Who was it?”
“He called himself Raven. Yes, after the carrion bird. I think he used other names before that, but he was the secretive sort and rarely shared information about himself. And in Gansang we have learned not to pry into each other’s affairs.” He sipped from his own cup, and nodded his approval of the chilled ale within. “Some say the name captured his essence. I believe it fell short.”
“I know the man. And I’ve heard him called much worse things.”
“At any rate, the true ravens have him now, or at least his ashes.”
Colivar looked startled. “You burned him?”
“Had to. Otherwise we’d have had every treasure hunter this side of Sankara scouring the city for his bones. Did you not know that the secret of a Magister lies in his magical flesh, and that after death his powers can be claimed by any witch who—well, I will spare you the process. Those are the tales, anyway, and since a dead Magister only comes along once in a lifetime, we decided not to test how many might believe in them.”
Feast of Souls Page 26
