Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (34 page)

“Tie you?” questioned Thule.

“With a braid woven of our hair,” explained Morigan. “It’s quite a simple ritual, as Caenith has described it to me: a binding, a sharing of blood, a trading of promises. I’ve never heard of so romantic and modest a ceremony. I can’t think of a better way for us to be wed.”

“To swear to each other,” corrected Caenith.

Blood, spoken vows, physical binding. Sounds more like magik than observance. How much you’ve grown, Morigan. How scared I am for you. So brave and unflappable…and armed, too! Good kings, when did you get a knife? Or that fancy bracelet? You will end up a warrior queen before I know it
, fretted Thule.

Caenith clapped the old man again, as he had not replied, his eyes glazed over in thought. “What say you?” asked Caenith.

“Yes! Of course. I shall bind you. I am pleased beyond words to have this duty.” Thule bowed. “If there is to be a wedding, or promising, or what have you, we shall need to clean the two of you up. Proper attire! A lady should be clean, anointed, and dressed in more than rags. A man”—Thule appraised the hulking monster in the room, who hadn’t worn a shirt in all the time they had been acquainted—“well, ideally a man wears clothes. Nice ones. Top and bottom.”

“Oh,” said Caenith, genuinely surprised. “I can agree to that. However, finding a tailor who can swath my frame could prove a challenge.”

“The palace has many a skilled needle. You needn’t worry about that,” said Thule, and ran out into the halls to flag down a servant. As luck would have it, he happened to catch Mater Lowelia herself, en route to some emergency that required a belt full of solvents and rags. When she heard of a ceremony—which, despite Thule’s mention of blood, she could not conceive as anything but a
normal
wedding—her cheeks lit up like candles.

“Deary mittens!” cried Lowelia, once she’d arrived. “We can’t have you two together! No fruit before the feast or you’ll spoil your appetites! I don’t quite know what witchery the good sage was prattling on about—blood and nonsense—but I do know that good, honest suitors don’t see their brides before the promised hourglass! I’ll be taking you out of here, my rose. We need to dress you up right and pretty and burn those tatters you call clothing!”

Mater Lowelia swooped to claim Morigan’s hand and tugged her out the door. Morigan waved to the Wolf.

“I’ll see you tonight!”

“Tonight, my Fawn,” vowed the Wolf.

“Does she know? Of Menos?” asked Thule, as soon as they were alone.

“I told her,” declared Caenith plainly. “She has seen what I am. I shall strive to be the man that she sees in me, not the creature I have been. You, of all people, should be familiar with that journey.”

Thule nodded. As for
what
Caenith had shared with Morigan, whether it was the details of being the ancient pit-fiend or secrets even deeper than that, Thule was unsure. He bet on the latter. Whatever the man was, Thule was no longer cautious of his aims with Morigan. He even respected the smith a little. Affably, Thule slapped Caenith’s arm, and then winced as his hand smarted from the blow.

“Let’s see if we can’t turn you into a gentleman,” said Thule.

“You can try,” the Wolf said, smiling.

III

“What a vision!” cried Mater Lowelia.

Morigan studied herself in the oval looking glass, as agape as the woman behind her. She was astonished at what the mater had conjured up from only a bolt of fabric, a spool of thread, a pair of shears, and an hourglass or two. Absentmindedly, Morigan stroked the sensuously sheer crimson shift. She turned from side to side to admire its deep neckline and deeper back, and fidgeted with the plaited belt that cinched the garment to voluptuousness. She fiddled with the small sheath at her waist, Caenith’s gold bracelet, and the snipped firebuds bound up in the woven crown of her hair. With the prick of her weapon like a thorn, the slimness of her form, and the bloom of her scarlet beauty, Morigan could have been a living rose. She had never felt so lovely; she hardly recognized herself.

“If you were a rose before, you are a queen of the garden now. Oh, look at how you shine!” exclaimed the mater, as she put a hand over her mouth and fought back tears. Mater Lowelia’s emotion was infectious, and Morigan’s eyes misted as well. A moment later, they found themselves in an embrace.

“As pretty as the queen herself,” whispered the mater. “Don’t you dare share that, now that it’s been said, but it’s the truth.”

“Thank you, Mater,” said Morigan, still holding the woman tightly. “I haven’t had a mother in too many years to count, but you are certainly close to one. You will join us tonight, yes?”

“Of course.”

Once they were done squeezing the tears out of each other, Mater Lowelia pulled back and fluffed the garment, and then lovingly tucked any loose bits of hair back into Morigan’s crown—leaving a few crimson twists near her ears.

“You are a daughter to me on this day,” admitted the mater.

The bees buzzed and stung Morigan’s head with a vision.

She is a handful of life, made still and pale from death: an infant’s corpse wrapped in white cotton, whose wood resting box is far older than its occupant. She was not even a year when she died, when that monster took her
—

“She died. Your daughter,” blurted Morigan.

Cannily, the mater eyed the young witch. “I was warned that you could sniff out thoughts like a truffle hog. Yes, my daughter passed well before she could ever grow into a flower like you.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, my rose, perhaps you should. I have not thought of my Cecelia in some time. Not remembering is almost the same as forgetting, and that is a disservice to the dead,” she said, her cheeriness wilting to gloom. Sighing heavily, the mater padded over to the bed in this humble room; her living arrangements were as simple as what Morigan had slept in, if a little more untidy, with a loom and sewing board in one corner and a dresser in another. Morigan left the mirror and knelt by the mater. The older woman was wringing her hands, and Morigan took them, steadying the tremors of emotion in the woman. The mind-witch had to will the bees not to drink in this current of sorrow, and they unhappily droned at their confinement, but went no further. The mater tipped her head.

“It’s an awful tale. I shouldn’t spoil your wedding day with it.”

“It’s not a wedding, not exactly. And I’ve seen far worse than you might think,” replied Morigan. “As Caenith has explained it, the cleansing of one’s
personal ghosts is an important step in the blood promise. Each of us has done this, and I feel that I am a wiser, stronger woman for doing so. If you have not thought of Cecelia, then you should. I am an ear, if you want it.”

“You’re likely right,” sniffed the mater. “There is a wisdom to you that is not seen on younger faces. What a strange girl you are. I shall tell you, then, and I’d warn you not to make the same mistakes, but you seem much smarter than I am. When I was around your age, I made a terrible choice with whom I chose to love. My husband, Trevor Borvine”—her face crinkled in anger, and she spit on the floor—“well, that should give you an idea what I think of him. A wretched, worthless boor as poor and small in every way that your choice of gentleman is rich and grand. Came from an established line of failures. I should have known better; any woman would have.”

The mater reclaimed her hands and hung her head in them; it was a while before she continued. “My little Cecelia must have been crying, as children do. I only stepped away for a speck to check on the laundry drying on the roof. Bloody stone that was Trevor never moved unless the ale ran out. I never allowed him to be alone with her for long. I worried that he might do…well, that he might do what he did. Shook her. Scrambled her tiny brains and then put her back in the crib when she went quiet. I don’t even think he knew she was dead. I remember that sound, even though I was outside. Her tiny scream, then the coldest and longest silence.” Both women shuddered. “A calm you know ain’t right to hear.”

The mater’s eyes gleamed now, with tears and something else, too. “I wasn’t myself after that. Even now, it’s quite a haze. I can’t remember what happened. I carved him up, I’m told. Almost killed him, but left him crippled enough to live on in misery. Some would say that is a fairer punishment. He’ll never hurt another child again. He doesn’t have the fingers to pick one up or the prick to make one.”

Morigan swallowed; the bees were nursing off the waves of dark fury coming from the mater—a mother’s love twisted into poison. While Morigan’s silver swarm wanted to show her more, to show their mistress
everything
, she reinforced her desire not to see past the slivers of a flickering knife and spurts of blood that they fed her anyway.

“I was brought before the King’s Court, as the Silver Watch couldn’t decide what to do with me. Whether I was mad or a dangerous villain, they
could not say. And neither could I, my memory being as fuzzy as it was. That was the first time I met the king and queen, though my gran spoke so highly of them. She was a mater of yore; I think I told you that. In any case, unless you’re born inside the palace you don’t live there. Too many concerns with persons coming and going, so folk lead double lives, to and fro, a month at the palace, a week at home. Even when her mind turned to gruel, Gran still recalled how fair and handsome our king was. Mooned over the man like she was sixteen summers young.”

A reverence fell over the mater, and she held her listener in a long stare. “If you’ve never seen him, though, you don’t know how short those praises fall. All covered in blood like a rabid lunatic I am, and he treats me as if I was a lamb tumbled down the hillside. Holds me as if I am the one who has died. You can sense kindness in him, a depth so old that he feels like a father, brother, and lover in one. Instant trust. He told me that he would help me remember…took me to the
Hall
.”

“The Hall?”

“The Hall of Memories, my rose, one wonder after another that day. For that was a place as glorious as its master. Crystal and glass and
music
…but alive. I’m not enough of a bard to sing its miracles, so I won’t try. I understand that it’s a vault of a kind. Keeps memories and history. Pulls them out of people’s heads, a bit like your tricks, I assume. He had me lie down, and I did, as I would have done anything for him—you don’t know until you meet him how powerful his commands can be. It wasn’t the kindest experience, what happened next. Quite like a hangover mixed with a pot banged on the head. When it was over, the king, the queen, and the Silver Watch had seen all they needed to see. They never told me what, but offered me pardon, stating that the murder of my Cecelia had temporarily cooked my noggin like a boiled egg. As if that mercy wasn’t enough, their sift through my truths showed my relationship to Gretchen Larson, previous mater of the White Heart, twice removed at that point. One of the queen’s favorites, Gran was! What marvelous luck! They offered me a new life, right then and there, as I lay on the floor weeping in sadness, happiness, and quite a bit of confusion.”

Mater Lowelia clapped her thighs and stood. She crushed her downhearted mood with a smile. “Worked my way up from a scullery lass. We Larsons are like moths, a small nibble here and there, and soon we have the
whole closet. There you have it, my rose, a tale destined for unhappiness with an end that not even I could predict. You certainly do have a good ear. I think it helps to confess to someone you know can pull the truth out of you if she wanted. Now, you have a wedding you need to be at—don’t open your mouth, I’ll call it what I do. Up, up, let’s have a look at you.”

Morigan rose for the inspection. Once the mater had spun her round, she kissed the young woman on the cheek.

“Perfect! This could very well be the perfect day. I wonder how handsome your smith is? Let’s not keep him waiting.”

Hand in hand, they were skipping toward the door as if they were giggling sisters when a stitch formed in Morigan’s side.

“Ow!” she cried, as a pain shot into her abdomen and back. She wasn’t worried or in agony, but the throbbing discomfort was familiar. “Really? Tonight of all nights?” moaned Morigan.

Being the orchestrator of hundreds of women each day, Mater Lowelia knew the signs. She rubbed the girl’s back. “At least the dress is red, so don’t worry if you’ve messed it. I’ve got some sanitary rags around. We’ll dress you up tight as a master’s dowry daughter. Nothing so sad as chastity on a wedding day. I feel for you, my rose. I truly do. I’d be rubbing myself like a heated puss every time that man so much—”

“The rags,” snapped Morigan, whose mood was quickly spoiling.

Grimly, the mater strode off to rifle through her drawers, and Morigan rubbed her stomach and squeezed her legs together. Regardless of her body’s rebellion, she was unfaltering in her conviction to go through with the ceremony. A bit of blood to the evening was appropriate, come to think, and there would be more before the night’s end.