A love of bloodlust and hunger, indeed, thought Mouse.
VII
Talwyn fussed and remained awake. The whirring genius of his mind made sleep impossible. His companions’ measured breaths, which sounded like the beats of a metronome, increased his restlessness. He rose in a hurry, threw on an over garment, boots, and gloves, and escaped.
A murderous orange dawn, like a fire rising from the basement of a sleeping house, greeted Talwyn. He had to squint and lower his head, as the glare off the ice-glazed land prevented him from seeing much of anything. Talwyn followed the scent of smoke and the murmurs of voices to a nearby campfire, where men and women hunched on boulders, appearing exhausted but relaxed.
“Proí échei érthech. Eímast asfaleís (Another morning has come. We are safe),” said one of the haggard guards as he sipped a warm, steaming drink.
Morning and light. Creatures of darkness would not hunt in this hourglass.
“Pythíou pae epidiókei (Pythius seeks you),” said the warrior.
Of course he does. Questions aplenty, I’m sure. I have more than a few for him, thought Talwyn. First, however, he wanted to check on his patients, to see how they’d passed the second night after their surgeries. He’d left those attending to the wounded with strict instructions on how to treat and cleanse the excisions and amputations. Still, medicine appeared to be a foreign concept to these people, and, feeling worried now, he rushed through the waking encampment toward the tents circling the ashes of the great pyre of the dead. Outside the ring of black, Talwyn noticed the many unusual piles of stones surrounding the funeral site: they looked like little men with stacks for feet and longer planks of rock for hands. Ash blew in the wind here, and standing still for too long left an unpleasant bitterness in Talwyn’s mouth, so he entered the closest tent.
Roughly six wounded and one or two caregivers could fit inside each tent. However, five of the bedrolls he saw were empty. Only bloodied dressings and imprints could be seen where their occupants had lain. Talwyn recalled that it was here that the grisliest amputations had occurred. The smell of singed, cauterized flesh still clung to the leather of the tent. It seemed inconceivable that these folk could be up and walking around—many were missing one or both of their legs. In front of him, an Amakri warrior was busy rewrapping the stomach of a cringing man. He had been one of the luckier fellows of the night, receiving only a concussion and a full suite of broken ribs.
“Mágos,” they said, and paused in respect.
Talwyn pieced together a question about the others, making sure to stress the “where have they gone” part.
Frowning, the warrior answered. “Áfisan. Den tha thélate na tous doúme étsi ki alliós. Den ítan charoúmenos den ítan pléon synoliká kai den axízei.” (They left. You would not want to see them anyway. They were not happy—they were no longer whole and so of no worth.)
No worth! He had saved their lives. Talwyn stormed off to the other shelters, where more empty pallets, missing amputees, and unconcerned faces told the same tale. Barging out of the last tent, he crashed into Pythius. The strong man stopped him from hurting either of them, and held Talwyn, still huffing, at bay.
“Épsachna gia esás,” (I was looking for you), he said.
Surprised by his own strength, Talwyn pushed the man off, then poked his chest with an accusing dagger of a finger. “I-I was looking for you, too! Where are the patients? The-the asthenoch? The ones missing their arms and legs, their pódia kai ta chéria? You couldn’t have sent them away! Even your people aren’t that cruel! They’re not well—”
Pythius shook the scholar so hard that his brain rattled. Then the fearsome, scowling shaman dragged Talwyn past the stirred onlookers—who tutted at the spectacle—and into a tent. Two Amakri sat inside eating their morning stew, but Pythius roared at them to leave. The men hurried off. Once alone, Pythius approached Talwyn, his shoulders bowed. Instead of making a move to punish the scholar again, he rubbed his smarting wrist.
“Dýsi Touílio, tóso díkaio. Den íthela na sas mólopes. O laós mou den prépei poté na deis tin adynamía. Den boroúme na afísoume mia prosvolíkai apergía enantíon mou statheí.” (West Sun, so fair. I did not mean to bruise you. My people must never see weakness. I cannot let an insult against me stand.) Pythius held Talwyn’s wrist, and the touch became a caress. Both men shivered, and the shaman pulled away. He continued. “Rotáte gia tous travmatíes pou koimoúntai mazí mas óchi perissótero, kai tha sou po. Min koitáte epáno mas, tyfloménos apó orgí kai tin krísi. Zoúme ópos échoume zísei edókai chiliádes chrónia, kai oi trópoi mas eínai giatí fylí mas ypoménei.” (You ask about the wounded who sleep with us no more, and I shall tell you. Do not be blinded by rage and judgment. We live as we have lived for thousands of years, and it is thanks to our ways that our tribe has endured.)
As Pythius explained, Talwyn realized that once again he had spoken too soon, much as he had during the incident with Temupka. Just as sending the weaker children of the Amakri to live with the Lakpoli was an act of mercy, so too was banishing those too lame to hunt in Pandemonia’s most dangerous regions. Of what use would a lame hunter be against one of Brutus’s vile Red Riders? How would he be able to keep up with the tribe during their long hikes through lands of fluctuating fire, water, summer, and snow? It was these Doomchasers’ own pride more than any pressure from the tribe that made them leave. These invalids were not formally excommunicated and remained true kinsmen of the tribe. An envoy of warriors would march with them to the Lakpoli cities, which would become their new homes. One such envoy had left yesterday morning while Talwyn, Mouse, and Moreth had secluded themselves and listened to the fallen master’s tale. Had Talwyn been about, he surely would have seen the procession.
“Prépei na eímaste ischyrós, vlépete. Prépei na eímaste sklirá. Arithmós mas leptaínei. To aíma mas chánei ti dýnamí tou. Káthe epochí, ypárchoun ólo kai ligótera apó tin ischyrí pou gennioúntai.” (We must be strong, you see. We must be hard. Our numbers thin. Our blood loses its strength. Each season, fewer and fewer of the strong are born.)
The men sat, and a series of conversations occurred. At last, proud Pythius explained the plight of his people and their own interest in the chalice. There were things the shaman hadn’t wanted to share with the travelers. Bashfully, he told the scholar how this quest for the chalice wasn’t new. Indeed, for decades now, they’d been on the hunt for the relic. An artifact that was more than a mere cup or symbolic instrument, it was part of the ancient ritual—the Covenant—once made between Feyhazir and the Doomchasers.
In ancient days, when Feyhazir had walked in a mortal vessel and lived with this tribe of Amakri, he’d shared with them his blood and power, which had transformed them into beast-men with thick hides, resilient Wills, and serpentine quickness. But in recent generations, the Dreamer’s blood had thinned. Not all children possessed horns and fury; many were soft skinned like Talwyn. Even in Pythius’s lifetime, the tribe had produced as many adýnamos (weak) as drakos (strong)—and the balance continued to shift. It was for this reason that Temupka said the prayer for her unborn child. Talwyn considered the pressure of having to make the decision to excommunicate some members for the good of the tribe, as well as the responsibility of preserving a culture that reached back thousands of years—both rested on Pythius’s great, though straining, shoulders.
Talwyn had been a horrible fool.
“For a learned man, I can be quite stupid at times.”
Pythius turned and smiled; although he couldn’t understand what the foreigner had said, that it was meant as an apology was clear. Staring intently, eyes like two beads of green fire, the shaman approached. He gripped the back of Talwyn’s neck and placed his rough, hot forehead against the scholar’s. Talwyn froze: because of nerves, their breathing so close to one another, the cinnamon and lavender mixed into the scent of the man’s raw sweat—as if the oils he surrounded himself with in his meditations had seeped into his flesh. Prior
to this moment, Talwyn had watched Amakri perform rituals such as this, usually before or after a challenge, and therefore he did not feel as awkward as he could have. He even reached up and grabbed the back of Pythius’s scaly neck.
“Den eínai adýnames. Adelfós sti máchi, as páme píso gia na ta pánta pétres kai recalim tinyperifáneia tou laoú mou.” (You are not weak. Brother in battle, let us go forth to the Forever Stones and reclaim the pride of my people.)
The two men broke apart, sweating, and Talwyn hurried outside to douse himself in winter air. Time to rouse the troops, he thought. The mourning had ended; the Doomchasers were going to war.
VIII
Mouse had been about as successful as Talwyn when it came to sleeping, though she hid her restlessness well. After all, she was a talented actress, her skills having been honed during her vassalage as a pleasure maiden and the many years of subterfuge with the Watchers. What had happened to that organization? To Alastair? In Pandemonia, she felt a world away from home. A river of thoughts ran through her head. Carried along on a jostling raft, she did not know which one to pick.
Parts of Moreth’s tale bothered her, especially the admission of his predilections. Hooks and whips and bladed things. Mouse had built a hundred Iron Walls within herself to block out the memories of such experiences. The scars on her pelvis crawled like worms when she thought of Moreth’s confessions. And what of this Beatrice? Creature of the night? Feaster upon men? What sort of man could tame, and love, such a monster?
We’re all monsters, I suppose. Beatrice is not unlike Caenith: each shares a skin with a wild animal.
She still found it strange that Moreth had never suffered and died by black venom during his marriage, especially considering his preferred recreations. Perhaps they had been careful. And yet Mouse had watched the smallest scratch fester into a rancid illness, so she dismissed the notion that any degree of care could have kept him safe—though she could offer no other explanation. When Moreth woke, she would ask him, in the politest way possible, how he’d managed to sleep with a hornet for all those years and never get stung.
She heard movement in the camp. The clanging of weapons. The chatter of Doomchasers. Songs of valor. But it was so early yet. Mouse fought the sneaking sunlight. She clenched shut her eyes, and engaged in a losing battle with the day, and even more so with the beckoning smell of salty, meaty stew that wafted in from somewhere nearby. Any funeral chants had long ago ceased, and Mouse tingled with the intuition that they would soon be moving. She doubted that Pythius would move the whole tribe into the Forever Stones, which meant that only warriors of importance would be going…wherever it was the Dreamer had buried his treasure. She sensed he would have chosen someplace truly horrid. Certainly, she, Talwyn, and Moreth would be going on the quest. Finally, she rose and threw on her garments and boots. Time to start this mad train up once more. Time to face a horde of blood-hungry wenches on wings.
Mouse shivered and sat back down. Even the bravest people have instants of doubt, and she couldn’t cast the shrieking, flying hag from her mind. Remembering the adoring way it had looked at her brought on a particularly sharp chill…She did not feel ready to march off into a realm of horrors. It came to Mouse that she’d become used to hiding behind the bodies of the strong. Of course, that’s exactly what a mouse should do when in the company of greater animals: use them as shields. At the moment, though, her biggest, hairiest shield—Caenith—was missing. In his place, she had only two dandyish men—of course, they were rather handy with firearms. However, if their aim failed, she had but a tiny knife with which to defend herself. A small and insignificant claw, she realized, to use against women made of hunger, shadow, and magik.
I need something more. I can’t keep relying on other people to save me. What’s the point of having the might of a Dreamer, a lord of creation, if I am only a cage in which that power is kept? That’s not why I signed this contract. I pledged myself to Feyhazir to gain power and revenge, which comes from violence. Mouse spoke to the sleeping entity, poking him with her irritated Will. Time to wake up again, darling. The squeaky wheel needs its oil. I won’t quail behind some protecting man. I can’t sit around waiting for divine intervention if I am to protect myself, and your interests, with only a heartbeat to spare. I wanted power: that’s what I asked you for. I don’t want magik; leave the sorcery to the others in my pack. What I want is a weapon—one with which I can strike down those winged monsters, one with which I can fell the white wolf who took my father. I have not forgotten the promises I’ve made.
The presence shifted and bubbled up within her so euphorically that her head tilted up to the ceiling. She stared at the crossing of bone lines, which suddenly seemed to be spinning like a pinwheel. Somehow, she was rising into that vortex. She twirled and twirled and was lost.
When Mouse awoke, she was on her knees. Strewn around her on the floor of the tent were cards from the deck of Kings and Fates she always carried. She was clutching one card so tightly her hand ached, and her other hand felt just as cramped. Sitting up and beginning to make sense of her surroundings, she realized it was gripping her dagger. Strange: the weapon tingled with a cold current, like a shiver running through ice. Wondering what in blazes had happened, she released the folded card and watched it fall to the floor and uncurl like a flower petal.
Mouse felt she would have remembered this card, which featured a woman in black holding a brand of white sunlight up to the sky. Imperatrix, read the scrolled banner under the image. High Ghaedic? she wondered. The word looked similar to ones Talwyn used in his academic ramblings. Mouse mumbled her way through it.
“Immm-peer-aah-trix.”
The dagger hummed—a low sound, as if a tuning fork had been struck. Moreth grumbled, woken by a sense of danger. Then a star on earth rose within the tent, and Mouse’s cry of alarm was consumed by its roaring light.
XIV
CITY OF FALSE GRACE
I
It was dawn when Morigan awoke in the arms of her bloodmate. A bloody sky warned of dark tidings, but she needed no omens to tell her there was darkness ahead. Nonetheless, she wouldn’t let the shadow of war dampen her joy. For last night, she’d been with her sister and friend, Mouse. They’d wandered through a field of Dream and eased each other’s heartache with conversation and laughter. Soon they would see each other again in Eatoth. She must keep that promise: she must not allow Brutus to defile the City of Waterfalls. Eager and impassioned, she rose from the clinging nest of her bloodmate. Caenith stirred as she left him, and they dressed, kissed, and chased each other a bit while hunting for articles of clothing.
The Wolf had been right, as he so often was—she had needed a rest. They all did, from time to time. Heroes were not clockwork men. They could not be oiled and wound up and sent on quests. They were people—weary, struggling people. Their bodies and spirits were crushed so often that it was a miracle any of them had made it this far without going mad. Heroes often needed to rest even when they didn’t feel it unnecessary. Morigan hoped that her missing companions were enjoying a similar respite, as Mouse had suggested they were.
After they were dressed and finished with their chase, the bloodmates went to find their companions, who had made camp nearer to the shore. Thackery and Adam sat on small stone seats around a pit of wispy smoke. A large piece of well-cooked meat was turning over the fire. Most of it appeared untouched, though the Wolf could hear the gurgle of Adam’s belly. Thackery’s stomach, though, sounded quite pleased. Caenith helped himself without waiting for an offer, while Morigan told the fellows of her dream. “I saw Mouse last night. She’s well, and she sends her regards.”
Both Thackery and Adam jumped to their feet and battered her with questions. She answered each and every one. By then, the Wolf had finished all but the bit of meat he’d set aside for Morigan—exactly enough to satisfy her hunger—and washed his hands in the pool. Then they set out. As Adam appeared reluctant to wear his animal skin, and they had the benefit of ad
ded time, they hiked hard but didn’t race as they could have.
Time was ripening the land’s beauty. What had been yellow was now brightening to green. What had been dry now grew damp with life. Soon their toes and ankles were wet from the lush clover—tall as flowers—and the small streams that ran between mounds and through the many gardens of cobalt rocks. The many tiny rivers produced trickling sounds like those of a tub being gradually filled. The Wolf noticed that the little veins all ran in one direction, to a source, a heart. A sweet floral breath blew upon them and carried all of their troubles away for a spell. After a while, they came to a field that resembled an artist’s creation. Here, purple growth was mixed in with the emerald sward, white streaks of clouds, black twists of trees like smudges of charcoal, and blue rock-circles of the land. Everything was bold, saturated, almost cartoonish with color. The sun shone a thick and brazen yellow. Cawing flocks scattered from some sudden disruption like splashes of paint. Nearly lost in the kaleidoscopic scenery was a finger of crystal. And yet it shone brightly in the daubed-on environs, even more radiant than Thackery’s staff, which he now used to point at the landmark. “Eatoth,” he said.
If the place could be so lovely from afar, what would it look like up close? The four ran toward it, eager to find the answer to that question, and to preserve the city’s majesty from Brutus’s evil.
II
These four travelers had seen Dreamers, changeling hordes, storms of ice and fire, and unspeakable and dazzling events—yet each would have placed Eatoth atop any list of wonders. As they’d raced toward it, the rivulets of water running across the land had become fat, strong rivers that tumbled down a slight rock-torn decline and cut the valley into small islands. The rivers grew ever louder and frothier until they entered a basin, forming a violently tossing lake that would be nigh impossible to swim—a naturally occurring moat. As the travelers slowly crept down slippery rocks and jumped from one safe island of grass and stone to another, they realized there was something strange about the behavior of this water: it defied gravity. From the churning lake, it eddied upward, forming a great aqueous wall. Then, at the height of its spray, it poured back upon itself in a misty cascade as if it were a giant fountain. Fog clouded the terrain, and the waterfall concealed whatever glittering beauties lay beyond it, but the four spotted shimmers through its wavering veil, and those who saw best identified a great wall of crystal or metal hiding behind it.
Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) Page 56