Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) by Christian A. Brown Page A
Authors: Christian A. Brown
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cups.”
Caenith hurried off, and gingerly Morigan followed, stepping around the warm grate that her host walked over. They met on the other side of the room, past a set of large bellows. She saw a worktable, covered in tools, and a sitting bench, also strewn with implements, molds, and partially completed armaments. Balled and discarded waxed paper was strewn hither and thither about the bench, and she assumed that Caenith ate while he worked. She wasn’t sure if there was an indecipherable organization at work here, butthe man lived like a savage. Caenith cleaned the detritus off the bench with a single sweep of his arm and then led Morigan to sit, ushering her down most elegantly. She noted rusty stains on corners of the trash at her feet and assumed it was anything but blood, for she was already fretful enough about being here and still quite preoccupied with the congruence of her dream and the elements of her host.
“One moment,” said Caenith, with that sharp smile of his, and he darted off to a shelf along the wall stacked with smaller gleaming items that she could not identify in the dim light.
By the kings, the man is quick on his toes
, thought Morigan. He rummaged around for a speck, and then moved to the lavatory and fidgeted in the shadows there. Patiently Morigan waited. Soon her attention drifted back to the bloody parcel wrappings—yes, she was certain it was blood now—and she jumped in her seat when she looked up and Caenith was in front of her. He was holding two silver chalices, inlaid with the most intricate designs; pictographs perhaps, though his large hands covered most of the cups. He extended one to her, spilling some of the water inside in his excitement.
“I thought of these as well, when making the flowers. I do not entertain, and my hospitality on your last visit was lacking.”
Thoughts of bloody parcels fled her as she examined what she was given. Like the rest of Caenith’s work, the chalice was exceptionally crafted; his ability to coax beauty from metal was unparalleled. She turned the object in the light, and it moved as a sorcerer’s illusion would: this forbidding scene of a dark wood, a full moon, a maiden, and a wolf. The two figures were especially captivating, and though she only looked into the mirror once each day when she finished her bath and was not prone to preening or vanity, the lines and lips of the etched woman she saw were her own. To the humongous wolf, all shaggy fur, darkness, and fangs, she did not draw many equivalents. Nevertheless, the eyes were familiar, for they were upon her this instant.
“Does it please you?” asked Caenith.
Morigan was aware that something immeasurably strange was occurring between her and this man, that these symbols and warnings of moons, wolves, chases, and hunts all bore imperative meanings. But in that moment, with Caenith’s heat and smell all about her, her head was syrupy and free of sense. She didn’t care what it all meant.
“Yes,” she said.
“A toast,” said Caenith, his stare sparkling, as if he knew of her yielding.
“To?”
“To awakenings.”
“Awakenings,” repeated Morigan, and greedily drank the water in her chalice, for her throat was very dry.
Caenith lapped his down like a beast, and it trickled over his beard. He collected their cups, brushing Morigan with the soft fur of his chest as he leaned over her to set them down on the bench, and then offered his hand to her.
“It will be a white moon tonight. Half full. The moon of the witch. Tonight, the old magiks can be tracked by those who listen, and my ears are sharp.” Morigan thought she saw Caenith’s ears twitch. “Come; let me show you the secrets of this stone forest and whatever secrets sing themselves to me. Will you run with me?”
“Yes.”
Bewildered and enthralled, sweating and shaking, Morigan slid her soft fingers over Caenith’s gritty palm; they each shivered from the sensation. He smiled then, his sharp and beautiful
Caenith hurried off, and gingerly Morigan followed, stepping around the warm grate that her host walked over. They met on the other side of the room, past a set of large bellows. She saw a worktable, covered in tools, and a sitting bench, also strewn with implements, molds, and partially completed armaments. Balled and discarded waxed paper was strewn hither and thither about the bench, and she assumed that Caenith ate while he worked. She wasn’t sure if there was an indecipherable organization at work here, butthe man lived like a savage. Caenith cleaned the detritus off the bench with a single sweep of his arm and then led Morigan to sit, ushering her down most elegantly. She noted rusty stains on corners of the trash at her feet and assumed it was anything but blood, for she was already fretful enough about being here and still quite preoccupied with the congruence of her dream and the elements of her host.
“One moment,” said Caenith, with that sharp smile of his, and he darted off to a shelf along the wall stacked with smaller gleaming items that she could not identify in the dim light.
By the kings, the man is quick on his toes
, thought Morigan. He rummaged around for a speck, and then moved to the lavatory and fidgeted in the shadows there. Patiently Morigan waited. Soon her attention drifted back to the bloody parcel wrappings—yes, she was certain it was blood now—and she jumped in her seat when she looked up and Caenith was in front of her. He was holding two silver chalices, inlaid with the most intricate designs; pictographs perhaps, though his large hands covered most of the cups. He extended one to her, spilling some of the water inside in his excitement.
“I thought of these as well, when making the flowers. I do not entertain, and my hospitality on your last visit was lacking.”
Thoughts of bloody parcels fled her as she examined what she was given. Like the rest of Caenith’s work, the chalice was exceptionally crafted; his ability to coax beauty from metal was unparalleled. She turned the object in the light, and it moved as a sorcerer’s illusion would: this forbidding scene of a dark wood, a full moon, a maiden, and a wolf. The two figures were especially captivating, and though she only looked into the mirror once each day when she finished her bath and was not prone to preening or vanity, the lines and lips of the etched woman she saw were her own. To the humongous wolf, all shaggy fur, darkness, and fangs, she did not draw many equivalents. Nevertheless, the eyes were familiar, for they were upon her this instant.
“Does it please you?” asked Caenith.
Morigan was aware that something immeasurably strange was occurring between her and this man, that these symbols and warnings of moons, wolves, chases, and hunts all bore imperative meanings. But in that moment, with Caenith’s heat and smell all about her, her head was syrupy and free of sense. She didn’t care what it all meant.
“Yes,” she said.
“A toast,” said Caenith, his stare sparkling, as if he knew of her yielding.
“To?”
“To awakenings.”
“Awakenings,” repeated Morigan, and greedily drank the water in her chalice, for her throat was very dry.
Caenith lapped his down like a beast, and it trickled over his beard. He collected their cups, brushing Morigan with the soft fur of his chest as he leaned over her to set them down on the bench, and then offered his hand to her.
“It will be a white moon tonight. Half full. The moon of the witch. Tonight, the old magiks can be tracked by those who listen, and my ears are sharp.” Morigan thought she saw Caenith’s ears twitch. “Come; let me show you the secrets of this stone forest and whatever secrets sing themselves to me. Will you run with me?”
“Yes.”
Bewildered and enthralled, sweating and shaking, Morigan slid her soft fingers over Caenith’s gritty palm; they each shivered from the sensation. He smiled then, his sharp and beautiful
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