JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II

by JANRAE FRANK

  "No," she said, a sad edge entering her voice, "I'm saying that I have in the past and the people who suffered were the ones I loved best. This new vow is merely a turning in the right direction, an atoning for having allowed the situation to get this bad in the first place."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," Aejys forced a smile. "That's my job."

  * * * *

  Three days later Aejys sent for Josh. The nightmares still crowded in around her, especially at night and in still moments during the day; but she tried hard to do without him as much as possible, to try and deal with it alone. When the nightmares were intense enough to wake her screaming, he always appeared at her side, holding her, driving them back with his touch. She decided she needed to tell him about this and more: exactly how she felt about him, for Josh would never broach the subject himself.

  "Lock the door," Aejys said. She sat on the couch in the parlor as Josh came in.

  At his questioning look, she added, "We need to talk and I don't want to be disturbed."

  "Did I do something wrong?" He locked the door as she had asked.

  "No. This isn't exactly about you. Well, it is somewhat. But it's mostly about me." She patted the couch. "You remind me of Brendorn. I never realized it until I started seeing you sober..."

  Josh blushed as he settled next to her. "He was a good mon."

  "Yes," Aejys said softly. "I loved him very much. Even when I abandoned him for what I thought were very good reasons – his safety. It was a mistake I will regret as long as I live. I'm not making that mistake again."

  Josh dropped his eyes, uncertain of where this was going and beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  "Josh, you saved my life. You called me back from the dead. Why? This is more than just a devoted friendship. I saw it in your eyes the day you called me back. I saw it again in your mind when we melded in Shared Life. So just say it."

  Josh looked as if his heart would break from fear, but he said it. "I'm in love with you. For four years now. Ever since that day on the bluffs..."

  "Josh, it took a return trip to hell and back to recognize you for what and who you are, but since that day I woke in your arms in Rowanslea I've felt the same." She leaned into him, brushing her lips across his. "Now help me back to bed and climb in with me."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. Must I make it an order?"

  Josh blushed so bright that he could have given a ripe cherry competition. He slipped an arm around her and she leaned part of her weight on him as they moved to the bed. She could feel his heart hammering with excitement as he settled her in the middle. Her splinted hands were no help, so Josh had to undress them both. She watched the way his hands trembled as he revealed first himself and then her. Josh was satisfyingly well hung, sending a tingling eagerness vibrating in her loins. Josh kissed both her breasts, being especially tender and careful with the scarred right nipple. Then he moved down to her feet and began systematically kissing and licking each and every scar, working his way up to the ones on her face and kissed her deeply. By then she was shivering and trembling with need. She was not well enough to participate as actively as she wanted, but Josh was making up for both of them with his passionate thoroughness. Then he entered her, filling her completely. She moaned, wrapping her legs tight around him, pressing him deeper. Josh began to move, pumping gently at first, then seeing that he was not hurting her, harder and faster and deeper, ever deeper, questing for the place of passion deep within her. He found it. Aejys cried out in ecstasy and his seed exploded within her.

  * * * *

  "They've been in there a long time with the door locked," Taun said, frowning. "What do you suppose?"

  Becca shot him a lecherous grin. "What do you suppose ... he's in love with her."

  Taun flushed and fled, believing he himself had set this in motion.

  Becca went downstairs to let Molly know that there was no longer a need for anyone to stay in the parlor at night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRAITORS

  They fled due north for a time, then west with Margren again wrapped in the blanket. She had lost consciousness with the dawn: this stage of her undeath would pass eventually. By the time they reached Danae after four days, she looked passably human and rode beside them. They entered the capital city of Dovane the night before solstice, riding through streets of brightly lit houses. It was a time for visiting and sharing the season's cheer. People were out and about in large numbers. Margren hissed whenever anyone came too close, clearly disturbed, and hungry. Bodramet frowned at Mephistis.

  "Don't worry," Mephistis said. "She's on a tight leash."

  They drew rein before a large, elegant mansion. Mephistis knocked on the door and a liveried servant answered. The servant wore a deep red tunic and trousers with hunter green banding, the Deshar-Dovane badge on her shoulder – the slumbering gryphon and a coiled snow snake separated by a bar sinister.

  "Are you here for the party?" she asked politely, taking in their dusty commoner clothing in a sharp sweep of her eye.

  "Yes," Mephistis answered. "We have ridden a long way. Is there somewhere we could freshen up and change?"

  "Of course." The servant led them to an upstairs room with a bed and its own water closet.

  "Is it possible to see Master Linden for a moment?"

  "Who shall I tell her?"

  "Mephi. She has not seen me since I was very small."

  The servant smiled, nodding, and then left.

  * * * *

  Linden Deshar-Dovane watched the last of the decorations going up in the main hall of her mansion in Dovane City. She was being even more cautious this year than last in the choice of them – nothing overtly religious. Tomorrow was Winter Solstice and the day of God Return. She did not want anything that might make her more illicit guests uncomfortable and give them away to the others who comprised the majority of her guests at this season's big party. Caution kept her alive. She had carefully walked around the edges of Mephistis' attempted coup, which had been scheduled for the next night and, thus, not been discovered and rounded up with the others. She still did not know how the planned coup, to take place in every major city of Shaurone, had been discovered, but she would find out eventually and the party she was throwing might produce clues. Someone was bound to talk once the wine and liquor had gone around sufficiently to loosen some tongues and the bragging began. Martial law still lay over most of the realm, but the nobility like Linden were excluded from its edicts in consideration of the season and because the search was narrowing rapidly to a single mon: Mephistis Coleth de Waejonan.

  The Master of House Deshar-Dovane, knight of Danae, kept the colors limited to those of her own house: deep red with hunter green banding, the Deshar-Dovane badge evident on everything – the slumbering gryphon and a coiled snow snake separated by a bar sinister. The Regent of Danae, the mar'ajanate in which the city was located, had been invited although Linden suspected her cousin would not show. Anaria had no affection for Linden and the constrained animosity was mutual.

  "Ajan," the servant interrupted her thoughts, "guests have arrived."

  "This early?"

  "They've ridden far and requested a place to freshen themselves. Two males and a young woman."

  The presence of two males set off alarms –males did not travel much alone or nearly alone–this could only mean sa'necari. Her home was a waystation for the upper echelons. "Did they say who they are?"

  "One said you have not seen him since he was a small boy, Mephi."

  Goosebumps ran up her arms, turning into a chill along her spine. "Which room? Show me."

  "The room for special guests."

  Linden nodded and started walking swiftly. They traveled down a long hall, turning right. "You've done well. Has anyone seen them?"

  "I was discreet."

  "Thank you, Achelys. You may go."

  Linden opened the door, both dreading and hoping that this would mean Mephistis: Dreading because he was the
last person she wished to find in her home on the eve of a party to which mages and priests had been invited, and hoping because it could only mean he had escaped the Regent's and the Saer'ajan's sweeps. Half the realm was searching for Mephistis Coleth de Waejonan and the other half was busily butchering all of his fleeing followers that they could overtake.

  She shut the door, locking it the moment she entered. One, and only one, she recognized immediately. Linden grabbed Mephistis, holding him tightly. "Mephistis! Oh thank Hell you're safe." Like most Sharani, Linden was dark, broad through the shoulders and narrow waisted, with large eyes and strong cheekbones – handsome rather than pretty.

  "I'm glad to see you too, Linden," Mephistis allowed a thin smile to emerge. He had known Linden most of his life: she and his ma'aram had been close in private, but carefully distant in public – a caution which had allowed Linden to survive the defeat of Aevrina's coup. The son had attempted to replicate it on a larger scale, using his ma'aram's surviving network.

  Linden turned from him to examine the others with a critical eye: having secrets to hide, she did not like finding uninvited strangers in her home. "Who are these folk?"

  "Allow me to introduce Bodramet, my most trusted lieutenant."

  Bodramet gave her a courtly bow. Linden appreciated the look of him, wondering just how interesting it might be to play nibble games with him.

  "The other you know."

  "I do?" She walked closer to the woman who appeared dazed, disoriented somehow, like one newly undead. Linden's brow furrowed as she thought. "Can it be?"

  "Yes."

  "They say she's dead. Oh." Being a banewitch, rather than a necromancer, she sometimes missed the nuances of undeath; knew that she did so; and felt startled for a moment that she had recognized them. She turned to Margren. "Are you hungry, dear?"

  Margren nodded.

  Linden looked to Mephistis. "Can you make it a quiet dinner? No dark magics. I have priests and mages coming to the party. Tomorrow I can cater to your more exotic tastes. This house is well shielded."

  "Yes. I understand."

  "Did you bring much?"

  "It is all on the horses. Your servant stabled them."

  "I'll have your things brought. Come." She led them through the manor and across the garden to a large guesthouse. "Pick any room you wish, only make certain no one sees Margren outside this guesthouse. She's too well known. People know she's dead. In case you haven't heard, all the Rowans are." The extinguishment of one of Shaurone's noblest families was lending a great deal of impetus to the chase, making this a very dangerous time, indeed. If she could have safely turned them away, she would have.

  Then she showed them the bookcase that slid aside to reveal a stair. They went down and found themselves in an oddly comfortable dungeon. The twenty cells looked like dorm rooms with beds and chests. The occupants, mostly women, looked healthy and well cared for. Linden took a ring of keys down, placing it in Mephistis' hands. "You may each have one. Feed quietly. No mortgiefan."

  "My word on it," Mephistis said. He hugged her again; his fangs lengthened and pricked her neck.

  She slapped him. "None of that!" Then she smiled. "At least not tonight. We can play nibble games tomorrow. You will find pleasant dining rooms at the end."

  Linden left, striding swiftly back into the mansion in search of her other questionable guest, though his face and nature were known to very few in Shaurone, his name was known to many. She found him in an upstairs study, visiting with her na'halaef, Quellyn. He stood when she entered, executing a small, precise bow. Lord Hoon was tall and sleek with dark, finely drawn features. Like many ancient vampires, the sun no longer held danger for him – although Linden suspected that this was not so much a matter of his age as of his lineage, one of those called royals among the vampire clans. Which one she did not know, but he had known her family for generations. "Lord Hoon, I must ask a favor. I have acquired three other guests. One of them is Mephistis. I need to get my daughter, Tomyrilen, out of the house at once. Can one of your people take her somewhere safe until they are gone?"

  "As ever, I am at your service, Linden. Bring my godchild to me and I will see that she is not discovered by her half-brother." His speech patterns made people squirm: each and every word precisely pronounced, sentences more suited to an old dry book than living speech.

  * * * *

  Mephistis walked beside Margren. "Which one do you want?

  Margren rubbed against him, her eyes coy, and her movements like a wheedling child. "Want two."

  "No. Lord Linden said one each. There must be some left for tomorrow. You must feed again."

  Margren pointed to a small female. "That one."

  Mephistis opened the cell and went in. The woman smiled happily, extending her hand to him. He led her out. Margren bounced on the balls of her feet, mouth open, fangs extended. She reached for the woman. Mephistis knocked her hands away. "Not yet."

  Margren pouted, trailing after them into the feeding room. Mephistis closed the door, checking that it was secure, feeling along the edges interestedly. The door seal was so tight that it must have been made to hold in the screams so as not to alarm the other captives. There was a bed in the far corner, a long couch, and a bleeding-table with deep blood grooves and spouts with basins poised beneath them.

  "How do you want her?" A soft thud made him turn. Margren had the woman on the floor, her fangs deep in the carotid artery, sucking noisily. The woman showed no sign of pain, still smiling. Only in that last moment before death did she scream. He knew then that Linden kept them either spelled or drugged. Quiet meal indeed.

  Mephistis left Margren to it. He found Bodramet prowling hungrily up and down, staring into the cells. "Which one?"

  Bodramet chose, nodding to the cell.

  Mephistis opened it and walked on. "Use the other dining room. Margren might still try to eat you." Mephistis did not like his food so quiet, it robbed him of the intensity of feeding. He wanted mortgiefan desperately to ease the burning in his nerves, the muscles that had started to crawl under his skin, the constant edge of nausea. But he had given Linden his word and would keep it. If he gave in to his desires... If these rooms were discovered Linden and her entire family would be executed.

  He rejoined Margren with his meal. Margren had finished with the blood and started on the entrails. Mephistis' meal mouthed a scream that caught in her throat and refused to emerge. She turned eyes wide with terror to Mephistis, reaching for the doorknob. Mephistis' hand covered hers. She pulled free, retreating toward the blood-table. Mephistis sighed: if he took her there it would be impossible to control himself, the table had been designed for mortgiefan. Mephistis reached into her mind, caught her. She came to him. He released her mind as he took her down. The screaming started. He pinned her body with his, enjoying the way she writhed beneath him. He bit into her breast, hit the vein, and began to drink. The woman wept, pleaded, and then fell silent. His need for food was sated, but his other hunger still gnawed at his gut.

  He felt Margren lean over his shoulder, looked up into her face smeared with blood and offal. She wanted the rest of his meal. Mephistis smiled: she would have to pay for it. He removed her clothes, tossing them to the far side of the room, and then he pushed against her shoulders to make her lie down. Margren cooperated. Mephistis opened his pants, taking his member out. Sex was a poor substitute for mortgiefan when the hunger was on him, but it would have to do. He shoved into her without preliminaries, driven by his need and came almost as soon as he entered. Margren wiggled from under him and began eating the second woman.

  * * * *

  Margren hid from the sunlight beneath the blankets of their bed. She did not need to, being necari, not vampire; the sun might bother her, but it could not harm her any more than it could a zombie. Mephistis found clothing laid out for him on the narrow couch in the antechamber. The simple black tunic and trousers fit nicely. Someone had polished his boots and left them beside the couch. He pulled them on
, crossed to the long mirror, and turned about appreciating himself.

  "Ahhhh!" a familiar, approving voice said. "It is so good to see you well, your highness."

  Lord Hoon stood in the doorway. "Our host says you can now be free to feed as you please."

  "Mortgiefan?"

  "Certainly. If there is any way in which I can assist, your highness? When do you intend to begin?"

  "Mid afternoon. Margren gets difficult to control at night. I don't know what happened – at Castle Rowan."

  "May I sit, Your Highness?"

  "Of course." Mephistis joined him on the couch.

  "This is what is known. Josiah Abelard is abroad once more– He is, they say, in love with Aejystrys Rowan. That he stole her body and ran off to Vorgensburg."

  "Aejystrys Rowan is alive." Abelard. That was who hit them at Dragonshead. The mage-master was back. Mephistis felt chilled to the core of his being. If even half the legends were true, Abelard could seriously rival Mephistis' power and his knowledge.

  "Alive? Many, many people saw her dead body, attest to it. Including Sonden, an unimpeachable source."

  "She is alive. Mortgiefan. I nearly had it. We are linked through that. When I take another she feels it. The muscles crawl under my skin, my nerves and skin burn. My loins ache even when they have been..."

  "My prince, this is called deijanzael, stolen death."

  "It has a name?" Mephistis leaned back against the couch, surprised. As many times as he and the other younger sa'necari had spoken of it, speculated about it, none had been able to set a name to it.

  "My prince, for all your power – and you may well be the most powerful sa'necari we have ever produced – there is still much knowledge you do not have. Power without knowledge cannot reach its full potential. It is like using a battering ram when one requires a rapier. A delicate touch. A quick thrust.

  "Furthermore, deijanzael can have very serious side-effects on sa'necari. When I was young, not yet undead, a group of sa'necari youngsters thought it grand to rob one another in the very act of mortgiefan. A very powerful young mon had managed to capture a handsome Valdren mage. In the last moments of mortgiefan the band descended on him, stole his victim – keeping him alive with a stasis spell long enough for one of them to take him instead. The first young mon withered and died within weeks. The greater the death, my prince, the greater the damage from deijanzael."