by JANRAE FRANK
"I want..." Josh broke off, then after a moment he tried again. "I want to remember them, but I can't. Not clearly. It's all hazed out, gray. But the feelings – I remember what it felt like."
"Do you know anything of magic? Mind-magic?"
Josh nodded. "Ground and center. Rapport. Eliahu Solistis taught me last fall."
Skree felt his hopes kindle. If Eliahu had worked with him, then the High Mage of Winter must have believed the damage could either be repaired or circumvented. "The High Mage of Winter?"
Josh nodded again, a bit more confidently. "He's my friend."
"Would you allow me to help you remember your parents?"
"Yes." Josh's face brightened, the last of his fear and uncertainty vanishing.
Skree placed his fingertips lightly on Josh's temples. Josh closed his eyes and slipped into rapport so easily that Skree recognized Eliahu's work even before he caught a glimpse of the winter-mage in Josh's memories. Eliahu has not changed much in twenty years.
Skree helped Josh clear the haze from his memories; he felt Josh's flash of startlement at seeing the sea-mage and Taun as well Tori and Merann. Then Skree opened his own memories of Josiah as a small child and of Tori and Merann to Josh, memories so painfully precious that he had never shared them with anyone, even Taun.
When Skree broke rapport, he saw tears streaking Josh's cheeks.
"I waited for you," Josh's voice shook. "I always believed you would find me – at least when I was a child. After awhile I quit thinking about it, gave up. Gave up on everyone, everything, even myself." He buried his face in his hands, sobbing softly. "I've been so lost ... so long ... so lonely. Oh, Gods! I thought even the Gods themselves had abandoned me."
"I never stopped looking," Skree hugged Josh. "Josiah, I would have found you sooner, but many people were suspicious of a triton searching for a landschild. Especially one of the Abelard heritage. So they did not help me when they knew all along where you were."
"Who?"
"I cannot say. They meant well. They just did not know."
Josh pulled back, giving Skree a sharp look. "It was Branch, wasn't it?"
"Josiah, please..."
"Skree, godfather, until I met Aejys there was only one person who ever tried to help me. That was Branch. Everyone else wanted to force me to be someone or something I was not."
"Josiah, I am sorry. But his reasons make sense. If a landsmon had come looking for a seachild, I would have done the same thing. I would not have told them. I would have doubted their sincerity, been suspicious of their motives."
"I don't care. I want to talk to him. I want to hear it from him." Josh sprang up, dashing through the door before either Taun or Skree could move to stop him.
Josh got as far as the barn before losing his nerve. He could not go to Branch. Instead he went into Gwyndar's empty stall and sat in the middle of the hay. He felt lost.
"Josiah." Skree came and sat next to him. "I am sorry if I caused you hurt."
"I know."
"I want to try and help you. I want to figure out how and why the alcohol triggers the damaged magic centers. If I could do that, then I might be able to find a way to fix it."
"Really? Could you do that?"
"I can try." Skree put his arm around Josh's shoulders, giving him a companionable hug.
* * * *
Birdie slept late. She snuggled down in a pile of quilts and comforters. The morning sickness had passed, but Lizard still left her a plate of crackers and cheese each day by the bed. Her belly was rounding and she was just beginning to feel a trifle awkward moving about. She would be fourteen in two months and the special child Dynarien had given her would be born in early summer. She did not know the child's past name, only that he had been a great mage and magical smith in his last life. Dynanna had stressed to her that he would require special teachers: teachers the young priest was beginning to doubt could be found in Shaurone.
A soft mouth nibbled on her ear, drawing her out of sleep. "Not now, Lizard," she said.
"It's not Lizard," a sweet male voice said and Birdie caught the scent of roses.
"Dynarien!" She captured his face and pressed a deep kiss into his mouth.
Dynarien cupped her breasts, rubbing the nipples to hardness, then abruptly released her, and sat back. "We need to talk."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong and much is right. You must put the word out on the streets and into the highest places, starting with Sonden."
"The High Priest?" Birdie sat up, the covers sliding down around her.
Dynarien glanced at her swollen belly and caressed it gently, distracting himself from his purpose for a moment with the memory of putting the child there; of what it had been like to lie between her legs; and just a small regret that he had robbed her of her own childhood by doing so. She had been such a sweet, wild hoyden then. Surely she would be again once the child was born. She was the best one, perhaps the only one, who could bring Eldarion Havenrain back to the fullness of power and purpose. She had the mage-gift, though it would be more a priest-gift in her. Eventually he would have to tell her that.
As the scions of darkness grew stronger, their plots thickening like gigantic spiderwebs, the need to see the rescued souls reborn became more urgent. A century ago, his sister and he had found a soul vault of the sa'necari. They took all the gems in which the stolen souls of fallen heroes had been imprisoned. Not all their efforts had been successful. Josiah Abelard had become one of their greatest failures. Birdie had been a careful choice. She had the necessary genes and lineages, plus a large streetwise clan to protect the child. Sharani matured young – she was now only a year from full adulthood.
"Yes. Aejys is alive."
"She is?"
"Yes. At the last moment Josiah Abelard saved her. She's in Vorgensburg."
"Wow!" Birdie's eyes sparkled. She and her clan, mostly war-orphans and all of them still children, had fought a war in the streets of Armaten against the Gold Ravens, a rogue assassins guild that served Margren in her efforts to destroy Aejys' friends and family as well as destroying many lifemages. The Market Street Urchins, led by Birdie, prevailed and acquired information that thwarted Margren's attempted coup. But they had failed to save Aejys. Aejys, they were told, had been tortured and slain.
Dynarien smiled. "Yes. Gather all you can to her banner, soldiers and settlers. Go to Iarwind Castle. Give the news to her friend Tagalong Smith and her lover Tamlestari. And then lead them all to Vorgensburg."
"I can do that," Birdie said with much of her old cocky self-assurance.
"And raise your child on the northwest coast in Aejys' realm. You will find teachers there for him."
"Okay, I will. Now, can we do the other thing?" She gave him a lecherous grin. "I mean, it's not as if I could get pregnant..."
Dynarien laughed softly. Maybe he had not done as much damage to her as he feared. He had, after all, asked her permission and made certain that she knew that first coupling would result in pregnancy (the kyndi, which blocked immature girls from becoming pregnant, could protect them from men, but not from gods, even a minor one like himself); that he was giving her a special child, bringing an ancient hero back into incarnation. His sister, Dynanna, who was Birdie's liege-god, had insisted on this pregnancy in exchange for the aid Birdie requested of them. He could not say why he felt guilty about all this, but suspected it stemmed from the argument he had with Talons Trollbane at Dragonshead nearly a month ago.
"If you truly want me."
"I do. I truly do." Birdie pushed her night robe over her head. "I've learned some things." She lay back with her young breasts peeking over the covers. Dynarien climbed onto the bed and mouthed her nipple. Birdie moaned.
* * * *
Dinger moved down the row of glass tanks, gently rousing each serpent in turn with a touch of his magic. He had blood on his hands and a bit of meat in his fingers. Normally his pets preferred their meat alive and wiggling, but magic a
nd chemicals in the flesh drew them and they took it from his fingers. He drew symbols on their heads in blood. The room was well lit, for this was a special working. When he finished with this serpent, he returned to the long table standing against the wall. A child's corpse laid cooling there, surrounded by bottles and jars filled with strange chemicals, potions, and herbs. He measured from each into two bowls.
Desperate with hunger and cold, the small street child had been easy to entice into the ruined building. The boy had thought that all Dinger wanted was to perhaps play with his privates. Dinger suspected the child had learned to trade such things to adults for shelter and food. He had even stripped off his pants before Dinger could ask him to once they were in the warm rooms beneath the floors.
The sa'necari cut off pieces of the child's flesh and dropped them into the liquid first, letting them sit. He pressed his face into the open cavity of the child's stomach, licking around the edges, remembering the boy's terror when he saw the fangs lengthening in Dinger's mouth. The boy tried to run, but Dinger slammed and locked the doors with a gesture. The boy cowered in the corner, his back pressing into the hinges of the door hard enough to leave an interesting mark on his flesh. Dinger caught him easily. The boy screamed as Dinger's fangs took him in the throat, and then went still as Dinger seized his mind. Sometimes he did not take their minds, just let them thrash about in pain and terror as they died. This one had tasted so fine, surprisingly so for an underfed street child. One day Dinger would have better fare – when this city was brought to heel. Then he would have women, fine women, instead of the occasional cast-off whore from Cedarbird's brothels. Dinger took the meat from the liquid and rolled them in the chemicals and herbs. He had just started toward another tank with the treated flesh when he heard a quiet voice speaking in his mind and straightened. "Master?"
< Go to the scrying bowl. We must speak. I have something for you. >
Dinger returned the bit of flesh to the bowl of liquid, it would keep better there, and he did not want it to dry out. His pets did not like it as well then.
He took a large bowl from a shelf and filled it with a mix of blood and wine. He stroked the bowl with his mind and an image appeared. Mephistis' saturnine face looked out at him. Then Dinger saw another face and recognized it with a start: Lord Hoon.
"We know Aejys is alive," Mephistis stated simply. "I suffer from deijanzael for want of her. I can kill her through the link, but not while her mages protect her. You must kill them all."
"I cannot get past the shaman's wards, Master," Dinger replied. "As you well know."
"I have the way past the wards," Hoon told him. "But I expect to have it back when the deed is done."
A circle of bone with a skull-like face woven of human skin, gut, and flesh appeared in the bowl. Dinger took it out.
"Do you understand?" Hoon demanded. "It returns to me when this is done."
"Yes, Lord Hoon. It will be done."
"And Aejys? You are not to harm her. Just prepare her for my pleasure," Mephistis told him.
"Yes, Master."
"You are not even to taste her. When I am done, you will fill preserving bottles with her blood and send them to me. They are mine and mine alone. You will not even taste from them."
The bowl went blank. Dinger raised it to his lips and drank it down. It felt good, but it was only whore's blood and cheap wine, which was the best he could afford. Now Aejys' blood: that must be powerful blood. Her faith in her liege-god had been legendary. She had worked miracles in Her name. She had twice been pulled close to death by the bite of a baneblade and survived somehow. He would keep some for himself. Mephistis need not know. But he would not taste her while she lived, Mephistis would sense his taint there.
Best of all, he would finally kill Josiah. He had come down to Vorgensburg thirty years ago, hunting the last of the Abelard bloodline to eliminate the possibility of the mage-master returning. The shaman, Branch had frustrated him in his attempts to get the child. He hated Branch and shook with rage at the thought of him. Not only had the child grown into a man, but also he had somehow gotten the magic back. He had returned the child to his foster-father, that stupid cretin of a sailor, after burning the magic out as he had been paid to do. He thought he would find the child again later when no one was looking and take mortgiefan from him: not only would that have ended the bloodline, but it would have given Dinger much of the Abelard power as well. But that damned Kwaklahmyn bastard shaman had warded Josiah. He would have them all dead. He would force the shaman to watch as he took mortgiefan from his beloved granddaughter, Bluewings. That would teach him to interfere! He could almost hear her screams in his mind, feel her body struggling beneath him as he entered her and began slipping the blade in.
His manhood stirred at the image he conjured and he reached down to stroke himself. He had only one captive whore left in the cages in the tunnels. He had been saving her as a hedge against acute need. However, he would soon have all the women he wanted. He could glutton on them, highborn as well as low. She would have to do until he could get his hands on Bluewings. He opened the next door down and walked out into the tunnels.
* * * *
Linden's scrying room occupied the northeast corner of the guesthouse. Nothing in the room suggested its darker purposes. Beautiful stones lined the small pool in the center and covered the bottom of it, their beauty intensified by the water covering it: Azurite, hematite, jet, moonstone, obsidian, and tiger-eye. Around the edges of the room sat crimson velvet chairs and a couch.
Margren reclined on the couch, watching Mephistis and Hoon who stood regarding what they had seen in the pool. "When she has risen and eaten her loved ones," Margren growled, "I want her brought here, you promised she would be my toy."
Mephistis bent and kissed Margren's cold lips. "So she will be. Now I think you need to feed."
Hoon smiled, a thin, sardonic look that did not match his eyes. "Tell the servants, I ordered full meals to be taken in my bedroom. We will join you there."
The irritation vanished from Margren's face and she glowed. "As you wish, Lord Hoon." She thrust her breasts up in his direction, walking away with a seductive twist to her hips.
Mephistis followed Margren out. He paused at the door. "Are you coming?"
"I have a couple of matters to take care of. Save one for me, highness."
Hoon lingered at the scrying pool. He found Margren delightful, but she was not the one he wanted most. Whatever undead form Aejys rose as, he had the power to twist it into something better once she arrived in his castle. Hoon had powers and knowledge no other vampire – save the one who had made him – had ever had before, things the sa'necari who ruled Waejontor could not even guess at: Gylorean Galee, passed easily for living, she was practically a god of darkness, her powers rivaling those of the yuwenghau – the young gods with little or no followings – such as Dynarien and Dynanna. Yuwenghau tended to be wanderers like their cousins, the demi-gods, and Galee had eaten more than a few of them in her own travels. They had been lovers, mentor and student, nearly four millennia ago, before she abandoned him, disappearing into the east. Only one woman had stirred his desires as strongly as Galee – not even his dead wife, Amalthea: Aejystrys Rowan.
He remembered the day Aejystrys outmaneuvered him on the battlefield and almost caught him. He had barely escaped. She looked so proud and strong in her armor, the power of her faith radiating from her in a golden aura. Their eyes had met for an instant, and he knew then that he would not be completely fulfilled until he had her. His immortality would be a wondrous thing with her at his side.
* * * *
Josh sat in the parlor long after Aejys fell asleep. He took a pull from the flask, which he had not returned to Taun after the incident at Solstice. It was nearly empty. Josiah awakened, looking out of Josh's eyes at the small room. Then he rose, moving to the chair beside the bed. He did not want to wake her by crawling in with her as Josh usually did.
"Shularrien ... by what stra
nge chance did I find you again? Can Nariya be near?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRUST
It snowed heavily on winter solstice, two days after Isranon arrived at Claw's farm. Isranon sat upon the deep window sill, his legs drawn up with his knee and shoulder against the panes, watching the wild swirls and listening to the howling of the gale outside. Taking refuge in his music, he lifted his flute to his lips and played softly, the tune was sad and low, laced with the poignant melancholy of his heart. Two months past his eighteenth birthday, the youth felt old and spiritually worn out.
Visitors to the valley always stayed in the chieftain's huge home: Claw Redhand did not want them wandering the clan lands too freely. Isranon had always been the exception; he had the freedom of the valley. Claw's wife, Aisha, kept this room ready for Isranon, no matter how long he was away. As soon as Aisha knew Isranon had arrived, she had sent servants up to dust and freshen the sheets and blankets, get a fire going in the hearth to warm it. She treated him like family, and this house was the closest to thing to a home he had ever had.
He worked hard at fitting in at the farm, and Aisha was lavish in her praise and small favors, surprising him with treats and presents as tokens of a job well done, making it very clear that she had never had another guest in her life who had ever become so special. Isranon was also the only person the clan had ever broken the no hunting rule for, the only one they ever allowed to hunt with them. He loved to hunt, and hunting with the lycan, the only mon among wolves – the form they hunted in – was wild beyond dreaming.
Troyes resented it. Where Isranon had been the outsider at Mephistis' citadel, at the prince's court, among the sa'necari – who should have been his own people – here among the lycan clan, Isranon was at home and Troyes was the outsider.
"Isranon!" Nevin knocked on the door and then entered, drawing a chair close to his young friend and straddling it. He studied Isranon's face for a long time, his expression thoughtful. Nevin was his guurmondru: brother, friend, teacher. The easiest translation was godfather, but it was a vastly inaccurate one.
