Feast of Souls by C. S. Friedman Read Free Book Online Page A

she raises up her hands to the heavens, as if she would implore the clouds to move of their own accord. It is not an easy task he has set her, for despite the showy tricks of witches in drought season, weather is hard to manage. One must take the power in a single human soul and weave it into the very substance of the earth and sky, until no star shines and no breeze blows without that soul shivering in resonance. Then, and only then, can one alter small parts without unbalancing the whole.
    He sees her take a deep breath. He wonders if it will be her last.
    He did not plan to watch her any more closely than this, using the eyes of his earthly body and no more. But the bond between apprentice and master is strong even in mundane arts, and a thousand times stronger among those who share the secrets of soulfire. Without need for conjuring a Magister’s sight he can see her power arching upward into the heavens, a blast so pure, so brilliant that for a moment it blinds him. What potential she has, his fierce little strumpet! He watches with satisfaction as she weaves her power into the substance of the wind, noting the skill with which she binds each separate layer of the heavens to her will, so that when she bids the clouds to move there will be no single wisp left behind. How well she has learned the arts of the witching folk! If only she would give way to reason, and save herself while there was still time…
    But it has been too late for that for a while now, and even as he forms the thought he sees her falter. Only a shiver at first is visible, along her outstretched arms, but inside her he knows it is as if ice has suddenly filled every vein. He remembers it from his own Transition. He remembers what kind of panic takes hold of a man’s soul when the spark of life that has burned within him since birth sputters like a dying candle. He remembers the prayers one voices—useless!—as if any god who has watched one squander one’s power for years will feel sympathy for such last-minute regrets. The heart clenches in one’s chest like a fist, as if fighting to keep hold of those last few precious drops of life. But by the time that moment comes it is too late. The mortal life has been consumed, and the figure of Death hovers over his newest charge, pausing but for one precious instant while the fires of the athra sputter into darkness—
    He hears her scream. Not a sound voiced by her flesh, but an agonized howling of her innermost soul. It is at once defiance, fear, determination—raw stubbornness, which has always been her strongest trait. Yet even that is not enough now. You must be willing to leave behind what you are , he thinks, and become something so dark and terrible that men would cringe in horror if they knew it walked among them. And you must choose that course of your own accord, without being shown the way; you must want it so much that everything else is cast aside .
    Does a man truly cast aside everything? he wonders. A woman must. Nature has prepared her to bring life into the world and nurture it, and the very essence of her soul is shaped to that purpose. Such a soul cannot manage Transition in its natural state, nor survive the trial of the spirit that will follow. Can Kamala strip herself of all that the gods gave her in making her a woman, can she hunger for life so desperately that the lives of others are as nothing to her? It is a trick men are born to, for Nature has fashioned them for war, but women must learn it unnaturally.
    You were meant to bring life into the world , he thinks. Now, to survive, you must bring death .
    She is on her knees now, shaking violently as spasms of dying engulf her soul. Ethanus can hear her desperation screaming out across the heavens. He even hears his name, voiced as a prayer—a plea for the information she needs to survive—but he makes no answer. Each student must find his own way to the Truth; that is the Magister’s tradition. To do otherwise may bring