Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  She sniffed, but the brim of her hat bobbed in a little nod.

  “It’s easier to adopt others’ opinions than it is to come up with your own. If Mardhalas had announced what you are, I don’t really know how the other clerics would have reacted.”

  “But you don’t expect well.”

  I shook my head. “Especially in the church, it’s easy to become a zealot. It’s also easy to use zealots. And zealots tend to be far louder than philosophers. I think if Mardhalas had called out what you are, the zealots would have shouted down calmer heads.”

  She stared calmly ahead.

  “That’s why I announced that you’re an accuser. Maiden’s Choir is the royal cathedral. Mardhalas might eagerly ‘exorcise’ a dhampir in the goddess’s sanctuary, but an agent of the crown? That would certainly have unwanted repercussions.”

  “It certainly would.” Larsa’s comment sounded like a threat.

  I didn’t add fuel to the flame.

  The accuser idly flipped open the folio in her lap. “You might want to pray for your sisters, at the very least for them to learn the difference between being faithful and being asses.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Our goddess is the Lady of Mysteries. Many philosophies ebb and flow among her servants. Like a good mother, she allows each of us to make our own interpretations. I think her church is strengthened by a diverse array of views rather than a single, inflexible creed … but I agree, arguing can be damned frustrating sometimes.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to throw your calling away on my account.”

  Her comment wrenched my attention from the road. “What?”

  “You said anything touched by the undead was unclean. If I’m unclean, and you’ve taken to assisting me, then to an ogre like your High Exorcist …” She trailed off, her point clear and attention elsewhere.

  I didn’t bother to answer. Hearing the concerns I’d been tamping down all day laid out so matter-of-factly, and from a stranger, stirred the snake pit of worries in my gut. I felt nauseous, and suddenly steering the cart required a great deal of focus.

  Larsa didn’t notice.

  Several blocks passed before the accuser made a sound. “That bastard!”

  At her outburst, my grip tightened on the reins. The cart jerked.

  “What?” I split my attention between her, the knotted feeling in my chest, and the agitated horse.

  “Get us to Havenguard.” She slammed the folio shut, seething.

  “What is it? What’d you find?”

  She didn’t answer. I looked over, then quickly away, avoiding the sneer cementing itself upon her face. Though her lips remained tight, her tongue ran across her teeth, lingering on sharp canines.

  In my head, I heard an echo of what I said about her not being a monster. I wondered if I’d spoken too soon.

  11

  FAMILY DEBT

  LARSA

  The black-bound hospice records skidded across Doctor Trice’s desk, upsetting his inkwell, smudging whatever he’d been writing, and cutting off his meaningless greeting. I shouted as I crossed the office. “You think she’s my mother?”

  His lips disappeared as he looked down at the folio that had just slid into his chest. He lifted it deliberately, moving it out of the way of the pooling ink, and set it aside. He fixed me with a clinically calm expression. “Yes. Though, of course, I can’t yet be sure.”

  I reached the opposite side of the desk and stared down at him, tempted to reach across and grab him by the collar. “I’m not one of your patients. I didn’t come here so you could run some experiment to satisfy your curiosity. If you knew that portrait actually was of me—of her—why didn’t you say so?”

  The door gently clicked shut behind me. Jadain was trying not to intrude.

  “It would have been irresponsible. You might look like Ailson Kindler, particularly as she did in her youth—enough, at least, to confuse her delicate sister. You might even sound like her, but …” He righted the inkwell and dabbed at the stain with a handkerchief. “The coincidences may only be skin deep.”

  “I came here about the Thorenlys, not so you could try nailing branches onto my family tree.”

  He slid his attention to the folio, flipping through, speaking as he skimmed the pages. “You weren’t entirely clear what you were here about. The two of you wandered into my office, unannounced, leaving me at something of a disadvantage. Since then, Doctor Linas has related the details of your interview with Lady Thorenly. It doesn’t sound like you’re investigating an attack by particularly bold brigands.”

  Presumptuous little … “An agent of the crown requires your cooperation. That’s all that need concern you.”

  “Oh, but it’s not.” Trice flipped pages idly, pausing to skim passages throughout the folio. “‘Fangs,’ I believe Miss Thorenly mentioned, and multiple killings. This doesn’t sound like a raid by your usual housebreakers. Rather, it sounds like a matter someone like you might have unique insight into. And one that affects both a patient in my care and an old friend.”

  Jadain shuffled into the periphery of my vision, perusing shelves covered in dense medical tomes and morbid anatomical representations. She wisely kept out of the crossfire.

  “It’s a state concern.” I crossed my arms. “Such incidents are dealt with discreetly.”

  “Dealt with by you?” He sounded almost flippant.

  “Doctor Trice.” I tried to restrain myself, but certainly wasn’t accustomed to being questioned on my responsibilities. “Your service to the crown and the Royal Advisor have put you in a certain favor, but I assure you that whatever concessions you enjoy end far short of details on accuser duties and assignments—particularly mine.”

  He looked up from the record, his expression combining a boyish grin with dark, calculating eyes. “Fair enough.”

  Several moments passed. He read a page in its entirety, then another. “The year’s about right, I assume?”

  “For?”

  “The records are marked 4657. I believe that could be about right for your birth year.”

  Jadain made an amused snort, not taking her eyes from the shelves. “I’m going to bet you’re not married, Doctor.”

  I ignored her. “It could be.”

  “What?” Jadain’s head whipped around. “Come now, that’s fifty-five years ago.”

  “Fifty-six,” Trice offered.

  “Something like that,” I confirmed.

  Jadain gaped. “There’s no way you’re that old. That would make you more than double my age.” She chuckled awkwardly. “You couldn’t really be more than … what, twenty? Twenty-two?”

  “Time doesn’t grip her as tightly as it does us, Miss Losritter,” Trice explained. “There’s less for it to cling to, less for the years to strip away.”

  “That’s a prettier way to put it than I’ve heard before.” I examined my hand on the arm of the chair, thin blue veins visible snaking their way through skin a shade I’d only ever seen on the oldest or sickest humans. “You could also say that since death already has a hold on me, it’s not in an awful rush to collect.”

  Jadain stared, but in a low voice finally asked, “Really?”

  I met her eyes, not answering or shaking my head either way. I’d appreciated what she’d said in the cart, about me being a poor storybook monster, despite sounding utterly naive. Now, she seemed to be understanding just how naive. She looked like she had just come upon a stray dog and was trying to decide whether it’d be prudent, ridiculous, or dangerous to bolt.

  I looked away.

  “Kindler would have been in her twenties at the time,” Trice went on. “The record lists numerous physical abuses: various minor fractures and scarring, repeated punctures on the neck and wrists. They don’t suggest a cause, but that might have been a mercy by her physicians—the victims of vampirism often face certain stigmas. They also note similar repeated but smaller wounds upon the chest.” He forged on with scientific indelicacy “She was likely f
eeding something, and not just blood.”

  I felt like I was being accused of something.

  “This, of course, isn’t absolute evidence of your relationship, but in combination with your similar features, it starts building a convincing case.”

  This attention was making me uncomfortable. I’d never expected this to get so personal. This morning it had just been an attack by rogue vampires. Now it was a message for my grandfather left in the home of … what? Supposedly my aunt? An aunt by way of a famous mother who was still …

  “Kindler.” I looked up at Trice. “Where did you say she retired?”

  “Ardis.” He sounded unsure if he should tell me.

  I could feel Yismilla Col’s eyes on me, staring through the serving dome on Considine’s sideboard. Yismilla Col, Grandfather’s former agent in the Old Capital, murdered by my people’s most notorious traitor, a man who also happened to be my father.

  I spoke warily, still adjusting the pieces in my mind. “Would anyone have any reason to want Miss Kindler … harmed?”

  Doctor Trice’s gaze lowered. “Oh yes,” he said gravely.

  “Who?”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “What’s not? Either you know or you don’t.”

  “Earlier Miss Losritter mentioned Ailson’s stories.” He nodded at Jadain. “But her stories aren’t merely fiction.”

  “Certainly,” the priestess said somberly. “Some of the terrible things she writes about are all too real—the walking dead, were-creatures, spectres … vampires.”

  “I don’t mean her subject matter, I mean the stories themselves. Most of them actually happened.” Deliberateness crept into his voice. “Most of them actually happened to her.”

  “So they’re memoirs?” I asked, but Jadain cut in.

  “Wha—” she started incredulously. “Hunter’s Moon? Case of the Dreaming Dead? Feast of the Nosferatu? Are you saying those all happened?”

  “More or less.” Trice nodded. “Her characters are typically based upon herself and her colleagues. I have a copy of Steps Upon the Sanguine Stair, over there.” He gestured at a low corner shelf. “It’s my strange honor to be the inspiration for the character Quintin.”

  Jadain moved to find the book, but Trice didn’t wait for her comparison. “In actuality, though, for all the dread and dark things in her stories, they’re typically rosy variations on the truth.”

  “So she was what? Some sort of adventurer?” I asked.

  Trice grimaced. “She was a lot of things, but adventurer doesn’t quite reach far enough. She was obsessed. She traveled across Avistan, learning all she could about terrible things. For a while she did it alone, but eventually she fell in with the Pathfinders.”

  “Really?” Jadain asked from a crouching perusal of Trice’s collection. She sounded legitimately surprised. “It seems like every time they show up in her stories, they’re either the cause of the problem or incompetents who get themselves killed.”

  “Yes, well, she had a falling out with the Society,” Trice said flatly.

  “I’ve heard constables around Whiteshaw talk about the Pathfinder Society. They’re some kind of thrill-seekers or something?” I asked.

  “It’s a group of explorers, largely dedicated to learning from the past to help create a better future. There are thousands of members, active across the world, organized so they can share their findings, learn from each other’s discoveries, and call for help if need be.”

  “Sounds impractical.”

  Trice frowned. “Kindler didn’t think so. She was one of the Society’s foremost experts on unnatural creatures, particularly the undead. I doubt even she could say how many abominations she put an end to, and the accounts she shared with the Society surely saved scores more.” A somber look settled over his features. He suddenly looked much older. “I must have written her a dozen times begging her not to leave, but she always was a stubborn one.”

  “So you’re one of them?” Jadain stood with a flimsy crimson book in her hands.

  By way of response, he reached into his drawer and produced a fist-sized bauble of dark metal, etched with intertwining lengths of thorny vines. He set it upon the desk and flipped it open, revealing a bejeweled compass face inside, a tiny arrow twitching toward an ornately painted N. Worked into the lid’s interior was a symbol like a road stretching to the horizon, lit by a gemstone star.

  “So you doctor by day and by night … what? Hunt monsters?” I said it like it was preposterous, but I’d just described something close to my role as an accuser. We likely defined “monster” somewhat differently, though.

  “No, my days of uncomfortable traveling and tomb-breaking are behind me,” he said with an obvious tinge of wistfulness. “Now my role is mostly administrative. I’ve set aside a house on the asylum grounds to serve as a lodge for Society members in need of a place to work or plan upcoming journeys. But Caliphas isn’t exactly a hub of activity for the Society. Most members only pass through on their way north or west to wilder places. Things are usually pretty tame here, which is fine as the asylum demands almost all of my attention.”

  “Do you think anyone in the Pathfinder Society would want to harm Miss Kindler, then?” I asked. “Perhaps for leaving?”

  “Certainly not.” Trice didn’t give it a moment’s thought. “Not only is that not how the Society operates, Ailson Kindler left a hero. Her departure was a major loss and widely mourned, but not resented. Even now I occasionally send Society members passing through Ardis to call on her with news of interesting findings and maybe a few trinkets. She never admits them, but she usually shouts them off loudly enough that at least we know she’s doing well.”

  He grinned, but it swiftly faded. “No. But there are still plenty who might prefer to see her dead. As effective as she was at putting an end to terrible things, her record wasn’t flawless. More than once something slipped away or she put an end to a symptom without ever discovering the cause. I trust that even now she can look after herself, but sometimes I do worry that something with a long, bitter memory might come out of the past, seeking revenge.”

  “When was the last time you checked in on Miss Kindler?” Jadain asked.

  “It’s been some time.” Trice closed his compass. “But after a vampire attack on her sister a visit is certainly in order. While you were collecting these records I asked a visiting Society member to make preparations to travel to Ardis and make sure everything’s okay, both with her and with our other people in the city.”

  I started to open my mouth, but my lips tightened, balking at sharing any details of my discussion with Considine, especially after chiding Trice for asking after details of my assignment. I wrestled with my pride, but pushed past it.

  “You’re right that vampires attacked Thorenly Glen, but it wasn’t random,” I blurted. “They were sent by another in Ardis, a rebel named Rivascis.”

  Both looked at me expectantly, but I’d shared nearly all I was willing. “I met with an informant on our way to Maiden’s Choir. I trust his information.”

  “What do you mean ‘rebel’?” Jadain asked cautiously. I shot her a glance, but didn’t answer. She let the matter drop.

  “Ailson mentioned the name ‘Rivascis,’ before. Not often, but I know she was tracking him. She never said why, and she never used Society resources to pursue him—she claimed groups were too vulnerable. Every few years, though, she’d get a lead from here or there and immediately head off. She always returned disappointed, and more than once she went off with help and came back alone.”

  I was surprised that Trice recognized the name. “What was he to her?”

  He shook his head. “A bogeyman? I asked more than once, but she never said.”

  The words echoed through my head: He’s my father. They were so loud I thought for a moment that I might have spoken them, but I pushed them back. I’d already said too much. This further battered any doubts I had about my connection to Kindler—whatever it might
be. A relationship between her and my father, even one that sounded purely antagonistic, couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “If you’re sure this vampire is in Ardis, it’s my duty to send Ailson warning and any help I can. Tomorrow morning my agent leaves for Ardis.” Trice spoke gravely, falling easily into his administrative role.

  He turned to Jadain. “Miss Losritter, I have an agreement with Maiden’s Choir granting the asylum priority attention when it comes to exorcisms and related supernatural concerns. I could make the argument that, as Miss Kindler is a former patient, this is a matter of asylum business. As you’re practiced as an exorcist and know the details of this matter, I would request you to accompany my agent to Ardis. In return, my contribution to the cathedral will be twenty times the usual donation. Is this something we can reach an agreement on?”

  Jadain stammered and blinked several times. “Well, I don’t know how practiced I really am as a …” She obviously thought better of continuing, choosing not to mention that she’d earned the ire of one of her faith’s leaders. She quickly altered her stance. “I will of course have to get the Holy Mother’s permission. If she grants it, I can be ready in the morning.”

  “Good.” Trice nodded, then turned to me. “I can also assure you that this is a matter the crown should take an interest—”

  I didn’t wait. “I’m going. Not because of any of this foolishness about my mother, though. My superiors have their own reasons for wanting Rivascis, and if anyone’s going to take his head, it’s going to be me.”

  I turned for the door, not giving them time to ask after my motives. If everything I’d been told in the Old City had been true, if everything I’d learned in my years as an adopted daughter of the dead meant anything, if Rivascis really was my father, then I had more reason than anyone to want him dead.

  12

  CONFESSION

  JADAIN

  The Holy Mother would speak with you,” Brother Lheald reported, his voice little more than a whisper in the shadowed sanctuary. I glanced at the statue of Pharasma, silent and ominous at the chapel’s center. Her eyes were only stone.