JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II

by JANRAE FRANK

  "Are they all wearing pants these days?" Becca hissed at Darlbret.

  "Many of them," Darlbret whispered back. "You haven't been getting out much."

  "Too busy."

  "Well, allow me the honor of escorting you on a walk through the city. Tomorrow? Noon?"

  "Okay."

  Becca rose as Janine came and stood before the desk. "I am so glad you could come." Becca shot Darlbret a quick glance to see if she had done it right and he winked. "Please sit. Would you like some coffee?"

  "Yes, thank you." Janine settled into a chair.

  Darlbret poured her a cup with cream and sugar.

  "Omer tells me you have a business offer."

  "Yes, we do. I find myself with six brothels and have no idea what to do with them."

  "If you're wanting to sell, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I cannot afford to give you what they are worth."

  "Well, actually I was thinking more along the lines of a management deal. We would split the–" She glanced at Darlbret who mouthed the word 'net'. "Split the net profits."

  "That could be workable."

  "Also, there are increasing numbers of tritons, neriens and Sharani coming in with tastes that run to males. Could you accommodate that?"

  "It could be done."

  "Good," Becca said.

  Then they settled down to some comfortable haggling.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  GHOSTS

  "You are a very strange sa'necari," Troyes said, sitting on a stump, watching Isranon wiping sweat on the back of his arm as he paused in chopping wood.

  The rest of the myn were out with the herds. Isranon had noticed that the box was low and offered to fill it for Aisha, Claw's wife. Troyes had followed him out just to sit there, observing him, knowing how Isranon felt about his presence.

  New Year's Day, the official first day of spring had come and gone. Yet Troyes lingered still at the farm. His being there made Isranon wary, and he struggled for a pretense of ignoring him. He watched his back; never going unarmed as he had on previous visits. Isranon suspected that the reason for Troyes' lingering here was himself, and he had made no secret of wanting Isranon, although it seemed incredible that the mon would ignore an order from Mephistis to this extent.

  Troyes already had Merissa. Isranon knew that Merissa was not simply feeding Troyes, but warming his bed. He hoped she was taking precautions against becoming pregnant by him. Sa'necari were only intermittently fertile, but it would only take once to ruin Merissa's life. He wondered if the others knew, like her father. Fear of revealing her secret by asking them had kept him silent.

  "I said," Troyes repeated. "That you are a very strange sa'necari."

  Isranon got very tired of hearing that from Troyes, the sa'necari was baiting him. He returned the axe to the shed where Claw kept it, conscious of Troyes walking almost at his elbow. "I am what I am."

  "And what is that, half-a-mon?"

  "What you see and nothing more." Isranon could feel his anger building and struggled to control it. This farm was his safe haven, his home – as much of a home as any the Dark Brother could ever expect to have – and Troyes ruined it for him. Isranon preferred to handle his problems on his own, but he was sorely tested by Troyes and began to wonder whether he should speak to either Claw or Nevin about it.

  Isranon fetched his load of firewood and carried it to the house.

  "And what do I see?" Troyes asked, his lips curling back from his extended fangs. "Are you, as they say, Mephistis' catamite?"

  "You were supposed to be gone by now."

  "I will go when I am ready. You bent over for my brother."

  Isranon started to respond with a sharp word to the effect that he had not known Malthus was sa'necari – until the night of the rape – when he heard a familiar voice hail him from the yard.

  "Isranon! I've been looking for you." Nevin strode across the open ground.

  Troyes, seeing the lycan lawgiver, dropped back and then walked into another direction.

  * * * *

  "Keep away from Troyes," Nevin cautioned Isranon as they fought with blunted blades, well padded in thick quilted armor. Each time they practiced, Nevin worked him harder, pressing him to reach for the best he could do. Isranon could sense a desperation in Nevin's intense training, as if the older male was pushing him out of fear for his survival.

  Isranon parried a thrust of the lycan's blade, side-stepped nimbly and scored with a slashing side blow that caused Nevin to stagger two steps before regaining his footing. The wolf grinned to see Isranon had not lost his edge in the two years since they had last guested him in the valley.

  "It is not a matter of my avoiding him, Nevin. He seeks me out." Isranon always felt safer with Nevin beside him, and so he spoke more openly, lowering the castle walls he built around his heart in his meditations.

  "I've watched Troyes watching you. He hungers for you while he sips from Merissa." Nevin signaled an end to the exercise with a flick of his blade and then sheathed it, heading back to the house. "Now that it is spring, there are places you could go. You could stay with my cousin Olin and his family."

  "So you know about Merissa?"

  Nevin's eyes narrowed. "Only that he drinks from her. I saw the bruises. I know you did not make them. Is there something more I should know?"

  "No. Just that," Isranon sighed, sliding his blade into the sheath. Nevin had given him the blades he carried and cared for so diligently as his coming of age gift when he turned fourteen. Nevin had, previous to that given him a smaller set while teaching him as a child, and when his father, Isranon Starlore, had seen them he became angry, telling Isranon that the only way he would ever be able to keep the teaching was to die. It had shaken Isranon.

  His father would have been disappointed in him for accepting this set, much less learning to use them as well as he had. But his father had been dead two years when Nevin gifted him with them. Stirred by memories of his father, Isranon's hands slipped defiantly to the knives at his hips. The Dark Brothers had been pacifists and so they had all died in a massacre of their people – all except him and his older sister. But a year after Mephistis took them both in, a sa'necari had murdered his sister, Yoleema.

  "Then you know the dangers."

  "I know it, Nevin. 'Be as still as the deer in the forest, for if the predators notice you they will eat you.' There is little I can do about it. I fear he would simply follow me. That would put Olin and his family at risk."

  Nevin slipped his arm around Isranon's shoulders. "Then perhaps I should speak to Claw."

  "No. I will handle it."

  "So long as you are the hunted and not the hunter, it will always be this way. It is a choice you must make."

  "I know." He put his own arm around Nevin's shoulders and they jostled each other laughing to turn the mood away from dark thoughts.

  * * * *

  Merissa watched his careful, thoughtful work on his blades. He was the only sa'necari she had ever seen spend so much effort and time with his blades. Most of them did not bother with swords at all, carrying nothing larger than their baneblades, which cut the soul as well as the body, and other heavily runed knives. "You never talk to me anymore, Isranon."

  "Stop playing nibble games with Troyes, Merissa," Isranon told her. He sat on a stump, running an oiled cloth along his blades.

  "Are you jealous?" She leaned back across the stump to brush her shoulders against his. "That's what Troyes says. He says you're jealous because you know he's been between my legs and you haven't."

  Isranon scowled in consternation. He could scarcely believe she had said that it sounded so unlike her. "Your father is right. He's dangerous."

  "He has not harmed anyone on the farm," Merissa protested. "He takes his full meals elsewhere and he's gentle with the nibblets."

  "Don't, Merissa," Isranon put the cloth in his pack, sheathed his sword, and pushed her away. Her use of the disparaging word nibblets irritated him as much as her actions. She was even
starting to sound like Troyes. "I'm fond of you. I always will be. But what you are doing is wrong and dangerous."

  She made a moue. "You're being ridiculous, Isranon."

  Isranon walked away from her, refusing to argue. He could feel the hunger, his fangs emerging to scratch the edges of his tongue. His stomach tightened with revulsion even as his throat itched with craving and saliva gathered in his mouth. He could feel Merissa's eyes on his back as he walked and he kept his stride measured, proud; determined that no one would ever see the secret fear, the dread gathering in his heart and soul each time the hunger came. "I am not a monster. I will never become a monster," he murmured too softly for even Merissa's keen lycan ear to catch.

  He entered the main hall of the large chinked stone house. The walls were hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Couches lined two walls. Tables and chairs were scattered about in little clusters. Three looms dominated one end near the deep hearth where Claw's wife and his two sisters sat spinning and weaving. The nibari did most of the household tasks, but this one they preferred to do themselves.

  "Mistress Aisha," Isranon gave her a polite bow of his shoulders. "If you could send a nibari or two to my rooms? I would be most pleased."

  "Of course, Isranon. Kissie and Isbeth?"

  Isranon smiled for she always remembered his favorites. "Thank you, Mistress."

  Isranon left them. He removed his shirt and tunic when he reached his rooms, craving far more than simply blood. Isranon wanted the comfort of bodies. He climbed into the middle of his bed, sitting cross-legged as he took out his flute and began to play. His father had told him, as each father had told their sons since the time of his ancestor the Dawnhand, that so long as one could play this flute and truly enjoy it they would never become a monster.

  When they saw that he had half undressed, they undressed themselves completely and swarmed over him. Isranon laughed as they playfully divested him of his pants. Kissie robbed him of his flute, putting it away carefully. She turned her throat to his mouth, rubbing the favored vein against his lips seductively, her breasts moving against his chest. Claw's nibari were very well-trained. Isranon moaned, his fangs extending fully, and then he swept into her mind as skillfully as a vampire at the instant that he broke the skin and entered her. Kissie whimpered at first, before being caught up in pleasure, settling against him. Isbeth parted his thighs to lick her way to his balls, which she sucked and tongued before taking his spear in her mouth. Isranon released Kissie as he grew hard, sealing the wound with a word so there would be no scar. He always treated them kindly. Kissie curled around him. He tangled his hands in Isbeth's hair, pressing her deeper into his black thatch and he rode her face. He fountained and Isbeth swallowed it. Isranon drew her up and rolled Isbeth onto her back, found the vein he wanted and fed again. By taking from two, instead of one, he would not take enough to exhaust them and they would wake as rested as he would. Then he spooned around her and fell asleep. To Kissie and Isbeth he was not a monster, merely a mon with strange needs. He took no more blood from them; however he did spend the morning making love to them when they woke. Sa'necari were only infrequently fertile, producing few children. Which, to Isranon's mind was all to the good, since they were vilest feeders on death that existed.

  * * * *

  Isranon watched Troyes and Merissa riding in from the village. Troyes was so bold it made Isranon nervous. Merissa was laughing about something. Isranon brooded. Sooner or later the Sharani would catch him. Every time he saw Merissa and Troyes together it made his throat constrict. What if Troyes intended to harm Merissa? More and more he thought of poor Rose, whom he had loved with all of his heart and soul. He felt certain that Troyes had at least known about the killing of Rose, and possibly had done it himself. If he had done Rose, what was to say he would not do the same to Merissa when he tired of her?

  "He's going to lead them to us, Isranon."

  Isranon marveled at how silent the lycan chieftain was as he turned to see Claw at his shoulder. "Possibly. Troyes is very strong. Almost as strong as Bodramet and his hunger is terrible."

  "You feel that do you, Dark Brother?"

  A tremor of tension slide down Isranon's spine at the name Claw gave him. "Don't call me that where he can hear."

  "You flaunt your name, Isranon. What is the difference?"

  "I will not deny my name. That and my flute are all I have of my father."

  "You are asking them to kill you."

  "The Darkness hunts me and the Light does not want me."

  "You're fey. Is that Dawnhand's flute?"

  "Yes." If only it were the staff and not the flute that had survived to be handed down ... then Troyes and all the others like him would be ashes. Isranon shook himself free of those thoughts, for Waejonan or one of his followers had stolen the staff the night before his ancestor was taken and murdered. Otherwise Waejonan could never have taken Dawnhand – not while he held the staff, Warrior, and the curse of becoming sa'necari would never have been forced upon Dawnhand's descendants.

  "You'll play it for me some time?"

  Isranon smiled, his face brightening at last. The lycans were the only creatures he had dwelled with who truly enjoyed his flute as much as his father had. "Now, if you'd like."

  "Yes, I would like that very much. Let us lift the shadows for a time."

  * * * *

  The mountain passes were clear enough to travel, so Troyes had begun his preparations for departure. Merissa left the note on the nightstand telling her mother that she had runaway with Troyes and not to worry. She knew they would not start looking until she and Troyes did not return from the village and by then someone would have found the note. He was taking her with him to the court of King Baaltrystan. Merissa Redhand at the court of the king! It sounded almost too good to be true. Oh, he was harsh at times, but that was to be expected from such a powerful male.

  Troyes caught her hand as they turned from the path onto a hunter's trace to cut across country and save time. She did not question it because the lycan often traveled by the back ways rather than the roads. They traveled north toward the caves that were considered the northern boundary of the clan lands. "There are none lovelier chief's daughter," Troyes said smoothly, sliding into that deep, rumbling purr that could be almost lycan. "They will all be jealous."

  Merissa rewarded him with a smile.

  * * * *

  Isranon never told anyone that ghosts talked to him. No one would believe him. Ghosts did not talk to sa'necari. He was walking alone, trying to think after Merissa rode out again that morning with Troyes. Isranon had spent many hours over the past months arguing with Claw over these outings of Merissa and Troyes'. Claw did not like her going, but refused to outright forbid it yet. Merissa was willful. Furthermore, Claw doubted the sa'necari was stupid enough to harm her and bring the clan's wrath down on himself and the rest of his kind. The waystation was too important. Isranon, on the other hand, suspected otherwise. The ghosts that came to him that morning were wolves. They oozed up out of the earth, howling in private voices for his ears only, "Merissa! Merisssssssssaaaaaa!"

  He sprinted for the house and shouted in the door, "Troyes has run off with Merissa! I'm going after them."

  Then he ran for the stable before he had gotten an answer. There was no one there. Isranon saddled up rapidly and rode out, the ghosts racing about him. Troyes and Merissa had gone north with a large head start. Claw and his myn were south with the herds and there was no time to go after them. There was no question in his mind that Troyes would probably kill him, but so long as Merissa got away it would be enough. That was all he could ask for. He made his peace with it, reciting the words as he was taught them and put his heels to his mount. He could not let him kill her without trying to stop him. He experienced a brief passage of validation in knowing this was what Nevin would want him to do. In fact, this was what Nevin would have done in his place.

  * * * *

  Merissa woke at the tug on her wrists. She had fa
llen asleep, spooned around Troyes where they camped. They had ridden far into the hills. They were running away together. Her father would be angry, but he would never catch them. She would have fine clothes and a high place as the mate of a sa'necari. She would become powerful in her own right.

  "Troyes?" She blinked sleepily, her eyes opening wider and then she saw what he was doing and screamed. Two slender strands of spellcord – those bands woven of enchantary fibers, puce, ebony, cerulean and gold, which could seal a mage from all access to her magic – banded her wrists like deadly bracelets, preventing her shifting. She twisted, pummeling and kicking ineffectually at the large sa'necari. Troyes shrugged off her blows, striking with a word. Merissa's screams of terror turned to a shriek of pain and then to a whimpering, weeping anguish. She curled up, pressing her folded arms across her abdomen and drawing her knees in.

  Troyes' fangs extended fully as he stroked her hair. "Foolish Merissa. I only wanted you because Isranon loves you. I rited his little nibari, his beloved Rose. Oh, how she screamed!"

  Merissa's eyes ran with tears of pain and terror. She tried to speak, but her throat would not form words.

  "They will never find your remains because there will not be any. I will consume all of you. I cannot begin to tell you how hungry I have been for a superior death like yours. You will make a very fine death. I have grown tired of lesser humans and dared not take a Sharani."

  He lifted her up, carrying her through the trees to the far side of a little copse. As they broke through she could see the tables: a large mon shaped one with spouts and basins poised to catch the blood that would flow through the grooves; and a smaller one on which he would lay his tools.

  There were many versions of the rite: from a brief one that required only spoken words before his cock and the blade entered her to the full rite which could take nearly her entire soul, requiring him to carve and write arcane symbols upon her body before plunging flesh and steel inside her. He might even begin to drink her blood and eat her flesh while he rode if he was one of those who were slow to climax. Those were the kind who usually chose shifters for the rites because shifters – like sa'necari – died hard. Troyes was one of those. She always had to be patient with him.