“Your mother piqued my curiosity. Tara had all sorts of interesting stories. She told me tales of what the mortal world is truly like, for of course I normally only catch a glimpse of it when I pass through.” He ran a hand along the curve of the cauldron, tracing the figure meant to be him. Like a cat, he rather relished himself. “So besides wanting to get hold of this cauldron, I had a hankering, a curiosity if you will, to make one grand tour.”
I laughed.
“Why does that amuse you? I do not understand your jests, little cat.”
He was not like me or any human. When the river floods and drowns, it does not regret its victims. When a storm lays waste, it does not ponder the uses of power. Fire consumes and does not grieve. The ice gives no thought to what it crushes as it works its way over the land.
But I did not have to like him. “That my mother told you tales, that’s all.”
We turned the corner into a commercial district on the road leading out of town, lined with taverns and inns whose windows were ablaze with Hallows candles. These flames went out one by one as we rumbled along the cobblestones. The buzz of voluble conversation ceased, too, fading to an anxious silence that draped the street with its fear.
The luscious aroma of coffee drifted to my nose.
“Did you try coffee, Sire?”
“No.” He sniffed. “Is that smell coffee? I wondered what that was but I didn’t know how to go about getting it.”
I stuck my head out the window. “Stop here! Sire, do you have any money?”
“Money? Oh! Yes, the stamped metal roundels.”
He passed over a huge cloth bag so weighted with coins I had to set it on the floor, for it was too heavy for me to easily hold. I picked out a denarius by feel, hopped out, and dashed into a benighted coffee shop where men whispered in frightened voices about the suddenly extinguished lights. With so much confusion it was easy to place the denarius on the counter and take four full mugs back to the coach, one for each of us. I wanted to be wide-awake.
As the horses stamped we stood on the street and drank our coffee.
“My thanks,” said the coachman.
“Sharp and nutty,” said the eru, “with a taste of sun.”
When I had drained my cup, I wiped a finger along the bottom and let the latch lick the last drops off my skin.
“Mmm,” murmured the latch. “I like that!”
“What do you think?” I asked my sire.
An owl swooped down out of the night and landed atop the coach, golden eyes unblinking.
“I think it is time to go,” he said. “The courts are waiting.”
I looked him in the eye. His amber stare was just like mine. “It’s what you made me for, is it not? To be the sacrifice.”
A smile ghosted across his lips, then vanished as he glanced toward the owl and shook his head to remind me that the courts heard and saw everything he heard and saw, just as he could hear and see through the eyes of his Hunt. “All the others before you died. So are you trapped, little cat. You will never be free…”
His voice faded as on words left unsaid, for there were words he dared not say within the hearing of the owl because he was not the owl’s master. The owl was spying on him.
But I could guess. All the others before you died, because they failed. So you are trapped, because they could not understand and thus act. You will never be free unless I am also free.
As a young man in the mage House, Vai had known in his heart all along that he might as a magister gain the power and glory granted him because of his magic, but he would not be free as long as his village was bound in clientage. A prince among slaves is still a slave. Freedom cuts in every direction. No one is truly free, if even one person lies in chains.
oor closing cut off the view, but regardless my gaze had been caught by the large, gleaming object on the bench next to my sire. I had last seen the bronze cauldron in the temple of Carnonos watched over by my grandfather. The face of a horned man shone in the polished surface.
“Not a very good likeness, if you ask me,” said my sire, noticing the direction of my gaze. “Imagine! He had the effrontery to pour water into it and watch me every Hallows’ Night. I put a stop to that!”
“Did you kill him?”
“Kill him? Of course not! On Hallows’ Night, the Hunt gathers up the spirits of those fated to die in the coming year. We don’t kill them. You mortals kill each other, or you die of other causes. I only kill one mortal a year, and I do that because I am commanded to do so by my masters.”
Strangely, the moment the coach arrived, all my fear had melted away like ice under heat. The coachman cracked his whip. I pulled the shutter back in time to wave at Rory as we rolled away down the street.