Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3)

by Christian A. Brown

  In the wide tunnel, the company broke apart and studied the walls with their hands and eyes. Adam was drawn to the stairs. He looked down past his feet to the shimmering stone, and felt awed and frightened when he realized he knew every word engraved on it. What she wills, she wills, read the prose near his dirty big toe.

  Momentarily, his companions had regrouped, and they now pushed the young man along—his new skill would be needed to communicate with the unimaginable swell of people chattering and moving above. Once the walls met with level ground, the stairs spilled out onto plated cobbles, which had been handset and inscribed. They now stood in a raised stone enclosure with two circular guard towers—a barbican—and men bearing shining weapons surrounded them. Here, though, things were made for beauty as well as for function, and mosaics ran in lengths of hammered metal over brick and down decorative pillars. There was no roof to support, and on the flat tops of these pillars posed elegant carved muses, male and female, that poured water into thin channels below. Even the gateway before the travelers, which was made of curlicues and gothic brass, looked designed to house a nobleman’s horses. The four gazed from beauty to beauty, and then their eyes and ears followed the bedazzlement and noise up to the sky.

  There, sunlight dashed rainbows through row after row of glass and metal towers so tall that the company had to lean back to take them in. The glass finger that they’d seen from afar was not a single structure, but a combined effect produced by hundreds upon hundreds of towers. A pleasant thunderhead, a gray guardian broken with spots of gold, clouded the city and dampened the already damp company with a sheen of dew. It was humid but warm, without an ocean’s cold wetness, although the constant rumbling hiss of the city would not be out of place on an ocean’s shore. In the clouds darted handfuls of glass insects—skycarriages of a kind, though smaller and more compact.

  As they tried to absorb the extraordinary vista, their guide left them in the circle of armed men. Tall, bronzed, and athletic, they all wore sandals, short pleated skirts, circlets, and baroque chest plates each of which was emblazoned with a lion’s roaring face. Every one of them was male and bore a vicious gisarme: they pointed the weapons at the strangers, making no secret of their intent. These weapons—from hilt to hooked blade—were of the same steaming icy substance as the staff of the blue sorcerer. The Wolf assumed they could be made to sizzle skin like a black and lethal frostburn.

  Elsewhere in the barbican, many more soldiers watched from their posts with frowning curiosity. Soon the soldiers who had detained the four prodded the herd to one side of the barbican. There, a dozen scowling fellows kept a watchful eye on the travelers. Some hospitality, thought the Wolf. I shall allow you to keep me here, but only for the moment. He flashed them a smile—full, white, and gleaming with sharp teeth—and they backed away a few steps. Then he snapped his teeth, and they stepped back a few more. Paying them no heed after that, the Wolf splashed in one of the showers falling from the nearest pillar. Then he pulled his Fawn close and dribbled a handful of water into her mouth. Morigan hadn’t realized how thirsty the day’s travel had made her; her bloodmate had, though.

  Thank you, she said. I feel as if we have walked into the lions’ den, and not merely because of the armor they wear.

  The Wolf looked around at his fellows. Certainly, the sight of a tattooed half-naked changeling, a man of power holding a staff twisting with light, and his own large self might be a shock for people not used to their company. Hunting with his sight, he discovered that their guide was now talking to a circle of warriors—he spoke using sign language, which explained why he hadn’t replied to any of their earlier questions. Any misconceptions should be cleared up in a moment.

  “Oh,” muttered Adam, who’d been listening to the chatter of nearby soldiers, who were permitted to speak without their hands, apparently.

  Just then, the Wolf caught the sharp onion stink of the changeling’s fear and knew that something was wrong. Indeed, the soldiers now reeked of it, too, and their hands were trembling. Everyone’s attention appeared centered upon the Wolf. Testing a theory, the Wolf stepped away from the pillar, and their guards shuffled back. “They are afraid,” he said. “Of me, I believe. Perhaps my friendly snap earlier was not so clever an idea.”

  Adam continued to eavesdrop. After a moment, he turned back, looking grave. “It’s more than that. They seem to know who you are, great Wolf.”

  “I?” replied the Wolf.

  “And who your father is.”

  The son of Brutus. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that the mad king could have spread his legend of doom and ruin even this far East. Suddenly, soldiers began barking, and the warriors in the background sprang to attention. A hundred gisarmes faced the company in a wall of blades. After arriving in Eatoth as willing visitors, they had now become captives.

  III

  The men attempted to force hoods and chains upon the company, though their efforts were rewarded with bruises and fractured skulls: Caenith tossed the warriors about like toy soldiers. Morigan managed to rein in her bloodmate, prevent him from committing further acts of violence, but each side appeared hungry for more. It was only Adam’s constant attempts at appeasement that succeeded in forging an unsteady peace. After the worst of the commotion had simmered down into grumbles and wounded egos, the blue sorcerer stepped forward, accompanied by a small guard. The company was then promptly led out of the barbican through a gauntlet of twitchy soldiers.

  Once in Eatoth, the company resumed their overawed gawking—they couldn’t help it, even though they were conscious of their peril. Over their shoulders, they saw the wall of thunder, crystal, and water. Sprawling along the cultivated streets were weary domes, crumbling amphitheaters, and weathered ruins that had been converted into outdoor gardens and markets; Thackery wondered what the original structures had looked like, and how many centuries upon centuries ago Eatoth had been built. The buildings he could see manifested a wonderful, classic eccentricity. Some had loggias and opulent gold touches that suggested ancient dynasties, while others had modern balconies and clean, regal architecture that looked almost Eodian.

  Truly, there was a marvelous symmetry here between old and new, between the towers of crystal and magik—tenements, surely, given the city’s size—and the remnants of previous generations. Even some of the street tiles over which they were herded remained unembellished by progress. In and amongst the brass bricks were smooth, timeworn cobbles—stones sanded by millennia of footsteps to a glassy polish. As for the causeways of the city, they spread far and wide, and roads of stone and glass rose like frozen rivers over the city.

  Then there were the people—so very many people. Swarms of white, gold, silver, and gaily dressed folk strode, chatted, shopped, and sat on patios. Their movements were like strings of shimmering music, as if they were nymphs attuned to the strains of the impromptu concerts happening on the street or to the songs of the operatic divas who performed in the shells of ancient theaters—their voices higher and with more vibrato than those of the singers of the West. The people of Eatoth were beautiful, carefree, and intimidatingly cultured.

  As if trying to hide his barbarity, Thackery found himself shrinking. Strangely, none of the throng beyond the gated-off plaza where they trod seemed to see him, his ethereal red-haired friend, the giant, or the half-naked man—the citizens were too involved in their glorious affairs to notice the unclean things walking out of the garrison. The company weren’t led far: they were brought only just outside the portcullis of the barbican and then urged forward a few paces. Their unintentional staring had transformed a journey of a few steps into one of many sands. They couldn’t have stopped themselves from hungrily looking around; they were all too overwhelmed by the city’s barrage of architectural, technomagikal, and artistic marvels. Even the Wolf was stupefied. While he dragged his feet and sniffed the uncountable, unidentifiable odors—woods, metals, spices, perfumes, and elemental rawness—most of his anger fizzled away.

  Th
e plaza in which they now wandered boasted many wonders. Unusual silver eggs lay about, each as large as a carriage and somehow perfectly planted on its curved underside so that it did not rock. Ordered and in rows, the silver ovals lined the courtyard as if a gargantuan sterling hen called this place its coop. They saw no divine bird, though, only more of the unusual eggs zipping about the sky at dangerous speeds. None of the vehicles—Thackery assumed that was what they were—could be spotted beyond the fence in the streets. He supposed they would interrupt the atmosphere of civility.

  The company and their guard approached one of the eggs. The blue sorcerer touched the shell of the object, and it cracked almost like an egg, though the shell folded and fell inward in a deliberate pattern. Within specks, a portal had formed. The blue sorcerer went through it, and the guards indicated that the company should follow and suggested they would receive pokes if they did not. They complied and entered a compact space that glowed with the same sapphire brightness as the blue sorcerer’s staff. Inside, the rounded parts of the egg were filled with square edges, and plush benches had been installed. The blue sorcerer and two of his guards sat at one end of the egg, the company at the other. Thanks to the Wolf’s size, his knees encroached upon everyone. The tilted gisarmes didn’t add to the coziness of the arrangement. It was bound to be an unpleasant ride.

  A crackling sounded, and the entrance pieced itself together like a puzzle of shattered glass. Of the company, only the Wolf, who was sensitive to every shift and change, realized they’d left the ground. They soon realized the truth, however, for the shell of their vessel was not wholly opaque. As they rose up into clearer, brighter climes, they could see dim and moving shadows upon the walls.

  “Holy shite!” exclaimed Thackery. He never swore, but he could find no other words to appropriately describe his shock at discovering they’d shot hundreds of paces into the air without creating turbulence or noise. What sorcery could do that? Was it even sorcery, or some art beyond magik? He whispered, “This metascience…it is beyond anything I have ever known. The theory and mechanics of this craft. I mean, I can’t even say for certain that there are parts, moving parts, or any engine in here! I don’t feel one.”

  “There isn’t one,” replied the Wolf—the close quarters caused his rock-grinding voice to echo, and the guards jumped. “I hear no gears or engines. I do, however, smell the rich, but not unpleasant, scent of magik.” He sniffed. “A fresh and clean mist. Like the last billow of winter’s breath over a spring lake. A power both elemental and pure.”

  The Wolf had no more to say, but he’d left Thackery with much to think about. Thackery pondered the nature of a craft fueled purely by magik. The enchantment and sorcery behind such an achievement proved an extraordinary challenge to understand. If he threw away what he knew of magikal theory and technomancy, tossed out the mechanical element entirely, he was left with the phenomenon of a hollow, light craft that flew by elemental propulsion alone. Or perhaps it twisted the wind, manipulated the heat and density of the moisture in the air to create an artificial buoyancy—that would make sense, given Eatoth’s mastery of the force and energy of water. Still, he didn’t solve the enigma or make any grand breakthroughs in the field of technomagikal engineering during his short mental vacation—mostly because within sands, the ride was over.

  As had happened with the liftoff, no one noticed the landing except for the Wolf. Suddenly, the wall crackled, a gust from a high-up place blasted the inside of the vessel, and the blue sorcerer moved out into a bright windy void. The guardsmen stayed behind until the company had left the craft, then followed with their polearms and unspoken threats. They stepped out onto a blustery circular aerie. There were no railings, and the clouds were so near they could see the unusual twists of lightning rolling slowly within them. In an instant, the four were licked from head to toe by rain. A gentle rain, but also a constant one. They stepped gingerly: the slipperiness of the glass beneath their feet could lead to a careless fall and then to a screaming death. At least they didn’t appear to have far to go, for the blue robe soon led them through an arch in the side of a cloud-reflecting ziggurat. An astonishingly loud rumble of thunder chased them inside.

  Gloom welcomed them. As their eyes adjusted to it, they found themselves in a grand space that once again inspired gasps of awe. Their curiosity was piqued by a change in architecture: unlike the old world down below, these resonant corridors were lined with crystal. Trapped figments of light twisted inside the walls. It was as if the companions wandered the hallways of an alien ship that sailed the stars. Some traces of more classic architecture persisted in the form of heavily frescoed libraries and antechambers that opened off the path that they walked. The Wolf noticed that a few of these secondary tunnels echoed with strange metal music and heat—they weren’t forges, but they were certainly places of unfathomable industry. However, none of these places was their destination.

  They walked along a dreamy road of glass and stars, consumed by a marveling dread. It was so quiet, their footsteps and even the water dripping from their clothing seemed as loud as the smashing of plates. Does no one speak here? wondered the Wolf, though he admitted to himself that he found this respite from noise a blessing. The soldiers in attendance said nothing to one another, and whenever the blue robe passed people, he hailed them using his hand language. Within the ziggurat, the company encountered many blue robes and soldiers. Unlike the soldiers that herded them, these warriors were dressed in flowing white gowns and wore gold circlets of metal leaves and filigree. Instead of polearms, they carried crystalline swords and shields. Their poses were stiff and suggested a potential threat that caused the Wolf to tense whenever he and his company passed. Still, the travelers had never known a place so strange, and their fear came primarily from the knowledge that they were no longer in Geadhain. Adam, who’d known only woodland for most of his life, felt especially bewildered. “Where are they taking us?” he wondered.

  Up, thought the Wolf. For he could feel something above—a presence, a force, or perhaps a person. It sat over his head like a storm cloud, fulminous and full of power. Their party soon left the hallway and entered an opulent antechamber much like the ones they’d spied earlier. A rickety, caged metal lift of the kind that could be found in old tenements stood at the far end of the chamber. There were people in the great chamber, but not a single blue-hooded man stirred from his prayers to peer at the company as they passed. Instead, the kneeling contemplatives looked down to where their crystal staves lay on velvet pillows, or kept their stares upon the metal-wrought panels along the wall, studying the menagerie of monsters and heroes. The strangers were of no consequence to the blue robes. They had matters of more importance to ponder than those involving the son of Brutus and his dirty friends.

  They created an impression of silent judgment and haughty fervor that lingered within the Wolf. Then he and his pack were inside the lift, and the caged door rattled shut. Once more, the fusion of old and new expressed itself: the squealing, jostling ride took them up past a cupola on the roof and into a shaft of pure darkness. The companions and their surroundings were consumed by the ghostly blue shade cast by their escorts’ glowing weapons. Soon, natural light found them, and the lift stopped on a small domed floor.

  It was no more than a room, really—one with a gleaming brass floor. Windows filled the walls, and gray seas drifted behind their glass. The chamber was ascetically clean and simple, much like the girl sitting on a long settee—or possibly a bed, as there was a wardrobe nearby. A tilted circlet crowned her head, and a shift hung off her shoulders with a certain lopsided disregard. Her hair was braided and dark. She had the complexion of an Arhadian princess, cinnamon and bronze. She could not be judged either pretty or ugly; her resting expression was a hard scowl that made such a determination difficult. The woman’s dark-circled eyes had a pull, as if she were a Dreamer of ravens and secrets.

  While the strangers stood there, she gave instructions to the soldiers using hand gesture
s. The chamber was so quiet, and the storm outside so muted, that even those not of wolfish blood thought they could hear the papery scratch of her fingers on her palms. A moment later, the lift shrieked once more as it descended, carrying the guardsmen. The blue robe remained. He walked to the young girl and stood beside her seat like a golem. In a gesture that seemed familiar to the bloodmates and their friends, the girl tipped her head as if listening to a sound or voice. Then she pointed at Morigan—not at Adam, who could speak her tongue—and beckoned her forward.

  The seer understood. Almost at once, she’d sensed in the young woman the prickling of forces that resembled her bees. Morigan came forward and bowed—she felt the gesture was appropriate, as it was clear the woman was of high standing. The girl reached out, touched Morigan’s chin to lift it, and spoke. Words and tongues were secondary when two speaking souls communed; they understood each other without the need of a translator. Daughter of Fate, said the woman.

  Keeper, replied Morigan. More truths entered Morigan’s mind in a series of piercing stings. This woman was not young: she was, in fact, far older than she appeared. Ancient. Such vitality was likely the result either of magik or of something from the vault of whispers, secrets, and hidden truths that the woman held in her head behind a tightly warded barrier of Will. Morigan could hear the storm of secrets there, banging like fists on metal. Are you an oracle? A sorceress? An arbiter of Fates? How do you know who I am? she asked.

  I listen, replied the Keeper. The world speaks of your tale—and his—with every whisper of wind. How could I not know of you and the son of Brutus? I shall tell my wards and legionnaires to stand down, though, for they do not know how your love has cleansed him. I can see both your light and his animal in each of you. What a divine balance you have struck with and for each other. As for how it is that you and I speak…Anyone can be heard if one learns how to tune out the less important noises: the grunts of desire, the grumbling stomachs of greed. This is no magik, simply a different approach. In the old times, before we became masters of inner silence, we would honor our covenant of silence by communicating only through scribblings on scraps of paper. How crude must that have been! I cannot imagine. This is how two minds should speak. I have heard that there are those in your land who still practice our faded traditions.