Feast of Souls

by C. S. Friedman

  “For sport?” she asks.

  It is rare she interrupts him thus. But he can sense the hunger that is behind the question, her need to understand this alien creature called “Magister Society.” As if the very phrase itself is not a contradiction in terms, he thinks; words that attempt to conjure unity in the ranks of those who are too suspicious of each other to ever share anything, save what is necessary to guard their great Secret.

  Soon, he thinks, soon she will leave me.

  “We have no adversaries worthy of note outside our own ranks,” he tells her. “The morati are creatures of death by their very nature and so they cannot be a challenge to us, merely . . . an inconvenience. A Magister need do nothing to combat a morati adversary, save wait. Choose another project, sit out a century, and Death provides certain victory. Where is the challenge in that? What is the point in indulging in such conflict, when the resolution is known from the start?

  “And so the centuries pass us by, and we know that but for our terrible Secret we could have anything we want, without limit, and our consorts die in steady pageantry, paying the price for our power and we become cold, inhuman things, because Magisters who are too human perish of their own compassion. And in the end nothing really matters except those who share the same Secret, master the same power, and suffer the same dark restlessness.

  “So I saw them all there, my brothers, my rivals, and I knew that any one of them would bring me down if he could, merely because it would be a challenge to try it. They knew what I had been asked to do, of course; the whole kingdom knew. They surrounded me like vultures about a corpse, watching . . . waiting . . . hungering . . .”

  He shook his head as if to banish the memories.

  “And so the festivities began. The sun set and it was a dark night with no moons; the king had scheduled it thus deliberately. There were so many drunk revelers in the great plaza and beyond you could become intoxicated just by breathing in the air that wafted up from them, bright spirits in parti-colored costumes that flitted in and around the visiting Magisters like drunken moths, and the king beside me, drunk on his own power, on anticipation of the spectacle to come, and all the glory that his reputation would accrue from it.

  “And then it began. The morati explosions first, bursting upon the twilight sky. How magnificent they were! Yet still not enough for this king, who wanted men not only to celebrate his military victories, but to be awed by his sorcerous connections as well. And so after I had let the crowd grow accustomed to that spectacle, I lent my assistance to the efforts and increased the display tenfold in brilliance, in color, in motion . . . I conjured a thin mist throughout the heavens that reflected back the light of each explosion, so that color filled the skies as in the grandest of lightning storms. I wove the streamers of light into patterns that became something else, and then something else again . . . a woman’s smile, a soldier’s halberd, the coat of arms of the king. Night became day beneath my ministrations, yet even the most glorious sunset would have been hard pressed to compete with my spectacle, and even the drunken moths below stopped beating their wings, their beer and ale forgotten, as they gazed up in wonder at what their king had provided for them.

  “And then . . . it happened. As I had known it would. You cannot redesign the heavens without great price, and even with a young and healthy consort such a thing would have been risky at best. As it was I was calling upon more athra than my consort could spare, and his death shot through me like a spear of ice, shattering my concentration.

  “It is not normally such a sudden thing, or so disarming, but when one is in the middle of a major undertaking, it is quite terrifying. So much so that Magisters will go out of their way to drain an exhausted consort in privacy, in advance, rather than risk a new Transition in the middle of an enchantment. But that kind of murder had never been to my taste, and now I was paying the price.

  “The light in the heavens was lost to me. My life nearly was as well. In desperation my soul struck out into the night—now made dark as my conjurations faded—seeking a new source of soulfire. In that instant, that terrible instant, all my rivals knew what had happened. Of course. They had been waiting for it, holding their breath with each new display, hoping that such a moment would come. It is the only moment a Magister is truly vulnerable, in which a man might take his life . . . or attempt something worse.

  “I do not know the name of the sorceries that were launched at me then. Perhaps subtle things, that would only have left barbed hooks in my soul to answer to another’s power in the future; perhaps less subtle things, meant to cripple or maim on levels no morati would ever see. We are a cruel people at heart, and nothing inspires cruelty more than a rival’s helplessness. Meanwhile the morati world was blind to our drama, wondering only why the pretty lights had ceased, and when they would begin again.

  “At last, gasping, I succeeded in claiming a new consort, drank in its athra like a desert traveler might gulp down fresh water, and drove back all those forces that were accosting me in the darkness. I think I won. Who knows? Maybe there is something still left in me from that time. Maybe some tie between myself and some rival remains . . . how can I ever know for sure? There is a reason we fear being around other Magisters when we change consorts . . . and reasons other Magisters wish to be there when it happens.

  “That is why they had all come, of course. They knew, when they heard the spectacle advertised, what the cost was likely to be.

  “At last I managed to come to my senses and take control of my body again. Blinking, I saw King Ambulis standing over me. There was rage in his eyes.

  “ ‘Have you failed me, Magister?’ His voice was pitched low so the crowds below would not hear it, but I knew that my rivals did. ‘The sky is dark, and I do not remember ordering it so.’

  “Wearily I got to my feet and turned my attention to the night again. Below me I could see the pale faces of the visiting Magisters watching my every mood. The crowd was drunk, oblivious, screaming for more pretty lights. My head pounded from where it had struck the railing when I fell, and inside me fear was like a coiled serpent in my gut. What might my rivals have done to me, in that moment of Transition? What might they do in the next one, if Ambulis drove me hard enough to necessitate another one?

  “ ‘Well?’ my king demanded.

  “And so I drew the life force from my new consort, alighting the night with his soulfire. A glorious display of pure death, which only the Magisters understood for what it was.

  “Someone is dying for this, I thought, as my conjured lights lit up the sky. Not for martial conquest, or to create something for posterity, or even to conjure some minor luxury that I would like to possess. Someone is dying for this man’s pride. Is he worth it?”

  He pauses. “I left the next morning. And have never looked back.”

  “And have you found peace here?” Kamala asks softly.

  He stares off into the night for a long time before answering.

  “The woods are tranquil,” he says at last. “My needs are few. My consorts die of old age, mostly . . . a bit sooner than they might have otherwise, but not so soon that people remark upon it. And there are no black-robed predators surrounding me, waiting for the first sign of weakness. Yes, I suppose that is peace, as a Magister measures such things.”

  Now it is her turn to be silent. He does not need to look at her face to know what she is thinking; it is thick in the air about her.

  “It’s not enough for you, is it, Kamala?”

  She says nothing.

  “It would not have been enough for me, when I was young.”

  Emerald eyes stared out into the night, unblinking. “I have had dreams of late. Strange dreams.” She bites her lip for a moment, remembering. “I think they are . . . of my consort.”

  Ethanus stiffens. “That is not possible.”

  “So you have taught me.”

  “What do you see in these dreams? What makes you think it is him?”

  “Not a face. Nothing
that specific. I just . . . feel a presence. And I sense the link between us. I know what he is. But I can never make out who he is.” She looks up at him. “Is there any way to make the dreams clearer? I try nightly, but with no success.”

  He whispers it. “You don’t want to do that.”

  She does not argue with him—she never argues—but her eyes blaze with a headstrong defiance he knows all too well.

  “Kamala, listen to me.” He takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “That way is death, do you understand me? The gods were merciful when they declared that our consorts should be faceless entities, their identities unknown to us. If they were otherwise, how could we do what we do?”

  “Have you never wondered about the ones that sustain you?” she whispers. “It seems to me a natural curiosity.”

  “Kamala . . .” He chooses his words carefully, knowing her stubbornness for the iron thing it is. If he cannot make her understand the whys and wherefores of Magister custom it is unlikely she will respect them. “We are not human any longer, not as the morati measure humanity. We live on stolen energies, fueling a life that has long since gone cold within its own core. If there ever comes a moment when you doubt your right to claim those energies, when you regret what you must do, the link will break, and you will die.

  “Do not ask for his name. Do not try to dream of his face. Please. You must trust me in this.”

  “Do you think the dreams are real?” she persists. “Do you think if I saw his face in them it would be the real thing? Or only a fantasy of the sleeping mind, conjured by my curiosity?”

  Ethanus shakes his head, his lips tight. “I don’t know. It is said that once some Magisters tried to gain knowledge of their consorts through sorcery, but all those efforts failed; no man has ever succeeded in discovering who he was bound to, by any means . . . but those were men.” His voice lowers to a whisper, hardly louder than the night breeze, but as charged as lightning. “You are something new, that has never existed before. Maybe the rules will be different for you. Maybe a woman cannot kill a man without wanting to know his name. That doesn’t mean it is a wise thing to seek it.”

  “Maybe that is why they died,” she says quietly. “The other women. You said some of them might have come through Transition in the past, and died afterward.”

  “A speculation of mine, no more.”

  Her expression is grim, determined. “I do not intend to die.”

  “Then do not seek this knowledge.”

  “I have come this far already. Knowing a man’s face will not kill me.”

  “Kamala—”

  The glittering eyes are fierce. “Do you doubt me, my Master? Do you think I would give up this life—this eternal life—for fear of killing a single man? Do you think there is that much softness in me?”

  He chooses his words carefully. “I think that when they hang criminals they put hoods on them for a reason. It is easier to kill a man you do not know.”

  “An executioner who falters loses a day’s pay at most. A Magister loses his life. I know the difference.”

  How defiant she is! How sure of herself! It is a quality he has remarked upon since the beginning, the sheer stubbornness of one who survived so much adversity in her youth that she cannot imagine herself being bested by anything. It has been her armor against trials thus far, but it is a flawed armor. Those who do not acknowledge that dangers exist cannot prepare to face them.

  You are not yet proven as a Magister, he thinks. Not yet gone out into the world, to be tested against your peers. Until that happens you are no more than an exercise in potential, a Magister’s odd experiment . . . and the gods alone know what will happen to you when the others learn you exist.

  “I am not your teacher any longer.” The weight of the words upon his conscience is massive, but they must be spoken. “I can give you advice now, but no more. As you trusted me once, I ask that you trust me now. You have barely set your foot upon this new road and neither you nor I know where it leads. Do not let your soul be lost to distraction. Keep to the path that is charted and safe. There will be time enough later to take chances.”

  Her eyes blaze with fire but she says nothing. He sighs heavily, knowing the look. For all of her discipline and obedience in matters of apprenticeship, she remains at her core what she was the first day she arrived on his doorstep: an angry, abused child, determined to take the world by the short hairs and force it to give her what she wants. And now she has the power to do so.

  Gods help you when you start demanding what the world does not wish to give. And gods help any Magister that tries to get in your way.

  “For now,” he says quietly. “Promise me that.”

  There is a long, long silence. Before her Transition he would have known how it would end. Now . . . now there is no way to predict her.

  “For now,” she says at last. Her voice is solemn, but the fire in her eyes makes it clear just how short a time now might be.

  She turns from him and starts her way down the rocky hillside, into the shadows of the forest.

  He lets her go, in silence.

  Chapter 7

  THE WIND picked up just as the market was shutting down; its touch set the talismans about the witch’s tent to tinkling, an odd and random music to herald the coming of night.

  The witch called Rakhel counted the few coins in her purse and sighed. She hadn’t earned much today, but that was to be expected. People didn’t come to consult an oracle when their lives were going well, and the recent rains and seasonable weather had made the locals more than content. Crops were rising high and spirits with them—what need had such people of a witch’s prognostications? Even the usual diseases of harvest season seemed to be avoiding the city this year, as if all of nature were determined that the city’s witches should go without work.

  And so it was doubly fortunate for her that the foreign Magister had visited her a short while ago. His generosity would see her through a dry season and she was grateful for that, even if she did shudder each time she handled his coins. Dark omens clung to them in a faint patina that morati eyes would never see, but she had been gifted since her birth with the ability to see what others did not, and she could not mistake it. Was that something of the man’s own unique resonance, a personal darkness, or some quality that attended him as Magister? She had never been close enough to any other Magister to know. After feeling his coin, she hoped she never was close to one again. The sense of it was not right, not . . . not human.

  The cloth hanging over the doorway of the tent stirred suddenly, as if something other than wind had stroked it. Startled, she looked up, and hurriedly put the handful of coins deep into her pocket. “Yes?”

  The voice was male, and as smooth and fine as a deep-hued ale. “Is it beyond the hours of service?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Please come in.”

  She stood, that she might greet her visitor properly, and smoothed her embroidered skirts down about her.

  A man drew the flap aside and ducked slightly to clear the low entrance. He was a tall man, handsome in an indefinable way that had as much to do with the quality of his spirit as any trick of the flesh, and he moved with the easy grace of young adulthood. His clothes were plain but the quality of their cut was noteworthy, and though he wore no golden ornaments to proclaim his wealth, her Sight could pick out the shadows of past treasures that had once adorned him.

  He piqued her curiosity, enough that she dared a whisper of true magic to know who and what he was . . . and her breath caught in her throat when the answer came.

  Her knees folded beneath her, and before she spoke a word she lowered her head to the floor. “Your Highness.”

  “No need, no need,” he told her. “Please, get up.”

  She did so, and was reassured by the half-smile on his face. It was comforting, even if her Sight could make out unnamed shadows that lay behind it.

  “You know who I am?” he asked.

  “A prince o
f the Royal House.”

  “Andovan. The name is Andovan.”

  Her heart beating wildly, she nodded. “Prince Andovan. You do me great honor, my lord. How may a humble witch serve Your Highness?”

  He looked about the tent’s shadowy interior, taking in its trappings. No doubt the brightly embroidered silks and talismanic ornaments which so impressed the usual customers of the marketplace were less impressive in his sight, as he had been raised to silken garments and probably played with precious gemstones like they were a child’s marbles. But he did not seem displeased, and when his eyes fixed on her again she felt a shiver that had more to with his maleness than any thought for the difference in her station.

  “Rakhel—that’s your name, isn’t it?” He gestured toward the cushions she had set up for guests. “May I sit?”

  “I . . . yes, my lord, of course.” She hated herself for being flustered. Imagine he is nothing more than a customer. As he lowered himself to the thick cushions she hooded her eyes and tried to shut him out for a moment, to reclaim her professional demeanor. But inside her chest her heart was pounding. First a Magister, now a prince. What were the gods planning for her these days, that they sent her such distinguished visitors?

  She could have unraveled that secret, of course, had she truly wanted to. She had the power. But it would be a complex undertaking, and the price would be high. It was easy to part with a second of your life to learn a man’s name; it was another thing to offer up years of your existence for a single fragment of knowledge.

  Perhaps the Magister would tell me, she thought. Perhaps if I found him and asked him, he would be willing to use his power to help me.