“Will these newcomers respect the Council? Must we take them into our broods, knowing nothing about their makers? Will Old Ones arise to challenge us?” She crossed her arms across her bosom. “What’s in it for us? The mortals in Dark Haven tolerated us-before Malesh’s war-better than in many places. They put up with us because they know they still outnumber us. If they fear that we’re growing in strength, will they still observe the Truce? Maybe not-and maybe they’re right to doubt. There is, after all, only so much blood to go around.”
“Astasia is correct that as new vayash moru come to Dark Haven, the Council must be the ultimate law,” Gabriel said. Jonmarc noticed that Gabriel avoided looking at Astasia directly.
“It would be best if we could replenish our broods by accepting refugee vayash moru instead of turning mortals,” Riqua said. From her expression, Jonmarc guessed that it galled Riqua to agree with Astasia in any way. “Both methods have risks. Without broods of sufficient strength, we lack the strength to hold our seats on the Council. Turning mortals-given the situation-could lead to reprisals. But accepting strangers into our broods can be dangerous, even if we know their makers. Our power over our broods must be ruthless and absolute. Otherwise, some of these newcomers will see an opportunity to better their station at our expense.”
“Then you see my point.” Astasia’s voice was a cool purr.
“Much as it pains me, on this, we agree in principle even if our means may differ,” Riqua replied.
“With the Durim’s power growing, you’ll also need to keep a close eye on your broods,” Jonmarc said. “The Durim are opportunists. They’ll go after lone vayash moru who make an easy target. They’ve also been going after the mortal families of the vayash moru.”
“What do you propose?” Rafe asked. There was an edge to his voice.
Jonmarc kept his expression neutral. “Secure your day crypts. Alert your mortal family members and arm them so they can protect themselves. Your people are in danger if their families can be used against them. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
Rafe leaned forward. “We’re predators. We don’t hide.” His eyeteeth showed plainly, something Jonmarc knew was intentional.
He met Rafe’s eyes. Jonmarc knew it disquieted Rafe that the vayash moru could not use his glamour or compulsion against Jonmarc’s natural resistance. “Until we defeat the Durim, you can hide or you can burn. It’s your choice.”
“That went well.” Jonmarc and Gabriel rode away from the meeting at Rafe’s villa toward Wolvenskorn, Gabriel’s manor.
Gabriel gave him a bemused look. “Oh?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “Any time I leave the Blood Council alive, it’s a good day.”
Gabriel chuckled. “You have an interesting way of looking at things.”
“Riqua is solidly on our side. We knew that going in. Rafe doesn’t like it, but he sees the logic. Uri’s actually scared. For once, I think he might do what he’s supposed to do. That leaves Astasia.”
“She’s a formidable enemy. And she hates you.”
“Coming from Astasia, that almost counts as a character reference.”
Gabriel gave him a wary smile. “Don’t underestimate her. She earned everything in life-and after death-by being ruthless. If she sees an opportunity in the current situation to advance her position, she’ll take it.”
Jonmarc glanced sideways at him. “Astasia is the Council’s problem. I’ve got my hands full with the Durim and the refugees.”
“I’ll make sure Kolin learns of the Council’s support when he gets back from Nargi,” Gabriel replied. He fell silent. Jonmarc glanced in his direction.
“What’s bothering you?”
Gabriel frowned. “I share Riqua’s sentiments about the point Astasia made. Gathering the vayash moru in Dark Haven may enable us to save our kind. In plagues past, retaliation from the mortals nearly wiped out the vayash moru in Trevath and Nargi. All of the kingdoms have had their day hunting us, some more recently than others.”
“On the other hand, gathering everyone in one place not only makes for more family squabbles, it gives your enemies a central place to strike, and a reason to rally the locals.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t see many alternatives.” The night was cool and Jonmarc shivered despite his traveling cloak.
“Neither do I. But I’ve always believed there was a reason why the vayash moru are spread out across the kingdoms. Death changes everything and nothing. The Dark Gift gives us speed and strength and immunity to the things that killed us as mortals. Immortality provides perspective and time to reflect. On the other hand, greed, lust, and vengeance don’t require a heartbeat. Grievances nursed over centuries have a way of flaring into conflict. Dark Haven will be a tinderbox full of frightened mortals and threatened immortals. All it will take is a spark to set it ablaze.”
They reached Wolvenskorn, Gabriel’s manor, just before midnight. Wolvenskorn’s oldest sections were built back when the Winter Kingdoms were ruled by independent warlords, before the monarchies were established. Three levels of tall, sharply sloping peaks made of wood and stone thrust skyward. The oldest section was daub and wattle with a sod roof that sloped down to meet the forest soil. A tall, slim cupola ringed by carved monsters crowned the manor.
Grotesques and gargoyles watched from the peaks. Runes and sigils were carved into the doorposts and sills. Jonmarc doubted their function was decorative. Carved panels on the wooden sections of the building hinted at some of its history. Overlapping shingles covered the lowest portions. Although only one of the pillars was visible from the coachway, Jonmarc knew that thousand-year-old stone monoliths ringed Wolvenskorn, a remnant of ancient times. Though the makers of the stone pillars had died long ago, the enclosure still possessed powerful magic.
Jonmarc and Gabriel dismounted and handed over their reins to waiting groomsmen. Sior, one of the ranking vyrkin, was waiting for them. “You appear to be intact,” Sior noted with a raised eyebrow.
Jonmarc gave a lopsided grin. “The Blood Council was as charming as ever.”
“Is the ceremony on schedule?” Gabriel glanced toward the trail that led into the forest.
Sior nodded. “Vigulf and the others are heading to the grotto. You’re just in time.”
Sior took a torch from one of the sconces in front of the manor house and Jonmarc followed him down the forest path. Jonmarc was certain the torch was for his benefit, since neither Sior nor Gabriel needed the extra light. He guessed that although he could not see them, Gabriel’s vayash moru were patrolling the outskirts of the area to make certain that there would be no interruptions.
“How did the negotiations go?” Jonmarc asked Sior quietly.
Sior sighed. “It was predictably complicated. Some of the descendants of our older, most established packs feel threatened. But the numbers don’t lie. We lost three quarters of our males of breeding age in the war with Malesh. And we had barely enough females to replenish the pack and care for the pups before the war. When we lost more to the war, the pack became endangered. The elders can squabble over bloodlines all they like, but we must accept the newcomers or face extinction.”
“I’m less worried about the elders than the females,” Jonmarc observed dryly. “What did they have to say?”
Sior chuckled. “Spoken like a married man. What would you expect?”
“I’d expect them to be choosy and aloof, but when push comes to shove, they’ll do what’s right for their pups. My money is on the females.”
“You’d have made a good wolf,” Sior replied. “Our packs are extended families, each one headed by a top hunter. Unlike animal wolves, the male and female share the duty to protect the young. In human form, they’ll share the work of a farm or craft, just like mortals. And in some pairs, the female is the more deadly hunter.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
Sior gave him a grin. “I thought you’d understand. So the elders debated territory and power and bloodli
nes for several candlemarks, until the four top hunter-females had enough of it. Together, they have twelve pups, and half of those are females with no likely males for partners. Two of the females were widowed in the war, as were over half of our pack females.” He gave a grim laugh. “Kella, our top huntress, invoked the ancient right of females to choose their mates. She’d already rallied all the other females, including the mates of the elders.”
“So she handed them their balls on a plate.”
“An interesting image, but accurate. Kella and the widowed huntresses had already chosen from among the new males. They extracted a vow of vyrgild from the other single males.” He glanced at Jonmarc. “Are you familiar with the term?” Jonmarc shook his head. “It means blood oath. In exchange for acceptance into our extended pack, the new males forswear their right to challenge for a leadership role, on pain of death. Their children will be full pack members who can lead if they’re able, but it keeps the pack stable for now. It’s something the elders might have actually thought of themselves if they hadn’t been so busy marking their territory, figuratively speaking.”
They veered from the path through what seemed to Jonmarc to be unbroken forest. Even with the torch, it was difficult for Jonmarc to keep his footing as they moved through the dense brush. Sior and Gabriel did not seem to have any trouble, moving with the grace of a predator. They came to a cave opening that was partially obscured by vegetation. As they drew nearer, Jonmarc could see that the scrub plants had been arranged to appear as if they were blocking the opening, but, in fact, a narrow trail led behind them. Sior motioned for Gabriel and Jonmarc to follow him, and as they headed into the caverns, Jonmarc could hear singing in the clipped, tonal language that seemed to be the speech of wolves adapted to humans.
The cave path gradually widened and became a true corridor. Jonmarc glanced around as they walked down a torchlit hallway carved into the rock. Runes and paintings adorned the walls. Some appeared to have been placed for protection, while others seemed to tell the story of the Dark Haven vyrkin, or perhaps of all vyrkin in the Winter Kingdoms.
The corridor opened into a series of large chambers. These chambers had been decorated with carvings, paint, and embedded precious stones and metals. It was clear that they had entered a place of high ritual, and Jonmarc wondered whether or not these caves connected to the crypts below Wolvenskorn. A glance around the chamber revealed skulls-both human and wolflike-stacked or placed near every wall.
Vigulf, the vyrkin shaman, stood in the center of the largest chamber. He was a powerfully built, older man with a trim, gray beard and deep-set eyes. Tonight, he wore his shamanic robes, a richly woven cloak embroidered with symbols that seemed to change and move although always just beyond the ability to see them clearly. He carried a wooden staff set with the carved head of a wolf. The wolf’s mouth was open as if to strike, and its eyes were rubies.
Six couples stood hand in hand in the center of the room. They might be the couples who were about to wed, but to Jonmarc’s eye, they looked nervous. None of the brides or grooms appeared to be older than their midtwenties, and one couple looked to be in their late teens. Jonmarc recognized the women as belonging to the local families of vyrkin, but the betrothed young men were unfamiliar. He did recognize the faces of the few vyrkin males who stood alone around the edge of the room, and there was no mistaking the animosity in their mood.
“If you have unmarried men, why not marry within the local packs?” Jonmarc murmured to Sior.
Sior glanced over the crowd. “The single men who are left are all too closely related to the single females. Brothers, half-brothers, first cousins. The war forced us to do what would have become inevitable in a few years: seek out new blood. But whether we did it out of necessity or out of choice, some of the males would have resented the intrusion.”
That was an understatement, Jonmarc thought. Several of the men along the wall looked like they were spoiling for a fight. The only question, Jonmarc thought, was whether the brawl happened during or after the ceremony.
He’d wondered whether the vyrkin married in human form or in their wolf form. It appeared they at least planned to begin the ceremony on two legs. The women wore dark green robes. The men were bare-chested, with dark pants. All of the participants had bare feet. Each wore a chain with a single silver disk representing the full moon.
Vigulf stepped into the center of the chamber. “Welcome, honored pack,” he said, looking to the vyrkin who surrounded him. He looked toward the skulls along the wall. “Greetings, esteemed ancestors.” His gaze fell on Jonmarc and Gabriel. “And welcome, honored guests. Tonight we join more than the lives of the individuals who stand before us. We join together the present and the future, and from the loss of the past we weave the promise for tomorrow. Tonight, we strengthen the pack by your joining,” he said solemnly to the nervous young couples who stood in front of him.
Vigulf began to chant in the clipped, tonal language of the vyrkin . Although Jonmarc had no idea of the words, he guessed the meaning clearly enough. Vigulf was hallowing the space. But as Vigulf chanted, Jonmarc felt the air in the cave grow colder. Wraiths began to stream into the cavern from the passageways that led into darkness and to rise from the stacked skulls along the wall. Not quite solid but no mere illusion, the wraiths brushed past Jonmarc with a cold, moist feeling that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He’d grown accustomed to ghosts after a year on the road with Tris Drayke, and Dark Haven had its share of resident and visible spirits. But these spirits felt different. Some of the spirits had the shape of men and women, while elsewhere ghost wolves glided through the assemblage. A few of the revenants had no real shape at all, and some manifested as a faint green glow.
The spirits apparently were expected. They moved among the crowd, gradually gathering around the betrothed couples. Whether the ghosts were direct ancestors or just spirits from the pack, Jonmarc had no way of knowing. When the ghosts were quiet, Vigulf stepped forward along with an assistant. He approached the first couple and removed a long rope tied with objects from the bag of ritual items his assistant carried. Jonmarc was close enough to see that the rope looked like felted fur or hair and that the objects knotted into it were bits of bone, tooth, and claw.
The first couple looked to be no older than their late teens. The girl had long, dark brown hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face. Her groom was a tall, thin young man with lank brown hair that fell into his face. He looked scared. There was something different about him, Jonmarc thought, whether it was his features or a slightly lighter hue to his complexion, but Jonmarc guessed that the young man was one of the pack outsiders Sior had mentioned. When Vigulf stepped toward the couple, one of the men who had been standing along the back of the chamber edged forward, making his way to the front of the crowd. One glance told Jonmarc that the man was closely related to the bride, a brother, most likely. He did not look pleased.
Vigulf withdrew a knife from his belt and took the first young woman’s hand, turning it face up. She flinched as he drew a thin cut down her palm. The cut beaded with blood. Vigulf lifted the woman’s palm and solemnly gave it to the young man who stood beside her. The groom murmured something in the vyrkin language and bent his head, licking the cut clean. Vigulf repeated the cutting ritual with the young man’s hand, and the woman did likewise. Then Vigulf took the rope and wrapped their hands together, raising and lowering his staff four times. The spirits began to stir, passing not just around the newly wed couple but ghosting through their bodies. Vigulf repeated the ritual with each of the couples until all six pairs had been joined.
The gathered vyrkin began to chant. While the chanting had a definite rhythm, it was unlike any human speech Jonmarc had heard. It seemed as if the entire assemblage was breathing as one, and although Jonmarc possessed no magic of his own, he could feel the power rising all around him.
A figure appeared from the depths of one of the corridors. Jonmarc was uncertain whether the figure was real or anoth
er spirit. It was taller than a man and wraith thin. It wore a mask over its head that looked like the head of a large, black wolf with eyes that glowed in the firelight. Its garment was made of many-hued wolf skins, some that looked recent and some that appeared quite old. The figure stopped just at the edge between light and darkness, and the room fell silent.
“I bless you, my children.” The voice that came from the figure sent a chill down Jonmarc’s back. Whatever-whoever-the thing was, the sound that came from its throat was not entirely human. The spirits glided across the cavern chamber to mass around the gaunt figure, and the vyrkin bowed deeply. Following suit, so did Gabriel and Jonmarc, although Jonmarc never took his eyes from the shadowed visitor. “Restore the pack. Replenish the blood. Remember our way.”
Jonmarc blinked and the figure vanished.
The figure’s sudden departure seemed to trigger something within the pack. Several of the vyrkin began to shift, changing into their wolf forms. But as the first couple turned around, a cry came from the crowd and the man Jonmarc guessed to be the bride’s brother launched himself at the groom, tackling the younger man and crashing to the ground.
Jonmarc started forward to break up the fight, but Gabriel caught his arm and gave a warning shake of the head. Vigulf stepped toward the two men who were struggling on the floor, and Jonmarc expected the shaman to intercede. Instead, he raised his staff and gave a deep-throated cry that sounded more wolf than human.
Like a blast of winter air, the spirits came rushing toward the struggling pair on the floor. They swarmed around the attacker, lifting him into the air although he was a muscular man. The spirits seemed to be entering the attacker’s body through his mouth, eyes, and ears, and from the silent scream that formed on the man’s face, it was obviously not a gentle possession.
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