by JANRAE FRANK
She started to protest, but Tiderider took the matter out of her hands with a flick of a fan at Da'Shanagara who departed swiftly. The Fae were making themselves at home in the wing to Queiggy's dismay. The Wing Master arrived still buttoning his shirt. By then the healers had gotten Lord Channadar settled again.
"Queiggy, come close," Channadar said.
The Wing Master leaned his head down frowning. "Yes?"
"Belyla. They turned her. She was yielding Yahni to me in the Swan Spire when we were attacked. I fear they will have slain Yahni and destroyed her. She was defying them to save him."
"Tragic. They will pay. Did you recognize any of them?"
"No. They knew I was there. They must be stalking me, knew I like to meditate in the spire."
"Why do you say that?"
"They brought sa'necari. Magic against magic. I thought I was the only one who remembered how to get into the spire."
"So they chased you across the rooftops and the spires?"
"Yes. Nasty."
I have told you before, Galee, Channadar thought grimly. And now you must learn – especially since you have brought the Master of Blood into this place – you do not hunt the Fae, for the Fae will then hunt you. Because we laugh and dance does not mean we do not bite. You will pay for this day's deeds. We will find your creatures' holes and slay them – but the one I want most is the Master of Blood.
* * * *
"I would prefer, Queiggy," Channadar told the Wing Master as Tiderider and Juna moved him onto a litter under the supervision of his personal physician and Sha with Leeza and Chucomei hovering at the edges. "That this did not become known. That this attack upon my person be as if it never happened."
Channadar had resorted to some of his mother's strongest drugs and potions to have these past few conversations and consultations, feeling driven to them. Too much was at risk. He had given Queiggy a great deal of trust. The son of Teakamon had learned to shield his gifts and conceal his nature with such skill that until he extended himself with the up drawbridge, he had even masked himself from Channadar's keen senses – and even then it took landing wounded at his feet before Channadar saw him for what he was.
"I'll see to it. Just hope you know what you're doing."
"I do. As son and heir to Meileilyki, I have resources you cannot guess at, old tree."
"I guess I can't at that." Queiggy had never, in his wildest imaginings, dreamed that Channadar was the son of the Faery queen.
They were bundling him off to his chambers while the palace slept so that no one would see.
"People are going to wonder where you are while you heal," Sha pointed out.
"I'll be holding private court in my star rooms. Invitation only and invitations will go out. I play the game well."
"You came here to play a game, Lord Channadar?"
"Oh yes, Sweet Sha," he smiled his languid smile that said everything and nothing at all. "We came to dance with the enemy."
"The enemy?"
"Let us say, rather, that I am beginning to know who is not my enemy."
CHAPTER NINE
SACRIFICE
Thirst awakened Yahni with its desperate need. He woke sick in an unfamiliar room with no memory of how he had gotten here. His mouth and throat felt incredibly dry and his stomach cramped. He ached throughout his body, with a burning sensation in his joints. A cool, late evening breeze blew across his sweat-drenched face, sending him shivers of the body to match those of his mind. He smelled the light honey scent of fine beeswax candles. Gradually his eyes focused and cleared so that he could discern the room more clearly in the candlelight. The walls were hung with softly colored pastoral scenes of swans on lakes. The curtains fluttering in the breeze were Belyla's favorite shade of pastel blue. The blue of the velvet bed curtains matched those on the windows.
Yahni pushed at the bed with his palms, managed to lift himself a few inches and then fell back exhausted. He heard someone moving in the shadows beyond the candlelight. "Where am I?" His parched lips cracked open as he whispered and tiny beads of blood welled up.
Belyla emerged into the light, her head tilted at a sad angle, her lips parted. "My bedroom in my father's house." Belyla answered, her voice soft with fear and uncertainty. "We're prisoners."
Yahni's thirst grew still more desperate. "Water."
Belyla went to a table, poured cool water from a pitcher into a glass and brought it to him. She helped Yahni sit and drink it. If felt good going down and the cramping eased. It gradually became easier for him to speak. The knowledge that they were Agasthenez Wrathscar's prisoners struck Yahni like stone fists of despair and futility. He tried to tell himself that it was only the voice of his body, of his exhaustion, that if Belyla would let him rest without feeding he would get past those feelings. But he knew that would never happen. Belyla's cravings were too powerful for her to control.
"Does he know what you are?"
A small sob emerged from Belyla's throat. "He turned me."
"Oh, gods." Yahni had known Wrathscar was evil and suspected him of many things he could not prove, but this went beyond it all into sheerest nightmare.
Belyla sat the glass on the nightstand. "He's been raping my sisters and me since we were small children. Then when she turned him, he turned us."
Yahni understood now Belyla's strange words in calling herself 'used' that night in the gardens. His hand closed on Belyla's. "Why didn't you tell me? The Guild would have stopped him."
"I was afraid. We are all afraid of him. He killed our mother. I saw it. I always believed he would kill me also." Belyla hesitated, and then added, "And I, at least, was ashamed. I was afraid you would not want me."
"How could I not want you? I love you, for Hadjys' Sake. You're my wife."
Belyla voice dropped lower, hovering between despair and anger. "I'm only allowed in the garden with a guard to watch me."
Perhaps now, with hope gone, she would finally answer his other question. "Who turned your father?"
Belyla hesitated again, for an instant, showing that old habits died hard. "Gylorean Galee. She is the mother of the blood."
His breath caught in his chest and his response in his throat. Oh, gods, the Guild is betrayed. No wonder she did not go to the Guild.
* * * *
Bryndel sat beneath a broad pine tree in the middle of the quad in the late afternoon, watching the students moving about the grounds in small chattering groups. Summer solstice was two weeks away and everyone was full of plans for how they would spend it. It was a time for sweethearts and lovers, poems and songs, midnight trysts in hidden places beneath the moon and long walks together. His secret dream, from the moment he had first noticed girls, had always been to have Talons as his sweetheart and share summer solstice with her. Now she carried his children and they would wed in the fall, but there would be no solstice for them. The medicine was not helping – if anything, she was actually worse. She was too weak and ill to even sit with him in the gardens.
He had treated her hatefully for the first two months of their engagement and found no solace in the fact that she did not remember the rapes. Bryndel sighed unhappily, recriminations running rampant in his mind. He thought about those first six weeks after the bi-kyndi was bound. Galee had insisted he ride her at every opportunity, no matter how tired she looked – to swell her belly as quickly as possible so that the Grand Master could not renege on the marriage agreement. At least that was what she told him. Now he wondered if there had been another reason. Was there another purpose to it? He shifted uneasily, moving nearer to the trees.
"What are you thinking about Bryndel?"
"Galee." He had not heard her approach until she spoke.
She squatted in front of him. "What are you thinking about? You've had such an odd look on your face the whole time I've been watching you."
Bryndel shuddered, dropping his eyes. "Daydreaming."
"They must have been very unpleasant daydreams." Galee tilted his face up wit
h a single long finger beneath his chin. "Thinking about Talons, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"Then why aren't you in bed with her? Hmnn?"
He twisted away from her. "Don't you ever think about anything else?"
"Yes, I do. Blood. I think about blood all the time," she purred.
Bryndel paled. "Get away from me, Galee." He kicked at the ground, trying to push himself farther from her, but only managed to slam his back against the tree.
"Or what? You'll tell your father? You don't notice much, do you? I turned him weeks ago."
Bryndel's eyes went wide. "No!"
"Ask him. And, Bryndel, do you know what most newborns like your father usually do?"
Bryndel shook his head.
"They eat their young. He's already turned your sisters. I, alone, stand between you and your father's new appetites. I, alone, can keep you safe. Belyla is Dancing her Guildsmon. You will obey me, won't you, Bryndel?"
Bryndel nodded vigorously. His stomach soured, seizing up. Every single time he had the slightest bit of joy, Galee managed to crush it out – or his father did. Those brief glances of Belyla and her Guildsmon months ago – she had seemed so happy.
"Good boy." Galee rose and walked away.
Bryndel watched her go out of sight, and bolted to his feet, rushing heedlessly back to his chambers in the west wing. He barred the door and threw himself down on his bed, crying. Belyla. Were they responsible for what was happening to Talons also? When he asked himself that question, a sharp pain came in his head and he doubled over, clutching at himself. The thought slipped away from him, disappearing beneath the pressure of bonds he had not known were there and he would not remember later.
* * * *
Channadar leaned heavily on Tiderider, as the trueblood eased him into his chair and Blue Lily moved a footstool to rest his injured leg upon. His anger simmered in stiff, still fury in full measure to his pain and weakness. Only his Thirteen and a handful of his inner circle were ever allowed into his incredibly well shielded study where he now sat. Juna, his brother, often complained about the choices of this circle, since some like Leeza and Chucomei were fireflies. All of promiscuous Juna's fireflies had been excluded by Channadar's express order despite his brother's frequent arguments for their inclusion. Tiderider was the only trueblood among his thirteen guardian companions; the others were half-bloods like Channadar himself, who had gathered at his court in Creeya when he had inherited his human sire's lands and titles.
A draped mirror, tall, wide, and silver, stood opposite the wall. Da'Shanagara stepped to the mirror, reaching for the pull cords to unveil it. Channadar shook his head. He loosened the belt of his robe, unfastened it, and dropped it on the floor. Tiderider helped his lord out of the robe so that he sat bare-chested in his trousers, his bloodstained bandages speaking in mute-testimony to what had happened. Anger. Anger. Anger. The physician had wanted to soak these off; Channadar had refused – not yet.
It was well known that Channadar's mother – whom none in Creeya had known by her true name or suspected her nature until he told Queiggy – sent him gifts from Faewin. She had returned to Faewin after his father's death, and ruled there. No one ever saw her messengers come or go. He nodded to Da'Shanagara and the Fae revealed the mirror. It glittered like black ice at midnight. A swirl of stars appeared on the surface and then silver and more silver still until it cleared completely.
A mon, copper haired and young of face, sat upon cushions before her own mirror with an array of gifts on trays and her own Thirteen companions at her back. She smiled to see them, and then the state of her son registered, and Meileilyki came to her feet in one smooth snap of wrath. "Who has done this?"
Channadar rose, Tiderider supporting him, as he limped closer to the mirror. "The Master of Blood is here."
Meileilyki's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Think you, he knows you are mine?"
"I cannot say. Yet, I see his hand in this. I was in the swanspire. Only those in this room know I go there. Sa'necari were sent after me. Lemyari and other such. I thought I was the only one who remembered the old paths."
"Is Juna hareming again?" Meileilyki's voice turned stiff.
"Mother..." Juna protested, his tone petulant.
"If word leaks of what is spoken here, I know where to look, Juna," Meileilyki said, her voice like ice. "It leaks into your summerflies' ears and out their lips." She deliberately used the derogatory term, which made him wince. "I remind you, I have other sons. Channadar is my eldest and my heir. The heir you will never be if harm comes to him because of your summerdancer ways."
"Yes, My Lady Mother. Your Will Be Done." Juna bowed to her. They called him Laughing Juna, because he was the first to laugh, but he had no laughter then. Though he might complain about the unfairness at times, in one thing he never wavered, he loved his brother – Channadar was the light of his life who always understood him.
"It will take time, but I need my twelve truebloods gathered, My Lady," Tiderider said. "Sooner or later, they will come for him here."
"It will be done. I will summon a second warband as well. Now tell me the tale. All of it. Then I will send the presents through the mirror."
When all had been said and gifts exchanged, Juna helped Tiderider get his brother to bed again. Then Juna sat for a time in unhappy silence. Channadar, already feeling the drugs for pain the physician had given him, caught his brother's hand.
"Our mother is stern. But not unfair."
Juna nodded, but did not look at him.
"I keep so much from you, deny you so much, because I must be wise for both of us. That way you can just be happy, laughing Juna. No cares, all fun." Channadar thumped him. "Go away. I'm tired."
Juna grinned. "I'll chase some summerflies."
* * * *
Yahni sought refuge in his prayers, and the prayers kept the nightmares from his dreams. They had taken everything from him, even the rings from his fingers, and left him only his clothing. He waited for death, certain that his god would take his soul to a better place. Mostly he slept, since even moving about Belyla's room tired him. A few times she had walked him into the upstairs parlor, leaning heavily upon her. But he asked her not to. In his dreams, he was home with his family, safe, warm, and loved. His greatest worry was that it would be Belyla who killed him.
He lay on Belyla's bed, eyes closed, trying to recapture that sensation of home, that corner of his mind where the nightmares could not go. Cool fingers caressed Yahni's cheek, turning his face. He looked into Philomea's blue eyes, her fangs were fully down as she considered him. The deadly beauty of her face sickened him. The hollow core of desolation had carried him beyond fear, but not revulsion.
"Not so pretty now," she said, pulling at the matted strings of his hair. She ran a finger along the hollows of his cheeks. His bones stood out strongly in his wasted face. Nearly all the beauty was gone, but he still drew her. "I never told them your name."
"What do you want?" He fought for the breath to speak. It seemed as if it should be so easy to die, to just close his eyes, and allow it to happen. Yet he continued to wake each day in this place.
"You." She licked his face, going lower with her tongue until she licked along his neck. Philomea lifted her head, tonguing her fangs. "Belyla has never taken from your neck. How strange. A virgin throat."
Then he saw his chance to prevent his death from damning Belyla's soul. "End it ... for me," Yahni murmured.
"If that is what you want." She began to lick him again.
"It is... Better you, than Belyla." His body rebelled at her touch, but he had not enough strength to move. Nor did he wish to. He would lie there and let her do it.
Philomea paused an instant, her brow furrowing. "You love her that much?"
"Yes."
"So be it." She slid her fangs into the artery with unexpected gentleness. Philomea was far more skilled than Belyla, having already taken many lives. Yet there still was pain and he cried out as darkness claimed him.<
br />
Belyla heard him from the parlor, and rushed into the room. "Stop it! Don't kill him!" She dared not simply rip her sister off Yahni, lest the artery remain open and he bleed to death before she could stop it. "If he dies, I'll kill you."
Philomea blinked, but finished her feeding before lifting her head from Yahni's neck. "He tastes marvelous."
"Stay away from him. He's my ... my lover." She had almost said husband, but feared that would get back to her father who would then simply put Yahni out of his misery like a sick animal.
"He's dying, Belyla. What matters it if he dies sooner than later?" Philomea walked around her sister, studying her. "He asked me to end it. Had you not arrived, I would have."
Belyla stared in horror at Yahni's blood on her sister's lips. Then she went to him. He stared glassily and unaware, but his chest still moved. "It matters to me. I love him. Stay away from him."
"Then you should treat him better. There are other places to feed."
"I'm not allowed off the grounds."
"There is that. Come with me." Philomea led Belyla to the cellars, which had been turned into dungeons. The cells were clean and comfortable, with beds and tables. The myn there looked glassy eyed as if drugged or spelled. "These belong to Galee's sa'necari who are currently lodging with us. They are for the rites, and they will die in the rites with a sa'necari's rod in their flesh-holes and a blade in their bodies."
Belyla shivered. "You mean they have sex with them while they kill them?"
"Exactly. You're not as stupid as you look. That's called mortgiefan, the death-gift. Their souls shatter and the sa'necari drinks that as well as their blood and terror."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Philomea smiled, taking down a ring of keys. "Because we are allowed to use them so long as we don't kill them." She unlocked a cell and went in. "Lie down," she told the young female in the cell. The mon removed her garment and obeyed. "Come here, Belyla, and feed."
Belyla took the mon's wrist as her fangs came to full extension.
