JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING BOOK I: MY SISTER'S KEEPER

by JANRAE FRANK

  Isranon looked up sharply at Dane. "You were watching?"

  Dane nodded. "You know how to use them. We've practiced together."

  "My godfather Nevin is lycan. Every time we had to scatter and flee, I was sent to Nevin in Claw Redhand's valley."

  "I've heard of it. It's a waystation for sa'necari sneaking through the Sharani-occupation zone and then south. I've never been there." Dane opened another bottle, refilled his glass, and settled opposite Isranon. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "You should ask Mephistis to send you there."

  "No. I am my prince's mon." Isranon met Dane's eyes squarely.

  "You do not belong here among the monsters."

  "I am a monster. I was born a monster." Isranon's voice became devoid of emotion. "I keep my father's teachings as far as I am able. What happened in the hall... That is merely their nature, like lions of the forest. It does not have to be my nature."

  "Why not?" Dane persisted, trying to drag it back around.

  "Because all of the Dawnhand's lineage are different."

  "You tell yourself you are different, but are you really? What happened to your sister?"

  Isranon's eyes dropped. "They made her one of the monsters and she stepped into the flames."

  "You mean she killed herself?"

  "Yes."

  "Was she living or undead?" Dane thought Isranon was far too young for what he saw in the youth's eyes.

  "Undead. They killed her, knowing she would rise..." Isranon sucked air, seeming every bit his mere seventeen years, all vulnerability. "Should I rise or somehow be forced into the rites, I will step into the flames as honor demands – as she did." Isranon hesitated, his expression troubled. "Should I perish here, Dane, I would judge it a kindness if you would carry word of it to Nevin. And tell him I died well."

  "I swear it, Isranon." Dane clasped the youth tightly in his arms and then released him. "If I had had a son of my body before I was turned ... Isranon, I would have felt honored for him to have been like you."

  CHAPTER FOUR. RAVENS' NEST

  Tagalong entered her sixth tavern of the night, the Salmon Moose. It was little more than a barrel room with unopened kegs stacked along the walls on three sides and a narrow bar for dispensing from the open kegs behind it. She settled herself at a table near the bar, and shouted for a tankard

  "Ale." Her voice boomed over the noises of the patrons. The alewife came herself, drying her hands on a rough apron. The tavern was lit by candles thrust into wine bottles coated in wax drippings at the tables. It reeked of smoke, sweat and the unwashed bodies which crowded around the tables and spread over the benches.

  The dwarf watched a gnarled gnome of a mon approach the table next to hers that four young stalwarts occupied, moving with an arthritic limp. He wore crude brown garments of homespun cloth, and carried no weapons that Tagalong could see. Nothing in his appearance predicted what happened next and it made Tagalong blink to see it. The moment his hand touched the seat, the four stalwarts made their apologies and left. The gaffer graciously accepted custody of the table. The alewife, seeing him, abandoned her customers to personally greet him, set out three tankards and a pitcher as if expecting others to join the old mon. Tagalong tried to focus on her brew, but everything about this set off interesting speculations which drew her gaze back.

  The gaffer watched Tagalong surreptitiously around the edges of his tankard. Then he pulled out his pipe, stuffed and lit it. As the smoke rose to wreath his head, the two thugs from the night before the duel appeared and sat down beside him. One of them sported bruises where his face had met the wall when Tagalong tossed him across the room. The other one saw Tagalong and nodded to her pleasantly, mystifying the dwarf. She suspected his stomach would still be sore from the poke she had given him.

  Her thoughts turned to the gaffer and a small satisfied smile stole briefly across Tagalong's lips. For the third time that night the gaffer sat watching her. Either he was having her watched or knew her habits well enough to anticipate which tavern she would try next. Whichever, it showed her that his interest was piqued. And he had to be Assassins Guild. No doubt of that remained in her mind. Each time, he chose a table a little closer to hers. She interpreted his unexpected nearness as an invitation to approach him.

  Tagalong picked up her tankard and sauntered over. She leaned into his face, shoving five gold double gryphons to his edge of the table, more money than most people saw in a year. She raised her fingers from the coins and pressed lightly against his chest. "Tell your red feathered friends that Gaertrudin Angtraden is hiring at good wages, especially if they rode with Jon Dawn," she gave him her true name, rather than the nickname she had picked up in childhood. All talk at the table stopped when they heard Angtraden: the Angtraden were the mightiest and wealthiest of dwarf clans. Even their poorest relations had more wealth and prestige than the average merchant. Tagalong wished suddenly that she had been giving it out from the start. She abandoned her tankard on his table and walked off.

  Tagalong stepped out into the torchlit streets. She could neither hear nor see anyone, yet she knew they were there. The assassins were a cautious, secretive guild. She had just thrown the gauntlet in their face and they would have to respond. She had walked just three blocks before six tall shapes detached themselves from the shadows. Tagalong moved back and half turned, another group moved behind her. She pulled her hammer and watched them. The only way out was the alley to her right. That must be where the gaffer was. She angled toward it without taking her eyes from the myn. When she reached the shadows she spun and came face to face with the gaffer and his two companions.

  The gaffer no longer limped. He stood straight as a sword blade and twenty years dropped from his manner and visage. He looked almost Sharani and oddly familiar: lean and lanky with a beaky nose and an overbite. "Now what would an Angtraden be wantin' a red raven for?" he asked her, taking her measure as he spoke. "If ya be one. Eh?"

  Tagalong grinned in a jaunty manner, hooking the hammer on her shoulder. "I've a one-eyed friend in Armaten who always said if I ever needed a certain kind of help ta buy a red raven."

  "You be knowin' her a long time, eh?" the gaffer asked.

  "Since childhood in Armaten. She had two eyes then."

  The gaffer grinned back at Tagalong now. "Uh huh. An' what color be the eye she lost?"

  Tagalong's grin broadened. "Blue."

  The old gaffer gave her a slow sidewise nod. "an' the one she still has?"

  "Green. Aejys and I were with her when she lost the blue one. A grievin' ma'aram hired her ta do fer a merchant traffickin' in children. We stumbled into it by accident."

  "Then you be Tagalong Smith, not Gaertrudin Angtraden."

  The two swordsmyn relaxed at the name.

  Tagalong took her cue from them and returned the hammer to her belt. "They're both me. I know my folks wish they weren't," she said, rueful yet unrepentant. Then in an exaggerated voice with every vowel precisely pronounced she said, "Gaertrudin! You run with the common folk and gutterscrews. They will stain your reputation and leave their mark upon you! Yah, uh huh."

  The gaffer thought for a moment, "Roll up your sleeve."

  Tagalong didn't need to ask which sleeve. She pushed up her left one to reveal a long burn scar.

  The gaffer nodded. "Y'ar who ya say. Ya reached across th' edge of a forge ta save her. Wilstryn still be tellin' that tale."

  Tag looked a little embarrassed. It wasn't the first time she had gotten inadvertently burned in a smithy and tended to take such things for granted.

  "I be grateful fer it. Wilstryn be me daughter. Tell me tha task an' I be tellin' ya the price."

  "It's too big for ya, gaffer. I want ta speak ta the Grand Master. Aejys wants two cadres. Preferably veterans of Jon Dawn's Legion."

  A low whistle of astonishment escaped one of the two bodyguards.

  "I don't know about that," the gaffer sounded doubtful.

  "There's a rogue Assassins' Guild i
n Shaurone. Farendarc was a member."

  The gaffer's two guards glanced sharply at each other.

  "That be explainin' a lot," the gaffer said thoughtfully. "Rogue guild. Someone's been hittin' our people in Shaurone, Doronar and Iradrim."

  "Pattern radiates outta Rowanslea. Right?"

  The bodyguards exchanged another set of glances and the gaffer nodded. "I'll set up tha meetin'. Be ready ta leave at moment's notice."

  * * * *

  Early the next afternoon, after catching up on some sleep, Tagalong knocked on Aejys' door, then opened it and peeped around. Aejys was sitting up, propped against pillows, a bed table across her lap, dipping slices of crusty bread into a meaty broth and eating slowly. The lapsed paladin wore a loosely wrapped brown dressing gown, the left sleeve hung empty, the shoulder pulled around the bandaged arm, which Tamlestari had strapped to her side. She looked tired, but the color was returning to her face.

  A vase filled with fragrant wildflowers and ferns sat on the table beside the bed. It reminded Tagalong of Brendorn who had loved to bring Aejys flowers and fruit from his garden.

  Aejys followed Tagalong's eyes to the vase. "Tamlestari. Brendorn told her how I liked them."

  "Not the same," Tagalong said.

  "There's a part of her that reminds me of him."

  Tagalong shrugged. "I found 'em, Aejys. Gaffer's arrangin' a meetin'."

  "Good," Aejys replied, "It moves fast then. I want to get out of here in a fortnight."

  "Ya sure? I mean..."

  "It's a long way home, Tag. I promised Brendorn I would be there before the first month of winter so I could see his gardens. Hungry?"

  Tag nodded and a gesture from Aejys sent a servant scurrying for a tray of food and drink.

  "Ya sure yar gonna be strong enuf?"

  "No forced marches," Aejys waved her good hand at the servants to remove her bed table and food. "But a steady pace."

  "If ya say so, Aejys."

  "Can you get my pipe, Tag? Help me get it loaded and light it. I don't think I can handle it one-handed."

  Tagalong sprang up, retrieved the pipe, and got Aejys settled back on her pillows smoking thoughtfully.

  The servant returned with a plate of fried cod, a bowl of stew and a dish of potatoes, mushrooms and onions in a heavy buttery sauce just as Tagalong liked it.

  They ate and talked and smoked until weariness and returning pain faded the color from Aejys' face.

  "Hurts again?" Tagalong asked, reaching for the holadil on a nearby table.

  Aejys nodded. "I have a lot to do yet, Tag. I'll take some later."

  "Heals faster if it don't hurt. Least that's what I been told." Tagalong poured a measure of holadil into a glass. "Give it a couple a days more fore ya start gettin' hinkty 'bout it."

  Aejys gave Tagalong a sidewise glance, wanting to argue, but not finding the energy for it. A tired edge crept into her voice, "So be it. Perhaps I need a smoke and a nap more than anything else right now."

  Tagalong smiled, brought over the holadil and gave it to Aejys.

  Aejys drank it, leaned back. "I need ... those gray mice ... Tag," she said, her voice going worn and dozy. She handed the pipe to the dwarf, "Don't. Forget. The gray mice. Thieves best at ... finding ... hidden stuff ... proof of what ... Margren's doing." Then she slid into sleep.

  "Hunf," Tagalong snorted as she turned to leave, "Margren's not gonna live long enuf ta say hello, I have anything to say about it."

  * * * *

  Cassana sat at a large table in Aejys' study with pen and paper. Becca sat near her looking at maps spread across one end. Sunlight streamed through the open windows. A cool breeze off the ocean toyed with the bright curtains and curled the maps. Becca slammed a crystal paperweight down on the papers before they could scatter over the room. Cassana glanced up at the sound, her left eyebrow raised in question.

  "The breeze was blowing everything," Becca explained, indicating the paperweight. She wore a pair of black cotton pants. They chafed the insides of her thighs until she wanted to claw the irritated skin off. Worse, she felt naked in them, as if her legs were revealed to the world. But she stubbornly wore them and resisted the urge to change back into her skirts.

  Cassana nodded, returning to her papers. "We will take almost the same route back that we took getting here," Cassana said, sealing a letter with her signet. "It will take us rather close to your parents' village. Would you like to send them a letter? I assume there must be someone in your village who can read."

  "The priest of Willodarus."

  "Start thinking about what you wish to say and when I am done here I will take it down. You might also want to send gifts."

  "Who is that one to?" Becca asked, noticing that Cassana wrote now in a different script than before.

  "Brendorn's mother. She is of Valdren blood. We will pass through Vallimrah on the last leg of this journey."

  "You must know a lot of languages. Not just Engla and Sharani..."

  "I wanted to be a scribe, translating and copying manuscripts. But my ma'aram was the Mar'ajan of Yarrendar, Shaurone's southern province. So I was trained as ha'taren, a paladin of Aroana. But I ran off without finishing the training."

  "Ran off? But I thought you followed the fireborn..."

  "Kalestari Desharen, Tamlestari's ma'aram. Same thing. But that was long ago and far away," Cassana sealed another letter and regarded Becca for a moment. "My ma'arams died in the war, otherwise I would probably have been forced back into training. My sister, Geoa, is a far more reasonable person. Now there are other things I need to think about. Will you go see if the couriers are ready?"

  * * * *

  Mephistis regarded Margren thoughtfully, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded. She had arrayed herself in an outland dress, burgundy with a snug bodice over silver that showed through the embroidered slashings along the sleeves and the neck. He wondered how much of the recent trouble that had been caused for Isranon had originated with her petty jealousies. Dane had told him of several confrontations between Isranon and others that the vampire had witnessed. Can Margren be encouraging this? Or do they simply smell his vulnerability? The fact that he has not crossed the line and made a transition that frequently happens at thirteen, the full flowering of adult power through the rites of mortgiefan?

  "You must find more opportunity to participate in the rites, Margren," Mephistis said.

  "There are many demands on my time, my love," she responded, turning her body to play with his gaze as she settled on the couch. "My ma'aram has been demanding my attention."

  Margren shifted still more, presenting her breasts to him at a provocative angle. It made Mephistis de Waejonan suspicious. He loved Margren, as much as he was capable of love, but he never deluded himself concerning her. There was something dangerously unstable in Margren's nature. It both drew him and kept him cautious. So he never allowed himself to become predictable, shifting between harsh and soft with her on a whim. So long as she did not transgress his boundaries, he would sympathize and reassure, but the prince would not tolerate the behaviors that her ma'aram indulged – at least when she tried to play them on him. Sometimes he wondered, as he did then, whether the fondness he felt for Isranon was deeper than what he felt for Margren. "You are now the only one of my allies in the noble houses here who has not completed the change into sa'necari. For the great rites I have planned to bring this realm to its knees at Winter Solstice, you must have joined their ranks."

  "I want to..." Margren hesitated. "Juldrid..."

  Mephistis shoved away from the wall and crossed to her side. "Surely, you are not letting her petty terrors and insecurities come between you and the power you crave? Letting her come between us?"

  "No, of course not."

  He stroked her cheek, loosened her bodice, and brought forth one of her breasts. Mephistis nuzzled it, licking along the vein. She shivered in anticipation. When he broke the skin and drank, her face suffused in pleasure and she wrapped aro
und him. Mephistis lifted his mouth from her breast and kissed her deeply, leaving a smear of her own blood across her lips. He raised her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. When he laid her down, she started to undress. Mephistis stopped her. He shoved her dress up, opened his pants and lifted himself out. The prince forced himself inside her before she was entirely ready. Margren cried out and then relaxed, surrendering herself up to him – he had long ago taught her not to resist when he decided to make their coupling a statement of his dominance.

  * * * *

  It went faster than Tagalong expected. She had forgotten how swiftly the Guild could move in an emergency. On the second night after she met Old Gaffer Hornbow, Tagalong stood on a sandy strip of beach an hour's ride north of Vorgensburg. The full moon reached its zenith, giving the midnight hour a bright glow, gilding the golden sands and the cresting waves with icy silver. Her companions watched the sky intently. Tagalong looked up from time to time, but soon tired of craning her neck.

  "There she be," said the gaffer.

  A tremendous flying shape circled out of the darkness and hung outlined against the moon for a moment before settling to the sand.

  Tagalong's heart hammered and her pulse rushed at the sight of the great roc. The gaffer smiled and clapped her on the shoulder. "It be a big'un. Raised it meself. Archenwyrm got the mama. We rescued the hatchlings. Bout a year ago. Maybe two."

  "Where?" Tagalong asked, thinking about the archenwyrm Aejys, Josh, and she had killed two years past down the coast by the Blowholes: The archenwyrm whose treasure financed everything they did.

  "Blowholes," the gaffer answered, watching her closely. "Guild don't steal. Matter'a honor. We know ya kilt that wyrm what ate the mama."

  Tagalong gave him a lopsided smile.

  The gaffer walked with her to the roc. The giant bird lowered its head and rubbed against the gaffer, making small crooning noises.

  "Ah, me darlin', me darlin'," said the gaffer scratching the huge head. "Yes, papa loves ya, Bright Eyes. Yes, he does."

  The roc shivered in delight.

  "Now ya gotta let papa's friend get aboard."