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

by JANRAE FRANK

  "My love?"

  He turned as Margren crossed the rubble-strewn field toward him. She wore a long crimson velvet tunic with a sable cloak about her shoulders. Mephistis gathered her into his arms, content to just hold her for a long time. When he drew back at last, as full dark settled around them, Margren could feel the tension in his body. "What is wrong?"

  He could think of no delicate way to put it, so he just said it, "I think the mage that did this," he swept his hand at the toppled ruins, "has entered the city."

  Margren trembled violently, her eyes widening in fear, "That cannot be. It just cannot."

  Mephistis grasped her shoulders to steady her; "We must finish the rite before morning. And I must have the death gift..."

  "You promised it to me. You said it would be mine." Margren pulled away from him, a small flash of anger burning away her moment of fear.

  "My love," Mephistis' tone turned urgent. "I will need every bit of power and strength I can draw on to protect you from this mage."

  Margren softened immediately, going into his arms and pressing her face against his chest, feeling very safe and sheltered there. "So be it. You can have Aejys' death gift."

  * * * *

  Kaethreyn had left them waiting in an ante-chamber and by the time Geoa and Sonden gained their little party a meeting with her, Josh reeked of whiskey, his eyes were reddened and bloodshot and his stride a trifle unsteady. Eliahu walked with his arm linked in Josh's, trying to lend him some support, but there was no concealing his heavily intoxicated state.

  Mirrors lined the far wall of Kaethreyn's private study to catch and reflect the sunlight by day and the lamps by night, increasing the illumination by nearly one hundred percent. A long couch underlined the wide windows with soft down stuffed chairs, a deep rose silk brocaded with water lilies, clustered around a desk near the fireplace in the northwest corner.

  Kaethreyn rose from her seat, frowning, as they entered. "If you have come about my daughter, then you can leave my city immediately." She snatched up a small pile of papers, throwing them at Geoa's feet. "I'll not surrender my child on the basis of these preposterous accusations!"

  Geoa ignored the papers, her gray eyes hardening. "Last night, Aejys was stolen from my camp by a band of sa'necari. You know what they do to their captives."

  Kaethreyn's face drained of color and she sank heavily into her chair, shaking her head slowly in silent denial.

  Geoa stalked to the desk, leaning her face close to Kaethreyn's, emphasizing each unrelenting word. "She's dead or dying by now – with half her soul missing."

  As Geoa's words sliced into Kaethreyn, they also cut into Josh. He pulled away from Eliahu, shaking violently. He clasped his hands together, pressing them tightly to his stomach, visibly struggling to breathe.

  "Give us Margren," Geoa demanded.

  "Margren had nothing to do with this!" Kaethreyn flared. "Stop blaming her."

  "Let's ask her."

  "She's not her sister's keeper. She doesn't know anything." Uncertainty crept into Kaethreyn's voice even as she repeated her denials, and abruptly she turned from defending to pleading. "You can't take her. She's all I have left now."

  "If you don't surrender her and all persons named in this document," Geoa pivoted, scooping up the papers and laying them in front of her, "then the saer'ajan will be forced to declare you and yours outlaw. She will bring all the might of the realm against you. She will crush you like this!" Geoa snapped her fingers under Kaethreyn's nose.

  The snap penetrated Josh's pained thoughts. He spun with a gesture at the mirrors. Blue light poured from his fingers, enveloping the silver-backed glass. When the light faded the mirrors no longer reflected the room. Instead they showed Aejys hanging in chains on the topmost tier of the altar of hecatomb as Margren shoved a dagger into her stomach.

  Kaethreyn screamed. Geoa seized Kaethreyn's robe, dragging her over the desk. Before the stricken mar'ajan could react to Geoa's grip, the Odaren had her across the room, shoving her face against the mirror, forcing her to look closely at her dying child as Margren continued to stab her, then play in her blood.

  "Now do you believe?" Geoa demanded harshly.

  "Yes," Kaethreyn sobbed.

  Geoa turned hard eyes on Josh. "Is there a way to reach Aejys?"

  Josh nodded, swallowing back his own grief and shock. He took the whiskey from his pocket, taking a long pull from the bottle. "There is a enchantary gate in the castle. I'll split it and bring it here."

  Again the blue light extended from Josh's hands, this time to the central mirror only. Power swirled and cleared. The scene in the chamber of hecatomb now repeated itself in miniature on the central while continuing to play across the others. If there had been any doubt in Eliahu's mind that Josh was the reincarnation of Josiah Abelard, it ended then.

  "We'll need more arms," Geoa told Kaethreyn. "Get hold of yourself!"

  Kaethreyn straightened, drawing herself in, breathing deeply.

  Sonden, who had remained silent through Kaethreyn's emotional ordeal, stepped to her side. "The Odaren must stay here with her forces in case anything goes wrong."

  Kaethreyn nodded. "I'm going with you." She went to the door, calling in her four guards, the bradae, and Clemmerick. "Will this be enough?"

  "Yes," Sonden responded. "We are going in there, get Aejys, and come back. That is all." As he started to step through the portal Kaethreyn shoved him aside, stepping through first.

  * * * *

  Isranon wrapped himself tighter in his fur-lined cloak, moving quickly through the corridors of Dragonshead. Another rite today. Always another rite. His senses had grown more sensitive to them since Rose's death. There were times when he wished that terrible mage who had knocked down the ruins and cracked the citadel had crushed them all. Dane had left and Isranon's loneliness had become a complete desolation of the spirit. He never fed from the same nibari twice in a row. He promised himself that he would never allow his emotions to become engaged with anyone for the rest of his life.

  "Running away again?" asked a silky voice.

  Isranon stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he turned, his head at a proud tilt and his shoulders back. "Mei ajan?" He carefully used the Sharani title as a small deference to her rank and her relationship to his prince. It also served to put distance between them.

  Margren, stalked along the corridor to circle him, deliberately menacing. "My sister dies soon. You're certain you do not wish to celebrate the joyful event with us? To watch me play in her blood? To perhaps drink a chalice or two of it with us? Consecrated blood is quite delicious."

  Isranon simply stared, refusing to answer.

  Margren slowed when she reached him, eyeing him closely like a lion at a potential meal, always trying to see if she could make him squirm. He never did and that angered her. Her fangs lengthened and she hissed at him. "You don't like me, do you?"

  Isranon remained stonily silent. He pitied Margren's na'halaef, Juldrid. Isranon wished he dared to spit in Margren's face, but held himself back.

  Margren snarled at him. "One day I'll kill you just to see what your blood tastes like."

  "Margren!" Mephistis came down the corridor followed by two stone trolls dragging a battered woman. Isranon sucked in a deep breath, trying not to look at her: it was the paladin, Margren's sister. Margren grabbed the woman's hair, twisting her head back. As she did, Isranon's eyes met the paladin's and he flinched. Through all that pain and suffering, even knowing that she was about to die, the paladin was not broken; her faith in her god was that strong. He had never seen anything like it. Isranon knew almost nothing of the gods of light, the outlands gods, the gods of the realm in which the underground citadel was hidden. He knew only of the Hellgod that was worshipped and propitiated – depending upon one's feeling toward Bellocar – in Waejontor, his homeland. Isranon wondered at what he saw in the paladin's eyes. Was it trust? Trust in her god? What was the paladin's name? Aejys? Aejystrys? There was nothing he could do her
e. He wanted to be away from here as quickly as possible.

  Margren released her. "Does what I do bother you, Isranon? Are you that twisted?"

  Mephistis caught Margren up, speaking in a cajoling tone, "Please, beloved, you promised to leave Isranon alone."

  "He's a coward, Mephistis. Half-a-mon. Not a true sa'necari at all."

  Mephistis kissed her. "Margren, you promised me and you always keep your promises, now don't you?"

  "Yes. Yes, I do," she said, allowing him to bring her along with the others and they swept toward the Chamber of Hecatomb.

  If it were not Margren who killed him, it would be another. At least in that much Isranon did not lie to himself. The sa'necari always killed the members of his family when they discovered them either because of who they were or because they refused to embrace the dark rites. He walked on, trying not to think about any of it.

  * * * *

  So, this is how it ends, Aejys thought without bitterness. They had stripped away the last vestiges of her clothing, bound her arms to the scaffolding and manacled her wide spread feet to the floor on the topmost tier of the altar of hecatomb. It would be a small rite; there were only six sa'necari acolytes besides Margren and Mephistis. Two stone trolls stood beside the closed doors at the chambers' base. Aejys saw then that the whites as well as the pupils and irises of Margren's eyes had turned a bloody violet: she was sa'necari.

  Margrenan brye Rowan stood before Aejys, flanked by her Waejontori lover and a servant bearing a tray. In the middle of the tray sat a golden chalice marked with arcane symbols and two tiny decanters: one held a black liquid, the other an evil green. She carried a long bladed knife marked with black runes on the hilt and along the blood groove.

  A voice whispered in Aejys' mind: Be brave, my paladin. Do not fear this death. For your death is her doom.

  "You know what this is?" Margren asked coyly, holding the Blade of Nine Souls before her face.

  "Yes," Aejys answered, her blood going cold in her veins as she recognized the baneblade. She would die unclean, rise as undead, a living soul in a rotting body, feeding on her own people. Strangely, this time it did not frighten her. She trusted her God to see that she did not rise, that her soul was freed. "I've been cut with one before."

  "That's right. You have." Margren stroked the patterned scars on Aejys' right shoulder "I made this one myself. Isn't that clever? Now that it's finished I need to blood it." She stroked the blade across Aejys' stomach. "I thought you would be perfect for that. I've kept it virgin just for you."

  Aejys said softly without anger "Our ma'aram loves you. You are unworthy."

  Margren backhanded her, "Lying filthy gritchin! You stole our ma'aram's love from me!" She calmed instantly, stroking Aejys' stomach with the blade again. "There is nothing so painful as a gut wound. Done right it takes hours or even days to die. I always do things right."

  "My death is your doom. My God will have justice."

  Margren exchanged an amused smile with Mephistis. "Not this time, sister. You will never hurt me again."

  Mephistis poured a measure from each decanter into the chalice and began to make passes across it, chanting softly.

  She seized Aejys' hair, forcing her face forward until her chin pressed her chest. "Watch, sister. Watch it go in." Aejys closed her eyes. Margren shook her savagely. "Watch!"

  Anticipation sent electric shivers up Margren's arms and down her thighs, wetness gathered between her loins, her pulse raced and a sweet pressure began in her own stomach. Her breathing quickened until she was panting with eagerness and need.

  Aejys opened her eyes looking on the blade pressing in just above her navel. She sucked in a breath, bracing herself for the pain. "I'm watching," she said, but she focused past the blade into a far corner of her mind. Brendorn, we'll be together soon.

  "Good." Margren slipped the blade in almost gently, yet firmly, hungrily, almost like a lover. A long, low moan of ecstasy slid from the center of Margren's being, up through her throat, emerging from her lips. She swayed for a moment, half pressing her body against Aejys', then abruptly pulled back, giving the blade a wide ripping twist to the side. Aejys screamed, stiffening, then convulsing in her bonds. Her head twisted back. The lines around her mouth deepened. Her eyes glazed as shock set in. The death magics burned through her veins like a terrible venom. Yet she reached for her prayers with her thoughts, framing each word in her mind; reaching past the pain of her death wound; reaching for her God.

  Margren worked the blade upward in a series of small vicious jerks, savoring the way Aejys' body spasmed and shuddered with each turn of the blade, the way she screamed. The blade grated against the paladin's breastbone. Margren pulled the blade free bringing blood and bits of entrails with it. She smiled, contentment filling her to over-flowing. She glanced down at the blade in her hand, quivering now at the thought of putting it into Aejys' body again and again and again. She slid the blade into Aejys' chest on the right side, slitting her from shoulder to nipple.

  "Enough, beloved," Mephistis whispered, his hand closing firmly over Margren's as she pulled the blade free. "It is time to drink for the rite..."

  Margren turned adoring eyes, glazed with ecstasy to his. "It feels soooo good. Just once more."

  Mephistis smiled. "All right, one more, but she must die with me inside her."

  "Yes," Margren replied, shivering delightedly. "I would stay and watch, but I must be at court soon. Come to me later, wrapped in her blood."

  "As you wish." Mephistis nodded at the blade. "Now do it."

  Margren considered for a moment, then slammed the blade hard into Aejys' chest, two inches past her heart. She left the blade there, stepping back to regard the way the hilt glinted in the light as it stood out from Aejys' dark body, like an artist regarding her greatest work.

  "Take the blade," Mephistis told her.

  "Not now. I want to pull it from her dead body. I want to feel the undeath quickening in her as my hand curls about the hilt," Margren's lips twisted with deep satisfaction at the image she created in her mind.

  Mephistis embraced Margren and drew her aside so that his acolytes could reach the dying ha'taren.

  An acolyte stepped forward with the chalice lifting it to the stomach wound. As the paladin's blood drained into it the contents began to smoke. Once it filled he stepped back, extending the chalice to Margren.

  Margren dipped her fingers in the flow of Aejys' blood like a child with macabre finger-paints. She pressed her face into the wound, licking at the edges of the severed flesh with a contented sigh. Then she straightened, her face a frightful blood coated mask. Margren laughed. "Now you know how I've felt all these years." She shoved her hand into the gapping wound, her fingers closing on the entrails, pulling a handful out, and then reaching for more. "No," she said abruptly, withdrawing her hand empty, standing back from her sister. "There is no time. I must get back to the castle."

  Margren nodded to the acolyte as she took the chalice from his hands. She smiled, lifting the chalice like wine to first sniff its bouquet, then drank it down in one draught. Blood rimed her mouth as she lowered it with a sigh of satiation.

  The acolyte pulled a bottle from his cloak, filling it with Aejys' blood, then stoppered it, and placed it on the tray.

  "Yes," Margren sighed again. "That was very good."

  Aejys' head hung down, her eyes glazed with pain and anguish. She no longer screamed, having lost all awareness of herself and surroundings. Margren stroked her face. "You know, my sister, that if a man reaches climax inside you at the moment of your death he gains a piece of your soul and great magical power." Aejys did not respond. Margren, incensed by her lack of response, hissed, her teeth lengthening. She grabbed Aejys' long, tangled, blood and dirt-clotted hair, twisting her head back for a strike at her throat.

  "No!" Mephistis cried, turning Margren. "You promised me mortgiefan!"

  Margren released Aejys, gave him a curt nod, and swept from the room.

  Me
phistis watched Margren's departure. With a wave, he sent the acolytes to the next tier down. He dropped his robes, caressing his already erect manhood. He rubbed his body against Aejys, his fangs descending. A tickle of longing ran down his throat as he imagined the taste of her blood, but he resisted it. His right hand ran up her breast to pause circling, but not touching the blade that Margren had left impaling her. He would completely control the moment of Aejystrys' death, a twitch of the blade moving it just an inch or two would stop her heart at the instant of his climaxing and he would have the full gift, perhaps as much as half her soul – or more? He sent a thin blade of power into her mind, forcing her back to consciousness. Her eyes opened as he slid his cock into the warm, blood mixed wetness of her womanhood. Margren had cut her just right so that blood filled her uterus and ran down into her vagina, then flowed over her thighs, mingling with her other juices.

  "No," Aejys moaned. Mortgiefan. He was taking the death gift. Her soul would shatter. She would be beyond even her God's help.

  "Yes," Mephistis smiled. "I took it from Laeoli, then pushed her dead body back into the water. I took it from Ladonys. Now I will have it from you."

  Mephistis gave a contented sigh as he began to match his deepening thrusts to the beat of her struggling, faltering heart. Blood ran from her mouth. He licked it off, then shoved his tongue into her mouth, gathering and sucking up the blood pooling there. He kissed her deeply, hungrily drinking the welling blood. He could feel the explosion gathering in his loins; soon he would spill his seed into her dying body. It was time, Mephistis decided, reaching for the blade.

  * * * *

  Kaethreyn drew her sword as she stepped through the portal, rage roaring in her head and heart, banishing her weakness and grief. She saw Mephistis committing a rite of mortgiefan on Aejys' body and lunged in a single long drive. Her blade entered the sa'necari's right side and emerged from his left. A howl of agony erupted from his lungs as she shoved him off the blade and spun to face his startled acolytes. Mephistis rolled down the tiers. Two acolytes lifted him up, retreating to the north door as the stone trolls strode up the tiers to confront Kaethreyn. A third acolyte drew a dagger, cutting his wrist. He placed his bleeding wound to Mephistis' mouth, urging him to drink, to heal himself with the blood as they escaped through the door.