by JANRAE FRANK
"My love." Mephistis interrupted her musings. He dressed in fine pants of black with glittering gold and crimson thread shot through the sides and a short, knee-length robe over that. His eyes were thoughtful as he studied her.
"Mephiiistis," she drew his name out languidly and allowed him to draw her onto the floor and into the dancing. "I don't know this one."
"I'll teach you." He kissed her lips and she yielded her mouth to him. Then they joined the dancers.
She tolerated him, smiling. The more ill he became, the less interested she became in him. He wasn't even good in bed any longer. The fires of passion and anger that had drawn her to him, the power and dominance faded day by day. And he had taken those women, those living women, into his bed. If she discovered he had gotten a child on them, she would go back and eat it.
"Might I have a turn with the lovely Margren?" Hoon inquired and Mephistis handed her off to him.
Margren's heart beat more rapidly. Here was power. Hoon exuded it as Mephistis once had. They crossed the floor in gliding steps to the rhythm of the music and Hoon kissed her lightly.
"There is someone you should meet," he told her.
A young male, clearly a vampire, stood at the side of the dance talking with several other males. He was dark-skinned and black haired, tall and very broad through the shoulders with an earthy masculinity. He reminded her of both Hoon and Mephistis, as if he were somehow kin to them. Margren glanced at the newcomer and then at Mephistis. The resemblance was strong, but while she would not have called them brothers, they looked as if they might have been cousins, except that Mephistis was far more slender and sensual.
"My son, Timon," Hoon said.
Margren glanced a question, hearing his pride.
"Of my loins and blood."
"Ahhh." Margren smiled as Timon turned toward them.
"Father?"
"You will take the next dance with Lady Margren and become better acquainted with her. I am certain you two will get along."
Timon visibly winced, but took her hand and led her into the dance.
"I'm not good enough for you?" Margren hissed.
"It's not that. I'm a lover of males. My father knows that."
Margren tensed. There had been few of those in Shaurone, although their women coupled with each other. Males were expected to love females only, they were breeders in a world where there were not enough of them. She swallowed back her revulsion and schooled her voice. "I would like to feed, rather than dance. You will excuse me?"
"Of course."
* * * *
Bodramet saw Margren dancing with Timon, Lord Hoon's son, who commanded the vampire's armies. Hoon had handed her off to his son and Timon winced, but accepted. Bodramet wondered at that. Margren, on the other hand, was becoming less than dependable as an ally. The wilder she became, the less interest she showed in him. Margren kept gazing around Timon at Hoon. Was that who she really wanted? If so, she had not gotten him yet. Hoon spent most of his time gliding over the floor in the elegant steps with a tiny chocolate skinned nibari who barely came up to the middle of the tall Lemyari's chest. Hoon seemed to favor females who were darker skinned than he was.
A nibari came up to him with a bottle and gestured at his glass. Bodramet nodded and the male poured a generous amount of blood-wine into it. Then he leaned against a tapestry of that demon-eater who was becoming an obsession of his prince and watched some more while he sipped. He approved of the graceful music in a minor chord they danced to. Hoon had provided them with a level of sophisticated hospitality Bodramet had not seen since leaving King Baaltrystan's court to follow Mephistis on his ill-fated venture to conquer Shaurone.
Another nibari, this one female and gowned in a golden yellow that matched her long hair waltzed over to him, smiling. Like all of Hoon's pleasure nibari and most of the simple nibari servants, she had a way of looking at him from the corners of her eyes with her head tilted in invitation. "You should not be alone."
This one belonged on someone's altar. But not until they had bred her several times. She was clearly Black Cliff stock and very expensive. He schooled his desires out of his mind. Hoon had made it clear to them that the nibari were not to be killed. Bodramet finished his wine and set it on a nearby table. "I'm not. You're here."
"Will you drink? I've barely been touched this evening."
Bodramet opened his arms and took her in, sipping lightly from her neck and closing the wound with a word. Tomorrow there would be a bruise and the next day nothing.
"Shall I come to your bed, tonight, good master?" she asked as he released her.
He glanced at Margren and then the lovely nibari. Margren would be incensed if she caught a nibari in his bed, but she seemed to be sleeping with half of Hoon's nobles. "Yes."
He wanted a death, but he would abide by the rules. Hoon had only given him a single depnane since they arrived. Yet he knew the prince and Margren had two or more a week. The inequity infuriated him. Then he turned his attention to Timon as the nibari moved on. Timon could not have been older than twenty when his father turned him. Vampires of all lineages fell prey to obsession when they were newborns, or most of them did. The information was all second hand among the sa'necari. But they had seen the evidence of obsession at work. The vampires mistook appetite for love, devouring and turning all their loved ones they had known while living. Bodramet wondered if Hoon had turned his entire family. It was possible, but if so, they were not in this castle, for he had asked around. No one would say anything about Hoon or Timon. Not even the most garrulous of nibari and vampires.
Timon danced almost exclusively with lycan males and Bodramet had observed young males slipping from the vampire's bedroom in the early hours. Yet never a female. Timon seemed almost pained when a female asked him to dance and escaped quickly. He was very handsome and bore a disturbing similarity to Mephistis, although he was earthy and broader through the shoulders than the prince, less sensual. Bodramet moved across the floor and touched Timon lightly on the shoulder to gain his attention.
The vampire went rigid when he saw who had touched him and cast his eyes at Bodramet's hand to indicate he should remove it. "What do you want?"
Bodramet was taken aback by Timon's response, yet recovered smoothly. "You are very handsome, Lord Timon."
Timon's lips skimmed back from his teeth. "I've had centuries to discover that."
"Would you dance with me?"
"No."
"Why not? I'm a fine dancer."
"I don't dance with sa'necari. You've been watching me for weeks. You should have noticed that."
"I prefer males and I know you do also..."
"Sa'necari have no preferences." The ice in Timon's voice was brittle and sharp. A dangerous light came in his eyes. "They stick their rods into anything large enough to take it." Then he walked off.
Bodramet seethed. "Bitch."
* * * *
"I have heard rumors," Margren said, and paused to see if there was any reaction from the small group in Hoon's west study. She had insisted the Bodramet be present. Timon was there also, sitting near his father's great desk. "I have heard some rumors of an incident in Claw Redhand's valley."
Mephistis came instantly alert, staring hard at her.
Hoon and the others turned toward her after noting Mephistis' reaction.
Bodramet slid one hand beneath the table that stood to one side of the desk, concealing his hand clenching into a fist.
Margren schooled her features into an expression of concern. "I wondered if one of your people could tell me if the rumors are true, Lord Hoon?"
"And what are these rumors, my lady?" Hoon asked, flicking a glance at his son who usually knew every rumor in the castle. Timon shook his head.
"That a young sa'necari, a mere youth, had been murdered there."
Mephistis stiffened, clutching the arms of his chair. "Isranon!" He rose from his seat, seized Margren by the throat, and threw her across the room, charging after her. "You
killed him ... you discovered where I had hidden him and you had him murdered."
Margren caught at his wrists and then pried at his fingers, trying to get them loose from her throat. "No. How was I to know that is where you sent him?"
A look slid between Hoon and Timon both at Isranon's name and Mephistis' reaction. Then Hoon rose and separated them. "Rumors, my prince, are just rumors. You don't know for certain that this young friend of yours is slain. Timon will make discreet inquiries."
Mephistis stumbled away from Margren, the flush of rage dissipating in his face. His heart hammered and pain echoed through him. Hoon poured him four fingers of Sanguine Rose after getting the prince into a chair.
Bodramet frowned at Margren for speaking so freely.
Margren shrugged, feeling so satisfied that she wanted to wiggle all over like a well-stroked cat. She smoothed her dress and settled back in her own chair. She had hurt Mephistis and that felt very good. She also had Bodramet squirming. It all had the taste of fresh cream with cherries floating in it – blood cherries from the death tree.
Hoon Read Mephistis and poured him a second dose. "You should go up to your rooms and rest."
"My friend?"
"We will send agents to the valley to make inquiries. Lycans. They will not be suspected," Timon said.
Hoon summoned servants to help Mephistis to his rooms. Margren and Bodramet followed them out.
When Hoon sat alone with his son, he filled two glasses with a fine vintage of sylvan blood and pushed one across the desk to Timon. "There is a game being played here. I want to know what it is. I also want to know why any sa'necari would name their son Isranon. The name bothers me."
Timon stared into his glass. "I am surprised after all these centuries that Dawnhand's name can still trouble you. Especially since you betrayed him, father."
Hoon sucked in a breath. "I loved my brother ... but I had no choice." Hoon rubbed his hands over his face as if to shove away the memories. "Any more than I had a choice about turning you when I found you dying."
Timon did not address that. "Tell me how you wish this handled. Or is it at my discretion?"
"At your discretion. I wish Anksha were here. She would get to the bottom of it all in no time."
Timon shook his head, downing his glass and pouring a second. "The demon-eater must never come to Waejontor again. It is too dangerous for her. King Baaltrystan and the nobility would try to destroy her if they knew she still exists. Leave her at home, father."
"I had no intention of sending for her, I merely wished. One day, I will introduce the prince and Bodramet to Anksha. For now, find out what you can about what really happened in that valley and what is going on with this game the three of them are playing in my castle."
Timon rose. "As you wish, father."
* * * *
Bodramet followed Margren to her rooms. She quickened her pace when she realized he was on her heels and darted through a crowd of Lemyari and nibari heading for the main sitting room together. Bodramet nodded at that. He had thought for a minute she intended to betray him to Mephistis and Hoon in the study. He would teach her such things were unwise. Margren jerked her door open and ran inside. Before she could get it closed, Bodramet had his fingers around the edge and stopped it. Margren gave a yelp and snarled wordlessly at him. He yanked the door forward and then back, slamming her in the face. Any damage he did would be repaired with blood. With blood Sa'necari healed, necari mended. But it made no outward difference. Margren staggered back from the door, a hand to her bleeding nose.
"Were you going to betray me, Margren?" Bodramet asked, stepping inside. He closed and barred the door.
Margren threw up her shields. She had much power, but they were poorly made. Mephistis had had no time to train her before they were forced to flee. Now the prince seemed to have no energy to teach her. Something was badly wrong with him. He was sick. Bodramet sketched a sign and knocked the shields down. Margren retreated, and then threw a death web at him. He brushed it aside with a dismissive gesture and advanced on her.
"Is that what you were going to do?" Bodramet demanded again. "Mephistis may be willing to put up with your petty treacheries and indiscretions, but I will not."
He struck at her legs and then her head in rapid gestures, flinging the black and crimson laced power at her contemptuously. Margren stumbled, trying to protect her legs and her head. She fell. Bodramet kicked her in the ribs and stomach. Margren balled up. He dropped to her side, squatting. "I should rip the undead soul out of you. It's an easy thing to do."
"No, please."
"It's an easy thing to do. It's a shame the undead cannot be rited. You would look pretty on my altar. Or I could destroy your looks past mending. How would you like to have the rotting form of a revenant for eternity? No one willing to mount or play with you?"
"Bodramet, please."
"Please, what?"
"Please, don't."
"You think you know how to play the game? That you have power and influence? You know nothing. If I catch the smallest hint of betrayal, I or my followers will destroy you ... or make you wish you had been destroyed."
"Bodramet..." Margren began to sob.
"Since you have not come into my bed in weeks, I have begun taking nibari there. You must earn your place between my sheets again and prove yourself loyal."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SPOILS OF THE SOUL VAULT
Talons slept in a nest of embroidered cushions and a mountain of down filled comforters on a low bed. Creeya, the realm of the Dark Judge, was one of the coldest kingdoms on the entire continent of Merezia, being far to the north, bordered on the east by the forbidding Katal Escarpment where the Nine Gods had walled away the surviving forces of the Hellgod, Bellocar, bringing an end to the Age of Burning; to the south by the Iradrim mountains of the dwarves and the northernmost tip of Waejontor; to west by the ice plains of the Winter Mages; north lay only ice, the north pole, and beyond it the perpetually frozen land bridge connecting Merezia with the continent of Ursarius.
The door to her bedroom creaked slightly as it opened and a piquant Sharani face peered around the edge of the door facing. "Yo, Talons, you up?" Jysy asked.
Talons debated between trying to hide, which would only embolden the youth, or growling, which would probably earn her a round of teasing and loud raspberries. Jysy and her younger sister, Arruth, were irascible. The enemy was easier for the assassin to handle than the two youths were. They were twelve and eleven years old, well into adolescence for the early maturing, yet long-lived Sharani. Arruth was already kissing and telling though they had only been in Creeya for five days. Talons suspected that Jysy was getting in her part of the merry dalliance, but was considerably more discreet about it. Their hijinks were perfectly acceptable among and by the standards of the Sharani for a number of reasons: The magical energy of the kyndi prevented Sharani women from getting pregnant until their bodies were sufficiently matured; the Sharani attitude toward adolescent sexuality was 'have a good time' especially among the under classes and the young pair were street children; and with the low birthrate of Sharani males (less than one in four being born male) Jysy and Arruth had never seen so many young males in one place in their lives, so they were pretty much like a couple of sprites in a candy shop.
However, Creeya was not Shaurone, the mores were different, more subtle and restrained. Talons, although of Sharani lineage on her ma'aram's side, was Creeyan born and bred: She knew the rules, but trying to teach them to Blackbird's daughters fast enough to keep them out of trouble was giving her fits. They had agreed easily enough to the 'no stealing' rule and abided by it, but the 'no-kissing' rule was proving harder to convince them to follow. Talons knew very well that only the fact that they were under the declared protection of the Grand Master as well as Talons' personal protégés and the additional fact that she had made their real ages, as opposed to their perceived ages, widely known was keeping them from getting in too deep: Simply put, Talons
had too many people watching out for them.
Talons' grandsire, the Grand Master Takhalme Gee, had decided to repay Blackbird for her and her clan's help against Margren and Mephistis, by enlisting two of the crippled knight's daughters and bringing them to Creeya to be educated and trained. If she could have taken Birdie, Blackbird's oldest, she would have. However Birdie had chosen a different path: the feisty little cutpurse was carrying a child by the godling, Dynarien, twin brother to Dynanna the God of Cussedness and Perversity.
Birdie and Lizard were telling people that the child, a compassie, was his from an unknown bloodmother to protect it.
The sa'necari and their numerous allies had a policy of destroying yuwenghau children whenever they could find them. Their handfasting was scheduled for the Spring Equinox. Talons had tumbled to it by accident, forcing a confession from Dynarien.
So she had chosen Blackbird's second and third daughters instead, the result of which being that they had been driving Talons nuts for five days, going on six. Eventually, she told herself, the newness would wear off and the youngsters would settle back down to the responsible level they had kept to in Shaurone. For the moment, however, she had Jysy peering around her door with mischief dancing in her eyes and Arruth was certainly close behind.
Jysy's shoulder length black hair was a dense nest of tight curls, her skin a reddish chocolate midway between her ma'arams' Sharani bronze and her Jedruan sire's deep black-brown. Arruth looked far more like her ma'arams, bronze-skinned, a slender nose and broad cheekbones, her black hair more wavy than curling, and already showing signs of having their height being a head taller than her older sister.
