by JANRAE FRANK
Nevin sat at the round table near the hearth. Gordain stood behind Nevin, playing with his long black hair and stealing touches. Nevin captured Gordain's hands, only to have his lover wiggle free and start up again. Finally, Nevin made a curt, disapproving noise – like one wolf warning another – and Gordain stopped. The younger wolf settled into a chair. The legs made a scraping noise as he nudged it closer and closer to the back of Nevin's seat, stopping when his knees were nearly against it to prop his elbow on the table and top it with his chin.
"I thought about it. I'm not some young dog with more bite than sense." Nevin slid the book and letters across the table to Isranon. "With snow in the passes, we would never reach them before spring thaw, and by then it will all be over."
"Do you now regret coming with me, my brother?" Isranon eyed his spiritbrother – once his childhood mentor – while stroking Anksha's hair, causing her to purr louder.
"I had moments of it last night. But then I thought, what could I have done? What difference would one mon make?"
Gordain leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Nevin. "And then he thought of me."
"That and Todd Sinclair. When a legend returns to save his people, surely they can be saved."
"I know nothing of your legends – coming from Sealandia," said Gordain. "However, there is a Sinclair in our legends. Aristotle."
"Todd claims descent from Aristotle." Nevin lifted an eyebrow at that. "There are Sinclairs in Sealandia?"
"Warrior kings. They rule the southern jungles."
Nevin's expression went briefly thoughtful. He was always learning new things from Gordain. "Someday I want to explore Sealandia."
"We can do that."
"What about my son?" Isranon grew concerned. His lover, Merissa Redhand, had borne him a son, Darmyk, in his absence from Red Wolf. Isranon still held tightly to his dream of someday meeting the boy, who had to be about three years old now.
"There is very little about him in either the letters or the journal." Nevin's voice took on the lecturing tones of a lawgiver as he continued. "You produced an odd child. Sa'necari-born. He's a wilderkin predator like Nans and godmarked by Willodarus. Evidently, you've changed the opinions of the gods themselves in regards to the sa'necari-born."
Isranon tried to smile, then gave it up and reached across to touch Nevin's shoulder. "When we have stopped Galee, we will go to Red Wolf. I swear it."
The door opened and Stygean poked his head in. "Can I talk to you about something?"
"It's not a good time," Isranon said, straightening and taking his hand back.
"Are we going to resume my lessons?"
"Eventually. Study your books for now and enjoy your free time."
Stygean's shoulders drooped. "As you wish."
The boy withdrew, closing the door behind him. Nevin stared at it a long time, pulling at his lower lip. "You can't keep doing that."
"I don't have the time or energy."
"Make some. You're the nearest thing to a parent he has now."
"I'll try." Isranon rubbed his tired features. "I've been a loner for too many years ... and just dealing with myn tires me. Now tell me more about what is in those papers."
Anksha turned curious eyes upon him. "I could teach him, my Isranon."
"He's terrified of you."
"But I give him candy. I'll give him more candy. Lots of candy."
Isranon gave a bemused snort. "I wish life were as simple as a bowl of candy, Pet. But it isn't."
"And it's never going to be," said Nevin. "You must stop neglecting the boy."
"I said I would try. That's all I can do."
* * * *
With his heavy cloak thrown back and his gloves stuffed into his pockets with his scarf, Stygean wandered the corridors of the second floor, looking for his friend Iyan. The eleven-year-old slinger shared quarters with his two older unit mates, Dahnig and Grygg. Nevin had once told Stygean that twenty percent of the kandoyarin troops they had picked up in Ocealay were youths and boys. Most realms conscripted boys as young as twelve.
After several wrong turns and bad directions, due mostly to the confusion of their company getting settled in, Stygean headed downstairs. His pace slowed when he reached the halls that were decked out in boughs, garlands and strings of animal figures. Looking at it all gave him a warm feeling. Sneaking into the Great Hall, uncertain of whether being there when Edvarde was not holding court was allowed, Stygean spied something new: presents wrapped in pretty bundles. He stole closer and saw that some of the packages had tags on them. Then he saw his own name.
To Stygean. From Iyan.
He knelt to touch it, a warm sensation spreading through him.
"Uh uh uh." Jeevys cleared his throat, rising from the far side of the tree. "Don't open until solstice morning."
Stygean flinched, his heart feeling lodged in his throat. "I did not see you."
Jeevys tut-tutted for a moment. "Solstice gifts are opened on solstice morning."
"Solstice gifts?"
"Never had one before?"
Stygean shook his head. "I'm sa'necari. Winter solstice was a time for cursing and lamentation for us. That is when your nine elder gods destroyed ours."
"I see. Well, did you never see other children get them?"
Heat rose to Stygean's cheeks. "Heard it talked about. My father always took me to our hunting lodge for holiday."
"I see..." Jeevys tapped his finger against his lip. "Then your education is lacking."
"Master Isranon doesn't have time for me right now."
"I was thinking more along the lines of a priest, perhaps Father Telamon. Let me think about it."
Stygean brightened. "Thank you."
"Off with you, now. I have matters to take care of. We're going to have a party in a few weeks. So many details to attend to. The king is coming." Jeevys fluttered his hands at the boy. "Go on. Go on."
Stygean's gaze went to the door in time to see Jingen peep around it. A thread of trepidation wound through him as he moved to obey the castellan. The sense of joy at seeing the package drained out of him; he wavered, but then his defiant streak took hold and Stygean marched out the door.
His eyes slued to the side when he crossed the threshold and spied Jingen squatting to the left of him.
"Waiting for me?"
"Maybe." Jingen cocked his head at a sullen angle. "What's with pulling the noble son bit? My family's not in service to yours any longer."
Stygean kept walking.
"We're equals. We're both apprentices." Jingen pleaded to be taken back into Stygean's good graces - on his terms, not Stygean's – and both of them knew it.
Stygean resolutely refused to reply, heading for the front door.
"I thought we were friends..."
Stygean reached the door, paused with his hand on the knob, and turned to stare at Jingen. "You threatened to rite me."
Then he jerked the door open and plunged across the threshold to race over the snow-covered courtyard. Fear laid hold of Stygean's heels, giving him only a moment to stand on the cobblestone path glancing about for a fresh direction to run in. Servants clearing snow ignored him. To his right lay the stables and a collection of outbuildings. To his left the gardens spread, dotted with pine coverts and arbors layered in dead vines. The flowers were gone. The hedges were browned beneath a topping of fresh snow. Only the evergreens made splashes of color throughout the winter desolation. He made his decision and fled into the gardens.
Jingen still had the hellblade, which Stygean had stolen. Back when Jingen had still been able to egg him into trouble, Stygean had stolen two of them. The months of 'you and me against the world' had been intense. They were going to avenge their fathers and themselves on Anksha and Isranon. Anksha had slain Jingen's father outright and taken Stygean's father as a blood-slave. Blood-slaves withered and died. Stygean had surrendered his blade to Randilyn after learning that Isranon's power was what had kept his father alive for so many weeks.
&n
bsp; Pausing to wrap his scarf around his neck and pull the hood of his cloak up, Stygean climbed through a rose arbor, the thorny old growth wall catching at his clothing. His thoughts kept circling around the blade. He had refused to betray Jingen's role in all the trouble they had caused or that it had been Jingen who killed that little girl last autumn. Only a fool or a coward betrayed a fellow sa'necari to the other races. Although there was now bad blood between them, Stygean would not break the code of honor he had been reared to. His troubles with Jingen were a private matter; and it would remain so, even should it come to violence in time.
He stood for a time, crunching the snow in a circle around himself. Stygean was warm enough except for his nose. He had never encountered snow before riding north with Isranon's company. He hated the cold, but loved the way you could pack the snow into odd forms.
A strange noise drew him toward a thicket of pine trees. He stole to the edge and peered inside. Embarrassment set his cheeks to burning. Nevin had his lover, Gordain, pressed against the leafless bole of an oak tree. The two were kissing passionately. Gordain had his hand on Nevin's crotch, squeezing it. Canine noises of pleasure rumbled from their throats. The lycan had seemed a grim, taciturn mon until Gordain entered his life; now Stygean had actually heard him laugh on several occasions.
The boy tried to back away before they noticed him. A pile of pine needles crunched beneath his foot. He glanced up, gulped and spun about to run as Nevin and Gordain broke their clench, lunging for him.
"I wasn't sneaking." Stygean's voice wobbled. "I swear I wasn't."
Nevin reached him first and grabbed his arm. Then Gordain had him by the other.
"Let me go!" Stygean flailed about with his legs. "I heard a noise and looked to see what it was. That's all."
They hoisted him up, swinging him back and forth laughing.
"Sharp ears and noisy feet, lad. Thought we trained that out of you." Gordain balanced his stance, grabbed Stygean's leg and made as if to toss him into a snow drift. "Shall we, Nevin?"
"I'm game."
The lycans built up some momentum and released him with a heave.
Stygean hit the drift and came up shivering. He scrambled around to see if they were coming after him or if they were satisfied with the indignity of tossing him in the drift. His eyes widened as he saw them making snow balls, and he dove back in with a yelp. Digging his way through to the other side, Stygean crouched down and produced his own small pile of ammunition.
The two myn came closer when they failed to see him emerge. Stygean moved his snow balls to the base of a denuded oak tree among the pines and watched for his chance. He straightened and pelted both of them. One splatted in Nevin's face.
Following the sounds of the laughter, Iyan Helyt arrived. "Not fair! Two of you on Stygean."
Gordain paused with a snowball in his hand. "Then do something about it."
Iyan scooped a snowball and proved why he was one of the best slingers in the army despite his youth. The scruffy, dark-haired boy smacked Gordain in the face with his first throw.
Army boys drifted into the garden, saw what was going on and joined in. More lycan scouts arrived. A snowball war soon formed up between the lycans, all of them adults, and the boys – all humans except for Stygean.
Jingen stood in the shadow of a pine tree, watching. He drifted nearer, his steps uncertain. He could not understand how, after all the things that Stygean had done, the boy had friends. Stooping, he made a snowball and threw it at the nearest boy, who turned out to be Iyan.
The slinger spun about ready to throw. His eyes met Jingen's and he lowered his hand. "Oh, it's you." Contempt shone in Iyan's eyes. He turned, walked away, and was soon caught up in the fun again.
The rejection stung and Jingen made no further attempts to join the play. The tables had been turned on him. It used to be Stygean they were all rejecting and Jingen who was accepted. Although Jingen wracked his memories for when it had all gone wrong for him, he could not come up with it – unless it was something that happened between Stygean and Isranon that day in the tent where Stygean was supposed to ambush the renunciate.
"Damn you all. I hate every single one of you."
CHAPTER FOUR
KOEJELUS
Veranoctem 8, 1077
Isranon had spent most of the hours since their arrival sleeping. Anksha would prod him awake to eat, take his medicine and deal with whatever matters could not be put off – such as his conversation yesterday with Nevin. He had not realized the full extent of his exhaustion until the welcome feast, when it seemed to all catch up with him. The strain of getting his people safely to Ildyrsetts had taken a heavy toll.
Anksha curled up next to him on the bed naked. He ran his hand over the ivory fur that covered her from wrists to ankles and ended at her collar bones. The tip of Anksha's tightly curled tail twitched. Isranon watched it a moment and then slapped his hand down on it, grinning at her.
She gave him a reproving look. He was the only one allowed to touch her tail. Whenever she offered to allow someone else to touch it, it was a prelude to her unleashing her pheromonal magic and taking them as a blood-slave. Isranon trailed his fingers across the little demon-eater's swollen belly. The indigenous species, which the god Ishla the Tinkerer had used to create the demon-eaters, had evolved from lions. They were believed extinct, as were the demon-eaters except for Anksha.
Anksha freed her tail and then twitched it under Isranon's chin. "You are feeling better, My Isranon?"
"Yes." He kissed her.
A knock came at the door. Anksha's eyes rounded with affront. "Companies?"
"Just a moment." Isranon called out as he nudged Anksha. "Get a robe on, Pet."
Anksha scampered across the room and wrapped herself up. No longer forced to hide her tail to pass for human, all of her garments now had small slits in the back. She wiggled until her tail emerged. Isranon pulled on his trousers and threw a tunic over them before opening the door. Anksha darted through ahead of him, her nostrils flaring at the scent of the two myn standing in the parlor.
Koejelus, the master earthmage, stood beside the table as if waiting for permission to sit. The mage's racial heritage showed in his modest height, blocky muscular body and pointed ears. He was a mongrel mix of dwarf, Valdren and human. As trade brought the various nations and peoples into closer contact, more interracial mixes had appeared. A thread of tension slithered through Isranon, recalling the words of Dane Jayce, the ancient vampire who was the last survivor of Louistrana.
He still could not quite place his finger upon why Dane's information bothered him. Dane had told him that the majority of races on Daverana had once been human. A genetic arms race, which contributed to the destruction of Louistrana, had created everything from the dwarves to the trolls and many creatures in between. Dane had even claimed that Louistrana had built cities on the moon and that the lights in the night skies were other worlds.
Koejelus’ slender, copper-skinned assistant waited patiently beside him. Isranon's attention was drawn to the mon who could have been either Waejontori or Doronarian, since both descended from the same original tribes who had settled in the north. Studying the assistant's features a moment more, Isranon decided that the delicate planes of his cheek bones suggested the blood of a high caste sa'necari somewhere in his ancestry; however, he was clearly not sa'necari to Isranon's arcane senses.
Koejelus gave them a polite dip of his shoulders. "Lady Anksha. Lord Isranon."
Anksha preened at being called 'lady,' poofing her thick black hair in a gesture that Isranon had never seen her use before.
Isranon indicated they should seat themselves, while Anksha chose to curl up on the sofa.
"You will be getting visits from each of the masters over the next few days." Koejelus adjusted his robes, settling in the chair better. "Nans has insisted upon postponing all major meetings until you are more rested. By the luck of the draw, I am first." Koejelus' languid manner and slow enunciation could not ma
sk the sharp intelligence in his eyes as he assessed Isranon.
"I expected it."
"No interrogating my Isranon." Anksha bristled, baring her tearing, feline fangs at him.
Isranon gestured her to silence and she settled into a sulk. "Ask whatever you wish."
"I will ask your forgiveness ahead of time. Some of my questions will probably appear quite impertinent; however, I feel driven to ask them." Koejelus' eyes slewed sidewise at his silent companion, who sat wincing at the sight of Anksha's fangs.
"Ask," Isranon repeated.
"Then I shall. I have never spoken to a sa'necari before, except for a brief exchange of insults before I killed him."
"Killing?" Anksha's hair haloed with energy. "Not my Isranon!"
Koejelus raised his hand to reassure her. "I would never harm one of Lord Edvarde's guests. This is neutral ground."
Anksha glanced at Isranon, received a nod from him, and smoothed her hair down. The bittersweet scent of her powers lingered in the air, despite the fact that she had not made the strike with her pheromones. She focused on Koejelus' companion instead. "Who are you?"
He swallowed nervously and glanced at Koejelus.
"Forgive me for not introducing my friend, Merick. He's a Reader and Mender with an interesting side talent. He's a truthsayer."
"You think my Isranon lies?" Anksha's lips curled back, making her fangs seem all the larger.
Merick started shaking, his eyes as wide as saucers. "The Beast! Ware, Koejelus! She's the Beast of Brandrahoon."
"Is she?" Koejelus' mouth pursed into an impish smile. "So, you stole Hoon's demon-eater. Impressive."
Isranon nodded. "Anksha is the Beast. So long as you offer me no harm, you are safe from her." He added in Waejontori, "Right, Pet? Don't bite the nice mage?"
"If he's nasty, can I bite him?"
"No."
Anksha flounced on the edge of the sofa, which was becoming harder to do as her belly was now swelling at an incredible rate. Demon-eater pregnancies were only two trimesters, according to what Dane Jayce had told Isranon; and he could easily believe it. "If he's a bad mon..."
