Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “What? Why? How do you know the Lord Chamberlain?”

  “Through his daughter. You know, she thinks Guishaun is quite handsome.”

  Dorian’s thoughts came faster than he could make sense of them. “And how did you meet the Lord Chamberlain’s daughter?”

  “Shopping in Salicea, of all places. She’s taken me all over the Palace, and to other royal residences as well. Her father can get her in almost anywhere.”

  “I bet he can. Have you been friends long?”

  “Since you and Guishaun first left Ossidel Castle, I think.”

  And after Guishaun started to make his political presence known, Dorian thought, doubting the coincidental character of his sister’s meeting her new friend. He fought down a threatening sense of panic. “And when will you return home?”

  Agnetha’s cheer softened. “You want me to leave?”

  Dorian resisted a roll of his eyes. “Well, Mother does get worried.”

  “She thinks it’s exciting having another member of the family with a ‘Palace connection.’ She has already said that I could stay.”

  Dorian wanted to scream. Deep in a lair of vipers, his younger sister trusted every smile she saw! “We need to talk about this, Agna.”

  “Why? Hey, you’re not the only one dreaming for a prince.”

  “Agna!”

  Agnetha laughed and then quickly bobbed her head, remembering where she was. “Oh Dorie. I think we’re going to have such fun here.”

  - - -

  Couri Valmont descended the stairs leading from his latest apartment, a habit he had formed in case pursuers ever tried to trap him in an elevator.

  Things will move fast now, he thought, knowing that Seonas Possór’s murder had raised the stakes in this political game. Now the more courageous players would tip their hands, either to push other players out, or get them to show their own cards. And he had played a part in it.

  Who knew that an old casual acquaintance with Dorian Tousan would lead him to helping a Possór heir kill his pig of a father aiming to be grandee? The Assembly had been reluctant to approve the mission, but the rebellion needed money, and needed to be free from its dependency on his own father, Legan’s NDB prelate. Couri wished he have seen his father’s face when he heard Seonas was dead. A hateful father, killed by his unjustly persecuted son.

  “Couri?” his mother said, stepping toward him at the end of the stairwell.

  Valmont halted, wondering how his mother had found him this time. She must have implanted a psychic homing beacon after he was born, he thought, only half-jokingly. One more surprise visit, and he would have a rogue initiate check him out, just in case. “You really should not come to me like this, Mother,” he said finally. “What if someone followed you?”

  “We must talk, Couri. Your father—”

  “Why is it always about him? Honestly, Mother, however can you believe that your eternal salvation is dependent on the grace of a man like him. I mean, what self-respecting woman would rely on such a man to bring her into paradise?”

  The woman’s eyes flickered at her son’s attack upon her NDB faith, giving him a glimpse of something foreign behind them. “Couri,” she began, switching to a psychic projection: “Did you have a hand in murdering Seonas Possór?”

  Though the question was not spoken, Valmont looked about to see if anyone was nearby. “What is it that you are talking about now, Mother?”

  Easily seeing through her son’s evasion, the woman’s face slowly sank. “Oh Couri. Why? In your rejection of the Church, you now take part in murder?”

  “Who says assassination constitutes a rejection of the Church? Father has certainly had people quietly removed from time to time.”

  “Speak not to me of your father that way,” his mother charged. “For shame!”

  “Your words sting, Mother. Truly. Is that all you have come to say?”

  “Your father wants to speak with you,” she replied, ending her telepathy.

  “And did he say, ‘Oh, I miss my son,’ or ‘Get me the prancing bastard’?”

  “Will you go to him?”

  “Would he come to me?”

  “Stop playing games, Courell. Will you speak with your father?”

  “I have nothing to say to him. What could he possibly have to say to me?”

  Valmont’s mother sighed. She had barely taken another breath when armed men surged through the lobby area and down from the top of the stairs behind him. Valmont knew who they were in an instant. Church Security. No doubt every one of them a Special Agent.

  “So many men,” Valmont murmured, knowing he was trapped. “I am flattered that Father would send such a large team to apprehend me.”

  “The more men, the less chance you might try something foolish,” his mother said. “I’m sorry, Courell. You left us no choice.”

  - - -

  “The timing of your father’s death is unfortunate for the Consortium and the NDB’s Brotherhood,” said Jordan, forgoing any offer of sympathy. Guishaun had to respect him for it, wondering if the time had come for them to speak plainly.

  “They don’t care,” Guishaun said, drawing a finger over a row of ancient, leather-bound books there in the Palace. To him they were as useful as the rusted weaponry decorating these walls. “They were just using him as leverage.”

  “Yes, to keep me in line. You know what it means though?”

  “I skipped my coffee this morning, Uncle. Enlighten me.”

  “They will move their sights to your brother, Varian.”

  “He doesn’t want the throne.”

  “As if it matters. They will find a lever, and hound him until he surrenders.”

  “But he can’t be grandee. He doesn’t have a capacity. He wouldn’t even leave his rooms to attend the funeral.”

  “Incompetents have sat on the throne before. A regent could be named.”

  “But why use a puppet? Why not let the regent take the throne directly?”

  “Leverage, Nephew. A regent is easier to unseat than a grandee.”

  “At his age, Varian could reign for years. I never thought you’d be happy as a mere regent, Uncle. Though you would make a fine Grand Vizier somewhere.”

  “Hard times are coming to Legan, Nephew. Many things must be done for House Possór to retain its fief. Unpopular things. A disposable puppet will make achieving them easier.”

  “And if I’m named regent?”

  “Keep rubbing your lamp. You have no government experience whatsoever.”

  “But I would be next in line for the throne.”

  “Really? I could yield my right in favor of Varian with full reservation. There is precedent, and Parliament would be glad to avoid the thorny issue of your parents’ illegal marriage. Later, once Varian shows that he will never be fit to rule, he will be made to abdicate, and still you will lack government experience. With your brother’s inbred failure, who would Parliament prefer on the throne then, if I decline to yield my claim a second time? From my marriage alliance with House Tehasing, I might even already have an heir. Will you ever have even one legitimate child, Nephew? After all, no bastard can inherit the throne.”

  “Well surely that would disqualify you.”

  “I take that to mean you understand your position,” Jordan coolly replied, standing from his chair. “Enjoy your freedom, Nephew. For when your brother goes into his final exile, you will join him.” Catching Guishaun’s eye, Jordan smiled and walked way.

  - - -

  Derrick stopped the hover-car and looked out over another valley. Was this where he wanted to go? All he knew when he left the murderous Colonel Steuben was that he had to get away. But he knew nothing else. He had no place to go, and no clue how to choose a direction. And as for whether he really was the Lord of Legan, well, what kept Jair from simply taking him to the capital? The people there would know him, right? They would help him, right?

  Passing another stranger along the road looking for a ride, Derrick sighed as he
thought about Jair. He hated leaving him there in the open. It was bad enough leaving the woman Steuben killed to impress the witch. But just as he knew it would not be safe to return to the cave, the word of the killer colonel notwithstanding, he knew that it would not be safe to return to Jair’s family either. Even to simply inform them that he had died. Killed, trying to save him.

  Derrick did not feel the moisture on his cheek. With a sudden rage, he hit the steering wheel with his fist. And bent its solid metal form. Derrick stopped the vehicle as he felt his stomach drop, realizing what he had done, and remembering what he did in the cave: He had attacked the witch with his thoughts. He had grabbed onto a source of power and used it like a weapon. But how?

  Derrick seized the steering wheel and tried to bend it back. Filling his thoughts with every imaginable need he could, he tried again, even visualizing the metal giving way as he pretended to feel his hands and arms being infused with unnatural strength. But the wheel would not give in. Derrick gave up with an expulsion of breath.

  He was tired. That had to be it. He was tired and hungry. And still with no place to go.

  Derrick lifted his head from his seat’s neck support, opened his eyes, and stepped on the accelerator. Soon he saw a hooded figure to his right, leaning on a cane. Derrick squinted at the unmoving figure. Suddenly he sensed something draw near as fear and nausea rose within him. Derrick let a new feeling of anger clamp down over the fear, snuffing it out as he experienced an expansion of his awareness that reached out to swat the foreign presence away.

  Overwhelmed, Derrick did not immediately register the hooded figure jerking to the side and falling to the ground. When he did, the image startled him, for it seemed as if the figure had been struck. Having already passed the figure, Derrick slowed down and watched from his rearview mirror, but the figure did not rise. Alarmed, Derrick turned his vehicle around and sped to where the figure lay. Stepping out onto the tall grass, Derrick rushed to what he could now see was a young man, no older than he. Derrick felt for the man’s pulse. He was alive.

  Derrick shook the man’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  The man stirred. “What did you do to me?” he said groggily as he sat up and put a hand to the side of his head.

  Derrick wanted to ask him the same thing, unsure from where that negative feeling had come, and not knowing how he had repelled it. “Can I take you somewhere?” Derrick asked instead, helping the man to his feet.

  “I was to see a friend,” the man said carefully, as if suddenly wary of Derrick.

  “I can take you to see your friend, if you want,” said Derrick.

  It took a moment, but the man finally smiled. “My thanks,” he said, accepting Derrick’s silent invitation to get into the vehicle. “Do you hunger? Have you a place to stay?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am hungry,” Derrick said as he started the hover-car’s engine. “And I do not have any place to stay around here.”

  “That can be taken care of,” the man said pleasantly.

  “Are you sure you are all right?” Derrick asked.

  “Oh, I am fine now. My name is Alfren Ulane, by the way.” Alfren extended his hand.

  Derrick took it. “My name is Derrick.” Derrick had said the name without thinking. Realizing his mistake, he shook Alfren’s hand weakly. Alfren smiled as if amused by Derrick’s awkwardness, not pressing him for a last name.

  “Well,” Alfren said finally, “to arrive there by ground vehicle, we must turn around and go that way.” Derrick nodded and turned the hover-car as directed.

  Derrick Meres, Derrick told himself as they sped off. When asked again, his name would be Derrick Meres.

  - - -

  XVI

  Wyren descended the spiral stairway leading to a subterranean cave below the Temple’s Sacred Pools. Inaccessible from the main building except by this stone passage, it was a level of the Temple Complex most NDB faithful knew nothing about. His unfaithful son knew it well however, having been led through a secret tunnel from an entrance just outside the Temple.

  His unfaithful son. His apostate son. Wyren had endured the shame for too long. He should have brought his son here when he first suspected his perversion. Save for his wife’s pleas, he would have. His son had successfully infiltrated the rebels, but he had gone too far. Now it was time for his son to walk the thorny path back from perdition, or dissemble into the nothingness of the Outer Darkness.

  -

  Sitting on a small bed beside a plate of uneaten food, Valmont heard the echo of heavy steps before the doors to his cell parted in a flood of light, blinding him to all but the figure standing several feet above him dressed in brilliant white.

  “Courell,” Chais Wyren called down to his son. “I have come to offer you my hand in forgiveness and redemption.”

  “And your demanded price, Father?” Valmont asked, shielding his eyes with his hands as he mentally adjusted his vision. He knew the ritualized words he was supposed to say, but he refused to utter them, just as he pointedly failed to rise.

  “I demand nothing, my son, though you know the nature of your heart better than anyone, and thus know better than anyone how long it will take to purify it.”

  “Drop the dinner drama dialogue, Father,” Valmont said, tilting his head so that he could look down his nose at his father. “Just tell me what you want.”

  Wyren’s face dropped its saintly serenity as he stepped through the doorway down into his son’s cell. His white garment also changed to match the surrounding darkness, as the white light that once illuminated him from behind dimmed to fiery red. The angel of mercy had transformed into one of vengeance.

  “One last theatrical trick, huh?” Valmont remarked, waving at his father’s clothes. “Why must everything with you be a stage production?”

  “You are a fine one to complain of artifice,” Wyren snapped, “talking and acting as you do. Your feminine affectations sicken me.”

  “This is how I speak, Father. Consider it an accent I acquired while living in a place far, far from here. A place of freedom. A place where judgment does not belong to mortal men.”

  “A place where flamboyant narcissism is a virtue. Competing with other men forever trying to draw attention to themselves must be exhausting.”

  “Not everyone has the fame of the Patriarch of Legan, Father.”

  “A rank I earned, and wear with dignity. If status where you dwell is gained by drawing gasps and stares, where life is nothing but a campy performance piece, it is an empty existence. No matter how good your makeup is.”

  “Life is but a dance, Father. Who are you to come into our lives and stop the music, just because you prefer a different beat?”

  “You should have stuck with dancing. And not gone on to murder.”

  “If you have evidence against me,” Valmont said, “turn me in. Or is this less about narcissistic me, and more about dignified you?”

  “I see now that speaking with you was a waste of time.” Wyren stood before his son like stone, his face betraying no emotion.

  “So what will you do with me then, Father?” Valmont challenged, standing from his bed and stepping toward the man still towering above him on the steps leading to the door. “Send me to my room? I hold the Secret Teachings of the Restored Church, ones you authorized when you sent me to train as a special agent for Church Security. What can you really do to me?”

  His son right in front of him, Wyren shot out his hand to touch his forehead. Despite Valmont’s mental training, he was no match for the NDB bishop. The psychic connection that enveloped Valmont’s awareness was instantaneous.

  “Cast you into darkness,” Wyren replied.

  - - -

  The emissary of Allenford Biam, the NDB’s new grandmaster of the DuCideon Brotherhood, floated in mid-air before Lilth’s throne in Crucidel, clawing at his neck. Looking into his bulging eyes, Lilth psychically shook him like a doll as he continued to gasp for air and rend his own throat. Jordan waited beside
her on a smaller throne as the man weakened. Only when he passed out did Lilth snap his neck with a snap of her fingers and drop him to the floor.

  “Another ultimatum in less than a day,” she complained, lazily taking a drink from her cup. She sighed drearily.

  “And you killed both messengers,” Jordan remarked, pushing himself up by the armrests of his chair. “Now the NDB and Consortium will—”

  “Know that we mean what we say,” Lilth finished for him. “We laid out our plans already. Once you become grandee, both will submit bids on new projects as they come, with us awarding each one on a contract-by-contract basis. There is no need for them to be greedy, not when there is more than enough to share.”

  “But they don’t trust Uncle Jordan, Mother,” Curin Morays said as he entered the throne room from a side hallway. “They know he would cross one or the other for a better deal.”

  “Curin, you should not be here,” Lilth chided, glancing about to see if any unfortunate servants had seen her supposedly kidnapped son still at the palace.

  “No one saw me, Mother,” said the burly young man. “I’m careful.”

  “But others have seen you,” Jordan said, noting that while his nephew’s clothes were no doubt expensive, they were more befitting a low-school dance than an appearance at his mother’s court. “You have left Crucidel on your own, Curin, have you not?”

  “Who says that?” Lilth demanded, beckoning her son to her side. Curin smiled at his uncle as his mother hugged him and patted his back. “Curin knows how dangerous it would be for him to leave here.”

  “Oh, he knows,” Jordan replied. “But there have been sightings—”

  “Lies,” Lilth proclaimed.

  Jordan knew better than to argue. His sister had protected both of her sons from all possible harm since they were small. Even from such devastating agony as proper criticism.

  “So what do we tell the NDB and Consortium?” Jordan asked, thinking on how he might distance himself from his sister’s actions. If only he had let her kill the Quetana country folk. Then he might have safely asked whether the remaining Dark Witches had any leads on Derrick.