Read Online Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) by Christian A. Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christian A. Brown
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softened the appearance of themonument into a seamless rise, as if that lump in the land, on that solitary outcropping of rock, had always been. Caenith and Morigan stood downhill from the cairn and then followed the watery white path of the Witch’s Moon up the slight incline to the monument. As Morigan approached, the worst of the memories assaulted her. She might have fallen if Caenith had not had so firm a hold on her, if he was not leading her as a shepherd leads a lamb while she wove in and out of the world—remembering.
She is in King’s Crown; the tall white spires of buildings are casting black shadows today. She remembers this moment as dark, as gloomy as if the sun had gone away, which, in Eod, is impossible. She is upon her knees. She feels so low, poor, and stripped. She has never felt so useless. What else could she feel, as her mother gasps and clutches her throat? As the tincture to ease her attack lies broken in the street—dropped before it could reach her mouth
.
Faces are around them, but they are as black as the shadows of King’s Crown. They watch but do not intercede. A city brimming with sorcerers and learned men and not a fleshbinder or physician among them who will speak out. Perhaps it is because of her shrieking, because of her fingers bloodied from her attempts to scrape her mother’s tincture off the cobbles. Surely, she looks like a rabid thing and screams just as frighteningly
.
She has managed to haul Mifanwae’s head into her lap. Mifanwae takes a breath and sees her clearly, looks straight into her face, and the moment silences her. There are no final words; there is nothing more to remember her mother by, just that look
.
Rather suddenly, and peacefully, Mifanwae dies
.
Her mother is there one sand, and then she is lighter. A sigh that leaves for the heavens. Mifanwae’s head rolls sideways, watching that breath float off, chasing it
.
At last the cairn was before them, and Morigan awoke from herself. She knelt and touched the sandy stones, caressed their graininess, and reached for Caenith’s hand, which had an identical feel.
“No one helped her. She died. In the greatest city in Geadhain…the City of Wonders.” Bitterly, she laughed. “My master arrived, but not in time, and I think he punishes himself for that, as unjustly as I do for my ineptitude.”
“You were a pup; there is nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps that is true.”
They were easy together in the silence of the night. Caenith knelt behind Morigan, drawing his arm about her, pulling her to his hardness, tickling her with his beard and fur. As sensual as his every gesture was, Morigan did not feel any insistence of desire. He was the perfect companion to her grief—tender but hard, giving and requiring nothing.
“Thank you,” she said. She wasn’t sure how she had ended up at the rocky base of Kor’Keth, staring at her mother’s grave, on a cold desert night with a man who was not quite a man, but she was grateful for it.
“I know that the hunt tonight has saddened you, but often the quarry is not what we seek. I listened to the song of Geadhain, to what honeyed praise it sang for you, and this is where I was led. It is good that you have come here. We appreciate life if we treasure death. I think this was Geadhain’s gift to you tonight.” Caenith concentrated, hearing the whispers of the stones, the scratch of sand over rock, the shift of grit over the bones beneath. He listened for a name. “
Mifanwae
. She would be glad that you have come here, even if only her shadow remains.”
A tear rolled from Morigan’s eye. Before her sadness could deepen, a fierce cold breeze stole over the pair, and they huddled closer to weather it. On the wind, Caenith could smell the scent of dawn, like hay, along with spicier scents—moss, herbs, and loam—of the East. Was this a blessing? For as he looked, he saw what the wind had brought to Mifanwae’s cairn: a thin-stemmed white flower,
She is in King’s Crown; the tall white spires of buildings are casting black shadows today. She remembers this moment as dark, as gloomy as if the sun had gone away, which, in Eod, is impossible. She is upon her knees. She feels so low, poor, and stripped. She has never felt so useless. What else could she feel, as her mother gasps and clutches her throat? As the tincture to ease her attack lies broken in the street—dropped before it could reach her mouth
.
Faces are around them, but they are as black as the shadows of King’s Crown. They watch but do not intercede. A city brimming with sorcerers and learned men and not a fleshbinder or physician among them who will speak out. Perhaps it is because of her shrieking, because of her fingers bloodied from her attempts to scrape her mother’s tincture off the cobbles. Surely, she looks like a rabid thing and screams just as frighteningly
.
She has managed to haul Mifanwae’s head into her lap. Mifanwae takes a breath and sees her clearly, looks straight into her face, and the moment silences her. There are no final words; there is nothing more to remember her mother by, just that look
.
Rather suddenly, and peacefully, Mifanwae dies
.
Her mother is there one sand, and then she is lighter. A sigh that leaves for the heavens. Mifanwae’s head rolls sideways, watching that breath float off, chasing it
.
At last the cairn was before them, and Morigan awoke from herself. She knelt and touched the sandy stones, caressed their graininess, and reached for Caenith’s hand, which had an identical feel.
“No one helped her. She died. In the greatest city in Geadhain…the City of Wonders.” Bitterly, she laughed. “My master arrived, but not in time, and I think he punishes himself for that, as unjustly as I do for my ineptitude.”
“You were a pup; there is nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps that is true.”
They were easy together in the silence of the night. Caenith knelt behind Morigan, drawing his arm about her, pulling her to his hardness, tickling her with his beard and fur. As sensual as his every gesture was, Morigan did not feel any insistence of desire. He was the perfect companion to her grief—tender but hard, giving and requiring nothing.
“Thank you,” she said. She wasn’t sure how she had ended up at the rocky base of Kor’Keth, staring at her mother’s grave, on a cold desert night with a man who was not quite a man, but she was grateful for it.
“I know that the hunt tonight has saddened you, but often the quarry is not what we seek. I listened to the song of Geadhain, to what honeyed praise it sang for you, and this is where I was led. It is good that you have come here. We appreciate life if we treasure death. I think this was Geadhain’s gift to you tonight.” Caenith concentrated, hearing the whispers of the stones, the scratch of sand over rock, the shift of grit over the bones beneath. He listened for a name. “
Mifanwae
. She would be glad that you have come here, even if only her shadow remains.”
A tear rolled from Morigan’s eye. Before her sadness could deepen, a fierce cold breeze stole over the pair, and they huddled closer to weather it. On the wind, Caenith could smell the scent of dawn, like hay, along with spicier scents—moss, herbs, and loam—of the East. Was this a blessing? For as he looked, he saw what the wind had brought to Mifanwae’s cairn: a thin-stemmed white flower,
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