The answer was the same, no matter where she went. "Bandregas! No such creatures in Avador. They left the country years ago, gone to Fomoria or Partholonia." More often than not, she got this additional refrain, "It's the vampires that are killing the mortals."
Now here she was, in this empty village of Magh Eamhainn, apparently deserted a long time ago. Well, she might as well leave and–
"They come here, you know."
Moreen swiveled around, scolding herself for getting caught unaware.
A lone man approached, a hermit by the looks of him, with a scraggly beard, long, stringy hair, and tattered clothes. Up close to her now, she saw he had an eye missing and one arm that ended at the elbow. He smelled of sweat and stale urine.
Quickly, she recovered, retreating a couple steps. "Who comes here?"
He gave her an odd look, as if to say part of her brain was missing. "Why, the bandregas, of course."
Her pulse raced. "How do you know about the bandregas?"
He shifted position, putting his weight on one foot. "Why, I seen 'em, naturally." He snickered. "Rest of the village left, a long time ago. Somethin' about the well water." He pointed, and she followed the direction of his finger. "You see that well over there? Years ago, one of the bandregas–the leader, I reckon–put somethin' in the water that made the people sicken and die–"
"But not you? You never drank from the well?"
"Nah, never did. I live in a cave," he said, nodding toward the hills that rose in the distance. "Never did drink from the well or mix with the villagers. They wouldn't have nothin' to do with me on account of my missing eye and bad arm. But sometimes I'd stand in the wood and watch these people–them that lived here before the bandregas. Within a few days, jist about all of them got sick and died. But some of them sur–sur–"
"Survived?"
"Yeah, survived. Don't know why. Mebbe they was stronger than the others, or didn't drink as much water as the others. Who knows? Anyways, them that didn't die packed up all their things and left for other villages and never came back, everyone sayin' the place is cursed."
"The bandregas. . ." she prompted.
"Well, that's what I'm tellin' you if you'll jist listen. Whatever is in the water that killed the people is like a magic elix–elix–"
"Elixir?"
"Yeah, that's it. The bandregas come here once every moonphase to drink from the well. They come at night, takin' lonely back roads, I reckon, one at a time. I seen 'em sometimes, not all the time, mind you. But I been livin' in the cave for years and sometimes I come here at night, sometimes during the day, jist to see what I can filch from the houses. Those bandregas always come at night, lots of them lookin' like the demons they are, others lookin' weak, kinda bedraggled. They line up at the well–hundreds of 'em!–and drink from a dipper there. Within a little while–no more'n an hour, 'cause that's how long it takes for all of 'em to drink, they look handsome, the best lookin' people you ever saw."
"Men and women?" Moreen asked.
"Sure, both. Children, too."
Moreen nodded, scarcely able to hide her exhilaration. Just wait 'til she told Gaderian this news. She couldn't get back to Moytura fast enough.
"Oh, and one more thing–"
"Yes?"
The hermit turned and spat. "Last time they come, their leader–I think his name is Kane–handed out rings to the men and women, like the rings was somethin' special, magic or somethin'."
She digested this information, wondering at its significance. What magical function did the rings serve?
"Sir, you–"
"Dyfed's the name, ma'am."
"Dyfed, I can't thank you enough for all you've told me." She rummaged in her pocket for a gold piece. "Please take this, use it for–"
"Nah." He waved his hand. "I ain't got no use fer a gold piece. Where would I spend it? I'm happy livin' alone in my cave." He squinted his one eye at her. "But tell me, how come all these questions about the bandregas?"
"Well . . .a friend and I suspect they are doing evil things to the people of this country, killing them, mainly in the capital. We must thwart them, ensure that they kill no more." And kill them, she vowed, but would not say. "So they come here every moonphase? When, do you know? Beginning, middle, end?"
He shrugged. "How should I know? Time means nothin' to me. I only knows they come here every moonphase. I count the days between the visits."
She was getting closer to solving the puzzle, the question of when. "How many days has it been since they last came?" She held her breath.
He scratched his crotch. "Lemme think. Musta been more'n twenty."
More than twenty! Not much time left. She placed her hand on his shoulder, wishing she could give him something to express her gratitude, at the same time anxious to return to Moytura. "Dyfed, you have helped me so much, more than I can ever say. If there is anything I can do for you–"
"Nah, ain't nothin' I want, 'cept my other eye and the rest of my arm. And I reckon you can't give 'em to me."
"Believe me, I would if I could. I thank you, Dyfed, from the bottom of my heart. Goodnight to you, and may the Goddess watch over you."
After Dyfed plodded away, she untied the mare's reins and led the horse toward the well. There, she saw it was well-constructed, lined with brick, a dipper and bucket resting on the ground beside it. It stood about four feet from the ground and maybe the same distance across. She stood in silent contemplation and stared down into the well, her keen night vision enabling her to see the water, as clear as if it were daylight. She sniffed, trying to catch a smell, but found the water odorless.
She mounted the horse and headed for Moytura, ecstatic with her news but too well aware
that she and Gaderian–all the undead—were running out of time.
Chapter Fifteen
Clad in her cotton nightgown, her long hair hanging loose, Fianna knelt to draw her blanket back, then sank onto her pallet. Business being slow this night, she had gone to bed early. She pulled the blanket up and stretched her legs out while countless anxieties raced through her head. Anxieties, yes, Gaderian! He haunted her, taunted her, a thousand tormenting memories. Out in the dining room, an occasional bark of laughter broke the night's silence, but for the most part, quiet had settled over the tavern. Anyway, she was used to the noise by now and had always been a sound sleeper.
She wondered if she had fooled Stilo with her pretense of love. A clever man was Stilo, not easily deceived. So what if she hadn't fooled him, what could he do? She didn't want to find out. Just stay out of his way.
And, ah, Gaderian. He had to get better, and soon! She'd learned that vampires were immortal, once she realized that the undead really did exist. Only a stake through the heart killed them, and even that often failed if it did not reach the center of the heart, in which case burning completed the gruesome task. If Gaderian recovered from his illness–and oh, how she prayed he would–she could never wish that fate on him. But if he killed humans? She shook her head vigorously, too confused to think clearly.
In the pitch blackness of night, she turned over on her side, trying to find a comfortable position. Face it, she loved him, no use denying it. She loved him for his goodness, for his consideration of her, for always being there to help her. She pictured his slow smile, heard his deep voice, felt his fingers on her skin. But her love for him would lead her nowhere. Gaderian was holed up in the farthest reaches of a cavern, in a location she could never find. Why had she treated him so shabbily on her last visit, when Moreen had come for her? If she traveled to the cave, could she find him on her own? Not likely; she might get lost and never find her way out.
Her eyes closed, and visions filled her head, of Gaderian and their time together in the meadow so long ago, their caresses, kisses. Ah, to live that time over again, to see him once more . . .
A tap on the door jerked her from her daydreaming. She pushed herself upright, wondering if she had only imagined the sound. A second tap brought her to her
feet, and she padded to the door, shivering in the nighttime chill.
She brushed her long flow of hair back. "Who is it?" she asked in a loud whisper.
"Moreen. Please let me in. I have to talk to you."
Gaderian! Something had happened to him.
Pressing her hand to her thudding heart, Fianna opened the door, stunned beyond words to see the vampiress again, here in the tavern, in the darkest hour of night. No, not surprising to see her now, since the undead lived by night and shunned the light of day.
Moreen stepped inside, as lovely as ever with her silvery hair, her regal figure and curvaceous curves, her face shrouded in darkness. She smiled. "Give me credit for a little courtesy. I didn't want to shock you by sliding through your door, something I can do."
Ah, yes, vampires had powers that mortals couldn't conceive, but how was Moreen's presence related to Gaderian? Or was it? "How did you know which room is mine?"
"Not difficult. I caught your lilac scent. But we are wasting time. Gaderian wants to see you again. It would make him very happy. Please throw a dress on and come with me. I have two horses waiting at the stable, the same ones we used last time."
"Gaderian," Fianna murmured, afraid to ask. "How is he?" Her heart skipped a beat. She held her breath.
"Very sick. The bandrega caught him at his most vulnerable, when he was hungry and fatigued after a long ride. Please, enough talk, let's go."
"Yes!" Fianna's heart raced as she wrenched her dresser drawer open and grabbed a woolen dress, then slipped it over her nightgown. She threw a woolen cloak around her shoulders and tied it at the throat. Not knowing how long she would be with Gaderian, she drew a honey cake and an apple from her drawer, wrapped in a linen cloth that she had saved from lunch, and tied the ends together. Seizing the key on top of her dresser, she dropped it in her pocket and motioned for Moreen to go ahead. She closed and locked the door behind her, pocketing the key as always. In the dining room, the few patrons left gave her a surprised look upon seeing her departure now, coupled with admiring glances for the vampiress.
Outside, a cool wind whipped at her hair, her dress billowing around her ankles. Moreen appeared not to notice the cold, but of course, temperatures meant nothing to vampires. Fianna's thoughts switched to Gaderian, this enigmatic man who dominated every waking moment and haunted her dreams. Don't deny it. You care for him. Her love for him had blossomed and grown over the past several moonphases, ever since she had first met him, if she wanted to be honest with herself. Always there when she needed him, he was a constant support in her world that had turned upside down ever since she had left home, when her stepfather had told her she must marry Angus Kendall.
A short walk led them to the stable, where they mounted their horses and left the city behind them, neither speaking for a long time.
Once on the road, Fianna could no longer hide her dread. "Gaderian–he will get better, won't he?" She threw an anxious glance at Moreen as the horses followed the twists and turns of the winding dirt road. She scarcely noticed the trees and bushes that lined both sides, the cottages on their small plots of ground, the occasional mansion. Clouds drifted in front of the moon, and a fresh wind tossed tree branches and whipped her hair across her face. She shoved her hair back as she waited for Moreen's reply.
Moreen stayed silent for so long, Fianna feared the vampiress wouldn't answer. "It's very unusual for one of our kind to react in this manner to a bandrega bite. Sick, yes, for a short amount of time, but never like this, for so long. I can only conclude . . . ." She paused.
"Can only conclude–what?" Fianna held her breath. Agony seeped through her, a slow torture.
Moreen turned to give her a long look. "Can only conclude that other factors are at
play . . . other forces."
Fianna squeezed the reins so hard her nails bit into her skin. "Other forces? What do you mean?" Aware of her rising voice, she couldn't stop. "Tell me!"
Moreen looked her way again, and even in the dark, Fianna saw her face drawn in sorrow. "Please, dear, let's wait until we see Gaderian again. Why, for all we know, he may be recover-- ing, even while we speak. Let's wait and hope for the best."
They slowed down as the road curved, then ascended a rocky hill, the ground thick with shale and spreading tree roots. Catching the wind, a hawk soared overhead, then dived down behind the hills.
Fianna's throat clotted with unshed tears. Goddess, how can I bear it if something happens to him? Afraid to consider what that something might be, she braced herself for the cruel truth.
Gaderian was dying.
* * *
Stilo sulked at his table inside the Snow Leopard, as always sitting by himself, ignoring the few other patrons at this late hour of the night. A terrible weakness enfeebled him, a frightful panic that he wouldn't be able to last until the next moonphase before heading for Magh Eamhainn to drink from the sacred well. Determined to enforce the rules, Kane, their leader, had issued an edict that all the bandregas must make the trek to the well to arrive on the first day of the moonphase, traveling singly or as families. No stragglers, no truants, and no excuses.
Stilo raised the mug of ale to his lips, all the energy drained from him, afraid that his demon features would soon surface, afraid the mortals would see him for what he was. He couldn't even wear his ring now, the one that made him invisible, his fingers were so swollen. Chastising himself for coming to the tavern, he couldn't deny the reason. He yearned for Fianna, needed her as he needed air to breathe, blood to suck. Upon his arrival this night, he'd checked her scrying room but found the place empty, the oil lamps doused. He pondered the meaning of her absence. Had she left the tavern or gone to bed early? Tomorrow night stretched ahead, if he could wait the long hours before seeing her.
His thoughts reverted to his own dilemma, an overwhelming fear that he couldn't bide his time until the beginning of the next moonphase. What if he arrived at the well a day or two early? No fooling Kane, Stilo acknowledged. The leader would surely recognize if Stilo didn't arrive at the appointed time since he–Stilo–held much influence among their people. If he did arrive early, what could Kane do about it? Ostracize him? Punish him? He snickered, for he recognized his own importance among his kind, his keen mind and oftimes quick thinking. Did he owe his sharp mind to his vampire half? The reason didn't matter; the other bandregas looked up to him. He tapped his fingers on the table, shocked to see a patch of fur on the back of his hand. Hiding his hand under the table, he took a swig of ale with the other and cast a furtive glance around the room. No one had seen him, he felt sure. He sank back in his chair, only then aware of his tight muscles, glancing one more time around the room. A couple tables remained occupied, the rest of the patrons gone home.
"Say, friend, mind if I join you?"
By all the demons, yes, I mind. Stilo sullenly nodded toward an empty chair. With all the empty tables in the place, why had the fellow chosen this one?
The stranger pulled the chair out and sat down. In a fine black linen tunic woven with gold metallic threads, he had the look of an important man, a merchant, perhaps. His brown hair was neatly combed and reached almost to his shoulders.
He gestured toward Stilo's empty mug. "Allow me to buy you another mug of ale."
Stilo waved his hand, speaking with reluctance. Granno's balls! He just wanted to be left alone. "I've had enough."
The man raised his fingers to get the barmaid's attention. "Well, I think I'll have an ale, if you don't mind," he said as the barmaid headed in their direction. After she took the newcomer's order, Stilo looked him over, tempted to get up and leave now, return to his lonely apartment.
The man smiled his way. "Ah, but I haven't introduced myself. Angus Kendall, from the village of Ros Creda."
Angus Kendall! The mine owner. For reasons he couldn't identify, Stilo didn't want him to know his identity, or that he was a bandrega. "Gildas Keir," Stilo said, thinking quickly.
He placed his hand on the other man's shoul
ders, and Stilo did likewise in the traditional Avadoran greeting.
"Ros Creda. That's from the southern part of the country, isn't it?" No longer bored, Stilo gave him a close look.
"Why, yes." He placed a couple coppers on the table as the barmaid set his ale down. "Ever been there?"
"No," Stilo lied, "but your accent sounds familiar." Like Fianna's, that clipped speech, the well-enunciated syllables. As for Ros Creda, he'd traveled there recently to pick up the rings, made from the gems that came from Kendall's mine. Ah, sweet irony!
The newcomer's voice jarred Stilo back. "–a long way from home. Arrived three days ago, staying at one of the inns. Been looking for someone ever since." He leaned forward to speak in a conspiratorial manner, even though no one else could hear him. "You see, I had a slight disagreement with the lady I was to marry. I'm sure you realize how, uh, temperamental young women can be at such a crucial time of their lives. So to make a long story short, she ran away. I've been searching the city for her–"
"Wait! How do you know she came to the capital? Does she have relatives here?" A vague suspicion teased Stilo's mind, offset by the fear the young lady might not be Fianna. Too much to expect.
Kendall quaffed his ale, then set the mug down with a soft thud, wiping his hand across his mouth. "No relatives that I know of. Just figured she'd come to the largest city in Avador, where it is easy to lose oneself." He barked a short laugh. "Although I don't see how a lady as pretty as she could remain anonymous. She is a real beauty, a woman any man would hate to lose. I intend to post a reward for her if I don't find her on my own." He frowned. "Somehow, she got the impression that I don't love her."
Avador Book 2, Night Shadows Page 14
