Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) by Christian A. Brown Page A
Authors: Christian A. Brown
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and Adam knelt beside her chair—doglike and protective. Behind Thackery’s blue gaze, thoughts furiously brewed. Mouse knew he would be the first to explode.
“Where did you hear this?” spat Thackery.
“What matters the source?” said Moreth with a shrug. “I cannot tell you where the eyes of Menos peer—what few of them are left—any more than you can speak for Eod’s master or spies. What is important in what I have told you is that his arm was
stolen
.”
“Stolen? By whom?” pressed Thackery.
“A woman and a large cutthroat,” said Moreth. “If I were not needed to shepherd you six lost lambs, I would hunt the culprits myself. They are Geadhain’s greatest game at the moment—perhaps the greatest murderers of any age. I am sure that a man as learned in magikal antiquities as yourself, Sage, could think of a few suspects. Put that Thule genius to work. Let me know what you come up with. Perhaps we can exchange notes.”
Thackery puffed. Caution stilled his tongue, and he held himself in nervous hesitation.
Did he know something?
wondered Mouse. The fear in his eyes, the fading of his skin from red to pale, indicated he might.
“An arm?” she asked. “What’s the harm in a dead man’s arm?”
“I like an opportune rhyme, so I shall answer,” replied Moreth, finally placing his book down and turning his waxy, expressionless face her way. He wriggled one of his gloved hands. “Not just an arm, Mouse, a talisman. Taroch was a sensualist and aesthete. He believed in the pleasures of touch. He was captivated by the beauty of the sculpture and sorcery he created with his hands. His arm, therefore, was arguably the most precious part of his body, his magik, his soul. Taroch was the lord of transmutation, a sorcerer who couldwhisper a wind into a hurricane, turn water into fire, or encourage a tremble in the earth into the mightiest quake. What do you suppose a madman and madwoman could do with a relic containing all of Taroch’s power?”
“Nothing good,” she said.
“Nothing good,” repeated Moreth, and resumed his reading.
They sat in an unpleasant silence until Morigan and the Wolf arrived through a gilded arch. Mouse hadn’t seen her friend very much beyond last evening’s festivities. Just then, the
Skylark
seemed to pass into a cloud, or perhaps a hint of Morigan’s mood manifested, for she flickered with darkness. While Morigan was as striking as ever—with her mane of fire and glittering gold, her buxom figure and sultry pout—she seemed tired after a night of tossing happily in the sheets.
Maybe not so happily
, thought Mouse, noticing the Wolf’s stormy disposition. Unhappiness hung on his grand, craggy shoulders like pauldrons of stone, and fretting had turned his carved brows into a single ridge of worry that pooled his gaze with black. Both of Mouse’s friends appeared slightly unkempt: Morigan’s hair was twisted into the kind of pleasing spirals in which birds might make their nests, and the Wolf was looking wild and unshaven, even for him. Alastair had stitched for him a leather warrior’s skirt (several attempts at pants had ended in burst seams and frustration), which complemented his sandals and gave him a gladiatorial presence. This morning his veins—the ones at his temples and the multitude on his arms—were full and throbbing. He marched toward the company exuding the menace of the Blood King he had once been. Even Moreth lost interest in his book and stared at the Wolf’s approaching hulk.
“You two look miserable,” commented Mouse.
Morigan, rattled by something, tried to settle into a seat beside Thackery, though she looked as if her seat’s cushion was full of pins. The Wolf stood behind his bloodmate’s chair with his arms crossed.
“An uncomfortable sleep,” said Morigan after the long pause. “Bad dreams.”
“Oh, fuk,” said Mouse.
Thackery shushed her and laid a hand upon Morigan’s forearm. Morigan did not glance at him. She
“Where did you hear this?” spat Thackery.
“What matters the source?” said Moreth with a shrug. “I cannot tell you where the eyes of Menos peer—what few of them are left—any more than you can speak for Eod’s master or spies. What is important in what I have told you is that his arm was
stolen
.”
“Stolen? By whom?” pressed Thackery.
“A woman and a large cutthroat,” said Moreth. “If I were not needed to shepherd you six lost lambs, I would hunt the culprits myself. They are Geadhain’s greatest game at the moment—perhaps the greatest murderers of any age. I am sure that a man as learned in magikal antiquities as yourself, Sage, could think of a few suspects. Put that Thule genius to work. Let me know what you come up with. Perhaps we can exchange notes.”
Thackery puffed. Caution stilled his tongue, and he held himself in nervous hesitation.
Did he know something?
wondered Mouse. The fear in his eyes, the fading of his skin from red to pale, indicated he might.
“An arm?” she asked. “What’s the harm in a dead man’s arm?”
“I like an opportune rhyme, so I shall answer,” replied Moreth, finally placing his book down and turning his waxy, expressionless face her way. He wriggled one of his gloved hands. “Not just an arm, Mouse, a talisman. Taroch was a sensualist and aesthete. He believed in the pleasures of touch. He was captivated by the beauty of the sculpture and sorcery he created with his hands. His arm, therefore, was arguably the most precious part of his body, his magik, his soul. Taroch was the lord of transmutation, a sorcerer who couldwhisper a wind into a hurricane, turn water into fire, or encourage a tremble in the earth into the mightiest quake. What do you suppose a madman and madwoman could do with a relic containing all of Taroch’s power?”
“Nothing good,” she said.
“Nothing good,” repeated Moreth, and resumed his reading.
They sat in an unpleasant silence until Morigan and the Wolf arrived through a gilded arch. Mouse hadn’t seen her friend very much beyond last evening’s festivities. Just then, the
Skylark
seemed to pass into a cloud, or perhaps a hint of Morigan’s mood manifested, for she flickered with darkness. While Morigan was as striking as ever—with her mane of fire and glittering gold, her buxom figure and sultry pout—she seemed tired after a night of tossing happily in the sheets.
Maybe not so happily
, thought Mouse, noticing the Wolf’s stormy disposition. Unhappiness hung on his grand, craggy shoulders like pauldrons of stone, and fretting had turned his carved brows into a single ridge of worry that pooled his gaze with black. Both of Mouse’s friends appeared slightly unkempt: Morigan’s hair was twisted into the kind of pleasing spirals in which birds might make their nests, and the Wolf was looking wild and unshaven, even for him. Alastair had stitched for him a leather warrior’s skirt (several attempts at pants had ended in burst seams and frustration), which complemented his sandals and gave him a gladiatorial presence. This morning his veins—the ones at his temples and the multitude on his arms—were full and throbbing. He marched toward the company exuding the menace of the Blood King he had once been. Even Moreth lost interest in his book and stared at the Wolf’s approaching hulk.
“You two look miserable,” commented Mouse.
Morigan, rattled by something, tried to settle into a seat beside Thackery, though she looked as if her seat’s cushion was full of pins. The Wolf stood behind his bloodmate’s chair with his arms crossed.
“An uncomfortable sleep,” said Morigan after the long pause. “Bad dreams.”
“Oh, fuk,” said Mouse.
Thackery shushed her and laid a hand upon Morigan’s forearm. Morigan did not glance at him. She
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