Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) by Christian A. Brown Page B
Authors: Christian A. Brown
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wake, yet she cannot find the right path. Lost as a trout in a filthy stream, she swims from memory to memory: her mother’s arms as a child, she and Thackery dirty from making her mother’s grave, she and Caenith’s first kiss in Eod. Cruelly, no matter the sanctity of these visions of her past, a buzz ever haunts her ears. So Morigan leaps again and again into the river of Dream, trying to flee the horrid Dreamstalker by immersing herself in these most sacred of memories. She tries not to feel fear, even though she is hunted
.
No matter where Morigan goes, the cicada music follows her
.
V
As promised, the Wolf stirred the Menosian while Pandemonia still lay in darkness. Moreth woke to a chipper and grinning Blood King, and for a speck considered the possibility that he was to be eaten. However, the Wolf had already taken care of his appetite during Moreth’s nap—the master could smell blood somewhere on the man.
“What did you kill?” asked Moreth.
“Something furred and fast,” replied the Wolf.
“It seems to have agreed with you,” said Moreth with a yawn. For a man who’d slept a mere wink, Moreth seemed quite refreshed. After putting on his bowler, Moreth pointed at the stars with his cane. “Oria, Demeter, Prosperae…Under the last—the third and slightly red star—we shall find Eatoth.”
The Wolf gazed at the red gem hanging in the heavens. It felt a thousand spans away.
“Have you been practicing what I taught you?” asked Moreth.
Indeed, the Wolf had practiced and honed the skill of funneling the maelstrom of Pandemonia into smaller channels. It was this new clarity that had allowed the Wolf to hear his supper snorting its way through the fields. That distilled concentration, still tied to Morigan’s presence—focuson one thing before focusing on all—was also how he had known, from the clean ammonia musk of his kill, that its meat would not upset his stomach with poison. Once the Wolf had learned to use Morigan as his anchor, just as she so often held fast to his spirit while she wandered the nether-realms, he had discovered he could roam quite far on his new chain. Admittedly, he could not, and would never, hunt in Pandemonia with the same surety he could in the woods of Alabion. Nonetheless, he
could
hunt, which was all that mattered.
“Yes,” he said. “Your lesson was valuable. I shall lead us, if you like.”
Moreth shrugged, then woke the company with clapping and prods from his cane. Morigan would not wake, but the Wolf dismissed Moreth’s concern. This was not the most unusual behavior for the seer; she was probably witnessing a grand Fate. Settling her in his embrace, the Wolf looked for the white sparkle of Oria, and then they set out into the highlands.
While the company walked, they drank and picked at what remained of their rations. During the night, the moths had prodigiously reproduced, and white, fluttering clouds filled the highlands. The moths tickled the travelers as they passed and left a shimmering dust upon them. According to the Wolf, this was a nontoxic powder. Their great leader appeared to have rediscovered his sense of authority, something for which all were grateful.
Talwyn murmured to Thackery about the marvel of the moths’ procreation and proliferation, and cited earlier discussions on the fecundity of Pandemonia. Of course, neither scholar had thought of the other side of life, of how, to continue a cycle of rapid evolution, death must forerun each new lap. Pandemonia revealed this lesson to the travelers as the sun shined its greeting in a golden dawn. The light grew, and the flowers wilted, then wrinkled. The moths dropped in droves to the ground, and soon the company trod over a skin of dead life that had shriveled to blackness—an aromatic mulch. Soon, even that had decayed into dust that clouded around their feet. Noon arrived and the land was as dead as a desert. The elevations changed as well: the many steps in the land wore down into
.
No matter where Morigan goes, the cicada music follows her
.
V
As promised, the Wolf stirred the Menosian while Pandemonia still lay in darkness. Moreth woke to a chipper and grinning Blood King, and for a speck considered the possibility that he was to be eaten. However, the Wolf had already taken care of his appetite during Moreth’s nap—the master could smell blood somewhere on the man.
“What did you kill?” asked Moreth.
“Something furred and fast,” replied the Wolf.
“It seems to have agreed with you,” said Moreth with a yawn. For a man who’d slept a mere wink, Moreth seemed quite refreshed. After putting on his bowler, Moreth pointed at the stars with his cane. “Oria, Demeter, Prosperae…Under the last—the third and slightly red star—we shall find Eatoth.”
The Wolf gazed at the red gem hanging in the heavens. It felt a thousand spans away.
“Have you been practicing what I taught you?” asked Moreth.
Indeed, the Wolf had practiced and honed the skill of funneling the maelstrom of Pandemonia into smaller channels. It was this new clarity that had allowed the Wolf to hear his supper snorting its way through the fields. That distilled concentration, still tied to Morigan’s presence—focuson one thing before focusing on all—was also how he had known, from the clean ammonia musk of his kill, that its meat would not upset his stomach with poison. Once the Wolf had learned to use Morigan as his anchor, just as she so often held fast to his spirit while she wandered the nether-realms, he had discovered he could roam quite far on his new chain. Admittedly, he could not, and would never, hunt in Pandemonia with the same surety he could in the woods of Alabion. Nonetheless, he
could
hunt, which was all that mattered.
“Yes,” he said. “Your lesson was valuable. I shall lead us, if you like.”
Moreth shrugged, then woke the company with clapping and prods from his cane. Morigan would not wake, but the Wolf dismissed Moreth’s concern. This was not the most unusual behavior for the seer; she was probably witnessing a grand Fate. Settling her in his embrace, the Wolf looked for the white sparkle of Oria, and then they set out into the highlands.
While the company walked, they drank and picked at what remained of their rations. During the night, the moths had prodigiously reproduced, and white, fluttering clouds filled the highlands. The moths tickled the travelers as they passed and left a shimmering dust upon them. According to the Wolf, this was a nontoxic powder. Their great leader appeared to have rediscovered his sense of authority, something for which all were grateful.
Talwyn murmured to Thackery about the marvel of the moths’ procreation and proliferation, and cited earlier discussions on the fecundity of Pandemonia. Of course, neither scholar had thought of the other side of life, of how, to continue a cycle of rapid evolution, death must forerun each new lap. Pandemonia revealed this lesson to the travelers as the sun shined its greeting in a golden dawn. The light grew, and the flowers wilted, then wrinkled. The moths dropped in droves to the ground, and soon the company trod over a skin of dead life that had shriveled to blackness—an aromatic mulch. Soon, even that had decayed into dust that clouded around their feet. Noon arrived and the land was as dead as a desert. The elevations changed as well: the many steps in the land wore down into
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