by JANRAE FRANK
Nevin and his lover, Gordain, came to stand beside Isranon. Physically opposite to Nevin, Gordain MacQuarrie had delicate plains to his features and the cheeky manner of a benign rascal. The nearly unnoticeable hint of a point in his ears suggested a bit of sylvan blood in his ancestry.
"Come along, Pet." Nevin ruffled Anksha's mane. "Edvarde's curiosity will have us all by the short and curlies if we fail to move promptly along."
"Short and curlies?" Anksha craned her head to look Nevin in the eye.
Gordain doubled over with laughter at Nevin's expression as his lover searched for suitable words.
"Hairs between your hind legs."
Anksha's tightly furled tail snapped out and the tip twitched. "Mine's not short and curlies."
"It's usually covered in mud, twigs and leaves," said Stygean, drawing closer to them. Until her belly had expanded, Anksha had loved to strip naked and wallow in the mud or go leaping through the trees. Keeping clothes on her had been a challenge for his master.
Haig lifted Nainee down from her horse and nuzzled her neck. "Finally a bed again, Nainee. A proper place for our rutting and less rough on your soft back."
She laughed, dropping her hand to her swollen belly "Rutting yes, sipping no."
Stygean ducked his head. During his period of rebellion, he had nearly killed Nainee, Haig's lead nibari, by sneaking drinks from her veins. After that Haig placed vampiric wards in her mind that were too strong for the boy to get past – not that he was predisposed to try it again – and other modifications to increase her assertiveness.
Jeevys led the way into the manor with the officers making a small procession behind him. Stygean took in the tapestries of heroes, gods and demi-gods, wondering what stories matched the scenes since he was unfamiliar with tales told by the people of the light. The hallways were hung with pine boughs and animals wrought from silver and gold, as well as blown glass and fired clay painted in clever colors. It looked like a celebration of some kind, which puzzled Stygean. Then he remembered the books of tales that Isranon had given him for his thirteenth birthday and decided he would look there for his explanations, rather than annoy people with his questions. His fingers strayed across the velvety surface of the tapestries, enjoying the feel of them. Yes, he wanted to learn more.
Lord Edvarde waited in his great hall with all his tables set in order for a grand dinner. He rose and went to them, lifting each leg with care and precision like a gaunt wading bird, every nuance orderly to a fault. "So many! How wonderful. I fear that most will have to eat in the barracks. But all the officers and such can be here. And all of those who came last time. How have you all been?"
Nans grinned. "I think you know most of that already." Edvarde had more sources of information than any ten intelligence officers she'd ever met.
Isranon came forward, bringing Stygean and Jingen. "Lord Edvarde, I would like to present my apprentices, Stygean Loosestrife and Jingen Scathwick. Young sa'necari-born who have chosen to walk the middle path with me."
"Wonderful. Wonderful!" Edvarde clapped his hands and then clasped each of the boy's hands in turn and shook with them.
Stygean smiled, taking an instant liking to the mon.
Isranon slipped his arm around Stygean's shoulder. "You are my example to the world, Stygean. You and Jingen. The people of the light will see that I am not the only one who can live without the stain of the rites, without doing evil among them."
Isranon guided Stygean around to a place at the tables, the row that led down from the right of the high table where the mage would sit with Lord Edvarde and Nans. Jingen was already seated when Isranon indicated that Stygean should sit beside the boy.
The doors opened and nine people came in, followed at a respectable distance by their entourage.
Stygean studied the newcomers with fascination. There were things you avoided when you were sa'necari passing for human; mages were the most dangerous of those. He had only seen a single mage at his father's home, and only because he had been allowed to watch his father kill him. These entered freely in a long line, trusting the tales they had heard of Lord Dawnreturning, the sa'necari renunciate and mage-paladin of Kalirion Sun-Lord. The three leaders were a female and two males in high-collared robes that nearly swept the floor. Two walked with staves. The third carried a pair of blades at her hips and a long sword at her back, clearly a battle mage like his mentor. Next came a long line of journeymyn and apprentices in court attire.
One of the apprentices stood out above the others, long red hair in a plait down her back, delicate features and a proud bearing. Stygean's mouth opened at the sight of her, and his fangs and loins reacted before he could stop himself. Jingen shoved him. "I wouldn't mind getting inside that one."
Stygean glared at Jingen. "Don't talk that way."
Jingen scowled back. "You're sounding more like a wuss every day. We could have two upped her, if you hadn't decided to become a wimp."
"Shut it!" Stygean noticed that all the crosstalk had ceased and everyone was staring at them. He dropped his eyes quickly, biting his lower lip: he had been too loud and everyone had heard him.
One of the mage leaders, a tall, gaunt mon with red hair, chuckled. "Boys will be boys."
Laughter rippled through the chamber, and the crosstalk resumed.
His eyes lifted and met the red-haired girl's gaze. She smiled. Stygean flushed.
"More and more," Jingen hissed, "I think I'm going to kill you."
Stygean ignored him, filling his plate with meat and gravy, a slice of peach pie covered in syrup and cream, a variety of nuts, pickled vegetables and several kinds of bread. Randilyn stole down the tables and nudged him. When he looked up, she filled his hands with candy.
"Honey strawberry, my favorite." Randilyn winked at Stygean. "Tell me what you think. This is the only place I've ever found it."
Stygean smiled. She had nothing for Jingen.
His gaze was drawn to the left, watching his master discussing the journey with Lord Edvarde. Stygean could not hear what they were saying, so his attention focused mainly on his master. Isranon nodded to Edvarde wearily, smiling despite his obvious exhaustion. Stygean lowered his fork and knife, wiped his mouth and hands on a napkin, all without taking his eyes from Isranon. The lines in his master's face seemed to deepen as Stygean watched. Isranon's color faded. All the signs that Isranon was about to have another of his attacks were clear to the boy. He spilled his chair and bolted for the dais when he saw Isranon grab the edge of the table and struggle to hold himself upright.
Stygean reached his master as the mage fell from his seat and caught him, easing Isranon to the floor. A cacophony of alarm went up. The boy cradled Isranon's head, fishing in his mentor's pocket for the flask of Sanguine Rose. He got it open, shoving it between Isranon's teeth. Troll’s blood, the base of the potion, reacted with Isranon's hemovore bio-alchemy and roused him. Stygean shifted Isranon to a better position, supporting him while he drank.
Stygean became aware of the people crowding around them, looked up and scanned their faces. "He's exhausted. My master has been maintaining the scry wards continuously for two months..."
Nans nodded, moving people aside to reach them. "That's why we need mages. He can't keep doing it alone." She took Isranon from Stygean's arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing, and held him. "For now, I'll put him to bed."
* * * *
When dinner ended and the hour grew late, Jeevys and his helpers began assigning rooms and showing myn where to find them. He led Nevin down a familiar corridor, halting at the same room that Nevin had occupied a year ago. Nevin had his arm across Gordain's shoulders, smiling fondly at the younger wolf's suggestive glances and gentle bumping against him. Gordain had spent months cheekily trimming the edges from Nevin's stodginess, reminding him of what it had been like to be twenty.
"Will you be sharing a room with your cousin again?" Jeevys asked Nevin.
"Olin was sent to Wolffgard..."
"Oh my!
It's very dangerous there. Red Wolf is on the verge of war with Waejontor."
"What?" Nevin haired over, withdrew his arm from Gordain's shoulders and frowned at the castellan.
"There's a new queen. She's driven the Sharani back almost to their borders. Her armies have been raiding Red Wolf. It doesn't help at all that the chieftain, Claw, is dying."
"What is wrong with Claw?"
"His heart is failing him. At least he has grandchildren on the way. His daughter married a Malthus Estrobian. Twin sons coming, I hear."
"I've heard nasty things about Malthus ... but he was not an Estrobian. My cousin Nikko will have his hands full."
"Nikko? Nikko Softpaws? The lawgiver?"
"What about him?" Nevin's eyebrows knit.
"He's dead."
"Edvarde! Where's Edvarde?" Nevin stalked down the corridor shouting at the top of his lungs.
"But what about your sleeping arrangements?" Jeevys followed at their heels.
"Gordain's my mate. We share quarters. Now where the unholy hell is Edvarde?"
* * * *
Edvarde sat at his desk going through a small stack of letters. The joy of the evening had fled from his face. He glanced at Nevin and then looked away, his gaze searching the shelves of books without purpose, and flicked his fingers at the chairs. "I've fresh news from Wolffgard."
"Bad?" Nevin snagged a seat, dropped and settled, legs spread and fingers throttling the chair arms.
"Did you know a young guardsmon named Kynyr?"
"Kynyr Maguire. We all liked him. Why?"
"He's Claw's great-grandson. Prince Tarrant Redhand had a betrothal agreement with Cahira Maguire during the last months of the Lycan Rebellion of 997. She was carrying his child when Tarrant was killed. Kynyr is their grandson."
"Explains a lot. Claw's sisters were always saying how much Kynyr looked like Tarrant. I wouldn't know. I was born long after the Rebellion, and Claw had taken down all the paintings of his murdered sons."
"Claw is dying."
"Jeevys told me."
"Claw named Kynyr his heir."
"Well, if he's a Redhand, then he's a good one to rule. Always had a good head on his shoulders."
Edvarde swung about and slammed his hands down on the table, startling Nevin who had rarely seen him upset to this degree – and never with anger. "PLEASE! Let me get all of this out before you go interrupting me again."
Gordain stood leaning against Nevin's chair and nudged him, earning a nod of acknowledgment.
Edvarde opened a drawer, taking out a journal, which had a sheaf of letters stuffed into it. He passed that to Nevin. "You can borrow these. For now, listen to me. The sa'necari that your people call the Butchering Serpent is in Red Wolf, possibly in Wolffgard itself. Wolffgard's senior priest and lawgiver were murdered. Claw is dying of heart troubles and not expected to make it past winter solstice. He named Kynyr his heir and gave him the ring of the crown prince – Tarrant's ring. Someone poisoned Kynyr."
"So he's dead?" Nevin's features tightened into a mask of despair.
"Probably. He was alive when this letter was sent. But it took the windborne a week to get it to me."
"Is there no hope for my people?"
"Todd Sinclair."
"Todd died at Kinsdale Wood."
"No. He's alive. He's Kynyr's grandfather and he's in Wolffgard. Brock Redhand is leading a Creeyan army to support Kynyr's claim to the throne, and that of Kynyr's unborn son."
"You've given me much to think about. I need to speak with my spiritbrother."
"You must not ask him to turn aside, Nevin. Galee is the greater threat."
"Must we save the humans while our people die?"
"I'm not a philosopher."
Nevin gave a curt nod and departed.
* * * *
Stygean and Jingen followed Jeevys down a narrow second floor hallway. The castellan bustled along, chattering at them.
"I assume that apprentices room together."
Jeevys' statement struck Stygean like a poleaxe between the eyes. He had believed that reaching Edvarde's estate meant he would finally be free of sharing space with Jingen. Stygean asked himself what his father would have done in the situation. His father always seemed to have the answers and when he had none, simply overawed those who doubted him. The boy drew himself up with an arrogant swagger. "No. My father was a Captain of the Coast. I've always had a private room. I can't get to sleep otherwise. And I like to study late."
"We shared a tent..." Jingen eyed Stygean suspiciously.
"That was on the march." Stygean waved his hand imperiously. "Jingen is the son of my late father's aides. It would not be appropriate for me to share quarters with him here."
Jeevys halted, looking from one to the other. "You're a noble's son?"
"I come from a long line of Captains. You do know about them?"
"They rule like lords."
"Precisely. And, I'm certain, that you know the proprieties need to be observed. Apprentices or not, you can't expect the son of a lord to share a chamber with commoners."
An expression of proper awe came over Jeevys' face. "Of course not. I have the ever so nicest room for you, your lordship. And I shall find another place for Jingen."
"I'll get you for this," Jingen muttered sotto voce. "I'll get you."
Stygean smirked, holding tight to his high-handed manners as they followed Jeevys. "You'll try," Stygean mouthed the reply silently.
CHAPTER TWO
NO SHELTER FOR THE SOUL
Veranoctem 7, 1077 AQ
The Minnorian Imperial Army chose to winter in Machusyts, which had been the ancient capital of Darr before Angrim bit a chunk off it six hundred years ago. Machusyts had fallen to Minnoras fifteen days ago. They had – so far – left the city largely intact. There had been a bit of pruning, usually as victims for necromantic rites, religious rituals or for the dinner table. Demons and the undead walked openly in the daylight, defying the common myths that had grown up about them.
Prince Clovis, middle son of the late Kyser Gerhardt, gazed from the iron-barred window of a large drawing room on the highest floor of the ducal palace. It had been turned into a cage for thirty-four myn, all of them captured members of the nobility. This included four princes: Clovis, his two elder brothers, Willard and Sewell, and his younger brother Tancred. Duke Thorben of Machusyts and his two sons, Bonifaz and Detlef, all paced restlessly; as the newest additions to the larder, they had not yet made peace with their situation. They had been chosen as living hosts for the eggs of the Skerpyon Queen, Maruska. Only Clovis knew the fullness of their fate: he had seen twenty-four myn die when Maruska's first clutch hatched and ate their way out. By day, Clovis held himself tightly together. At night, he tended to wake screaming.
He studied Thorben from the corners of his eyes. The duke looked as if he had been dragged from his bed: shirtless, his long, russet hair in disarray. Bonifaz, the eldest son, looked as disheveled as his father, only worse: his shirt was torn and bloodstained, suggesting that he had fought. Detlef looked to be in the best condition of the three, still had his shirt and tunic, and only a few strands had escaped his black braid.
Clovis flicked his gaze back to the window when he saw Thorben heading in his general direction, not wishing to provide the duke with an opportunity, a reason to speak. Machusyts had fallen two weeks ago, yet Thorben and his sons had managed to elude capture until late last night. Thorben's anger had frustrated every attempt that Clovis made to explain the situation to him. Now Clovis could feel the reins of his temper slipping, and fought to remain calm and centered; hence his reluctance to get sucked into another fruitless round of argument with the duke.
"How can you stand there?" Thorben demanded. "We should attack the guard and fight our way out."
And round we go again. Clovis shifted to glance sidelong at Thorben. "There is no escape."
"We're all strong myn."
"Are we?" Clovis turned fully and pointed at a blond gian
t sitting on a bed, staring blank-eyed. "Tell that to Konrad Dreslin. At Maruska's orders, a vampire ripped through his mind as if it were tissue paper to learn where his nephew, Berran, had fled to. Since Berran has not joined us here, I assume he's still free."
"Then there is hope."
"Not for us. You and your sons have not yet been given the treatment, but you will." Clovis swept his hands at the others. "We have control commands in our brains, placed there by skilled vampires. If we try to escape, we won't get half a spear length before it knocks us screaming to our knees." Clovis returned his attention to the window. "Believe me, I've tested it."
"Berran..."
"Cannot save us. He embraced the White Lady and will reach safety in Beltria. The Lady guards him; Talons Trollbane, a prince of assassins, has been dispatched to protect and guide him."
"He'll come back with an army." Thorben smacked his fist into his palm.
"Not in time to save us," Clovis continued diffidently. "Come spring, we die. All of us here." Clovis opened his shirt, revealing a target brand on his upper right chest. He ran one finger around the edges of it. "That is where she intends to insert her barb and implant her egg. We all have them, except for you and your sons."
"I won't let them do that."
"There's nothing you can do to stop them." Clovis faced the room, resting his hips against the window sill. "Where once I was their prince, now I am their priest. The White Lady will gather our souls to her when we die, and we will dwell in her gardens forever." He waved his arms. "Morning prayers."
"You're an apostate." Thorben spit on him.
Clovis lowered his head, color spreading across his rugged features. "Your god abandoned us. Two thirds of Angrim has fallen. The White Lady has succored us."
"I have seen your White Lady, and I have not fallen prey to her lies."
Clovis let that pass. He went to Konrad and stroked his hair, tears of pity leaking from his eyes. Lord Konrad Dreslin had been one of the greatest military minds in all of Angrim before the vampire broke him. "It is time to pray."
