The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  More cats came, and Terza was ready. Inch-long teeth crunched sleek feline limbs; giant paws slammed the life out of sleek black forms. One cat leapt straight up, aiming for Terza’s throat, but her claws ripped the cat’s belly into a mass of pulpy ribbons.

  Terza had no real heart for the killings. The plains cats had been weakened by the magical barrier, and the fight was not theirs, but their evil master’s. Only a little out of breath, Terza dropped to her four feet. Two more feline bodies lay in the encampment—bodies of cats intercepted by the men.

  A voice, silky smooth and commanding, floated to Terza’s ears. “Madame Terza! You surprise me completely! A word with you, if you don’t mind.”

  The werebear growled to herself. She had been angered if not harmed by the attacks. She wanted nothing more than to leap from the protection of the circle and bury her fangs in Malken’s throat. That, she mused darkly, would silence that honey-hued voice. Instead, she acted for the safety of her tribe. It was what made her such a good leader. She closed her eye, willed the change, and became an old woman once again. She did not bother to reclothe herself. Malken might hurl another surprise her way, and clothes would only hamper the change from human to bear. She did, however, retrieve her staff.

  Malken had appeared just outside the barrier. He was dressed like a Vistana, from his colorful, soft hat to his embroidered vest, from bright sash to scarlet pantaloons. The choice of attire reflected both respect and mockery. He had not bothered to hide his face, and the monstrous visage was hideous enough to add a frightening edge to the innocuous Vistana apparel. Gasps and whimpers of fear came from the Vistani at the sight of Malken, but he ignored them.

  “Greetings, Grandmama.” His tone dripped sarcasm.

  “Greetings, Malken the Cat. How fares the Unnamed One?”

  “Rozalia is quite well, thank you. But I think she misses your delicious Vistana suppers. She’s gotten quite thin these days.” His smile widened. Terza realized that Malken knew what evil transformation that unnatural emaciation signified.

  “What do you wish from the Tribe of the Twin Waters?”

  “Cooperation. It’s that simple, Terza.”

  “If it were that simple, you’d have come to me without your pets,” Terza retorted.

  Malken laughed mirthlessly. “It seems you’re able to handle a few of my kittens without effort. You’re not stupid. You all know what’s happened to Nova Vaasa, what I’m doing. I want the Vistani to be my allies. Rozalia warned me about you, old woman, but she didn’t tell me you were a werething!”

  “Until this moment, no one knew,” Terza answered calmly. “You’ve forced my hand, Malken the Cat. That should please you some, I imagine.”

  “Oh, it does, it does,” Malken agreed, lacing his hands behind his back and walking along the circle. Terza, deeming herself and her tribe safe from attack for the moment, reached for her robe and reclothed. She hobbled after him. The rest of the Vistani stayed where they were. In a few moments Malken and Terza had walked out of earshot of the tribe, and the pleasant facade vanished. The beast that was Malken showed plainly now as he turned toward Terza.

  “You’re more than I expected, Terza, but really, not much more. I can defeat you any time I care to try.”

  “Perhaps you can,” hissed Terza, her own beast still roused. “Why not tonight? Force your way into my circle. Go ahead.” Should he rise to the bait, she would die. That much was certain, and they both knew it. They both also knew Malken was not invincible; he had his weaknesses, and to pursue an attack now would leave him more vulnerable than the Cat cared to be.

  He read her face and smiled alarmingly. “Oh, I’ll take you on, but I’ll decide when that particular battle is to transpire. You’re old, Terza, werebear or not. You’re old, and your people like the glitter of gold. If you won’t do business with me on behalf of the Twin Waters tribe, well, they’re free-minded individuals. I’ll get to them one by one if I have to. I’ll kill you or wait until you’re dead if need be.” His teeth glittered as he bared them in a dangerous smile. “You’re a barrier, but I can go around you or through you when I please.

  “Your people are not of the land, somehow, and I can’t quite get a good grip—not yet. But remember, Terza. You’re still in the land, if not of it—and I am its lord. And I’ll have my due. If not tonight, then one night. That, I promise you.”

  He bowed low, mocking her, and she stood rigidly as he turned and left. He whistled a carefree tune that clashed with the tone of fear that still echoed in the night. One by one, the cats turned from their posts and followed him docilely. The great inky pool of black plains cats bled into the darkness from which they had come. The hairs on Terza’s neck rose as she saw other shadows, shadows that had no material creature to cast them, also follow the departing form of Malken.

  Terza sagged. She felt a tentative brush on her arm and glanced down to see young Carmilla. Slowly, wordlessly, Terza extended a withered hand to touch the child’s firm, plump cheek.

  “I had hoped you would have more time for play, child,” she sighed. “But your training must begin. Tomorrow, at first light.”

  “But … grandmama, you’re not going to—”

  “I hope to be around for many more years, young one,” Terza replied, forcing a jolliness that she was far from feeling. “But our friend the master of the cats may have other plans. I must teach you what I know, while I still can.”

  She glanced back over the now empty plains, and prayed there would be enough time.

  Tristan blinked rapidly. He was in his own quarters, sitting on the bed, alone. He had no recollection of getting there. The last thing I remember, he thought slowly, is writing in my journal in my laboratory.…

  A knock on the door startled him. Luath, sleeping near the foot of the bed, woke up and yawned, blinking. “Come,” Tristan called, wondering if his voice sounded as high-pitched and nervous to the person on the other side of the door as it did to him. Guillaume entered. His face was thin and drawn. Tristan wondered if his loyal servant would ever smile again after the brutal death of his youngest child.

  “Sir,” said Guillaume, “I hate to be a pest on the subject, but we really do need to hire more help to fill … the spaces.” It hadn’t even been a full day since the attack on Faerhaaven, but Guillaume as usual was taking charge of the situation. No doubt he was right, and perhaps such trivialities kept his mind off Madeleine’s death, but Tristan had more vital tasks than hiring maids, butlers, and castle attendants.

  “You said that you would take care of it,” Tristan said, annoyance creeping into his voice.

  “I tried, sir, but quality help is going to be difficult to come by if you don’t raise your rates.”

  “I pay very well!”

  “Yes, sir, but you must remember the … circumstances created by the vacancies. The risk—”

  “The circumstances were an aberration that won’t happen again!” Tristan missed the look of pain on Guillaume’s face. “I pay well above the standard rates as is; I always have. Hire whoever will work for my wages, and staff all positions by the end of the week.”

  Guillaume’s face was neutral. “Yes, sir,” he said coolly, closing the door. Almost at once, Tristan hastened to his sorcery chamber, swiftly taking in the place with a searching eye. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. Quickly he went to his journal, lying open on the table just as he had left it. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it. No, not quite as he had left it.

  Now that Malken knows that I am aware of him, I fear that he may become more reckless. As I do not know the extent of his control over me, he may well

  The words in Tristan’s journal, written in his neat, precise hand, ceased abruptly. He read on, and cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

  LITLE MEDLER! THE VISTANI HAD NO ANSERS FOR YOU, DID THEY! OH, YES, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME I CARE TO FIND OUT. HAHAHA! HOW’Z YOURE WIFE, ANYWAY?

  Tristan licked dry lips. I can’t let this upset me, he told himself; I must re
main calm. He located pen and parchment and began to write down all the information he had gotten from the Vistani, beginning with the prophecy. Though recently his relations with the gypsy horsemen of the plains had soured, Tristan still trusted Madame Terza to, if not actively help him, at least not hinder him with false information.

  First card—me—the Paladin. Self-explanatory.

  Second card—recent past—the Swashbuckler; Amasa.

  Third card—opposition—the Invoker—dealing with dark magics—must be Malken.

  Fourth card—the future—the Traitor.

  Here Tristan paused. Who was the betrayer in his midst? He thought of poor, tormented Ailsa. No, she had troubles enough of her own. She was here to protect him, she had said, and wanted to bring the family back together. Betraying him would hardly accomplish that goal. Ivaar? Possibly, but Ivaar was now in a position of strength, thanks to the popularity of Sehkmaa. If Ivaar was after revenge—and to the boy’s credit, Tristan had never seen him do anything malicious in his life—he would take it openly. Tristan did not fear a knife in the back from his son.

  He thought of Sigfrid. The man was a master plotter. He had the best gambling face Tristan had ever seen, and he had worked enough with the youthful captain to know that he was capable of being perfectly polite to a miscreant one day and ordering his death the next. It was an attitude, he had to admit, that came with Sigfrid’s background. And truth be told, Sigfrid had ever been the most loyal of friends.

  He glanced over at the mirror, which showed him his unsmiling face. Then again, over the last month changes had come about in his world that Tristan had never expected. He certainly had no intention of telling Sigfrid that he was, after a fashion, Malken. But there was no concrete evidence yet to condemn Sigfrid as a traitor. He would wait, and keep an eye on the young man. Wasn’t that the advice Terza had given him, after all, to guard himself and keep a watchful eye on all?

  He returned his attention to his work. Fifth card—allies in the future—the Diviner—work for greatest good; use knowledge to that end. Obviously, use magical skills to defeat Malken.

  Having come up with definitions for the Tarokka reading, Tristan began jotting down other thoughts. Rozalia banished—what did she do?—Rozalia important figure in S. cult. Terza knows what’s going on but will not help. Made me drink tea—

  His hand froze. The tea! What was it Terza had said? This brew should suit you well.… Take note of the flavors, that you can make it again on your own. I’m certain you will want to. Why had she been so certain? He tried to recall the flavors. The tea was palatable, but not overwhelmingly delicious. Yet Terza had seemed insistent. And afterward she had been more free with her conversation—

  Tristan flipped back to Malken’s scrawl on the diary. THE VISTANI HAD NO ANSERS FOR YOU, DID THEY! OH, YES, I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE ANY TIME I CARE TO FIND OUT.

  “But he didn’t know,” Tristan said aloud, his voice soft. Terza had answers for him, cryptic though they might be. He recalled Malken’s ugly face in the mirror, bragging that anything Tristan knew, he, Malken, knew also. “Then why wasn’t he angry about the arrests of the Claws at the racetrack yesterday?” Because somehow, something Tristan had done yesterday had prevented Malken from reading his thoughts. Malken knew about the trip to see the Vistani, obviously, but apparently nothing after that. Which meant that—

  “Oh, yes, Terza, I do want to make that tea again!” Tristan almost laughed aloud. The canny old grandmama had managed to help him without arousing Malken’s wrath upon her and her people. She had not told him how to fully separate himself from the fiend, but she had bought him time to think and work on the task. Now, he thought, his elation sobering, I just have to figure out how to make that damn tea.

  For the next several hours, Tristan experimented with his herbs. He was fairly certain he would recognize the tea’s flavor once he had mixed it correctly, but the recipe proved stubbornly elusive. Finally Tristan’s palate, normally refined, refused to cooperate. One concoction began to taste like any other.

  Impatiently, Tristan rang for Guillaume. When the servant emerged, Tristan demanded, “I need some sprigs of mint and a loaf of bread.”

  Guillaume blinked, but otherwise hid his puzzlement well. “Mint, sir? If you would like some tea, I can—”

  “No, no, the plant, the plant. I need to chew it. And,” he admitted wearily, “I need to eat something. But just bread, as plain as it can be. No herbs or butter or honey. Nothing. Do you understand?”

  “The only mint we have is dried mint for tea, sir.”

  “Then go into town and buy me some fresh. I don’t care how much it costs, find me some. In the meantime, send up some bread. Just—”

  “Just plain bread, sir. Yes, sir.”

  When Guillaume returned with twelve small mint plants, Tristan began his quest with renewed earnest. After each tasting, he would chew the mint, eat a few mouthfuls of bread, and drink a cup of plain water. He would also, though he begrudged every second, give his tongue five minutes to refresh itself.

  Guillaume knew better than to interrupt Tristan save when his master called. Over the next two days he seldom saw Tristan, except to bring him fresh water and bread. The twelve mint plants he had bought were being stripped one by one. Tristan looked worse each time Guillaume visited him—gaunt, pale, with hands that shook and eyes circled with purple.

  Finally the loyal servant could take no more, and broke his respectful silence. “Sir, please, let me bring you something to eat. I can make it plain—”

  “Just the bread, Guillaume! Anything else will taint my palate! If I want anything, I’ll call for you, all right?”

  Guillaume had never been spoken to thus before, but his face did not show the sting. He merely bowed and exited with a quiet “Yes, sir.”

  Tristan poured some of the water into a bowl and splashed his face with it. It revived him a little. He was tired, so tired. He wondered morosely if he would even be able to recognize the right brew if he should stumble upon it. He longed to sleep, even a short nap, but he was afraid to.

  There was someone who could help him, but he was reluctant to call upon her aid. Ailsa had been through so much already. Also, because of the more pressing need to stop Malken, Tristan had been unable to do anything to reconcile the shattered Hiregaard family. He didn’t want to face her without having at least spoken to Ivaar, but he needed her advice.

  “Ailsa?” he whispered.

  Ailsa appeared, her face sad. “Yes, my love?”

  She looked terrible, as sick and soul-weary as she had been in the last few days of her illness, before she had taken her own life. Tristan bit down on his reluctance and described the tea to her. Ailsa listened, her face still dull and unhappy, to the descriptions of flavor and fragrance, then gracefully floated from one end of the table to the other. Silently she took note of the herbs and powders Tristan had already assembled, then pointed her pale blue finger at three more.

  He hesitated. None of the names of the herbs was familiar to him. For all he knew, the mad ghost might be trying to trick him into poisoning himself. He again looked full into Ailsa’s spectral visage, searching for answers there. She looked miserable, but not malicious. I could never let anyone hurt you.…

  He selected one jar and added its contents to his brew. No reaction. He did the same with the second.

  Almost as soon as he swallowed the first sip, his stomach clenched in pain. Tristan gasped, and slid off his chair. Ailsa’s translucent form floated over his prone body. “Tristan, love, are you all right?”

  He closed his eyes as another spasm of pain shook him. Cold sweat broke out on his face and trickled down into his shirt. Tristan’s breathing was shallow. His vision dimmed, and he willed himself to stay conscious. His mouth was filled with the taste of the tea, brewed many times stronger than the cup Terza had given him—that combination of musk and sweetness.…

  All at once his vision cleared and his stomach quieted. He still felt weak, but manag
ed to climb back onto his chair. “Thank goodness!” sighed Ailsa, her hand to her heart. “Tristan, you frightened me!”

  He ignored her, his mind racing. The reaction he had had to the tea was extreme, but he now realized that he had probably made the brew much too strong. Did it work? Was it the right combination? The taste, as best he could recall, was the same, but he had tasted so many flavors and was so tired.

  He forced himself to stay awake and reached for the mirror, turning its shiny surface toward him. For the first time in two days, he saw his reflection. He looked terrible. If this worked, he would sleep for a month, he told himself. But how to tell?

  “Show me Malken,” he croaked, his voice harsh from the astringent sting of the tea. His reflection faded—only to be replaced by a swirling mist. Tristan almost wept. It had to work, it just had to! But the mirror only showed the protective mist Malken wrapped around himself and his lackeys.

  One final hope remained, and Tristan seized it. Though Malken might always safeguard himself, perhaps he did not put so complete a block on others. When Malken could read Tristan’s thoughts, he would know which of his lackeys to shield, but if the tea worked, if somehow Tristan had managed to hide himself from Malken’s eye, the fiend couldn’t know.

  “Show me Ivaar,” Tristan whispered, putting what little energy he had left into a last, fevered hope.

  The mist in the mirror shimmered, dissipated. Ivaar’s form coalesced. The priest of Sehkmaa was taking a break, sitting on the terrace of the now-completed Temple and sipping a glass of wine. A large, tawny cat was curled up in his lap, and Ivaar stroked the evil creature’s fur absently.

  “Show me Rozalia,” Tristan rasped. Again the mirror’s image shimmered, changed, and he saw the gypsy feverishly grinding something with a mortar and pestle. “Clear,” he sighed, and the mirror reflected only his own exhausted face.