Bloodbound

by F. Wesley Schneider

  I’d only just returned to Maiden’s Choir, having walked back to the city from Havenguard. Despite the miles-long hike I’d taken a less than direct route, choosing a path through several of my favorite gardens and quiet avenues. The sun had set some time ago, but it had still taken a couple hours before the cold fog finally drove me back to the steeples and spirals. Lheald, the Holy Mother’s aide, had obviously been waiting.

  I followed the bald priest, expecting his careful steps to eventually led us to the Holy Mother’s chambers. Instead, we reverently approached the altar. Parishioners, mourners, midwives, and all the others who so often sought the goddess’s blessing were gone for the day, their prayers lingering only in a few dwindling votives flickering from alcoves and wall-mounted grave markers. There was still a head bowed in the front pew, though, a fragile frame bent under the weight of a long life and an impressive coiffure of snowy ringlets. The Holy Mother was praying.

  Lheald halted a respectful number of pews behind the head of our order and gestured to the bench beside her with a liver-spotted hand. I reverently found my place.

  The Holy Mother’s hands were folded over her heart, a gesture of prayer performed in life and repeated in how we laid corpses in their coffins. She didn’t mutter her prayers like some—her lips were still, and her eyes, if they were open at all, were lost in the dimness.

  I followed her lead. Being one who too often whispered her words for the goddess aloud, I deliberately kept my lips sealed.

  Practiced verses and personal appeals tripped over one another in my mind, a silent prayer-jumble I hoped the goddess understood. It might have been a dozen slow breaths, it might have been an hour, but by the time the Holy Mother lowered her folded hands to her lap I had repeated my prayers at least twice and was struggling with wakefulness. I was still alert enough to follow suit, though, tracing the spiral of Pharasma over my heart with my thumb and dropping my hands.

  We listened to the deep silence of the cathedral for several minutes.

  “Tell me.” Her request bore no judgment or hint of what she might or might not have heard.

  I told her everything.

  I told her how the High Exorcist requested my assistance, of my failure at Havenguard, of Mardhalas’s threat of dismissal from the order. I told her of my anger, certainly at Mardhalas for her harshness, but more at myself for flinching when faced by a soul lingering in blasphemy but also in need of guidance in passing on. Before I realized what I was saying, I was giving words to feelings that had been strangling my heart the entire day. Confusion, hurt, indignation, and worse, more than a little directed toward the goddess herself—in part for abandoning me when I needed her protection, in part for leaving me to wonder if that were actually the case. Had she spurned my faith? Had my faith always been lacking? Was Mardhalas right? Was the goddess something else than what I’d always believed? Was my faith really just imagination?

  Between philosophizing and self-criticism, I related the rest of the day’s details: meeting the Royal Accuser and hearing of the violence she was investigating, Doctor Trice’s request and the visit to our own library, again meeting the High Exorcist, and the discoveries upon our return to the asylum. I concluded with Doctor Trice’s second request: that I travel with his emissary to Ardis. It had been an eventful day, but I struggled not to miss any detail, doubling back on my story several times as I recalled this or that detail. I didn’t try to hide Larsa’s condition.

  I was exhausted by the time I couldn’t think of any more to say. Unburdening myself of so many weighty feelings left ample room in the pit of my stomach for anxiety regarding the Holy Mother’s reaction.

  “You should go,” she said flatly. Though her voice was nothing more than an old woman’s whisper, it fell upon me like the cathedral toppling. She wasn’t even turned toward me; she just stared at the altar, her expression as craggy as the stone martyrs surrounding us in the shadows. A cacophony of emotions sounded inside me, each with its own question. I opened my mouth, but choked. Heat rose in my face and something stung my eyes.

  Then it was all gone.

  I stood stiffly and heard my sandals on the stone—echoing, final, and distinctly out of place.

  Something cold brushed my hand and I ignored it. When it clamped upon my wrist and spun me around, I looked down into the face of the Holy Mother, standing next to me beneath the statue of the goddess.

  “You should go to Ardis,” she clarified, only somewhat. Her eyes were as cold and colorless as gravel on a rainy drive.

  “Faith can be your life, or it can be your tomb.” She squeezed my hand, her grip cool and startlingly strong. “We share the goddess’s words, repeat them as they’ve been taught to us. Even when we offer them in comfort, are we actually speaking in the goddess’s name, or are we repeating what we’ve been trained to say—or what we’d hope the goddess would tell us in our suffering?

  “The goddess’s voice is not made of stone. It grows and varies, whispering through the spiral and finding its way to all of us. We must always listen for her voice, and recognize it from among all the others, even from the voices of her other servants, even from our own voice.”

  With her free hand she gestured to the choir, totally hidden among the sanctuary’s darkened buttresses. “Amid the chorus, who hears the voice that cracks? Does the song lose its meaning with one stray note?” She placed my hand over my heart, releasing it there.

  My jaw was trembling. I couldn’t make it stop. “Am I dismissed, Holy Mother?”

  “No,” she said softly. “But you are free to leave the choir for a time. Sometimes it’s better to listen than to sing.”

  I wasn’t sure I knew what she meant, but I nodded like I did. “What about the High Exorcist’s recommendation?”

  “Faith is Sister Mardhalas’s dagger. But faith can be many things—even imperfect things. I have considered her words, and I have considered yours. This is my decision.”

  I bowed my head graciously, but I felt more shame than gratefulness. “And when my journey is at an end …”

  “Then you will do as the goddess wills.” She glided past me, moving as she always did, with a silent grace greater than her small steps would seem to allow. “As do we all.”

  I was somewhat startled to discover myself in my cell, my feet having delivered me back to my quarters without my mind’s participation. I’d always thought of my room as lavish, as I didn’t share it with multiple others like I had during my training back east. In truth, it had exactly enough room to hold my narrow bed, a battered writing desk, and a short chest of drawers. Tonight, though, filled up with the chill dark slipping through the open window, it felt as vast as the sanctuary’s airy hall.

  Or perhaps I was dwindling.

  The Holy Mother’s words repeated over and over in my head. With every repetition I tried to recall her tone and expression, searching for intention behind the words. I didn’t truly think that she had hidden exile in her meaning—if she wanted to be rid of me she had no reason to flinch from saying so. Yet her words were also far from comforting.

  Lighting the desk’s dented lantern, I surveyed the room I’d slept in every night for the past two years—the room I wouldn’t be sleeping in tomorrow night. It seemed like the moment should feel auspicious. It didn’t.

  I looked out the narrow window, another luxury of my cell being an impressive view of the cathedral’s entry and the Waiting Yard’s fountains.

  A rider was waiting at the cathedral steps, his sooty horse looming at the border between the brazier light and Caliphas’s notorious fog. Though he was as silent and still as a gargoyle, the traveler’s broad hat and deep crimson clearly marked him. It was well past midnight, but such was the time our hunters were often forced to act.

  I watched. Certainly he was uncomfortable and tired. Surely something distant and dark lay on the path between him and the warmth of his bed. Perhaps even his death was close at hand. If any such concerns wore upon his mind, though, they hadn’t deter
red him thus far and didn’t undermine his confident posture. No matter what forced him into the night, faith was certainly his dagger.

  My resentment surprised me.

  The sanctuary door opened and High Exorcist Mardhalas stalked down the steps, her cloak a crimson wave behind her. She was too far away to hear, but it didn’t seem like her mouth moved, she merely stabbed a rolled parchment into her underling’s hand. The inquisitor and his steed launched into the fog, darkness and mist muffling the sound of hooves upon the plaza stone.

  I followed the shape until it vanished, and the galloping pulse until it faded into the sounds of the city.

  When I looked back to the stairs, the High Exorcist’s gaze was on me.

  13

  SCARS

  LARSA

  Shit.” The blood smear high on my cheek was visible even in the mirror across my suite. Hopefully to anyone who might have noticed in the hotel lobby it just looked like …

  Like what? Like I’d cut myself shaving my eyelashes?

  Well, hopefully it didn’t look like I’d just torn open the wrist of a Virholt Street pickpocket and drained him to within a few drops of his life. How did it even get there anyway?

  Scratching the scabby smear off my cheek, I threw my drenched cloak over the half-back of a ridiculous chaise lounge I’d never sat in—its elaborate damask of storks and golden leaves ruined by countless past soakings. I usually didn’t bother with candles, seeing almost as well without them as with, but they made certain things easier, like using mirrors and writing. And I had two letters I didn’t want to write.

  Though my suite had an adjoining office—and servant’s room, kitchen, and dining room—I carried a twisted brass candelabrum into the master bedroom. It was probably the first time in over a year that light spilled into the room, and the musty shadows seemed reluctant to part. It wasn’t that the room was designed to be cavernlike—quite the contrary, in fact. Elegant glass doors covered the dawn-facing wall, beyond which opened a balcony on the Majesty’s penthouse floor. If I recalled correctly, it presented an impressive view of Restoration Park and the spidery towers of the royal palace beyond.

  Now, though, the many-pillowed layers of a decadently oversized mattress slumped against the curtained windows. Blankets and rosy veils that once also covered the nobly banistered bed joined the upright mattress in reinforcing the drawn curtains, creating a barricade against even the most insistent daybreak.

  The bed frame remained, displayed at the room’s center like the skeleton of some primeval beast. I hadn’t left it entirely unused, though. Filling less than a third of the space meant for the repurposed mattress lay a coffin of plain pine.

  It was the reason I’d replaced the apartment’s lock with my own, after having to improvise an awkward and utterly unbelievable explanation to a particularly insistent maid—even after my multiple and unmistakable requests never to be disturbed. Not that I needed a coffin, like a true vampire did. In the Old City beneath Caliphas’s streets, coffins were synonymous with rest. Being raised there as Grandfather Siervage’s ward, my resting place was no different. Even when I was old enough to learn of the differences between the Old City’s residents and those living above, beds were something I still didn’t feel like I fully grasped. I eventually overcame my fear of rolling out of bed, but still always felt strangely exposed sleeping in something without solid walls. So when, at Grandfather’s command, I was forced to make these apartments my home, I insisted on one luxury.

  I sat my light on the brow of the bedroom desk and slid open the roll top. Although I’d never used them, the hotel-provided quills were sharp, the stoppered ink only slightly crusty, and the paper woven with enough linen to be pleasantly soft. The first message came easily.

  Sir,

  Resolving our business demands I pursue avenues beyond the capital. I will report in person when practical.

  Accuser L.

  Diauden would want more details, but between what his informants had already or would soon report, he’d have enough to deduce my destination and general purpose. Since it had sounded like he and Doctor Trice were acquainted, the old spymaster could even ask after the particulars at Havenguard. The note was merely a formality to reassure the Royal Advisor that I was keeping his interests in mind.

  The second would not be so easy.

  Grandfather,

  I snatched the sheet and chewed it into my palm, spitting it into a wastebasket embossed with laurel leaves. Too demure—I wasn’t asking permission.

  Your Grace,

  As you surely know, your agent Yismilla Col has been fatally removed from her position in Ardis. Evidence suggests that the traitor Rivascis is responsible for this disrespect. Anticipating your response, I am already en route to the Old Capital, intent on assessing the situation there and putting an end to whatever rebellion I discover. Necessity and the need for haste prevent me from personally seeking your counsel in this matter, a discourtesy for which I beg forgiveness. I hope that my success in expunging this disgrace from our family name will redeem me in your regard.

  Dutifully,

  L.

  I read it over a dozen times, making minor corrections and subtly refining the tone. It committed at least three blasphemies: presuming to know Grandfather’s will, acting without his leave, and blatantly lying about my reasons for not consulting him.

  My message was nowhere in the words I’d written. As was everything with Grandfather, it was all subtext and suggestion. He would know that I knew his mind better than I demonstrated—even as his pride bristled. He would know that I knew he had deliberate plans when it came to Rivascis. He would also know my urge to avenge myself against the one they called my father, to simply act, to speed to Ardis, blade bare the entire journey. Yet he’d have to acknowledge that I still paused to write, that regard and duty still tempered my action, even as I disobeyed his unspoken demand.

  Or he’d set a dozen deathless slaves on my heels and they’d take my head before I ever neared Ardis.

  Was it worth the risk?

  I pulled back my sleeve. Scars without a hint of pigment crisscrossed my pale forearm, following the faint blue trails of my veins. A map of Caliphas’s slums would have been less chaotic. Most of the marks were tiny nicks, just enough to make the blood flow. Others were longer trails, languorous, deliberate slices that had, for a time, split my skin into yielding lips. The worst were a pair of savage gashes that had dug indulgently deep, almost crippling my arm. I hadn’t inflicted even one of the marks upon myself—though I’d considered it often enough.

  I hated them. Looking at the ugly marks turned my stomach. Sometimes I almost forgot about them, my leathers proving quite effective at simulating a second skin. Invariably I’d catch some glimpse, though—along my wrist, at my ankle, slipping from under my collar. When I did, every track, every crime across my body caught fire. I could feel them all—ghosts of violence that never faded. Memories of the nightmare that was my youth. The life he—they—had made for me.

  It wasn’t easy to decide who I hated more. Luvick Siervage, the vampire I and dozens of others called “Grandfather,” was an obvious target. The ruler of the Old City, he was easily the eldest and most vile creature dwelling in Caliphas—and he claimed I was one of his favorites. He proved it by calling me “Granddaughter,” a title he foisted upon few. Even still, there was no question that I was just one of his pawns. Certainly any favoritism he felt was for the novelty of my dhampiric existence, not for me personally. I was a tool, one he saw myriad uses for. Today, it was as an operative among the Royal Accusers, one who could walk among the living and serve as a bridge between his dominion and that of Diauden’s prince. Yet before, it was merely as a thing that bled.

  What I’d had of a childhood was a blur of cold and darkness. He raised me and those few like me among the dead, in the lightless, reeking depths of the Old City. His kind knew nothing of cold or discomfort, and mocked us when we were hurt or sick. We learned to fear our own blood an
d those barely leashed undead that Grandfather had assigned as our protectors. When we disobeyed or performed poorly, Grandfather granted his other children their vices. “Don’t mar the skin that shows”—that was his only order. That was the only mercy the vampires showed the half-blood children raised in their crypts.

  Only the strong survived.

  Those of us who endured eventually became too valuable to waste on feeding thirsty corpses. The most terrifyingly joyous day of my life had been when Grandfather had moved me to the Majesty Hotel, assigning me to work among the living for as long as he willed. Yet dread hung over every moment of near-freedom, as I knew that, at any time, he might yank back my chain. I’d dreamt of a thousand ways I might disobey him—that I might escape if his order came. Realistically, though, each ended with death. There was no way I could escape the sire of a hidden vampiric nation. It might take years, but Grandfather could not allow a slight to stand, and would not be disobeyed.

  I hated him, but he had my respect. He was a monster, but one I understood. Deliberately, in all my youth, he’d never raised a hand against me—not personally. That wasn’t mercy, but it assured that, somehow, something frail in me loathed him less than the others. Grandfather was the nightmare I recognized, the thing in the dark that I knew well enough to give a name.

  And for my entire life, he ensured I knew one other name: Rivascis.

  I’d never met the man, but Grandfather had told me a great deal about him. In life, Rivascis had been an actor who’d charmed courts across the world. In death, he’d been Luvick’s favorite, so much so that the vampire lord had called him “Son.” Supposedly it was a great thing to be deemed heir to Grandfather’s nation—a position so vaunted, so rare, that none had held the title in my life. None spoke of it in the Old City, but when Rivascis betrayed Grandfather, it had stung.