by T. A. Miles
“Infected?” Hedren finally inquired, running his hand over his jaw, which was cleanly shaven. He was a neat and efficient individual, often mistaken for imperious, though Korsten had always found him to be cooperative and something close to friendly, up until this moment. “You mean the deputy would die on us, then get up in the night and try to make a feast out of his servants?”
“I wouldn’t,” Korsten said, regardless of what he’d just witnessed in the southern woods.
Hedren wasn’t listening. “Something so small, embedded in a cut could do something like that. Make a lunatic out of a man. Make him a killer?”
“One of the Vadryn,” Merran insisted, setting aside his knife after wiping the blade on a kitchen rag Donnel had brought to him. “A demon. A walking contagion.” He held his hand up to Korsten’s leg without touching him. Somehow light concentrated on his palm more than anywhere else in the room. It intensified, showing through the back of his hand, revealing a previously unnoticed mark. It was no birthmark. It looked like a tattoo, depicting a series of concentric circles, joined by a peculiar interlacing of finer lines, almost like writing of some kind. He spoke while moving his—glowing?—hand over Korsten’s wounds, making certain to include all of them in his unexplained ritual. “The Vadryn feed off of the souls they are not interested in inhabiting or dominating. The remains of the victims become infected. A baser interpretation of the Vadryn is created. It shares the same hunger and seeks victims of its own, creating more demons when it chooses of the living. Lesser demons. They become true Vadryn when the corpse has gone its span and completely rotted away beyond use. The body may be useless, but the tainted soul remains. Freed of its former vessel, it seeks a new one. A soul to enslave within a living body, one that it may wear for many decades, sometimes centuries, if it is particularly powerful and particularly careful.”
Before his eyes, Korsten’s flesh mended itself. The blood remained, but the pain and the ugly wounds were gone without so much as a pink line to show they’d ever been. Korsten had no reasonable idea at the moment what to say. He stared at his leg, mended and unmarred, bewildered and more than a little relieved. Merran withdrew his hand. The light and also the mark upon the back of his hand faded.
The mage—and it seemed in evidence now that he was one—gave his azure gaze to Korsten and said soberly, “You would not have died, not in body. But your spirit would have been corrupted.” He added firmly. “Never let the Vadryn draw blood from you. Not while you have a soul riding its current.”
“If I didn’t have a soul mingling with my life fluid, I suppose I wouldn’t care, would I?” Korsten replied, unable to say what should have been said. He was embarrassed for the way he’d acted before, no matter how logical it may have seemed at the time.
Merran stood and began wiping his slightly bloodied hands on a small cloth he’d plucked from his coat pocket. “Now, may I have an audience with Lord Camirey?”
“I’ll take you to him myself,” Renmyr volunteered before Korsten could say anything. “Whatever is going on, be it a demon or a madman, my father will want to know about it.” He set the wine bottle on the table and started back for the kitchen to leave the way they’d come. He turned back at the doorway, looking at Korsten. “Coming, Kor?”
“I … think I’ve probably endured enough for one day,” Korsten replied, still feeling a bit shaken by the morning’s ordeal. “It’s a long ride to the manor and I’m hardly presentable just at the moment. Send for me, if I’m needed. I’ll be here.”
Renmyr accepted his decision with a nod, then gave his silver gaze to Hedren, who was still staring at Korsten’s mended leg. “Constable?”
Hedren tore his gaze from Korsten. He turned slowly and followed Renmyr and Merran out.
Korsten slumped back in his chair and sipped from his glass before setting it aside. He ran both hands over his face and through his hair, then lowered them into his lap and didn’t move for several moments. He knows. Father of the gods, he saw the way I was clutching Ren. And the way Ren was holding me … he must know. If he finds the opportunity to take Renmyr’s father aside, he’s liable to say something of his suspicions and then what? After tales of demons at his doorstep Ithan won’t take it well at all, not even the suggestion, if Hedren doesn’t speak his mind outright. At best Hedren will be dismissed for being the bearer of bad news and before he’ll suffer alone he’ll propagate enough rumors against me that I’ll be run out of town by a torch-bearing mob. Gods, what I wouldn’t give sometimes to have been smothered at birth.
“Sir? I beg your pardon, but are you sure you’re all right?”
Korsten smiled wearily but also appreciatively up at Donnel, startling the elder a bit. He was often nothing more than civil to those who served him. Like with Renmyr, arrogance was part of his breeding and upbringing. It was only at times like this, after being shaken to the bone that he could recognize that and regret it. “I’m fine now,” he said in a tone that he felt was kinder. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything?” Donnel asked next, wearing a frown of concern behind his white mustache. When Korsten shook his head, he added, “Hadn’t you at least better clean yourself up and change into fresh clothes? They might be needing your presence up at the manor later on.”
Korsten looked down at his shredded, blood-stained pant leg. He grimaced freshly at the sight of himself and the reminder of what had taken place in the woods. “I think a bath is in order. A long, hot bath.”
“I’ll see to it at once, milord,” Donnel promised and he left.
“Milord,” came a different voice, immediately following Donnel’s.
Korsten smiled at the young man Donnel had hired to replace the previous porter four months ago. He felt that the elder had made an excellent decision, in spite of the new porter’s adolescent awkwardness. In some ways he reminded Korsten of himself much younger. He wasn’t particularly girlish, like Korsten had been accused of being near the same age, but he was slight and had evidently reached his adult height early. “Yes, Markam? What is it?”
From the dining room doorway, the boy asked, “Is it all right if I come in, sir?”
“Of course,” Korsten replied. “You can roam about most of the house freely when you’re not at your post, you know.”
The lad entered the dining room almost shyly, watching his feet and mumbling words that sounded like, “S’right, sir. Ye tol’ me s’much.”
Korsten sighed quietly, secretly peeved. Embarrassment and dreadful grammar went hand-in-hand with Markam. The instructor in him emerged reflexively. “Markam,” he said directly. When the boy looked up at him, he added, “‘That’s right, sir. You told me as much.’ Slurred speech is nothing the guests or I want to hear.”
Markam nodded respectfully, if not somewhat remorsefully, his face falling again. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, what’s on your mind?”
The youth lifted his gaze from the floor. He had very pretty green eyes. The face they peered out of was nearly pretty in itself, except for an exceptionally rebellious chin and freckles that would fade with age if he was lucky. After a few moments of staring at Korsten, as if he’d forgotten what he wanted to say, Markam blurted, “Are you hurt?”
They both looked at his blood-stained knee at the same time. Korsten laughed lightly, unable to believe he could make light of the circumstances that had caused him to be in such a disorderly state. “I thought I was, but the strange gentleman that was just here assured me I’m not. I guess I won’t dwell on it.”
“No, sir,” Markam said and Korsten looked up to see him still staring at the blood and shredded fabric.
Korsten smiled a little. “You shouldn’t, either.”
The boy started, came out of his trance, then laughed carefully. “Yes, sir.” His gaze flickered down once again.
“All right,” Korsten decided good-naturedly. “I think I’ve made enough of a sp
ectacle of myself. I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable on the bench in the foyer than standing here gawking like that.”
Markam took the hint and carried himself back to his post, presumably satisfied with the dosage of gore most very young men seemed to have a taste for. It was something Korsten had never appreciated. In fact, it tended to make him ill. Feeling somewhat faint now, he sat slowly forward. Cradling his head in both hands, he hovered at the edge of his seat for a moment, then lifted himself up, marveled at the lack of pain in his previously injured leg, and abandoned the dining room. He would feel better after a bath.
Clean, warm water felt marvelous on his skin, all of which appeared to be as in place as it ever had been. Not a trace of a scar remained after Merran’s peculiar healing ritual. Korsten sometimes hated to admit it, but he was vain. He liked to be perfect, as perfect as he could be anyway. There was no curing his leanness. What muscle he had managed to develop through riding and fencing was scarcely noticeable, except that his skin didn’t appear as if it was clinging directly to his bones, like it had when he was a child. Perhaps he would have looked awkward anyway with a strong, athletic frame like Renmyr’s. They were the same height, but Korsten had a naturally delicate build, small-boned as he happened to be. He doubted he could even accumulate fat if he’d wanted to, let alone muscle.
Father’s right. I’m piteously skinny. And shouldn’t that be the least of my worries?
Korsten sighed, then raised himself out of his bath. He toweled off, then robed himself, and walked to his bedroom. He stopped at one of two large windows on the east wall, pulled aside the drapes, and looked out at the street below. No mobs so far. Perhaps Hedren didn’t suspect anything after all. Maybe he’d been too shocked by what had happened with Areld to notice the deputy to the governor cringing like a girl half his age in another man’s arms.
Frowning delicately, Korsten let the drapes fall back into place and stalked away from the window, toward the wide bed. He lowered onto the edge of the mattress and glanced disinterestedly at the clothes Donnel had set out for him. He wanted to sleep more than anything. The gods knew he’d gotten precious little sleep last night. Being attacked by a dead man was more than he was prepared to suffer consciously, or calmly, as he’d already proved.
Gods, I must have looked like such an ass, even to Ren.
Korsten flopped back on his bed, staring miserably up at the timbered ceiling high overhead. We’d better not see each other for a few days, Ren. Best to let Hedren forget what we both know he saw, even if it didn’t register at the time. We have Merran’s demons to occupy us now besides, don’t we? That was real, wasn’t it? I wish I knew. I wish to Heaven I knew more than I do now. If Merran is telling the truth … if this is in fact real … someone else is probably going to die. Some poor, unsuspecting soul…. Korsten bolted upright, a tide of fresh worry breaking over him. “Donnel!” He didn’t get an answer straight away, so he left his bed and rushed to the door, opening it, just as the elder was reaching for it. They gave each other a mild start. Korsten forced himself to recover first. “Donnel, where’s Markam? This is his evening off, isn’t it? You didn’t give him leave yet, did you?”
He was asking the questions faster than Donnel could answer them. The elder tried anyway. “Well, he … yes … I believe—no, sir, but—”
Relief had Korsten practically falling forward, into the elder. He dropped his hand onto his arm. “Thank Heaven. Don’t let him go tonight.”
“Don’t let him….”
“At least tell him to stay out of the woods. I know he likes to ride, but not tonight. Tell him not tonight.”
Though evidently confused, Donnel nodded obediently. “Very well, milord. Is there anything else I can do?
Korsten lifted his hand from the elder’s sleeve when he realized he was clutching it. “No, Donnel. That’s all. Thank you.”
Donnel started to leave, stopping a few steps away. “Oh, yes. The Lady Adaleigh Vausen will arrive this evening.”
Korsten frowned, genuinely puzzled. “She will?”
Donnel smiled with patience and respect, though there may have been something slightly coy in his voice. “Her history lesson, sir. Surely, you have not forgotten it.”
Yes, actually. Korsten shook his head. “No. Of course not. Thank you, Donnel.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Korsten closed himself back into his room and groaned when he was sure Donnel couldn’t hear him. After the morning he’d put himself through, this was the very last thing he needed. This particular nobleman’s daughter was as persistent as a feline in heat. After six months of lessons she hadn’t learned a blessed thing except that she wanted into her tutor’s breeches. And everyone else in Haddowyn was sure she’d been there on a number of occasions. She’d been in someone’s breeches. There was no question there. Korsten was sure there was nothing innocent about her and who was going to be blamed if she got herself with child? Korsten Brierly, the sly lecher, of course. He could well imagine how colorful that tavern talk Renmyr had been referring to actually was. And how far from the truth.
What I won’t endure for you, Ren.
Sixteen…. She didn’t look sixteen. Adaleigh Vausen looked arguably eighteen and quite wise to the world, though not terribly intelligent. She may have had potential, if her father had had the presence of mind to parcel her off to a cloister years ago. In the presence of Haddowyn’s large population of unmarried young men, however, there was only one topic she wanted to further her education in. And in that particular field, Korsten was determined not to be her instructor. If only his determination was as strong a thing as the will of a lustful young woman used to getting her own way.
“Penna told me you were hurt,” Adaleigh mentioned, speaking over the lesson Korsten had delved straight into, and with absolutely no compunctions, not even a ‘beg pardon’ for the interruption.
Korsten had her sitting at the end of the recently cleared, somewhat tidied library table and was currently pacing a route that lingered behind her chair, out of her line of sight, with a large book cradled in his arms. Even though she knew nothing of manners, he managed to say politely, “It was nothing. I’m quite all right now.”
“But what happened?” Adaleigh was inclined to twist around in her seat to look at him until he stalked to the table and tapped the blank journal in front of her. She reluctantly picked up her pen. “Won’t you tell me, Korsten? I’ve been worried sick.”
She’d been in his library for less than an hour and about as far from worried as a piglet from bacon. “I assure you that I am in top health. Now, as I was saying….”
The hand she didn’t need for writing drifted toward Korsten and lightly touched his leg, just above the knee. “Penna said something scratched you. Is this where?”
Less startled by eager young women than ravenous corpses, Korsten calmly stepped away. “No, Adaleigh. And it is nothing for you to be concerned with. Now, your father….”
“She said it was a dreadful beast of some kind,” the exceptionally mature girl persisted, forming a pout with her full lips and making a point of brushing imaginary lint away from her bosom, which crested immodestly from the low neckline of her blouse. She was the same as Calla, except that her father had a fortune and her blouse was clean. “I simply cannot concentrate on lessons, knowing that you’ve been victimized.”
Victimized? Korsten sighed, wishing Penna didn’t talk quite so much. She was probably the reason rumors of his habits where pretty female students were involved had gotten started to begin with. He should have abandoned his role as a teacher after Fand’s death and the subsequent appointment to his position under the governor. But he did happen to have students other than young women and even some young women who were interested in learning something besides how knowledgeable their instructor might be in bed. Girls like Adaleigh would probably be monumentally disappointed anyway, once they fou
nd out how unable to demonstrate Korsten happened to be with a female partner. He’d tried bedding the opposite sex when much younger and not quite certain about his feelings and how they tended toward other males. He’d done nothing but embarrass and frustrate both himself and the girl. He didn’t doubt that it would be the same now.
Renmyr, on the other hand, Korsten knew had been with women, before and after they became lovers. It wasn’t as convenient for him to pretend as it was for Korsten, who had a private library and a gossiping cook to make the situation seem what it wasn’t. Renmyr’s own prim and respectable mother would have wondered about him if he refused every offer to be led to a room above Brenwick’s tavern by a woman like Calla. And if nothing ever happened, everyone in Haddowyn would know and suspect their potential future governor was either unable or uninterested. Renmyr did what he felt he had to and hopefully didn’t enjoy it too much and when Korsten accused him of siring illegitimate children, he was regrettably accurate. It didn’t much matter to anyone other than Korsten. Bedding women and planting his seeds in them was Renmyr’s duty as a member of the governing house, or so most in Haddowyn believed. So, there were an unnumbered amount of sons and daughters of the man he loved wandering about the city, possibly living on the same street as him and he despised it. It wasn’t that Korsten despised children—quite the opposite—but he hated to be reminded that society forced him to share his lover, which brought him back to the matter at hand.
“Adaleigh,” he sighed. “Your father is not going to be pleased when he sees that you’ve made no….” He stopped himself and decided to say, “That you’ve shown no improvement.”
The young lady’s bottom lip stuck out even farther and she suddenly threw down her pen. “Oh, this isn’t going to work!” she blurted and she was … could she have been blinking back tears?
“What’s not going to work?” Korsten asked, hazarding to play dense, sensing more frustration from her than genuine upset.
