Traitor to the Blood

by Barb Hendee

Welstiel walked the night streets of Venjetz, thoughts turning one upon the other, until he was barely aware of the shabby buildings slipping past him. He tried to focus upon his agenda.

  Whatever was needed to move Magiere onward, it had to begin with Darmouth. Welstiel had dealt with a few warlords in his time. Most were petty tyrants of limited intellect. Darmouth might be a deluded pretender to a crown, uneducated as well, but he was no fool. And he was well guarded.

  The best Welstiel might manage was to weaken the keep's security and assist once the assassination was under way. Once any such plan was in motion, it was a matter of days or less before the event took place; otherwise the risk of discovery in waiting further was too great. All Welstiel had to do was keep Magiere diverted for that time, and then her and

  Leesil's motivation for coming to Venjetz would be gone. Hopefully this nonsense concerning the elven lands would fade as well. She would once again turn to finding the orb in order to stop him from finding it first, Magiere would become his unwitting bloodhound once again.

  Welstiel shook his head at the irony. So much time had been lost since Magiere had left Bela. Thinking too much on it fed Welstiel's frustration. He paused in the street, realizing he had lost track of his destination. People still moved about the marketplace up ahead, drinking and talking even in this bitter cold.

  Welstiel was surprised at the effort it cost him when he moved on. He was hungry, and an edge of fatigue crept in upon him. It had been too long since he last absorbed a life. He sidestepped into an alley out of reach of the street lanterns and watched the few people passing by. Most were inebriated or just tired at this late hour. Two voices engaged in an argument, and their words became clear as they drew closer.

  "You know it's two coppers, Deni. It's always two coppers!" the woman nearly shouted.

  "Not tonight it's not," the man answered. "I ain't got two coppers, but I'll catch you up next time."

  Welstiel flattened against the alley wall as they passed by.

  A young woman with long, oily brown hair shrugged a tattered shawl up over her shoulders. It did not cover her scant cleavage, partially exposed by two unfastened buttons at the top of her bodice, and she coughed twice.

  "You know I don't give credit," she said.

  The man trailing her wore a long leather hauberk, most of its sewn-on iron rings missing. He reached out to grab her waist from behind.

  "Oh, come on, Alliss. I got a warm bed. Better than freezing out here, trying to find someone with coin at this time of night."

  She elbowed him, spinning away from his hold. The man threw up his hands with a disgusted huff and continued on without her. The girl snorted and headed back toward the marketplace.

  Welstiel stepped out. "Miss?"

  She turned and looked at him, spite still lingering on her gaunt features.

  Welstiel held up a silver penny. "I can offer more than a warm bed."

  She sauntered toward him, a coy smile stretching her lips. Stains marred her faded lavender dress. With just this and a shawl, he wondered how she withstood the cold. Her skin was sallow.

  "Looking for company?" she asked.

  Standing in the alley's mouth, Welstiel lifted one side of his cloak. "Come in for warmth."

  Her smile grew. Perhaps she saw luck in finding a gentleman, and she walked right up to him. He stepped farther back, determined to touch her as little as possible.

  She followed him beyond the reach of the street lamps. Before she could speak again, Welstiel slammed his gloved fist into her face. The woman's head jerked sideways. Blood spattered the alley wall from her nose and mouth. Welstiel tensed in alarm.

  He had struck with too much force, anger welling inside him before he could stop it. If she died from the blow, his effort was wasted.

  The woman toppled sideways, scraping down the wall to flop facedown. Welstiel's senses snapped open wide, and he felt a moment's relief upon hearing the muffled beat of her heart.

  Her hair splayed out above her head. A trickle of blood ran out of her mouth across the frozen mud. Welstiel stared at the growing trail and the back of her exposed neck.

  Anger at Magiere made him reckless. A drive to feed wormed through his mind as he remembered Chane ripping a woman's throat open.

  Welstiel recoiled at his own savage impulse. He could not allow Magiere's actions ever to weaken his self-control again. Welstiel stared down at the woman, remaining still until his calm fully returned.

  He knelt and removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it. Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper. He took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its lip. Between these lines were the characters of his conjury. He carefully placed the cup in the tripod.

  The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.

  Welstiel rolled the prostitute onto her back. So much life was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank for survival. It was not blood that truly mattered but rather the leak of life caused by its loss. His method was far more efficient. He slipped out his dagger and dipped its point between her lips, collecting a puddle of her blood on its tip. Tilting the blade over the cup, he let one red drop strike the water.

  It thinned and diffused. He began to chant.

  The air shuddered before his eyes. He felt it grow humid and warm in the distortion. The woman's skin started to shrivel.

  Her body slowly dried to a shrunken husk as her life drained away. When her heart stopped, Welstiel ceased his chant and the air around him became clear and crisp again. The woman was a brittle shell with sunken eye sockets.

  The water in the cup brimmed to the lip, so dark red it appeared black—a red-tinged black like Magiere's hair. Welstiel lifted the cup from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat so that he tasted it as little as possible. A last drop struck his tongue and tasted of ground metal and strong salt.

  He set the cup back in place and flattened both hands upon the ground to brace himself. So much life taken in this pure form shocked his system. It burst inside him like burning sunlight and rushed through his dead flesh.

  Welstiel waited for the worst to pass.

  When he picked up the cup to put it away, it was clean and dry, with no sign that anything had been in it. He packed away the iron rods and white bottle as well. He stood up carefully under a lingering vertigo, but it passed, leaving him clear in his thoughts. Normally he would have found a way to hide the girl's body, but if her corpse were found, it would cause more panic. It would build Lord Darmouth's desire to employ Magiere. There were monsters to hunt down in his city.

  Welstiel made his way to the Ivy Vine inn, wondering how Chane had fared all this time being trapped alone in his room. When he arrived, the lobby was empty. He headed up the narrow stairs to their room. He did not bother to knock and opened the door to step inside.

  Chane sat on the floor in bare feet, feeding his robin crushed nuts and crumbled bread. He wore breeches and a well-tailored muslin shirt, and looked like any handsome young noble engaged in a pastime.

  The parchment and quills still lay untouched upon his bed.

  "I see you've fed," Chane said in his rasping voice. "You look better."

  Welstiel did not answer. Instead he rummaged through his pack and pulled out a small bag of black charcoal and a wad of tattered clothing that smelled of urine.

  "Lord Darmouth has engaged Magiere's services," he explained. "You will keep her occupied by giving her an unusually savage beast to hunt."

  Chane blinked, staring at the rags in Welstiel's hand. "What are those?"

  "I bought them from a s
ervant at the keep. If you are witnessed during an attack and described as a tall noble with reddish hair, Magiere may wonder. We must create some other creature for her to track. Sit, and I will cut your hair, then use charcoal and oil to dye it black."

  Welstiel took out his dagger and motioned to a chair. Chane hesitated.

  "It will wash out," Welstiel said.

  "But will my hair grow back?" Chane rasped.

  The question surprised Welstiel. Not by its vanity, but that it was the first time Chane had shown such concern over anything since crawling forth from his second death.

  "Have you ever seen a dead body months after it was buried?" Welstiel asked.

  Chane shook his head.

  "The hair is longer. And I will not cut much off."

  He motioned again to the chair. Chane sighed but obeyed.

  Late into the night, Leesil was still awake. Magiere curled against him, breathing softly, lost in deep sleep. He watched her pale face on the pillow. He wished he could join her in the oblivion of sleep, but he couldn't.

  Nightmares wouldn't let him.

  The name of Hedí Progae opened dark cell doors in his mind that he'd long been able to keep locked. He couldn't close them again.

  Leesil tried to focus on the memory of Magiere's mouth, her body, both soft and hard, and her hands all over him. But whenever his eyelids drifted shut from fatigue, he saw the back of Baron Progae's bleeding neck.

  Progae's hazel eyes opened where he lay dead as Leesil pulled the bedcovers back into place. Those eyes rolled to glare at Leesil, and his pale lips parted, speaking with Gavril's voice.

  "Think only of your mother, father… of yourself… this is how you survive."

  Leesil's eyes snapped open.

  He'd slipped into sleep for an instant, but he couldn't face it again. Not without smothering away the nightmares, drowning them as dead as his victims. He'd sworn to Magiere never to do that again, but the moment stretched as he watched her beside him. When his eyes drifted closed again, he snapped them open.

  He couldn't stand the faces in his sleep anymore.

  Leesil slipped from under the blanket. Magiere rolled, and he froze until she grew still once again. He pulled the blanket and sheepskin cover back in place over her bare body, and walked softly to the door. He stopped for a moment, looking back at Magiere's sleeping form, then stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door.

  The inn was silent. The stairs were empty, even of cats. He crept downstairs, and two steps creaked lightly under his feet. All was quiet in the common room, and he stepped around behind the bar and found the cask of red wine Byrd stored there.

  Leesil opened the cask and picked up a tin cup from under the bar. When he poured out half a cup, he stared into the red liquid. His hand shook slightly, and he gripped the cup with both hands.

  He could put it down, go back upstairs to Magiere.

  He knew this, even as he drew the wine to his lips and swallowed.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning Wynn awoke from a deep sleep to a knock at her door. She opened her eyes, disoriented at first, and remembered where she was. "Leesil?"

  She sat up, wiping at her sleepy eyes, as the door cracked open. Byrd stuck his head in. Yellow scarf tied neatly about his head, he looked as if he had been up for a while.

  Wynn pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, then quickly pulled the bed's sheepskin cover up to her neck.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  Byrd smiled as his gaze fell upon the fat form of Clover Roll curled up on the bed's end. Tomato and Potato lay tangled in sleep on a braid rug near Chap. Head upon paws, Chap was fully awake and glowering at the kittens.

  "I sent Paris word that I'd located Magiere," Byrd said. "But I didn't tell him where. A messenger came back this morning. Lieutenant Omasta will meet her below the bridge gatehouse at noon. No one gets into the keep without an escort."

  Wynn took a deep breath, still trying to come fully awake. "Have you told Magiere?"

  "No, I thought I'd leave that to you."

  This was odd, but Wynn kept quiet about it. Byrd made her nervous, as she knew his polite front was an act. After last night's confrontation in the kitchen, it was obvious he wanted something from Leesil.

  "Of course," she replied, "if you will close the door so I may dress."

  He pulled his head halfway out and then stopped. He leaned in again to eye Wynn curiously.

  "You won't get out of Omasta's sight," he warned, "so watch carefully in the chambers or corridors you pass through. Don't just look the place over. Pay attention to the placement of guards standing watch and remember anything you overhear."

  Chap rumbled softly, and Wynn glanced toward the dog. His head was still down, but his crystalline eyes were on Byrd.

  "Thank you," Wynn said. "Chap and I know what to look for."

  Byrd frowned. "He's just a dog."

  "And your 'partner' is just a cat," she retorted, with a quick glance at Clover Roll.

  "All right," Byrd answered with a shrug. "Just be careful. Darmouth would step on you without a blink."

  He closed the door.

  Wynn scrambled out of bed and pulled her heavy coat on over her shift. Chap got up, shook himself, and followed as she hurried out the door and across the hall. This time she knocked, quietly at first. When no one answered, she knocked more sharply.

  "Yes?" Magiere called from inside.

  "It is I. May I come in?"

  After a brief pause the door cracked open, and Magiere peered out. She looked haggard, as if she had suffered a long night with little sleep. The room smelled stuffy, even from the hallway, and an unpleasant scent floated to Wynn's nostrils.

  "What is it?" Magiere asked.

  "Byrd just came to me. Can I come in?"

  Magiere hesitated, then stepped back. Wynn entered with Chap tagging along.

  "Has someone been sick?" Wynn asked, wrinkling her small nose.

  "No," Magiere answered.

  Leesil rolled in the bed but did not sit up. His eyes were closed, strands of his hair tangled over half of his face. Wynn quietly related everything Byrd had told her. Magiere's eyes sharpened as she listened.

  "That gives us time to prepare." She looked down. "Chap, were you with Leesil on a visit to the keep? Is there anything I should know before we leave?"

  He huffed once for yes.

  "Fair enough. Wynn, get out the talking hide while I dress. I'll join you shortly."

  Wynn thought Leesil should be involved as well, but Magiere practically pushed her out the door, scooting Chap out behind her. Not until she was out in the hall did Wynn realize the sickly sweet smell had not grown stronger near Magiere. Which meant it had come from Leesil.

  A scraping sound woke Hedí. She sat upright in the large bed.

  Julia knelt by the hearth, working to start a fire. The maid wore the same housedress and apron from the night before, but now her hair hung down her back in a red-brown braid. She jumped slightly at Hedí's movement.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, my lady. I was trying to be quiet."

  "Do not concern yourself. Is the sun up?"

  Julia smiled. "Yes, and breakfast is prepared in the lower meal hall, when you're ready."

  Hedí considered this. Yes, she was hungry, and she would be expected to appear. Better to hurry down now than to have Darmouth come looking for her again, alone in this room.

  She climbed out of the bed, and Julia immediately opened the wardrobe. All of her clothes had been properly arranged there. It seemed Hedí had slept right through Julia emptying the travel chest.

  Hedí normally did not like being tended at dressing, but she allowed Julia to help her into a pale blue gown. The maid arranged her hair in a twisted bun, leaving a few loose curls at her temples. The teeth marks on her throat were red and lightly scabbed, but they were healing. Julia neatly fastened the velvet ribbon around her throat to hide them again.

  "Very fine, my lady," Julia sa
id. "You look lovely."

  Hedí was uncertain about the bun but did not argue. "Thank you. I can find my own way to the hall."

  Stepping out in the corridor brought relief, as if she needed a reminder that she was not a prisoner of her room. She followed the corri-dor to the stairs and wound her way down to the main floor and the vast meal hall, hoping Darmouth had already eaten and left.

  She looked in to see several long tables and an enormous hearth. The household did not seem to stand on ceremony at breakfast, as several servants and four common soldiers were milling about, eating bread and sipping from pottery cups. There was no sign of Lord Darmouth.

  Lieutenant Omasta stood with several of his soldiers, a large hunk of buttered bread in one hand and crumbs in his blond beard. He looked over when she entered and nodded, pointing to a chair.

  "Here, lady, come and sit."

  Although Omasta was Darmouth's lapdog, Hedí still preferred him to his lord and master. The lieutenant was clearly most at ease in the company of other men. Simple as he was, he did not pretend to be anything other than a soldier. He was dutiful, perhaps with some semblance of propriety, and Hedí wondered what made such a man loyal to the likes of Darmouth. To the best of her knowledge, Omasta had no family. She sat down and poured herself some tea.

  She took her first sip as Darmouth strode into the hall like a barbarian out of place in his polished and oiled armor. His men straightened to attention, but he ignored them and walked straight to her. She could smell him before he closed on her.

  "Did you sleep well, lady?" he asked.

  "Yes, very," she answered with forced politeness, and put down her cup.

  He seemed preoccupied and glanced once at Omasta as if some important matter kept distracting his thoughts. Then he asked her, "Do you need anything more from the inn?"

  This caught her unprepared for the opportunity, but she quickly took advantage.

  "I have my belongings, but I did leave behind unfinished affairs. There are several letters to be completed and a few matters for the barons family. If I could speak with Emêl, I am certain he could handle these for me. Could you send word to him?"