The mater’s eyes gleamed now, with tears and something else, too. “I wasn’t myself after that. Even now, it’s quite a haze. I can’t remember what happened. I carved him up, I’m told. Almost killed him, but left him crippled enough to live on in misery. Some would say that is a fairer punishment. He’ll never hurt another child again. He doesn’t have the fingers to pick one up or the prick to make one.”
Morigan swallowed; the bees were nursing off the waves of dark fury coming from the mater—a mother’s love twisted into poison. While Morigan’s silver swarm wanted to show her more, to show their mistress everything, she reinforced her desire not to see past the slivers of a flickering knife and spurts of blood that they fed her anyway.
“I was brought before the King’s Court, as the Silver Watch couldn’t decide what to do with me. Whether I was mad or a dangerous villain, they could not say. And neither could I, my memory being as fuzzy as it was. That was the first time I met the king and queen, though my gran spoke so highly of them. She was a mater of yore; I think I told you that. In any case, unless you’re born inside the palace you don’t live there. Too many concerns with persons coming and going, so folk lead double lives, to and fro, a month at the palace, a week at home. Even when her mind turned to gruel, Gran still recalled how fair and handsome our king was. Mooned over the man like she was sixteen summers young.”
A reverence fell over the mater, and she held her listener in a long stare. “If you’ve never seen him, though, you don’t know how short those praises fall. All covered in blood like a rabid lunatic I am, and he treats me as if I was a lamb tumbled down the hillside. Holds me as if I am the one who has died. You can sense kindness in him, a depth so old that he feels like a father, brother, and lover in one. Instant trust. He told me that he would help me remember…took me to the Hall.”
“The Hall?”
“The Hall of Memories, my rose, one wonder after another that day. For that was a place as glorious as its master. Crystal and glass and music…but alive. I’m not enough of a bard to sing its miracles, so I won’t try. I understand that it’s a vault of a kind. Keeps memories and history. Pulls them out of people’s heads, a bit like your tricks, I assume. He had me lie down, and I did, as I would have done anything for him—you don’t know until you meet him how powerful his commands can be. It wasn’t the kindest experience, what happened next. Quite like a hangover mixed with a pot banged on the head. When it was over, the king, the queen, and the Silver Watch had seen all they needed to see. They never told me what, but offered me pardon, stating that the murder of my Cecelia had temporarily cooked my noggin like a boiled egg. As if that mercy wasn’t enough, their sift through my truths showed my relationship to Gretchen Larson, previous mater of the White Heart, twice removed at that point. One of the queen’s favorites, Gran was! What marvelous luck! They offered me a new life, right then and there, as I lay on the floor weeping in sadness, happiness, and quite a bit of confusion.”
Mater Lowelia clapped her thighs and stood. She crushed her downhearted mood with a smile. “Worked my way up from a scullery lass. We Larsons are like moths, a small nibble here and there, and soon we have the whole closet. There you have it, my rose, a tale destined for unhappiness with an end that not even I could predict. You certainly do have a good ear. I think it helps to confess to someone you know can pull the truth out of you if she wanted. Now, you have a wedding you need to be at—don’t open your mouth, I’ll call it what I do. Up, up, let’s have a look at you.”
Morigan rose for the inspection. Once the mater had spun her round, she kissed the young woman on the cheek.
“Perfect! This could very well be the perfect day. I wonder how handsome your smith is? Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Hand in hand, they were skipping toward the door as if they were giggling sisters when a stitch formed in Morigan’s side.
“Ow!” she cried, as a pain shot into her abdomen and back. She wasn’t worried or in agony, but the throbbing discomfort was familiar. “Really? Tonight of all nights?” moaned Morigan.
Being the orchestrator of hundreds of women each day, Mater Lowelia knew the signs. She rubbed the girl’s back. “At least the dress is red, so don’t worry if you’ve messed it. I’ve got some sanitary rags around. We’ll dress you up tight as a master’s dowry daughter. Nothing so sad as chastity on a wedding day. I feel for you, my rose. I truly do. I’d be rubbing myself like a heated puss every time that man so much—”
“The rags,” snapped Morigan, whose mood was quickly spoiling.
Grimly, the mater strode off to rifle through her drawers, and Morigan rubbed her stomach and squeezed her legs together. Regardless of her body’s rebellion, she was unfaltering in her conviction to go through with the ceremony. A bit of blood to the evening was appropriate, come to think, and there would be more before the night’s end.
IV
A red sky, a blood king, and a scarlet bride all joined for a ceremony of blood, observed Thule. Had he known that Morigan was bleeding, too, the rain of signs would have been absurd to consider. An oracle was unnecessary to see that the couple’s path would be as crimson as their union. At Mifanwae’s grave, the promise seekers and their observers had gathered. A site of one’s ancestors was required, and this was the nearest of either promise seeker’s bloodline that would be found this side of Geadhain. Thule didn’t have the time to investigate much more of Fuilimean, aside from what Caenith relayed to him, and the time for inquiry was over. Down the rise, the skycarriages were parked, along with pairs of rigid silver men—their backs turned in polite eschewal—while the queen, her sword, and the mater stood nearer to the promise seekers, rapt with interest. Thule was closest to the promise seekers, waiting for them to finish their weaving, consumed with fatherly fears and doubts. In Caenith’s loose white shirt, leather cuffs, and polished boots, Thule had succeeded in grooming him to a person of correct appearances, but the nature of the man seemed unchanged. The transformation would be as temporary and successful as putting clothing on a wild dog, and it was unlikely to persist past today.
While the sun slowly surrendered to darkness, Caenith and Morigan sat on the ground and wove the talisman that was to bind them. He sat behind and around her, while she leaned into his strength, and their harmony was fascinating to behold. For such a large man, Caenith’s fingers never got in the way of Morigan’s nimble ones, and she threaded over and under the strands he held taut like a master spider. Not once did they appear to speak to each other for instruction. Not once did they make a mistake.
They are closer in habit than even my king and I were. One creature moving in two bodies, marveled the queen, and her gloomier impulses expounded further. Perhaps this is the new order, and the old reigns are over.
When the weaving was done, the couple stood and presented Thule with their offering. The sun was nearly spent, and the snowy shadow of the moon could be seen forcing its way into the world. A full moon it would be, and Caenith knew that this night could not be more blessed, more right, even if he could tell that they would not be together in the flesh, judging by his Fawn’s metallic scent—a bother not to himself, but an embarrassment for her. Nevertheless, there were greater paths of unity than desire, and that is what they would find tonight. The bees were stronger now, and Morigan could taste his passion, his peppery fumes, and heat. As the lovers lingered in that moment, sniffing and examining each other with animal or extrasensory organs, Morigan was aware that what mortal trappings she had were quickly fading away. Her journey with Caenith had been one metamorphosis after the next. Surely, this was not the end to wonders, but the birth of them. There was only one last cliff to jump off, and a screaming, exhilarating journey to who knew where would begin. Everything she knew as a woman and as a normal being was about to be shed. All this, she intuited and accepted. She was ready.
Are you ready? she whispered into his mind.
The bees carried back a response. Yes, my Fawn. I have never wanted anything more.
>
Morigan took out her dagger. Caenith extended his hand to her, and she sliced a line across his palm from his pinky to his thumb. He didn’t wince, and neither did Morigan as the dagger was passed and an identical wound was inflicted on her opposite hand. The couple slipped their hands over the other, interlaced dainty and massive fingers as well as they could, and squeezed. Blood pulsed, mingled, and fell. Then, the two turned to Thule. He was ready and tied their wrists with the talisman. With fortitude Thule spoke, hoping that he recalled the ancient Ghaedic words of the smith correctly.
“Muad tairscinae gealfoi sigealoch!” (We offer these promise-sworn to the Gray Man!)
Declared the promise seekers, “Muad seach.” (We stand.)
An invocation of the Gray Man surely, for the moon broke the skin of the night and rained whiteness over the rise. The queen shivered in her heavily furred cloak, which offered no protection from the chill of reminiscence.
In her head, Morigan had practiced the vows, and she uttered them along with the Wolf. However their strange union worked, she was never a step ahead or behind him, but perfectly matched, and as fluid with her speech as a native of the old world. If they were to consider where they were or what actions their bodies were taking, they would fail to draw anything other than the deepness of their silver and stone stares or the sense of tumbling together in warmth.
“Deartháyr, mo deartháyr, siúl leh mae.” (Keeper, my keeper, walk with me.)
A stillness claimed the night. Eerie and whole, a swallowing of sound. Unnatural, this is unnatural, Thule thought.
“Sibh amharc ae dorchaedys.” (Be my eyes in the dark.)
Was it a trick of the light? wondered Thule, for their eyes gleamed.
“Tu claíom ae lámh.” (Be the sword in my hand.)
As the promise seekers spoke, the moon pulsed brightly. Thule looked at the sudden, crisp shadow cast by Mifanwae’s cairn, which was sharp and risen as a blade of darkness.
“Deartháyr mo deartháyr, fulaing an fear seo maihrg leh mea.” (Keeper, my keeper, weather this storm with me.)
A wind howled in from the east, rending the silence and blowing the dust from Mifanwae’s cairn in a swarm of sand. The queen clung to Sword Rowena, and Thule bent his head in defense. Only the promise seekers did not notice, as they were warm and whirling and lost in the other.
“Tu abyr ae ár síscéahl.” (Sing of our tale.)
As the two spoke, the wind sweeping the plains went from a bluster to a whistle.
“Deartháyr, mo deartháyr, siúl leh mae.” (Keeper, my keeper, walk with me.)
The oath takers’ pulses sped.
She is in a forest, brushed by pine fingers as she races. Laughing as the beast growls and pants upon her back. She hears it leap, feels its weight upon her, and tumbles in the leaves to see Caenith on top of her. He kisses her and then bites her tongue. She bites his in turn and their mouths fill with blood.
“Goh an deireadh.” (To the end.)
In a rush, the two were back in their flesh, though nothing was the same in either.
Away went the tired song of the wind, and the brilliant moon dimmed to a natural brightness. None of the observers on the rise spoke, as each was torn by private reservations toward what, exactly, he or she had seen. While there was no prickling of magik, there was little doubt that they were witnesses to mystical events. The expressions of wonderment were carved strongest on the bloodmates, or seen by the feathery touches they gave to each other, as if feeling—skin, hair, joy, life—for the first time. More than any, the queen understood the thrill of what they were experiencing, the bliss of knowing another inside oneself. Normal folks could make such promises, bind them in blood, and be left with sore hands and happy hearts at what they had done. But when the supernatural united and swore the oaths that the kings themselves once swore, impossible things were made possible. Feelings, souls, and magik all blurred.
And here I stand, as a mortal who was bound in blood to one who would not die. Think of how it changed me. What of you two? Pale Daughter of the Moon and creature who is not quite a man? What dark miracle have you birthed together this eve? pondered the queen.
All fair questions, and precisely what Morigan and Caenith struggled with: the sense of another within themselves. For the Wolf was truly inside Morigan—as a second heartbeat that raced incredibly fast with adrenaline and power—the throbbing cadence of a hunter. She didn’t think she could run as speedily as he could, but she sensed the surety and confidence of a man who knew he could. Caenith was a river of heat, hunger, and craving all forded by unshakable control. He was a storm in a bottle, or a fire that could Will what it was to burn: dangerous, yet somehow balanced. And she found herself smiling, trembling, and sweating in fever as the river of her bloodmate washed her from head to foot. If Caenith was a river of passion, then Morigan was the ship to navigate his raging waters. Her courage was a wind to swell any sail, her compassion a light to shine away the dark. She was a virgin to her very soul, a creature untainted by sin or darkness. Like a white fawn, which not even the lords of fang and claw hunted, or the laugh of a child. Morigan filled him with a breath of cool light, making him brighter and kinder by its presence. She was a star to guide him, one to look to for hope. Not with Aghna had he felt this completion, this dazzling wholeness, and he was as stricken as the maiden was.
“My star,” The Wolf gasped.
“My river,” Morigan whispered.
Mater Lowelia was the least aware or most dismissive of the strangeness of the evening. There had been a bit of wind, things seemed quite dramatic for a speck, but that was over for a few sands now. She wanted a kiss, and she called for it.
“Kiss the bride!”
Caenith growled through the overwhelming tides pushing and pulling them apart, and he came to Morigan’s mouth as if he might eat it. When they kissed, the star inside him pierced his head and eyes with brilliance. He could sense nothing but Morigan’s brightness, rocking him like a child, just as Morigan was swept down the rapids of his passion, smashing against rocks of his hunger, lust, and strength, and swooning more with every impact. When the bloodmates parted, their senses faded back to them, and they immediately wanted another taste of the other’s soul. A second kiss was too much, and the young woman was wobbling when it ended. Caenith had yet to let go of her, though, and he swept her off her feet, their bracelet of bloody hair snapping and falling to the sand, and then howled in ecstasy to the moon—for his bloodmate, for their unity, for the possibility that he would never be alone again. In that instant, everyone present, including the shaken men below, knew that they were in the presence of immortal beings. Caenith turned to Thule. The silver and stone gazes of the promise seekers were distant and frightening to behold, as if they held starry secrets that the old sorcerer could never fathom.
“We are one,” declared the Wolf, in a growl that shook the soil and spilled dirt down the rise.
“The world will break before we do,” said the lovers.
With that, the Wolf leaped from the rise, leaving only a cloud and a trail of dust to follow. Off into the desert they had gone, faster than any comet ever seen.
“King’s mercy! Deary mittens! Holy shite!” shouted Mater Lowelia, running up to Thule. “He howled! Then he—” She made a series of agitated, sweeping gestures. “What the…? What was that?”
“That was a wolf’s howl,” muttered the queen, as she and her sword strode up to join them.
Mater Lowelia bowed. “Oh, do pardon my crassness, Your Majesty! I wasn’t expecting such a fright. Will my little rose be safe? Should we alert the Watch?”
“No,” sighed Thule. Now that the shock was over, he remembered he had hands and drew them over his face. “He would never harm her. And she is no frail flower herself. She is equally as strange as he is, I think.”
“If that’s the long and the short of it, then I’d like to go home,” complained the mater, and stomped down the rise.
Before Thule left, there was
a final task that Caenith had asked of him. He picked up the tacky plait of hair and placed it amid the stones of Mifanwae’s cairn, burying it somewhat so that the wind would not steal it. The queen and her sword were patient and watchful while he tended to the grave. Mayhap it was the moon’s waxy light, but Her Majesty appeared quite drawn when Thule approached her.
“Times are shifting, my friend,” she said sullenly. “I feel for the first time ever that I am growing old.”
The sage patted her shoulder. “That is an ache I know all too well.”
“That you do. That you do.”
With the sage on one arm and Sword Rowena on the other, the queen and her company started their descent toward the skycarriages.
“I have considered your request,” said Queen Lila, when they were still out of the earshot of most. “There are far too many mysteries sprouting in Geadhain’s garden, and if we are to root out the weeds, we must assemble whatever tools we can. I shall grant you and the young witch access to the Hall of Memories. I shall be present for the investigation, and if anything begins to go awry, we shall stop. Does this suit you?”
“It does, my Queen.”
The matter was settled. For the journey home, Mater Lowelia decided to ride by herself in the vessel that had brought Morigan. The mater didn’t want to speak or think too hard on what the night had shown her. She turned out the lights in the cabin and rode in darkness, though try as she might to spurn her worries, now and again her mind wandered to where the maiden was and if she was being mauled or eaten by her uncanny mate. A similar brooding occupied the cabin of the second ship. There, three persons stared out windows, watching the stars and mountains stream by, while they pondered rituals of blood, red skies, white moons, and howling men.
V
Is this normal? asked Morigan.
Nothing about us is normal…not anymore, replied Caenith.
The two were in their secret glade, lying on a nest of Caenith’s old vest and his new shirt. They had been kissing and exploring each other, letting raw bolts of emotion tear into the other. Morigan couldn’t say how long it had been, except that it was still night. Come a point, Morigan caught the large fingers that were playing with her hair. She could feel the Wolf’s purring fascination at the softness and color of it, and not from the bees—who were no longer needed—but from a new channel of communication that was undiscovered before tonight.
Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) Page 25