Prianhe watched them conferring for several minutes, before Gracin invited the group into his home. The strange giant horses stood outside quietly for some time, until Gracin and the Governor’s former whore, came out and led them to a trough of water and hand fed them some carrots and apples. Then they took a seat in the grass, Gracin, the Whore and all three horses, and appeared to engage in a lengthy discussion. Though Prianhe knew it couldn’t be true, he was certain that Gracin and the Whore were talking directly to the horses. He wished that he was close enough to listen in on the conversation. What could they possibly be talking about?
“Lieutenant,” he called over his shoulder.
The officer, a well-groomed man in his middle years, came up to his back at a crouch. He smelled of fear and perspiration.
“I want you to find your best scout. Discretion is paramount. I want him to take a wide arc, out to the eastern most point of the lake. Have him follow the shore up to the cabin. I want to know what’s going on in there. Before we rein these fugitives in, I want to know what they’re trying to accomplish. Am I understood?” Prianhe’s words were spoken severely.
“Yes, my Lord,” the Lieutenant answered.
“Tell your man to avoid being seen by those horses, as well," he ordered, still trying to make sense of the way Gracin and the Whore seemed to talk to them directly. “If your man is discovered, I will hold you responsible for his failure,” Prianhe added, turning his fearsome glower on the frightened officer to emphasize the threat.
The Lieutenant swallowed hard, and nodded. His face was visibly pale as he carefully backed away.
Prianhe watched him retreat like an abused puppy, enjoying the spectacle of a cowering officer. Humans were weak and pathetic, yet so often, they acted as though they were the only race that mattered. They could be so smug and self-aggrandizing when they felt unthreatened. It gave him immeasurable joy to put them in their rightful place.
Down at the cabin, Gracin and the Whore were standing and preparing to go back inside. Gracin made a deep, formal bow to the three horses that continued to stoke the embers of Prianhe’s confusion about the giant animals.
After the humans went inside, the horses took off at a breathtakingly fast gallop to the plains east of the Water Woods. Prianhe watched them run with interest. The sleek lines of their hind quarters propelled them across the undulating plains with an awe-inducing grace, which he had never before witnessed from the equine. He breathed in their scent, reeking with an indelible puissance, unmatched in vitality by any other living thing. His mind begged him to hunt. The savage instincts of his most distant ancestors seemed to chant for him to follow the prey, with every deafening pulse of his rapidly beating heart. It pounded a heavy bass echo, like the haunting melody of a war drum harkening a force to battle.
Just when he thought he might lose control and tear out across the plains in pursuit, a loud crack several paces to his back, erased the impulses and allowed his reality to focus.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to clear away the remnants of his ancestor’s call. “Where have you been?” he asked, without looking over his shoulder.
“I was summoned to report our progress to the King,” Banuer Deuseau sneered with thick levels of arrogance.
Prianhe grimaced. Deuseau could never resist an opportunity to imply his assumed superiority. The disgusting half-man was more loathsome than a mosquito.
“And what did our master have to say, Turk?” Prianhe kept his voice cool.
“He is unhappy with our level of progress, Reikkan,” Baneur snarled. “He implied that there would be punishment for your failure at Nal’Dahara.”
Prianhe looked down at the house, unwilling to let the filthy maggot see his disappointment. His master was going to bring him pain, even if he successfully captured the criminals. There was nothing he could do but accept the beating and thank his master for letting him live.
“Did you happen to mention to our Master, anything regarding your role in that failure?” Prianhe scanned the treeline for any signs of the scout approaching the cabin. It had been long enough. Someone was going to be whipped for this.
“I have paid my penance for the failure,” Baneur’s deep baritone sounded haunted.
Prianhe grinned and swung his head around to look Baneur in the eye when he spoke. “Pity I wasn’t there to watch this time.”
The Turk’s eyes lit with rage. His left hand twitched so furiously, it could have ground a block of granite into sand. For the slightest instant, Prianhe prepared for some kind of retaliation from the seething little man.
But it never came.
Instead they stared each other down until Baneur, taking measured breathes, mastered enough of his rage to drop the spat. “What are you still doing here?” he muttered, relaxing, barely. With his still right hand he motioned toward the house. “If this is their destination, they won’t make it for at least two weeks. That’s if they’re on foot, of course. If they somehow manage to find horses, it will still be a few days before they travel this far.”
“That’s your weakness, maggot,” Prianhe smirked, delighting in the slight wince the Turk made at the insult. “You think you’re smarter than everyone else, so you always underestimate your opponent.” Baneur opened his mouth to retort, but Prianhe cut him off. “They arrived over an hour ago.”
The Turks mask of wrath slid off, and his beady eyes bulged. He stepped up to Prianhe’s side and glared down at the cabin. “You’re certain?” he asked, licking his lips with the reflexive quickness of a serpent sniffing for prey.
Prianhe nodded victoriously. “I witnessed all six arriving on the backs of enormous horses.” He inhaled deeply, deciphering the web of aromas from the surrounding plains. “I believe they’ll be eating dinner soon. Baked fish.”
“What are you waiting for then?” Baneur asked. “Are you trying to give them another opportunity to escape?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Prianhe growled. “Twenty men aren't going to be enough. I want everyone. Every last soldier in the area and every last trival we can find in one night. I want to attack in the morning.”
Baneur nodded begrudgingly. He would never openly admit that Priahne was right, but his silence was an admonition to be savored.
The scout finally appeared, on foot, slipping along the edge of the wood from the west. It was about time. Darkness was rapidly approaching. He wouldn’t be able to see the cabin before long. Prianhe followed his movements with displeasure. He may have been the best scout available, but he was loud, plodding and very likely to be detected by Farrushaw. If he was discovered, Prianhe wouldn’t have the luxury of waiting for more arrivals. He would have to strike with twenty men and the filthy Turk.
As if in answer to his wishes, a large black creature emerged from the water several paces behind the unsuspecting scout. Its wide body and long tail, slithered low to the ground on four squat legs, silently stalking its prey. The scout paused suddenly, allowing the creature to pounce and inhale the man’s head, ripping it off violently. Beheaded so abruptly, the scout didn’t even have an opportunity to scream, dying silently. Prianhe took a moment to watch the beast feed on its victim, enjoying the brutal death of another pathetic human.
“Baneur, I want to know what’s going on in that cabin. I want to know what they’re talking about.” The thrum of his pulse rising and the distant echo of his ancestor’s requiem for the taste of horse flesh, began to draw his attention to the plains where he knew those horses were grazing. He could resist the call of the hunt no longer. “Get down there and find out. Then start bringing the reinforcements.” He called over his shoulder to the Lieutenant, stilling trembling a dozen paces away. “Lieutenant, watch that cabin. No-one leaves. Am I understood?”
The young officer nodded timidly.
“What are you going to do?” Baneur asked.
“Just do as you're told,” Prianhe snapped. “I’ve my own affairs to attend.”
He stood and stretched, then sniff
ed the air, searching out his quarry. They had run far, but he would find them. It had been many years since he had tasted an equine heart. He took off at a sprint, feverish in his desire to hunt and kill.
********************************************************************
Nehrea didn’t know what to make of Roswell Gracin. She had been told that he was over one thousand years old, but who could believe such a tale? The man serving tea to her companions with a warm, welcoming smile, was barely into his middle years. There wasn’t a gray hair on his head. His skin was still smooth. Age had yet to form creases at the edges of his kind brown eyes. How could he be Quinn’s father? Impossible.
His home was modest and very cluttered. Books were piled in stacks everywhere. A bookcase, four shelves tall, lined the back wall of the one room cabin, filled beyond its capacity with nameless texts and worn and beaten looking piles of old parchment. There was a functional kitchen, with a countertop and hearth on the left wall, as well as an old copper tub for bathing. Against the opposite wall was a neatly made bed and a writing desk littered erratically with parchment, quills and several inkwells, some empty, others full.
It was organized chaos. Nehrea noticed that the actual living spaces - the bed, the bath tub, the kitchen and dining area - were tidy little reprieves from the disorganized piles of literature. She looked over a pile of books beside his writing desk, trying to discern some sort of order or sequence by which the man could locate a particular text, but there was nothing. Some of the books in the stack she observed were bound beaten leather bindings, some a faded brown, others a faceless gray, with no words apparent to declare they’re intention. There were a few books that had gold flecked etchings describing topics ranging from horticulture and masonry, fabric appraisal and sailing. She casually picked up the book on the top of the pile. Its frayed black covering barely held the brittle pages in place. She had to open it carefully, afraid that those pages would tumble out and fall apart like ash. The words were written in an elegantly crafted script, but she didn’t recognize the language.
“A very interesting book you’ve chosen, Nehrea.” Roswell Gracin peered over her shoulder at the volume she held in her hands. “It’s written in a dialect that was rarely spoken in my time. I’m probably the only person alive now who can read it.”
“What is it about?” Nehrea asked, politely. She wasn’t truly interested. In the back of her mind, like a lover’s whisper, she could feel the Dahara waiting outside. It was a blessed reassurance that she now belonged to something greater, something infinite.
“Doomed love,” Gracin responded, gently taking the book from her. “It’s an age old fable of two primitive tribes at war. Himalas is a warrior who falls in love with Serridia, the daughter of his rival tribe's chief. Serridia falls for him as well and they connive to run away together. The day of their planned escape, her father leads an attack against Himalas’ tribe and emerges victorious. Serridia, believing that her beloved Himalas has been killed, takes her own life, with a dagger through the heart. Himalas, however, had snuck away that morning to await his love at their predetermined meeting place, and as the day draws on and Serridia doesn’t arrive, he is overcome with heartache and shame. Too proud to search for his love and demand an explanation for her rejection and too dishonored for putting his heart before his clan, Himalas jumps from the ledge of a mountain cliff and seeks the arms of death instead.”
“That’s a morbid tale, Master Gracin,” Enaya exclaimed.
“I agree, Lady Relador.”
“Doesn’t it seem a bit extreme to take your own life over something so silly?” Enaya asked.
“I think it’s romantic,” Nehrea felt compelled to offer an opposite assessment. The sudden frown on Enaya’s rosy lips gave her a small measure of satisfaction.
“There is nothing romantic about two people committing suicide,” Enaya stated morosely.
“What’s romantic,” Nehrea said, sparing a withering look at Sim, quickly ingesting his raw sexuality, like a sputtering flame finding a fresh breeze to invigorate it back into a raging bonfire, “is that their love was so deep and impassioned that they chose to die rather than be apart. Love with so much depth is the very definition of romance.”
She challenged Enaya to respond, but the noblewoman had nothing more to offer. Instead, Enaya leaned back in her chair and glumly sipped her tea in defeat.
Roswell Gracin regarded Nehrea with an appraising look of surprise. With a crooked smile he turned from her and checked on the hearth, still rising in temperature after being lit several minutes earlier. There was a cutting block with several fish and a sharp blade awaiting his attention. With his back to his guests, he began preparing the meal.
“If you don’t mind my inquisition, Master Gracin, what have you been doing with yourself these past thousand years?” Givara asked. Her tone was more of a demand than a question.
“Oh, I’ve kept myself busy,” he answered as he chopped some carrots and tossed them in a large pan with the cleaned fish.
“Father considers himself an historian,” Quinn said. He had been very quiet since their arrival. He stood by his father’s bed, silently watching Givara with his one good eye. There was something in his posture that made Nehrea think of a teenager trying very hard to prove the scope of his maturity.
“Much of what we knew was lost when Desirmor came to power,” Roswell said. “Amongst his numerous crimes against the world, the destruction of historical archives and literature aren’t nearly as severe as the eradication of entire races of people, but the loss of knowledge, the disconnect we as a society now have from our past, is still highly egregious.”
“Spilling blood isn’t the only way to spread the veil of darkness,” Enaya mumbled with her eyes cast sadly down at her empty teacup.
“Very true, Lady Relador. Very true,” Roswell agreed.
“So you’ve spent the last millennia searching for books?” Sim asked. He was seated next to Enaya, leaning back tiredly with his legs stretched out and his hands across his stomach. Nehrea could feel the intimate cast of his gaze following her as she perused through the stacks of books.
“More or less,” Roswell replied. “I’ve tried very hard to avoid the eyes of the empire. Desirmor may not be actively searching for me as he does for the last Harven, but if he learned that my existence was more than a myth, I doubt I would last very long.” He placed the pan of food on a rack that kept it just above the fire, then turned and faced his guests. “I am the only man alive with a connection to the past. Desirmor was very clever in ordering the destruction of the great libraries of Alexidus, and Wyndham, and Vera Sans. He wanted to force the people to see him as something other than a tyrant usurper. He believed that if he destroyed the history books, people would eventually look to him as some sort of redeemer. Time and control would change the story, and he could shape it any way that he wished. As we all know, the fool wants people to believe that he is a God, and sadly, many do.”
“Father has moved around quite often during his life,” Quinn said.
“I’ve tried to tread carefully. Living in one place for too long can lead to unwanted attention. Eventually people would talk and rumors of a man who doesn’t age would spread. This is the fifth time I’ve lived here. It originally belonged to a blood sorcerer. One of the last of the ancient Keth,” Roswell said.
“Blood sorcerers? Ancient Keth?” Sim asked ignorantly.
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that either,” Enaya added, perking up in her seat with interest.
Roswell looked around in surprise. “Surely you’ve heard of blood sorcerers?” he asked, bewildered. Givara and Quinn nodded knowingly, but Sim and Enaya stared back blankly.
In the back of Nehrea’s mind, like a memory just out of reach, a shiver of recollection beckoned to be recalled. The Ritual of Cerseay had imbued her consciousness with the collective experience and knowledge of every Collora who had ever served the Dahara. The sheer expanse of so much new information
was overwhelming, and it was impossible for her to sift through and find a specific memory concerning the blood sorcerers. Just making a feeble attempt was enough to make her dizzy. She put out her hand and leaned against the desk at her side, knocking over a few precariously placed books.
Roswell studied her with interest. “It was only a few days ago that you completed the Ritual?” he asked.
She nodded, warily. She hoped, with training, that she would master her command of all those new memories.
“My knowledge of the relationship between the Dahara and the Collora is limited, I admit, but I’ve read that a new Collora must endure a rigorous training period to assimilate to her new abilities. Have you had any training?” Roswell asked.
Nehrea shook her head.
Roswell looked around in surprise. “But there’s so much you need to learn. Why did you come all this way? Shouldn’t you be training?”
Nehrea steadied herself, letting all of her new memories slide back to the recesses of her mind. “The Dahara believed that seeing the prophecy might prove useful. I’m returning to the clan tomorrow.”
“Are you alright?” Sim asked her.
She stood up straight and smiled at him reassuringly. “My head is filled with the memories and knowledge of my predecessors. Sometimes when I make an effort to sort through all of that, it overwhelms me, and I get a bit light headed.”
“Did the mention of the blood sorcerers illicit a memory?” Roswell inquired. Nehrea nodded. “Can you tell me what you remember?”
“I couldn’t hold onto anything. It was more of a feeling it gave me. Something dark and evil,” Nehrea told him.
Roswell nodded slowly. He seemed to deliberate as if she’d given him something important to think about.
“So what’s a blood sorcerer?” Sim asked.
Roswell let whatever was bothering him slide away and looked at Sim grimly.
“In the world today, there is only one that I know of,” he said.
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