With a final stomp from the leader of the Headless, the foot tapping stopped.
Fright wafted from the predators. The beasts clawed to their feet then tumbled away, each curling into a protective ball that crunched and skipped down the volcano. They had to be able to still see out of their insect-sized eyes because one of the rocky spheres righted itself back to its four legs to skid to a stop before smashing into an outcrop.
Another predator was not so quick to stop the roll, and it slammed into a rise in the slope in a spray of stone flakes. Celaise gazed away from the wreck of a Headless, up at the shuddering volcano and its spout of ash.
Do they fear the shaking, she brooded, the sight of the summit? She had too little Black Wine to squander on wrong guesses. If she tried to create an entire volcano, it would crush her into the Void.
The tribe descended with its cattle. Celaise wondered if the Headless had fled from the ranks of horns, cudgels, and spears. The cows seemed surefooted enough in the night, while the men squinted into the darkness. The bull snorted and hoofed the ground where the Headless had danced, then it bolted to hide at the back of the herd.
Some bull, Celaise thought.
As she followed alongside the tribe, she scented for the Headless. They might gather for an ambush. Shadows attached to her skirt then sloughed off as she passed.
Her eyes caught on Jerani. His hair was so red she could see the color in the moonlight. Red had been her favorite color, ever since she had been passed over for not being lovely enough to wear the yellow robes of a priestess. Jerani's crimson locks plaited down his toned shoulders. His was a lean strength.
Her bracelet shone on his arm. Despite the beauty she had created in it, the bracelet was still a warning to her. Celaise cringed, glad to be rid of its weight.
Jerani leaped atop boulders and raced up rough slopes to peer into gullies in the mountain. Each of his motions flowed into another, his footfalls dusting the ground, while his red locks streamed behind him. It pleased her to watch him.
She could not match his tempo, not when she had to drag her hunger and lug her weakness. A beast could charge through her True Dress without leaving her scratched, but all creatures had a soft spot. Celaise hid hers several feet behind her, in the shadows.
When the tribe reached level ground, they ran. Celaise suspected they did not want to give the Headless time to sneak around them for an ambush. A calf stumbled, and the lead cow bawled to see it fall. Another cow swerved into its neighbor in a clatter of horns to avoid stomping on the calf.
“Catch her up, Jerani,” the tall warrior called. “Before she's trod!”
Jerani slapped his own thigh and bolted between the cattle. Tumbling between the fore and hind legs of a cow, he hoisted up the calf and leaned into a sprint. Three cows crashed over the spot the calf had been sprawled.
When he jogged to the front of the herd with the little cow in his arms, the tall warrior rapped Jerani on his backside with a cudgel. “Thought you were faster than that. You almost lost our Gem there.”
Jerani did not respond to the provocation, but Celaise thought the tall warrior ungracious and unfair.
Celaise worried her hunger might bear her down in a faint, and she imagined Jerani picking her up, her head resting against his shoulder as he carried her. She would not weigh much more than the calf. And what a relief it would be.
Of course, she would never allow another to touch her, not if she had any choice. She swatted aside the silly nightdream.
The tribe pulled away into the distance, and she gazed around, looking for any sign of the Headless. If they attacked the people now she would be too far away to defend, as she had promised the Holy Woman.
Dust clouds drifted down from different points around the volcano. Celaise's chest tightened, and she wondered how many hundreds of Headless neared. The rumbling hordes drew closer, and moonlight shone off rows upon rows of what looked like pale upraised arms of ogres, ready to grab men off their feet. Only, it was neither Headless nor giants but more herds of cattle, their horns as huge as those in Jerani's tribe.
Men ran beside the cows. Celaise realized she was seeing the tribes meeting. With a drumming of hooves, they formed defensive rings of horn.
Packs of Headless slunk around the tribes, trailing a fear essence like moldy tortillas. They scampered and lumbered off. From miles away, their footfalls drummed in patterns.
Celaise swore they were calling to each other. The Headless will return. In a swarm.
While she was wondering if they would attack tonight or tomorrow night, she caught an unexpected scent. It was if a wind had gusted over open barrels in a wine cellar then wafted her with alcohol.
A Feaster. And not one I've met. The aroma of this vintage boasted a dry, flowery tang.
Facing the direction of the heady scent, she gazed over the savanna. Grass stretched to the starry horizon in a flatness that would remind her of the ocean if not for the clumps of trees. Like her, the Feaster would walk in shadow and only reveal himself, or herself, at the last moment. Then they would strike at each other like dueling snakes to see who rolled belly-up in submission.
Often as not, Celaise had won such contests, but never when she was as starved as this. And if she lost, the Feaster could ignore her wishes and attack the gathered tribes. A lone Feaster might rout and ravage any number of men outside at night. Fear harvested from the first kill would ferment enough Black Wine to frighten the next ten.
Watching someone else Feast while Celaise had to abstain would break her mind, and she needed the tribes. For now, at least. The thought was sour on her tongue, but she might depend on their weapons to strike down the Headless.
No, she had to stop this rival Feaster, defeat him and command him. She waited, hands clenching about her neck, ready to tear off her shadows and fight.
Crickets chirped their mad scream-song. She strained to hear the Feaster, and her nose pointed right then left, trying to pinpoint the flowery scent. Sometimes Feasters would circle each other, but this one seemed to be headed straight at her. Great, he's confident.
Celaise wanted to hope that the rival would leave her and the tribesmen be, that he would respect her trial and not interfere. But Celaise had found little affection in Feasters for their lord, and unless this Feaster had received a direct command, he might leap at any chance to thwart the plan of their three-headed master.
She thought she needed the tribes to defeat the Headless, but the Lord of the Feast might prefer she worked alone. He may not care if another Feaster ripped apart the defensive rings of horns, and the first rule among Feasters was that anyone foolish enough to be outside at night deserved to be drowned in Black Wine.
The crickets silenced, and she knew her challenger was near. Not that the nearby bugs sensed the Feasters, his magic was invading her consciousness to block out their droning “skritch, skritch.” Black Wine only touched the mind. It turned one's senses traitor.
Celaise revealed herself in her True Dress. At the start of a duel she often sent gusts whistling out of the heights that made up her gown, but since she had not Feasted she had little Black Wine. She could not splurge.
The savanna buzzed with thousands of insect wings taking flight. Celaise first thought she heard the crickets again, but this drone pitched higher in her ears, grated against her senses with more urgency. The night throbbed and whined with a sound familiar in a teeth-clenching, neck-swatting way.
Mosquitoes? The mundaneness of it caught Celaise off guard. She had expected flying snakes, or an ooze clogged with skulls, or some such terror, and she wondered if a mosquito swarm passed nearby by chance.
The air sparkled with the beating of countless crystalline wings. Stars winked out, and her view of the horizon blurred from the multitude of bloodthirsty bugs. Two long swarms reached down to her like shimmering arms ready to smother with bites.
Her skin crawled in anticipation of being pockmarked by chafing red bumps, and worries of maddening itches jolted her
mind with orange panic. She wanted to run, though she knew that would only make a Feaster's magic stronger. The swarms had to belong to her adversary.
Normal mosquitoes could not harm her while she wore her True Dress, but she did not wish to clash against the Feaster's will, not when the scale of the castings meant her rival's blood must be rich with Black Wine. She could sweep clouds of the mosquitoes into her dress and let the high winds freeze them and rip off their wings, but that would still be acting on the defensive. Reacting to the magic only makes it stronger.
Instead she would try to strike the first and last blow. I'll only have the strength for one. She believed she had found the source of the wine scent, behind a tree with spiky and serrated leaves. Lifting her mantle over her face, she vanished and reappeared behind the tree and the Feaster.
In truth, she had not moved. Throwing an image of herself forward did not advance her vision, and she could only hope she had guessed right about the Feaster's location. At a moment's reflection, her adversary would know their magic had no such power of movement. She had to act faster than thought.
The other Feaster would catch a whiff of a sharp, hollow wine—her scent—and see a flash of blue. Shifting her image so far away strained her. If her rival had time to look closely at her, the Feaster would see a face resembling pottery made by a child, a dress painted by the same uncertain hand.
Celaise gave her competitor no time to think. She embraced the Feaster, made her opponent feel balance tilting backward, stomach rising in a fall. Her power at that range was too weak to plant in his mind a panorama of clouds, mountains, and distant ground. Instead she scoured the Feaster's eyes with the bright light of a sun, which would be an expected sight while plummeting backward to death.
The mosquito swarms vanished.
Nothing was more potent than fear from another Feaster. She tasted its savory draft, a vintage fit for the emperor, trickling in screeching rivulets of pleasure over her tongue and down her throat.
Celaise swallowed once and was filled with power.
She ached to drink more. Her victory hummed inside her, and she could strengthen her grip on the Feaster now, show every detail in a final descent, could make her prisoner feel each sensation of impact and bones ripping through skin.
She released the man. The Lord of the Feast commanded them to duel only to first fright, and to defy him was to ask for an insanity of pain before death.
Celaise's true form glided around the tree to face the Feaster. His clean-shaven head glistened as he stumbled to bow. His skin shone with oil, and he wore an open vest, tattoos covering him. Circle designs interlocked up his arms and legs like chain mail. On second glance, the links became mosquitoes and biting flies inked into his skin. Their wings scaled his limbs.
“I am Elsben, your servant.” The Feaster's amber eyes sparkled. His face glowed with life, his frame surging with strength and health. He lowered himself to one knee.
“Celaise,” she said.
“My Lady Plummet, it is no dishonor to kneel before one so beautiful. Your eyes are brighter than Morimound diamonds.” He reached to grasp her hand, chin dipping forward as if to kiss it. His fingers passed through her glove into a day-lit sky. “Ahh! You are a master of displacement.”
She inclined her head.
“But how can you live like this?” His voice carried buzzing undertones. “To never touch, to deprive yourself sensation from the world you rule? How abominable!”
“Nothing feels better than safety,” she said.
“So cautious and so young.” Within his skin, the insect tattoos fluttered their wings, and black designs rippled down his arms and legs. He said, “I see the Father chose you for a reason.”
When Feasters spoke of their lord, they called him the Father. He was not her real father, though he had given Celaise her name. A new name for a new life.
Celaise had not chosen to be a Feaster. It had been the last path left open to her. Not that I am blameless. She had made one mistake. She had trusted a man. An image flickered through her mind of a brightly dressed merchant shackling a girl's arm with a copper bracelet, which glittered in her eyes more than gold.
A few mosquitoes crawled out of Elsben's skin, turning from tattoos into real buzzing creatures. They rearranged themselves on his arm then soaked back into his flesh. She suspected this man—healthy as he now looked—had survived a similar ordeal as she. He too wore magical armor of his own frightful design. They were kin, with one Father.
Elsben asked, “Have you sniffed out what the Headless fear?”
She pointed up to the volcano and its steam vents.
“Really? I painted them a cheery fire, they romped straight through it. No interest in art at all, but no matter.” His thin scrawls of brows turned down, and the wing tattoos murmured. “Is it true the Father banned you from eating?”
“No people.”
“However do you manage? How do you live?”
She shut her eyes, swaying as a pang of hunger rumbled through her. Elsben's fear had roused her appetite. She could eat for hours and still not have enough, but Celaise forced her attention away from the burning emptiness inside her.
“I try not to think about it,” she said.
“The Father hates us. You don't deserve this torture, don't think you do.”
Many Feasters resented their lord. She had admired the Father for his rigid rules, until he had singled her out with this impossible trial.
Elsben's fingers twitched over a hornet tattoo at the center of his chest. His wine scent doubled in potency as his fear increased. “I wish I had your willpower,” he said. “If I had, maybe I wouldn't have Feasted tonight. I knew the village had a Bright Palm—”
“A Bright Palm?”
Celaise knew what it was, though she wished she did not. Bright Palms looked like men, but they might as well have been walking statues. They felt nothing. No love. No hope. No fear. By castrating their emotions—by mutilating their own minds—they gained a soulless kind of power.
They were also immune to her magic.
“I pranced off before he spotted me,” Elsben said. “But he'll find the bodies left from my Feast, and if the Bright Palm is worth his weight in shit, he'll know.”
The corpses would not have a mark on them. Feaster magic left not a bite wound, no blood spilled or lost. The thought of a Bright Palm nearby scared Celaise more than had Elsben's gusts of skin-nibblers. Tearing pain smashed outward from her belly.
“I haven't a chance, have I?”
Her voice filtered through her gown's wind and clouds, which muffled it but could not hide all her fear. She would need to Feast on all the Headless on the savanna, and the first the Bright Palm saw of it, he would walk through all her protective magic and break her.
Elsben breathed in her fright and sighed in resigned contentment. “Will you remember me, Celaise?”
In answer, she distilled Black Wine into a mirror image of the man, down to the gilded scrollwork on his open vest. The two Elsbens stood beside each other in somber regard. Feasters had a tradition of keeping portraits of each other in memory. Those who died would live on in their brothers and sisters.
He returned the courtesy, and a twin of Celaise appeared nearby then vanished. “If I make it off this wasteland,” Elsben said, “I will tell our brothers and sisters of you. I promise that, Celaise.”
She could do nothing more for him. They parted ways in the night.
Jerani sweated under the midmorning sun, the muscles in his back and thighs pulsing and burning as he held up a heifer's foot. Sundew leaned her full weight against Jerani, apparently relieved to rest after last night's run.
“There's the thorn.” Tall Tachamwa leaned down to point between the two hoof claws.
“Ung!” Jerani's shoulders began to tremble. “A hand? Before she flattens me.”
“No, no. You're doing fine.” Tachamwa backed a step away. “Pluck it out now.”
Jerani tried to shift the foot to one
hand and balance it on his knees while scrabbling at the embedded thorn. His fingers kept sliding off it. Sundew mooed a sigh and leaned further on him, and Jerani imagined the thousand-pound heifer falling on his collapsed body, trapping him, with Tachamwa leaving to take a nap.
Not that Jerani was frustrated with Sundew. Not exactly. Each cow fed and nurtured the tribe, as a mother, and if his mother had stepped on a thorn, he would have let her lean on him while he removed it.
Swallowing down the lump of memories of his own mother, he peered at that evil thorn and decided he had no other choice. Lowering his head, he gripped the thorn between his teeth and pulled it out. He spat it on the ground.
“What're you doing?” Tachamwa ground the thorn to pulp with his war club. “Leaving it for anyone to step on.”
As Jerani lowered Sundew's foot and tried to catch his breath, a bellowing voice startled him.
“Tachamwa, you great big teat!”
Even the heifer looked up at the approach of a huge man, every inch of his skin etched with warrior marks. Tachamwa's face splayed with terror, and he fumbled with his club as the new warrior reached for him. Tachamwa was shoved back, his long length slithering in the air to avoid falling on his rump.
“Ah, Melelek,” Tachamwa said. “Um, the cows of the Blood Bull Tribe are well?”
“Came to see for myself.” Melelek peered with accusation at the nearby Greatheart cows, his face pitted with circles connected with a hash of lines. Warrior marks cluttered his neck with bumps, so many that it looked like lizard skin. Squares etched his arms, becoming smaller closer to his hands, more than Jerani could count. “You milk clots, you stole our cows.”
The sight of so many warrior marks made Jerani woozy. His own initiation under the knife had felt like dripping sunfire onto his face, and a warrior accepted the pain to show he was strong. Jerani wondered why Melelek had wanted to prove himself a hundred times more than needed.
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