Read Online Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) by Christian A. Brown - Free Book Online
Authors: Christian A. Brown
Ads: Link
what followed.
“A she-wolf…a mother.”
Caenith tilted his head back and howled: a guttural, animal warble as deep and fluid as a baritone singer’s voice. The cavern went mad with crystalline music. Ice cracked and fell, showering them in diamond dust. They held each other in that spinning moment and grieved together, she for Mifanwae—her laughter, her rustic wisdom, her strength, and her beauty. She missed her mother more than she had allowed herself to admit in many years. The Wolf grieved the Moon Maidens and Changelings, the death of the old magik, and the birth of the new.
The howling stopped, the glittering rain drifted to a stop, and they held each other still. When the silence had thrummed for many sands, and he could sense the Fawn calming again, Caenith pulled back from Morigan and brushed the slivers of ice from her.
“I feel that I should ask her spirit for its blessing. Before you tell me your answer.”
Ask her spirit? My answer?
Morigan was confused.
Caenith dipped and cradled her in his arms again.
We’re going on another trip
, thought Morigan giddily. Another trip indeed, and in specks, the hidden kingdom of crystal and ice had disappeared, and there was just the warm, panting wind that bore her through darkness. The transit was less disorienting if she simply shut her eyes and surrendered herself to the journey. If this was only a delusion, she never wanted it to end. She wanted to stay mad forever.
Silver cups and maidens…the smell of pine and sweat…a black wolf hunting in the night. I am riding the wind. Is this real?
she would wonder. Then shewould chance a glance at Caenith, with the sky whirling past him; they were back in the city once, and then under a black star-dotted swath of night. Each time their eyes met, he flashed his carnivore’s grin, telling her that yes, this was
real
. Soon a cold wind was blowing, and she sensed the openness of the desert, though not as harsh. She listened to Caenith grunting and springing up rocks, and could only imagine the phenomenal athletics he was performing, but she did not look.
Finally, they slowed, and Caenith’s footsteps were heard scuffing on hard earth. She asked to be set down. He obliged; again, with exacting care, as if she was made of glass. Morigan stretched her arms, sore from clutching for so long. When she realized where they were, she leaned on Caenith and somberly asked, “How did you find this place?”
“It wanted to be found. It had a song unsung. A lonely melody, crying on the wind like a nestling in an empty nest. You have not been here in some time.”
“No, I have not.”
Once and only once had she visited the buttes of Kor’Keth, had she climbed the steep terrace of red clay, and that was to bury her mother. Thule had accompanied her, and it was branded in her memory as the most grueling trial of her years. For although Thule was a master sorcerer, one who could evoke incredible powers in moments of crisis, he was stubbornly averse to using magik for anything except the most menial of duties. So they had climbed, and shared the dead weight of Mifanwae’s corpse between their scrawny arms. She was a wee sprout of a girl at the time, though she ached as terribly as the old sorcerer did. All day it took them; sweating, scraping themselves, and weeping, until the cold light of the moon shone over a place high enough to suit Mifanwae’s rest.
I want to be able to see the moon, clear and bright over my grave
, Mifanwae had told her on many an occasion. Grim conversations to have with one’s daughter, but Mifanwae had a sickness of the heart that sorcery could stall yet never cure, and she had long ago accepted it.
We chose well, Mother
, thought Morigan. For the stone cairn that held Mifanwae’s remains had soundly withstood the ravages of time and the elements. It had not fallen down, as she had often worried might have happened. Nature had been kind and had filled the stones with a grout of dust. It had
“A she-wolf…a mother.”
Caenith tilted his head back and howled: a guttural, animal warble as deep and fluid as a baritone singer’s voice. The cavern went mad with crystalline music. Ice cracked and fell, showering them in diamond dust. They held each other in that spinning moment and grieved together, she for Mifanwae—her laughter, her rustic wisdom, her strength, and her beauty. She missed her mother more than she had allowed herself to admit in many years. The Wolf grieved the Moon Maidens and Changelings, the death of the old magik, and the birth of the new.
The howling stopped, the glittering rain drifted to a stop, and they held each other still. When the silence had thrummed for many sands, and he could sense the Fawn calming again, Caenith pulled back from Morigan and brushed the slivers of ice from her.
“I feel that I should ask her spirit for its blessing. Before you tell me your answer.”
Ask her spirit? My answer?
Morigan was confused.
Caenith dipped and cradled her in his arms again.
We’re going on another trip
, thought Morigan giddily. Another trip indeed, and in specks, the hidden kingdom of crystal and ice had disappeared, and there was just the warm, panting wind that bore her through darkness. The transit was less disorienting if she simply shut her eyes and surrendered herself to the journey. If this was only a delusion, she never wanted it to end. She wanted to stay mad forever.
Silver cups and maidens…the smell of pine and sweat…a black wolf hunting in the night. I am riding the wind. Is this real?
she would wonder. Then shewould chance a glance at Caenith, with the sky whirling past him; they were back in the city once, and then under a black star-dotted swath of night. Each time their eyes met, he flashed his carnivore’s grin, telling her that yes, this was
real
. Soon a cold wind was blowing, and she sensed the openness of the desert, though not as harsh. She listened to Caenith grunting and springing up rocks, and could only imagine the phenomenal athletics he was performing, but she did not look.
Finally, they slowed, and Caenith’s footsteps were heard scuffing on hard earth. She asked to be set down. He obliged; again, with exacting care, as if she was made of glass. Morigan stretched her arms, sore from clutching for so long. When she realized where they were, she leaned on Caenith and somberly asked, “How did you find this place?”
“It wanted to be found. It had a song unsung. A lonely melody, crying on the wind like a nestling in an empty nest. You have not been here in some time.”
“No, I have not.”
Once and only once had she visited the buttes of Kor’Keth, had she climbed the steep terrace of red clay, and that was to bury her mother. Thule had accompanied her, and it was branded in her memory as the most grueling trial of her years. For although Thule was a master sorcerer, one who could evoke incredible powers in moments of crisis, he was stubbornly averse to using magik for anything except the most menial of duties. So they had climbed, and shared the dead weight of Mifanwae’s corpse between their scrawny arms. She was a wee sprout of a girl at the time, though she ached as terribly as the old sorcerer did. All day it took them; sweating, scraping themselves, and weeping, until the cold light of the moon shone over a place high enough to suit Mifanwae’s rest.
I want to be able to see the moon, clear and bright over my grave
, Mifanwae had told her on many an occasion. Grim conversations to have with one’s daughter, but Mifanwae had a sickness of the heart that sorcery could stall yet never cure, and she had long ago accepted it.
We chose well, Mother
, thought Morigan. For the stone cairn that held Mifanwae’s remains had soundly withstood the ravages of time and the elements. It had not fallen down, as she had often worried might have happened. Nature had been kind and had filled the stones with a grout of dust. It had
Similar Books
