by JANRAE FRANK
He, like the others at the farm, had known Isranon since the youth was eight and now he was eighteen. The last four years Isranon had dwelled in their valley only intermittently, following his prince more often than not, and they had missed him. Especially Nevin. Twelve years his senior, and not old enough to be his father, Nevin had nevertheless taken Isranon under his wing when the boy first arrived in the valley, and remained so until Mephistis had discovered the boy's nature and carried him off at six months past his fourteenth birthday – the coming of age birthday, at which time Nevin had given him the blades he wore and cared for so diligently. The lycan had trained Isranon to fight, even as Isranon's father had once taught the youth to hide. Nevin had knowingly created a dichotomy in Isranon, a conflict of which path's teachings to follow.
The youth wondered what Nevin saw there, whether he could see the sorrow at his core, the changes that the years among his own kind had wrought. Isranon lowered the flute. "Hello, Nevin."
"They treated you hard, pup?"
Isranon shrugged. "They are sa'necari."
Nevin had not wanted Isranon to go with Mephistis four years ago and, when they had visited here two years past tried again, he had tried to talk him out of continuing on with his prince.
"Just because you were born sa'necari, Isranon, does not make you one of them."
Isranon turned his face to the window. "I know that."
"How long will you be here?"
"Until my prince sends for me. Troyes is supposed to continue on to King Baaltrystan."
"That's well," Nevin growled deep in his throat. Had he been in wolf form, his hackles would have risen to match the sound. Then his visage softened. "Have you spoken to Merissa?"
"A little." Isranon was uncertain how he felt about Merissa, Claw's daughter, who was a year younger than he. When they were children she used to say she intended to marry him when she grew up and then chase him through the woods trying to kiss him. If she could not catch him on two legs, she would change shape and chase him on all fours. Isranon had always considered that unfair and shinnied up the nearest tree quick as a squirrel, where he would sit until an adult came to end the game. Last time he had come here, Merissa had chased him in a different fashion, teasing and playful with seductive looks and words.
There had been none of that so far, yet he still felt a sense of trepidation that sent his pulse racing whenever she walked into the room. His first venture into love had been Rose, the little nibari from Mephistis' common herd, and the sa'necari had murdered her two months ago out of spite because he refused to play their games. Isranon had promised himself that he would never fall in love again, because his kind – the Dark Brothers – were not meant for love. If Merissa started after him again, he would put a stop to it, although he had no idea how.
"Have you and Merissa fallen out?"
Isranon tried not to open up on that subject, tried to hold back, even though Nevin was the person he had always gone to growing up.
The scarred lycan regarded him closely, leaning over the back of the chair he straddled. "Talk to me. I read you like a book."
Isranon managed a small unhappy smile. "I fell in love."
"And you didn't bring her with you? Or him?"
Isranon lowered his head. So even that had not been missed by Nevin – the fact that Isranon loved both sexes. "She's dead."
"Ahh, boy. I'm sorry." Nevin rose from his chair and wrapped his arms around Isranon. That unleashed the flood that Isranon had been holding in for two months and he wept into Nevin's shoulder.
* * * *
The table at the Chieftain's house was set out with great quantities of food. A whole steer had been roasted and several ducks baked into pies. The root cellar had been raided for heaping bowls of steaming potatoes, onions, parsnips, and radishes. A variety of cheeses and fresh baked breads had been set out. A keg of mead had been opened as well as several bottles of wine.
Isranon sat between two lycans of Claws' household. The nibari served. As the eldest son of Lord Feodras, Troyes deserved a high place at the table, and had been seated across from Merissa. Isranon and Troyes were the only two sa'necari presently at the Manor. It disturbed Isranon to see Merissa seated so close to Troyes, bantering with him. She stirred odd feelings in Isranon that he was reluctant to explore. He saw Merissa, but he kept thinking about Rose.
"Your daughter is very beautiful, Lord Claw," Troyes said, gesturing at Merissa with his wine glass and smiling politely. "As befits a lycan clan princess."
Merissa blushed prettily.
"Pretty enough," Claw responded in a crusty tone.
"Is she pledged yet?"
Claw frowned. "No. But she will marry within the clan."
Isranon did not like where this might be going. On the one hand, it meant that he was safe from Merissa's snares, according to Claw's declaration. However, the mere fact that Troyes had brought it up, made Isranon wonder if Troyes had become fixated upon her. There was no question that Merissa was beautiful. Lycan clans, especially those who kept the older ways, disapproved – often violently – of their kind marrying sa'necari. He hoped that Merissa had better sense than to allow herself to be seduced by Troyes.
When Troyes' eyes were not on the others, Isranon could feel them slide across him, certain that the sa'necari was still trying to discern his own place in the household. The lycans had greeted him as one of their own and there was no way that Troyes could have missed that. Isranon caught Nevin watching him curiously and then studying Troyes.
Damn. Nevin was right about being able to read him. It seemed like there was nothing he could conceal from his mentor. Isranon pushed back his plate and rose from the table.
As he mounted the stairs, heading for his rooms, Isranon heard someone behind him and turned to find Nevin at his shoulder. "Did that one give you trouble on your way here?"
Isranon swallowed. "He's sa'necari," he said as if that explained everything.
"You're holding too much inside, boy."
"Another time, mei gurr. I want to be alone."
Nevin sucked in a breath through his nostrils. "As you wish. If he's been trouble for you, depend on it, he'll be trouble for the house."
Isranon nodded. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll talk."
Once he had gotten inside his rooms and sat down on his bed, Isranon wondered whether Nevin meant that Troyes would cause trouble for the house simply because he was that kind of person, or whether his causing trouble for Isranon would be viewed in the light of Isranon's own relationship here. The lycans protected their own. Was that what Nevin had meant? That the lycans would protect him from Troyes? Either way, it was not something he wanted to face. While the lycans could certainly pull Troyes down, if it came to a fight Troyes would take several of them down with him. He hoped that Troyes would move on once the storm passed. He had been able to talk about Rose because it was past, but he did not yet feel ready to confide about Troyes.
* * * *
As a reflection of the uncertain times, the clan had added a modest salle to the Great House. Clan Red Wolf were farmers and herders, not a battle clan, although all of them knew their weapons and Claw kept a small number of myn-at-arms present. The day had warmed enough to melt the snow on the roofs, although spring was still nearly two months off. A large stone hearth in the middle warmed it. Weapons hung upon the walls and there were brackets for torches.
"You kept up your blade work?" Nevin demanded, taking some wooden practice swords from the walls. He tossed one to Isranon.
"Yes."
They went round for several minutes with Nevin pressing Isranon hard. Isranon's arms began to ache from meeting the force of Nevin's blows. He lost his footing under the impact of one, twisted aside, and rolled to his feet, springing up with a stout whack to Nevin's belly. The old wolf whoofed and stepped back, signaling an end to it.
"You didn't learn that from a sa'necari," Nevin remarked as they sat sweating.
Sa'necari rarely used swords, favoring th
eir magic and their runed hellblades of various types. "No. I learned from a vampire. Dane Jayce. He befriended me."
Nevin made a disparaging sound. The lycans were as skeptical and suspicious of the vampires as they were of the sa'necari necromancers. He threw a towel at Isranon to wipe the sweat off his face and arms. They were both drenched in it. Nevin shrugged out of his sweaty shirt, drying himself off, watching for Isranon to do the same. Instead, Isranon headed for the house.
Nevin followed him to his rooms. The youth simply stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring at him uneasily. "Go on, get into something dry before the sweat chills," Nevin told him, then went into the youth's bedroom and dug out a clean shirt, which he tossed to him.
Isranon caught the shirt, but continued to hesitate, clutching it to his stomach. Nevin frowned more deeply. The youth had never been shy of changing in front of him before. Nevin grasped the bottom edge of the sweaty shirt Isranon wore with a suspicious glance at his face. Isranon's hands closed on the lycan's, holding him off for an instant, then released him. Nevin pulled the shirt up, gave a savage snarl at what he saw beneath it, and brought it over Isranon's head, exposing his stomach and chest. He threw the shirt in a corner of the floor, snarling louder. Isranon's upper body was a mass of scars. They both knew that Isranon did not heal as well as other sa'necari, those who were steeped in the rites, but this was beyond belief.
Nevin dragged Isranon, unresisting, to a chair and sat him down, then knelt in front of him to study them. Isranon shivered as Nevin's rough fingers traced the worst of them, two crossing his chest and three puckered scars in his lower ribs. "They treated you rough, boy. You had two when you left here four years ago. Now you're covered in them."
Isranon winced away from his words. "They're sa'necari. I don't heal as well as they do."
"That's not an answer. They had no right." Anger edged Nevin's voice. "It looks like they tried to kill you."
"They did. Mephistis..." he said helplessly. The sa'necari were predators, respecting only power, always hungry with an arrogant philosophy of "If I can kill and eat it, and should wish to, then it is my right to do so." There was no honor, no compassion, and little true humanity in this – they were a culture almost without morality. Before Isranon met Mephistis, he would have said they were truly amoral. Yet Mephistis had never wavered in his commitment to Isranon and the young mon returned it with trust and devotion.
"He allowed this?"
"No. He rescued me." Isranon focused his eyes away from Nevin, not wanting to argue about Mephistis and hoping that his mentor would not press the matter.
"Still ... how can you say you'll answer if he calls?"
"I love him. He's my prince."
"Love? As a mon for a mon, or a mon for a prince."
"As a mon for a prince. Mephistis has been good to me."
Nevin snarled. "I don't call what I'm seeing on you good."
Isranon began to get his old, proud look in his eyes, his back straightening, and his head coming up high. It was an attitude he rarely showed toward Nevin.
"Don't go back to him," Nevin said.
"When he calls, I will answer," Isranon said, drawing the fresh shirt over his head to end Nevin's examination. Part of him wanted to either run away or remain at the farm forever, out of reach of sa'necari politics and appetites. But the stronger part of him, that core that bound him in chains of honor and devotion, would never allow it. "I would not wish to live with myself should I fail my prince."
"Then they will kill you."
"They will anyway," Isranon's voice softened and some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders and the angle of his head. "I am the last and after me there will be no more."
"And that is what you want?" Nevin seized his shoulders, giving him a shake.
Isranon met his gaze steadily. "I was doomed by my birth. Only the circumstances of my death are my choice – I can die trying to flee fate or standing beside my prince in full honor."
"Honor is a harsh master."
"You taught it to me."
* * * *
Merissa sat in the spinning room before a warm fire with the carding combs in her hands, slowly working the fine wool back and forth until it was straight and clean. A half filled basket of the carded wool rested on the floor between her knees. Two baskets of the uncarded wool sat beside her. The clan had several herds of sheep and goats. One of the goat herds, a breed called kazamerie, had hair so fine that a shawl from it could be drawn through a ring and yet was wondrously warm. Only the family was allowed to work with the wool at this stage, not the clumsy servants who had less to gain from it. Her mother and aunts did the weaving of it in the common sitting room on huge looms. She wore a voluminous skirted cream dress with a tight, stiff bodice that cupped her breasts and molded itself to them. A cream hair net held her hair in place. Everything was cream, the color of this wool so that the loose fibers would not show when they floated across as some always did. One of the reasons she liked carding was that the lanolin in the wool made her hands so soft.
She worked steadily, drifting off into daydreams. While the clan called her a princess, she was really just a clan chieftain's daughter. At least that was how she thought of it. Real princesses, like those at the court of King Baaltrystan, did not card wool and weave. She was not certain exactly what they did, beyond the descriptions of balls and intrigue in some old books, but Merissa was certain it was far more pleasant and interesting than this.
Taking another handful of the raw wool, Merissa began to card again with a deep sigh. All of her suitors were clan and none of them suited her. The very last thing she wished was to remain stuck in this valley or another clan valley with each year much like the one before it. Troyes intrigued her. No sa'necari who had come through this valley over the years had ever paid her so much attention, but perhaps that had been nothing more than the fact that before now she had been a child. Now she was seventeen, a woman.
The door opened as if her thoughts had called him and Troyes came in. He moved aside some of the baskets and drew a chair over beside her, settling into it. Merissa's heart quickened. They had been flirting for days, but this was the first time she found herself alone with him.
Troyes gave her a languid smile, his eyes soft and sensual. He ran his finger along her arm and took the combs away from her, setting them atop one of the baskets. Merissa shivered at his touch. He stirred her longings in ways that the lycan males did not. Troyes regarded her a moment, then leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. She caught her breath sharply at the electric tingle it sent racing through her body. Her loins grew wet and aching. Troyes kissed her again and this time he parted her lips with his tongue, sliding it inside. Merissa responded tentatively, twining her tongue with his, wanting him to touch more of her. Her hands crept up his arms and linked behind his neck.
The chair arms separated them, but Troyes leaned as far over as he could and fondled her breasts as he continued to kiss her. Merissa moaned softly. He moved to the floor and drew her after him. She went unresisting and lay there on her back as Troyes pressed his body on top of hers, moving against her. He pushed her long skirt up, reaching for her small clothes to move them aside. She caught his hands and stopped him.
"They will catch us. Mother comes up for wool or sometimes to check on me."
Troyes rolled off her, went to the door, and drew a sign upon it. A black sigil formed, sank into the wood, and vanished to be sensed rather than seen. Then he returned to her.
"Troyes, please. I don't wish to go any farther."
Troyes' eyes narrowed and his smile became poisonous. "You've been teasing me for days, weeks. Parading your charms and practically begging me to touch them. I am not one of your farmer boys. I am a grown man, and a sa'necari. I will not tolerate having you get me worked up, and then withholding what you have promised with your eyes and manner."
Merissa shivered harder as he knelt between her legs and removed her underwear. His fingers probed her wit
h his thumb on the knob of her clit. She whimpered in a tangled web of fright and desire.
"A virgin. You surprise me, princess of farmers. I understand both your need and your reluctance." He drew his hand back and licked her juices off his fingers. "Anyone coming to this door will suddenly find something else to do," Troyes told her. "Do not fear discovery."
Merissa swallowed. She had not meant to go this far, but now there seemed to be no way out of it. She had never gone beyond petting with her lycan suitors. Yet, the fear was part of the attraction. Merissa had been craving the feel of a male, a powerful male, inside her for two years now. If she did not yield to Troyes, she had no doubt that he would force her and hurt her. The sa'necari was completely different from the lycan youths who had tolerated her retreat before it went too far. He was older, stronger than anyone she had ever flirted with – stronger than any male she had ever known.
If she screamed, it would bring her father and Isranon, and Troyes would kill them. And with all the flirting, it would be assumed she had encouraged him, possibly come to him willingly, and then cried rape to conceal her sins. Either way she was disgraced. She wanted to weep and make excuses, but she knew it was already too late. So she did not move from where he had left her.
Troyes unlaced his pants and lifted himself out.
Merissa's breath caught in her chest at the size of his member, long, hard and thick – more so than she had expected a male to look. Her pulse raced with fear and an oddly delicious anticipation as fear seemed to increase her need and make it sweeter. His knob bumped against her clit and the entrance to her womanhood, causing it to tingle. Her loins grew wet and she squirmed, uncertain of what he expected her to do and wanting to touch him.
"Don't move," Troyes admonished. He settled his heavy bulk atop her and pressed her down, pinning her. Then he entered her without another word. Merissa cried out softly as her maidenhead tore. Blood coated Troyes' cock and stained Merissa's white dress by pooling beneath her hips. Tears ran down her cheeks and he kissed them away.
