Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) by Christian A. Brown Page B

didn’t speak for a long, long spell, and then spoke only one word.
    “Brutus.”
    That one word broke the spell of silence. “I saw him in Pandemonia,” she resumed. “Either in the recent past or in our future. I felt the evil that drives him. I touched her, or she somehow touched me…the Black Queen.” Gasps and shivers spread through the company. “I believe she holds great sway in Pandemonia. I believe we are headed into the territory of our enemy. And that is not all, my friends. I encountered…a spirit. Another walker in dreams. Dark and wicked, and willingly so. I cannot say what this creature was or whom it serves, but it is malign and grim and full of doom.”
    Done, Morigan hung her head. The Wolf brought a huge hand to her shoulder and squeezed. Having spent hourglasses in the Crucible conspiring with Gloriatrix and Elissandra, Moreth knew that seers often glimpsed a bit more prophecy with the right prodding, the right questions. This seer was still in the thrall of her nightmare, still attuned to the Fates. He felt as if he could reach out, wave his hand around her, and feel the invisible silver sparks leap from her eyes. There would be no better occasion to press this witch for truths.
    “Would you say that we shall find what we seek?” he asked. “In Pandemonia?”
    Using the fullness of her senses, the buzzing prophets that were her bees, the instincts of the fire wolf in her chest, and the primal rush of her heart as she considered his question, Morigan sought an answer. A specific, determined future could not be found, although the tingle of destiny ran through her. “Yes,” she said.
    Interesting
, thought Moreth, and returned to his questioning.
    “What is it? A weapon?”
    “No.”
    “An answer?”
    “Yes.”
    “Shall we meet our enemy?”
    The tingle in Morigan became a jolt. “Our truth,” she snapped.
    Black blades of shadow suddenly crossed the room, and the skycarriage hit a surge of battering winds. The company was forced to ignore the implications of Morigan’s doomsaying so that they could cling tobolted-down seats for safety. Imperturbable, Moreth raised a gloved finger and started to launch into another question for the seer, but the Wolf barked him into reconsidering. A few sands later, when the vessel had not calmed, but only intensified its rocking, Moreth quietly addressed the issue of the turbulence. Not many heard him over the rattle of wind on metal, or paid heed through the flickering darkness; they felt as though they were in a tin can being tossed in a hurricane.
    “It’s Pandemonia,” he explained. “We’ve arrived.”
    IV
    The company gathered in the supply bay of the
Skylark
as it sputtered over the sea. Its engines struggled to resist the magik-warping effects of Pandemonia; it could not hover here for long. The time for goodbyes was short. Morigan and Mouse, who usually joined in labor, instead allowed the men to pack their steel-girded and warlike oarboat. Sitting in the deep vessel, the ladies craned their necks to watch the black water sloshing over the ship’s bay—a portion of the
Skylark
’s hull that had been separated and lowered into the sea as a giant gangplank. They wrinkled their noses at the burning stink of salt, brine, and soil that issued forth from the ocean. Caenith did most of the lifting; the other fellows mostly slipped about. Adam would never have a pair of sea legs, Mouse realized, trying not to laugh at his stumbles on the wet dock. Once the oarboat had been packed with supplies and all seven companions were aboard, Alastair untied the rope from its cleat and threw it to the Wolf to catch. The shadowbroker’s contract had been fulfilled: he had brought them to Pandemonia’s border. From this point on, they would be at the mercy of Moreth and Fate. As powerful currents pulled the company’s vessel away, Alastair bid them fair parting.
    “Good fortune and safe travels,” he said, turning his gaze on Mouse. “Watch out for