“Mother?”
“My apologies. There is a great clarity to your colors; I sense that you understand, but do not accept. My mother, Gloriatrix. The Iron Queen.”
“In Eod. She’s in Eod, I believe.”
She was surprised that her mouth moved, as stunned as she felt. Then, the dead man came nearer and nearer; his shadow fell upon her, colder even than the frost and wind. Rhiannon shivered as fear and shock ran through her in wild currents. Was this it? Was she to die? She closed her eyes, and the strangely pleasant spice of the monster was all around her. Then Rhiannon’s arms were pried off the tree and a warmth came over her quivering shoulders and head: a cloak. When she peeked again, the dead man was walking down the white hill away from both her and Heathsholme.
“A kindness for a kindness,” he said. As she watched, he ripped off his oddly fitting dress and continued on in his ratty jerkin and trousers. He no longer felt the need to conceal his curse in this age of the cursed. “I see that Death arranges her forces. She will push west. She will move to crush all life and to end this war in the only way she understands: through extinction. I must discover why the changelings move south, too. If you wish to live, you should race straight to Eod, which is the only place on Geadhain with walls capable of withstanding an assault from either army. Perhaps I shall see you there, in Eod. Good luck to you, crimson soul. Good luck.”
In a twist of snow and wrinkle of gray, he vanished. Eod, thought Rhiannon. She didn’t stop to cast another prayer for the souls of Heathsholme. Instead, she ran.
XIII
THE EMPRESS
I
Moreth’s prediction of a hard day’s march proved true. The Amakri tribe hiked from first light until the sun had vanished behind the range that seemed forever out of reach. From there, it cast a haunting purple glow. Night never brought a darkness deeper than that violet, and a Dreamer in the sky scattered the heavens with stars and a captivating, transparent ribbon of many colors that hung, wavering, above them.
“Fótac Mágissa (Witch Light),” said Talwyn to his companions.
The scholar often acted as translator for his company and the Amakri, his working knowledge of the Pandemonian language having quickly surpassed Moreth’s. Each of Pandemonia’s tribes spoke its own dialect, explained Talwyn when making apologies for Moreth’s struggle to understand; it seemed that whatever dialect Moreth had learned was not the one used by these people. Similarities existed between all of Pandemonia’s tribal dialects, which was how Moreth had understood the few scraps of Doomchaser chatter he’d figured out on his own. But whatever primeval language lay at the root of all Pandemonia’s tongues had been obscured by the unique eccentricities and colloquialisms the region’s many different tribes had layered onto it; the language’s original form had been lost. “A wonderful jumble of regional linguistic variations have developed over time,” proclaimed Talwyn to his vaguely nodding companions.
While Mouse and Moreth had teased Talwyn during the first part of their journey—he was such an easy mark—they’d come to appreciate his intellect, as well as his ability to withstand their friendly teasing. He was eagerly intelligent without being pedantic. Mouse was of the impression that he was genuinely fascinated with the world. Back and forth Talwyn ran, from Amakri to Amakri, chatting. At times, the scholar engaged in long conversations with Pythius, who walked at the head of the caravan. Mouse was curious as to what they spoke about, as it often occasioned laughter and violent—but well-meaning—slaps from the shaman to Talwyn. Watching him absorb himself in the Amakri’s alien culture, seeing him dive without fear into the unknown, made Mouse realize he was a braver person than she’d thought.
For these lands were not safe, and those seeking danger would not be disappointed. Across the tundra ran invisible clefts filmed over with a lace of delicate ice and exposed only by slight furrows in the snow that ran in patterns like dried riverbeds. Mouse found it impossible to spot these perils in the snowy wastes, but the Amakri did not, and were able to prevent the companions from tumbling down into the black, echoing crevasses. It was a good thing that Mouse was not responsible for their scouting. She couldn’t navigate an area that wasn’t made of concrete and iron. More often than not, she became distracted by Pandemonia’s cruel beauty, much as she had been similarly preoccupied in Alabion. As they walked under twists of ice arching over the land like bridges made for frost giants, she gawked. As they passed by a herd of white-coated beasts that looked like winged stallions with horned, reptilian heads, Mouse stared in wonder. The herd of horse-lizards wasn’t friendly, and the creatures screeched at the sight of the Doomchaser procession. In a cawing flock, they flapped off the icy summit where they’d been perched and flew toward the tribe, but they were startled away by slingshots and three blasts from Pythius’s horn—blasts so loud that snow rumbled down the walls of the valley in which the tribe stood. The instrument had to be magikal.
“Ourliach frícht,” said Talwyn, after running back with information on the beasts told him by Pythius. “‘Howling horrors’ is the gist of it. Pythius says that they will pick a man clean to his bones, then eat those, too. Like vultures, only they don’t care if you’re dead.”
Excited by this dreadful discovery, Talwyn dashed back into the line of a thousand strong and was quickly lost. Mouse spotted him again only when he had returned to his place up front with the Amakri leader, but it became more difficult to see him as the day grew darker. Although he was such a small distance away, she missed him nonetheless. In fact, she ached for each of her company: Morigan, her great uncle, the Wolf, and her dear Adam. She prayed to the one inside of her that they were safe. Then, while shuffling along and feeling sorry for herself—which she hated doing—it dawned upon her that as a vessel, she should be entitled to certain privileges, certain rights. If Feyhazir was free to use her, then he should submit himself to her wishes every so often. He’d done so when he’d disposed of Augustus and the Broker and sent them to their rightful place at the Red Witches’ table. Time for a second favor, thought Mouse, and she Willed the entity inside of her to awaken. Feyhazir moved like a brewing, rumbling storm in her body and set her nerves alight with strange titillations.
I have a request. I wish to speak with my friend and your daughter, Morigan, as you have done before. Make it happen.
The inner storm grumbled, roiled, and then settled back into sleep. Mouse couldn’t tell whether or not it had signaled agreement, but she felt she wouldn’t have to wait very long to find out.
II
Under an ethereal ribbon of emerald, gold, and aubergine Witch Light, the procession stopped for the night. They were to bed down on the cold green stone rather than build an encampment. The Amakri used their baggage to make beds and pillows, though many stayed up late and chose to battle in their warrior circles rather than rest around the campfires. Handfuls of Amakri, burdened by packs, left to forage from what seemed a barren land, and somehow they’d return with sticks, fresh water, root vegetables, burnable moss, and other treasures of the land necessary for survival. One group of Amakri, battle-worn and covered in scars beneath their tattoos, left with Pythius to hunt for food in the frozen jungle. As the party marched out, Mouse was surprised to see Talwyn was not in attendance. In a few sands, a pouting Talwyn kicked his way through the camp toward where Mouse and Moreth huddled in their furs, trying to chat away the cold.
“I’m guessing you weren’t welcome on the safari?” Moreth laughed.
“Adýnamo,” whispered Talwyn, flopping down on the ground before the pair. “It means weak. Or lame, or skinny…I don’t quite have the translation down, but whatever the nuance, it’s not a nice thing to be called.”
Mouse patted him on the back. “I’m sorry. I can see how hard you try to make yourself useful.”
“I am useful, dammit!” cried Talwyn, shrugging off her mittened hand.
“Don’t go working yourself up about it!” puffed Mouse. She’d tried to be pleasant, but had already exhausted h
er shallow well of politeness. A thought flashed into her head. “You don’t—I mean, you couldn’t be interested in that savage?”
Rising to his feet again, Talwyn spoke down to his two companions. “I find Pythius and his people interesting. I believe they have a connection to the land of a kind we in the West have eradicated or forgotten. Now, hand me your pistol, Moreth. I shall show you how useful I can be.”
Moreth’s composure failed when he thought of Talwyn pointing a technomagikal pistol at anything but his own head—and even if Talwyn did that and pulled the trigger, he’d likely only hit enough skull to disfigure himself. Laughing and near tears, Moreth couldn’t find words; however, he managed to shake his head.
A fire stirred within Talwyn, and he was suddenly ablaze with something hitherto unseen in him by either companion: a commanding might. “I am the last surviving heir of the Blackmores. I am a lord and master in my own right. I demand that you give me your weapon, or I shall take it from you myself.”
Talwyn’s ferocity did not waver, and his glare did not soften. Many Amakri paused in their evening rituals to watch the Westerners’ altercation. Moreth felt mesmerized by, if unafraid of, Talywn’s sudden change in behavior. The last surviving Blackmore? How had he not thought of that before? If the scholar survived the trip home, he would indeed inherit tremendous wealth and privilege. Although Menos and its resources had been ravaged, the Blackmores held titles in and collected tithes from many bountiful fiefdoms in Central Geadhain. This bastard child—Moreth was familiar with the official line of descent—could well become a new and influential Lord.
Courteous now, Moreth took his pistol from its holster and placed it in the man’s waiting hand. Talwyn gripped the weapon securely and cocked it with a flip of his thumb. He seemed as familiar with its use as Moreth was.
“Thank you,” said Talwyn, once again humble and unassuming.
As Talwyn scanned the landscape, Mouse and Moreth exchanged gestures and expressions of perplexity. Talwyn knew what they were doing while his back was turned. He understood the experience of being judged and marginalized; he’d been socially ostracized for most of his life. He was a strong man, though, with an impressive tolerance for punishment. Once he’d settled in Riverton, he’d taken long, exhausting hikes and jogs during his time away from research. Morning’s red glow would summon him daily to the beaches of the Feordhan, and there he would swim against its mightiest waves. Although he maintained a safe scientific distance from all things, he believed that to effectively analyze life, one needed to experience it to some degree. Pushing his body to certain limits fit within this ethos. Mouse was incorrect in thinking that his body was a gift of genetics and not the result of devotion to rigorous activity. Rarely did he use his flesh for pleasure, as those that appealed to him were hard to find.
As Talwyn contemplated himself and his abilities, he also searched the sharp valleys, snow-gusting plains, and glowing night sky for a target. Then he spotted a flock of black birds—or birdlike things—flying across the ribbon of Witch Light. What they were wasn’t as much of a consideration as the distance, the wind, and the velocity of this weapon’s fire. Mathematics being one of his many fortes, calculating such details took only a speck—less than a blink. Hand over forearm, he lined up his sight, savoring his mastery of physics. Talwyn took his time before pulling the trigger. While he dallied, he offhandedly spoke to those watching him. Little did he know that he’d now drawn a crowd far greater than his two companions: many Amakri wanted to see why the man was pointing his small metal stick tipped with blue fire at the sky.
“One of my research projects was for Fulminister Arms,” he said. “A Menosian company that specialized in firearms much like your pistol, Moreth. Their products were custom crafted and possessed an enhanced technomagikal T-engine chamber that propelled bullets in a straight line, rather than letting them succumb to the laws of gravity and arc downward. They used newfangled, inexhaustible shells, and surely, your pistol is loaded with something along those lines. Otherwise, you would have run out of iron by now, and I’ve never seen you oil or care for your weapon and its munitions. Therefore, I’m assuming your chamber compresses and crystalizes the moisture and material in the air—microscopic stuff—into a pellet keratinized in magik, which is then fired with a controlled spark of truefire. An elemental gun, not a crude apparatus of hammer and powder. How do I know of this elegant feat of engineering, you may be wondering? Well, I helped design the modern innovations of this technomagik. I’m forced to admit that the term for your chamber and others much like it—‘T-engine’—is a legacy of mine. ‘Talwynian Engine’ would have served just as well, though I suppose that would have been unnecessarily showy. I handled the prototypes more than the others in the laboratory did; most scientists are terribly afraid of guns and hands-on testing. I became rather a good shot. I bet I could have beaten even my ghoulish brother at the Chasing of the Hart—not that I was ever invited to compete…”
BANG!
A flash of blue sparks and flame lit up the camp.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A couple of shots followed these three. The flock of black things had been flying many hundreds of paces up in the air, so far away that he could not clearly see them. A smile broke his mask of concentration as five shadows dropped out of the formation in the sky, while a sixth wove and spun in a spiral of death, eventually falling to the tundra as well. The Amakri chattered in awe, then cheered and pointed at the scholar. A few muttered “mágos (sorcerer).”
Talwyn turned around to hand the smoking pistol back to Moreth, but the Menosian did not immediately reclaim his weapon. “Oh, and forgive me for my outburst. I hate all trappings of status, to be honest. So much responsibility, so many mouths to feed, hands to grease, and ears to please with compliments. Still, I did use the Blackmore name to get my foot in the door with Fulminister. They wouldn’t have looked at me otherwise. Augustus would have killed me had he known. Alas, he shan’t be killing anyone ever again.” He shook the pistol by its grip, as if it were an unwanted thing. “Are you going to take your weapon? I’m quite finished with it.”
Finally, Moreth took back his pistol, stowing it away in its holster. Although Moreth wasn’t ready to heap the man with compliments, he did say, “Should you need it again, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you.”
Having proved his point, Talwyn wandered over to the nearest group of Amakri. The tribespeople slapped him about in that rude, friendly way of theirs and no doubt asked him what further wonders he could work.
“That was a surprise,” said Mouse.
“Indeed,” replied Moreth. “This land is full of wonders and terrors. I am rarely wrong, and yet I have been wrong about Talwyn. He is more of a man and warrior than we have given him credit for. I was much like him, once: trying hard not to be seen as different, but possessed of skills and feelings no others had. The man’s mind is staggering. You’d have to be a seasoned huntsman to make those shots. I shall not test my pride by trying to do so myself. And I was lucky to have a father figure who showed me what was and was not important—Talwyn seems to have figured that out without aid, through his own modesty and brilliance.”
“A father figure? You mean the man you traveled with before? In Pandemonia?”
“Yes.” Moreth looked away from Mouse, his face wrinkled with sadness. “We shall talk about him another time, if you are interested.”
Mouse smiled. “We shall have much time to talk, I feel. Our road is by no means out of track. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment—someone to meet.”
“In your sleep?”
Without answering, Mouse lay down on her side and rolled herself up in her cloak. She closed her eyes and played every trick she knew—counting sheep, counting backward, envisioning a serene, breezy plain—to convince her body to sleep. For if there were any way for her to commune with the Daughter of Fate, it would be in the otherworld between here and there, in the gray spaces of Dream. Mouse kne
w she and Morigan were indeed about to meet when from the depths of her body arose the tickling storm of music and thunder, the presence of the Dreamer. Powerfully and irresistibly, he told her to sleep.
III
Morigan and Mouse meet in an endless field of swaying, golden wheat, its waves stirred by breezes that smell of cotton and flowers. No real place could be this serene: the gray-fringed sky and wavering sphere of sun tell the travelers that they are in an illusion constructed of their hearts’ desires. Still a great distance apart, the soul sisters spot each other. Because this is a construction of their fantasies, they meet simply by Willing it to be so. They are carried by a wind that coddles them and then deposits them gently upon the ground so that they stand facing each other.
Morigan looks much the same as she did the last time Mouse was with her in the real world. However, in Dream, Mouse can see deeper into the seer’s soul—either that, or in this fleshless realm, the silver light bleeding out of Morigan cannot be disguised. Morigan notices a similar red radiance—the auric color of passion, zest, and honor—leaking out of Mouse’s hazy figure, and reflects that her friend’s truth is very beautiful.
They hug for a while. Even though they have been apart only a few days, the heartache of their separation resonates as if it has been years. Fake sunshine and the heat of their auras make them warm. When they pull apart, each sees the other has been crying.
“Look what I’ve done to you,” teases Morigan. “You’re leaking.”
Mouse pushes at her friend. “I bloody well missed you. I didn’t think I would. I won’t say any more about it. Tears are for widows and whimperers. I am neither.”
Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) Page 51