Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) (4 page)

All the while, Rowena and Galivad, Queen Lila’s Sword and the Master of Eod’s East Watch, respectively, have been watching Moreth of El—a trafficker of all things dark and depraved in Menos. Also under their purview is his new bride, Beatrice, a woman not unfamiliar to Galivad. Beatrice, with her angel-like appearance and glowing aura, is more akin to a viper in her actions, her need for self-gratification finding purchase in the indulgent devouring of bodies and souls—one of whom was Galivad’s mother. The couple are kindred spirits with Gloriatrix, both taking relish in exacting their own sick torments on those who have the terrible misfortune of crossing their path—and Lila’s envoys are exactly such misfortunates.

Also caught in their web is one working for an invisible authority, guided by forces unknown in the corporeal world. Alastair, a man who had once granted Mouse her freedom from indentured service, appears to have a mission that extends well beyond that of underground trader of goods in Menos. His intrigue with Maggie, the owner of the Silk Purse tavern, leads him to pull her into his plots as well—the goals of which seem to shift along with his loyalties. While Alastair is another of Geadhain’s citizens for whom dying simply represents a bump on the road toward
his next death, there is little question that he takes no pleasure in seeing Maggie tortured at the hands of their captors.

As the pack’s journey continues, Caenith comes to see that Aghna’s treachery is but the first of many shocking truths he must absorb. Deep in a cave, the pup that grew into a great Wolf is reunited with his mother. There in the darkness, the great Mother Wolf divulges a secret about his father’s identity that eclipses all the Wolf thought to be true about the world and his place in it. Brought face-to-face with the woman/beast who bore him, he learns that his father is none other than Brutus, the creature who would see the world’s destruction as a vessel of the Black Queen.

But while the immortals are faced with challenges of an otherworldly nature, most inhabitants of Geadhain cannot shake their mortal coil. Amid Menos’s murk, there are civilian casualties of a war they are simply trying to survive. A simple observer, Aadore does not see herself as a party to the jingoist frenzy into which Menos is being whipped. She seeks only to reunite with her brother, Sean, a man who has been ravaged by not only time but life’s savagery. At the moment of their strained homecoming, the city is rocked by explosions, and rising up from the detritus, these new players reveal themselves as the sole survivors.

Another unwitting player in fate’s grand theater, young Beauregard has a past that remains a mystery. But in the present, he and his father, Devlin, have been entrusted with knowledge that may secure the future of Geadhain’s most precious and beautiful region: Sorsetta. They leave the Summerlands—a land now scarred by Brutus’s fury—to act as messengers of the war that is bearing down on Sorsetta’s peaceful land. But more than that, they bring with them a tool of magik that offers one of the few glimpses of hope for defense. As Brutus appears to them, he is cloaked in the shadow of Magnus’s trapped spirit. Knowing that his son is strong enough to survive the hardships that await him, Devlin sacrifices himself so that Beauregard might wield their weapon: a wonderstone—a shard of condensed, ancient magik. Doing so releases Magnus from his purgatory, banishes Brutus, and propels Beauregard forward from peaceful poet to warrior of fate.

Meanwhile, as our travelers venture through the Pitch Dark groves of Alabion, they are met with three sisters of another kind. The three red witches whose taste for blood would see a meal made of each them can sense Morigan’s ascendant power. They foretell that hers will not be a path paved by peaceful light but with crimson. They also sense within Mouse a growing resentment for a fate that would drive her further into darkness.

The immutable nature of that which is preordained becomes ever more apparent as the Hunters of Fate finally meet with the sisters whose shaping of destinies makes them both friend and foe to all they meet. There, Morigan’s true calling as a Daughter of Fate is confirmed, born of Elemech and sister to Eean and Ealasyd. But the sisters also reveal that the darkness overtaking Geadhain is more terrible than the anthropomorphized version of the Black Queen could have led them to believe; she is The Great Dreamer, Zionae, whose roots run deeper than anything in their world. She is devouring Geadhain, and even immortals cannot halt her frenzy. Their only hope is to return to the cradle where life began to find a trace of Zionae’s fall from grace that might reveal a weakness. Despite the incredible losses they have incurred during their campaign to find the Sisters, Morigan and Caenith know that their destiny is to take up this mantle.

Recognizing that he, too, bears a burden for Geadhain’s fate, weary Thackery strikes a bargain for time. As an old man nearing the end of his days, Thackery declined across the miles, an effect made even more glaring in the company of immortals and beings who are seemingly beyond death. Each night as the travelers rested, he was enveloped by a vigil of companions wary that each breath might be the one that ushered in the end. But to add time to one life, it must be taken from another’s. And as a now youthful Thackery emerges from negotiations with the sisters, the origins of his newfound years are unknown.

Mouse—seemingly unable to deny the dark roots that were nurtured during her life in Menos—also readily accepts a deal, albeit from the three red witches, that would see her avenge her father. She is so blinded by her grief that she fails to realize that even for the purest of hearts, it is all too
easy to be led astray when the desire to exact revenge rears its head. There is always a price to pay for such caprices, whether in this realm or another, and early indications are that Mouse may pay dearly for acting as the messenger for a spirit of retribution.

Even knowing that much of what lies ahead is unchangeable, the Three Sisters pull at wefts and warps here and there, keeping the fabric of fate intact, but all the while subtly changing its pattern. They cannot help themselves from crafting deals designed to test the travelers’ characters and push the limits of their virtues. Nor can they remain untangled from the affairs of beasts and men, even when their own existence may depend upon it. Even as sisters of fate, they make these bargains, largely unaware of the impacts they might have on the final tapestry for the future. But then again, these are not concerns for beings who are reborn as easily as a snake sloughs off its skin.

The only certainty that remains is that the Green Mother is angry, and what she wills, she wills…

—The Cradle—
What is this fire that bleeds and roars?
A babe of chaos.
Veins, cracked on a dusty plain;
O’er shield of ruptured ice,
Hideous garden bewitched in glittering grace.
A man does not know what to tell his wonder,
Of this sea of stars on earth.
Hollows—canyons, deep and dark as space—that echo with time,
And whispers
Foretell the fleetness of your life.
Here, there be the calling of ancient Kings
The Will of Starry Things,
Of beasts both real and beyond.
Know thy place, as ant and beggar
In the Kingdom of true rule—
False demagogues and would-be lords,
Know thy place.
The wise listen in silence,
Enraptured by the melodies of our damnation.
Oh, ancient voice
Oh, starry voice
Speak
I hear, I fall, I weep.
—Kericot, poet of Geadhain

PROLOGUE

“A
red moon,” noted Eean, peering up over Elemech’s pale shoulder and away from the witchwater pool into which the sisters had been staring. The slowly undulating glass reflected a patchwork landscape of lush vales, rivers shimmering with queer, petrol-stained beauty, and hooked claws of rock. Pandemonia. Eean dismissed most of the vision, for there was too much strangeness within—all of it distracting. Besides, the moon within the image was her real obsession. Lidless and swollen, it glared at her like the eye of a Dreamer of Blood and Doom.

“A blood moon,” said Elemech. Over a thousand years had passed since a moon like that last shone over Geadhain. Elemech recalled the celestial event’s synchronicity with another ominous affair—namely, war. “Taroch’s Moon,” she said. “We saw that moon on the night the would-be king’s armies went to war with the Immortal brothers.”

Disturbed by the memory of the warlord’s failed conquest, and by what omens his moon suggested, Elemech swished away the vision with her pale hand, then flicked the water off her fingers and tried to see where the drops landed in the dark. Not even her sight could find them. “Lost,” she muttered, though it was unclear what had been lost—the water or her hope.

Eean sighed and took a seat next to her sister. Together, they gazed like sad children at the freckles of light dancing off the crystal corners of their home—often the same flicker entranced them. Ealasyd watched the pair from the nearby shadows; how alike they were in looks and
manner—twins, to all appearances. Ealasyd frowned. When she lived with two dour sisters rather than just one, she especially hated the arrangement.

She stomped out of her hiding spot and, in a further display of disgruntlement, threw down the moist rag she held so that it made a wet splat on the stone. “Listen here: I may be nearly ageless, but I still have the hunger and needs of a youngling. Right now, I have two mothers who are no better than a couple of ravens watching a graveyard. Gloomy, awful creatures you two have become. I cannot eat worms, nightmares, and dust as you do. I need sunshine, joy, and food!”

“Why should we feel joy?” asked Elemech miserably. “All of our work is crumbling. The Daughter of Fate—”

“Your daughter,” interrupted Ealasyd, pointing at her. “My sister.”

Scowling, Elemech resumed. “Morigan follows her own agenda. Her soul is full of chaos. I have no idea how she will end this war; she may even be starting another. I cannot follow her or her companions either. Not even with my Arts. The interference from Pandemonia’s rampant magik warps the currents of Fate. I cannot witness her success or failure in the East. We have never been more powerless. Indeed, our power wanes as that of our shadows grows. Hate is what now nourishes the Green Mother. Winter is here, my sisters. The Longest Winter. The Black Queen’s star is not far from our world. There are omens, blood moons…And let us not forget Death, in her City of Bones, who has broken all the laws of her kind by possessing her vessel, her immortal vessel—a feint so well played that I wonder who is the greater threat, Death or the Black Queen. I do not know how much more the Green Mother can endure from all these terrors.”

“She will break,” proclaimed Eean.

“Aye,” agreed Elemech.

“Horrible!” declared Ealasyd, storming away. “You two are horrible. I’ll find myself something to eat. I’ll feed our guest, too, since I’m now the only one with any sense!”

On the way back to the rock-cubby where she and her sisters slept, she picked up the rag she’d discarded. “Infuriating!” she fumed. “Useless!” she grumbled. In times past, whenever her sisters had shared this state of depressive reflection, Eean had at least managed to retain a shred of pride and sagacity. Perhaps the upheaval in the world had affected the balance
of their ancient sisterhood as well, for now Ealasyd had two morose sisters instead of one. The pair would spend days mumbling wicked prognostications and discussing disasters occurring in each corner of Geadhain. Unless there were entrails to be read, neither sister ever left Ealasyd the ingredients needed to cook a wholesome meal. Lately, she’d been hunting rats to feed herself and their guest. As a child, Ealasyd had had no idea how to flavor her beggar’s stew. Everything that came out of her cast-iron pot bore notes of shoe leather and stinky feet, and tasted about the same.

Ealasyd shuffled over to the faintly glowing hearth, a pit filled with warm egg-shaped stones, many dim with their witch-light. Soon she would need to stoke the stones’ heat again, and Eean’s magik would be required.
I can’t be bothered to ask
, she thought, after glancing at the two mournful shadows by the pool.
I’ll do everything myself!
she cursed—her charwoman’s chant of late. Angry, she grabbed a cup full of simmering herb broth from a pot hung over the hearth. She burned herself retrieving the medicine but cared not, as she knew that the pain and wound would pass in a speck to Eean, as happened with all of her injuries, decay, and age. Then, feeling mean, she seared her knuckles a second time on the outside of the pot. Eean expressed no discomfort, from what Ealasyd could tell.
They don’t even care
! she nearly screamed.

Finished with her small rebellion, Ealasyd took her rag and her medicine over to their guest’s bedside.
Eean’s guest
, she thought, since no one else had invited him. Although Ealasyd’s memory was so spotty that she bordered on the senile, she recalled the doll of the man she’d once made. An effigy of a lord of torture and nightmares with a shadow—vast, cold, black—rising over his shoulders. She had called him Rotsoul, and was amazed that she remembered the moniker. She paused before bowing to the sweat-soaked pallet, before tending to the man who stank of sweetly unwashed and spoiled flesh. She took a sand to
feel
for danger—for a sensitivity to the true selves of all creatures was Ealasyd’s gift. Nothing wafted from him but his smell and fevered warmth. She no longer felt the great, cold shadow of Death that had once haunted this man, but only a faded presence: a fire diminished to ash and smoke, which cloyed in scent and taint and would never be purged. Rotsoul was what she had called the simulacrum of him that she’d made. But he really was rotten now: a barely
breathing corpse. It was a miracle that he’d survived, even with the Green Mother’s blessing and Ealasyd’s herbs. A dark miracle.