by JANRAE FRANK
"He's not. Aren't you supposed to be having your knitting lesson about now?"
Anksha's eyes lit up. She slid off the sofa and grabbed a canvas bag from the floor by the legs. Reaching inside, she produced a piece of knitting and brandished it at them. It was supposed to be square, but one side sloped steeply. "My knitting."
Then she spun about, nearly losing her balance, and waddled from the room.
Merick chuckled. "She only bites bad myn?"
"You understood what I said?" Isranon eyed Merick suspiciously.
"I'm Waejontori. My cousin Luciano runs a mage shop in Skullbones."
Isranon's expression brightened. "I think I've met him. The Scarlet Angel?"
Koejelus folded his hands together, steepled his forefingers and sat tapping them against his lips with a bemused look, listening to them.
"That's the one."
"How is he?"
A pensive cast crept into Merick's eyes. "Last letter I got from him, he had closed the shop and fled to Red Wolf."
"Why?"
"You've heard about the Rebellion, haven't you?"
Isranon's brow furrowed. "What rebellion?"
"There's a new queen on the throne of Waejontor: Tomyrilen the Bastard. Prince Shintar got her on a Sharani banewitch during the Great War."
"The throne belongs to Mephistis' sons, Wolff and Fauxx."
"No one knows where they are. Tomyrilen sent assassins after them, but the boys escaped. They vanished along with a shopkeeper named Amberlin. Where she's taken them is anyone's guess."
"I hope they're safe." Isranon struggled to process everything that Merick told him.
"So do a lot of folks."
Isranon's eyes narrowed. "Koejelus brought you as much because you're Waejontori as for your talents."
"I must plead guilty to that." Koejelus' smile lost its amusement. "Merick is a valuable source of information to me, but even so, sa'necari do not share their secrets with the common folk. No offense meant, but our only knowledge of the sa'necari has been how to kill them. Until now."
Isranon lowered his head, reflecting for a moment. "The Dark Brothers of the Light renounced the ways of their sa'necari heritage, but they could not escape what they were born. Both the people of the light and those of the darkness murdered them. The only ones to offer them refuge were the lycan clans and chiefdoms. My family and people were massacred by the sa'necari when I was twelve. I escaped with my sister. Two years later, the sa'necari killed her and I was left alone."
"They must not have fought back well."
"They did not fight back at all. Their philosophy was iron-clad. Violence is the law of the beast. Peace is the law of the soul. This was their creed:
"The Darkness hunts us and the Light does not want us. Better to step willingly into the fires than to live undead. Better to die with honor than to take a life in the rites. Let each mon go to his own path, but these are ours. And these will always be ours, for this is what we were born to. This is the path the gods have given us, for we are the Dark Brothers of the Light. We are the walking dead who live, for our lives were forfeit with our birth. Forfeit twice over for our choice to live as myn, not monsters, though we are forced to dwell among the monsters. Set yourself apart in your words, in your deeds, in your silence –always in your silence, for silence is your castle. Be as still as the deer in the forest, and if you are fortunate the predators will not notice you. For when they notice you, they will eat you."
Koejelus remained silent for several minutes after Isranon finished, considering the implications. "I don't see how they survived as long as they did."
"The lycans are how. They owed my ancestor, Dawnhand, a debt. He rescued them from Waejonan, helped them escape into the mountains. That was the last straw for Waejonan. So it cost Dawnhand his life, and that of his wife and three daughters." The color faded from Isranon's face with a sharp intake of breath. He doubled over, clutching at his mid-section as pain shot through his body.
Merick darted from his chair and caught Isranon, cradling him. He grasped the mage's wrist, extending his Reader's gift through Isranon's body.
"Medicine..." A groan climbed up Isranon's throat and escaped between his lips.
"Where?"
Isranon pointed at a cabinet. "Bottom drawer."
Koejelus leaned forward and pulled the drawer open, taking out a bottle. "This?"
"Sanguine Rose. Yes."
"How much?" Koejelus spied a dosing glass in the drawer, snatched it out, and studied the label on the bottle.
"Four marks."
Koejelus filled the glass to the proper measure, passing it to Merick who held it to Isranon's lips. "Edvarde said you were ill. I've never heard of one of your kind being sick before. You're hard to kill. I've seen sa'necari cut to ribbons and keep fighting."
Merick moved Isranon to the sofa and placed several throw-pillows to his back.
"Tell him what you found, Merick?" Isranon suggested.
The Reader nodded. "The illness is not a natural one. Spells lodged within old wounds. Divinator."
Koejelus blanched.
Isranon averted his gaze from the pity he saw in Merick's eyes. "You're perceptive."
"It's a requirement for survival in our homeland. Isn't it, Isranon?" Merick placed the glass on the table.
"Yes, it is."
Koejelus looked from face to face. "There's a cure, isn't there? Must be if it's arcane."
"Mortgiefan. I refuse to live at that price." Color crept back into Isranon's cheeks as he began to feel the drug. "I would rather die than take a life in the rites."
"Edvarde is right. You're like no sa'necari I have ever encountered before. I will speak to the others on your behalf." Koejelus rose from his chair and walked to the door, turning back a moment before leaving. "Forgive my skepticism."
Then Koejelus left. Merick hesitated before following his master out.
* * * *
A ballroom on the third floor had been turned into a common room for the soldiers on one side and officers on the other. A long, shaggy runner served as the demarcation between them. Mismatched tables and chairs abounded, looking as if Jeevys had pulled out everything he could find in storage. Three long trestle tables took up the center of the soldiers’ side, flanked by tables: some round and others square.
Food was free to everyone, with the exception of the special pastries and the soldiers' liquor: three pence for beer and nine for whiskey. The officers drank free. Isranon's aide-de-camp, Tenly, was in charge. He had put their nibari to work in the secondary kitchen on that floor, baking pastries and other delights that were offered three for a penny.
There were also some makeshift shelves behind the bar with trinkets and other interesting bits he had salvaged from the abandoned towns along their route and now offered for sale. It was not as good as being allowed to go into Ildyrsetts proper, but there was talk of giving out passes eventually.
The officers' section was far more comfortable, with little faux alcoves created by tables and overstuffed wing chairs. Despite Isranon's attempts to encourage racial mixing, very little actually occurred off duty; Lycans tended to drink with lycans and humans with humans.
Nevin spied the farthest corner in the officer's section and strode toward it with Gordain beside him. He took the chair in the very corner, where he could have his back to the wall and see everything that went on. Gordain started to sit and Nevin shook his head.
"Check on the lad. I've a hunch that something's amiss with him. He's at loose ends since Isranon has had no time for him. And there's something else I can't put my finger on."
"If you ask me, odds are it's Jingen. Matters haven't been right between them since Stygean's father died."
"You've noticed it too?"
"Hard not to."
"Go on then."
Gordain bent and kissed Nevin's mouth before departing.
A pretty, blonde nibari came to Nevin's table to take his order. She was part of the herd that Isr
anon had confiscated from Stygean's late father: Liuthan Loosestrife had bred them for physical beauty and Farris was no exception.
She had a red "do not touch" badge pinned to her shoulder, which meant she was either in season or pregnant. Rumor claimed it was the latter. Nibari had a ninety day cycle with a five to seven day fertility period, which meant that whoever had gotten her up the stick must have snuck in and mounted her outside the allowed period and without permission.
"Luck told me you're not working the scarlet tent any longer."
Farris' cheeks lit. "No, Master Nevin. I must have been too close to season last time I worked it. Now, I've one in the belly."
"Luck must be disappointed. You were his favorite."
"I wouldn't know, Master Nevin. What can I get you?"
"A tankard of red ale."
Nevin watched her go to the bar. A twist of humiliation stained a sense of triumph for him, thinking about pregnant females. He had never had any desire to mate with one of them until the night the lycan mother-god, Tala, summoned all of the wolves in Imralon to contest for the right to mount her; as part of the ritual for choosing a chieftain for a new battle clan. A paroxysm of lust had overwhelmed Nevin. He had fought his way through a sea of younger wolves, only to find that Gordain had reached her first. Nevin yanked Gordain off Tala before they could consummate and entered her himself. Now he had a half-divine son coming.
He barely noted Farris setting the tankard in front of him and absently took a swallow of ale. His mind kept roving over everything. The sound of chair legs scraping the floor dragged Nevin from his thoughts. He glanced up with a sharp word on the tip of his tongue and then left it unsaid. Captains Luck Settlesby and Travis Potshard had joined him at the table. Darianna, Travis' lover, stood behind him, kissed his check and then took the last chair. Nevin's eyes narrowed at the darker end of his ambivalence regarding the liaison between the attractive lycan bitch and a human.
Travis’ cornflower eyes had an awkward schoolboy look, which made Nevin suspect that coming to his table had been Darianna's idea. Brown-haired, square-jawed and unimposing despite his six foot height, Travis wore the runes of a Willodarian ranger. His tanned and weathered skin had the texture of smooth saddle leather. His hands were broad and heavy, calloused and hard, but his touch was gentle. His brown hair was the only thing about him that did not look a bit disheveled, because Darianna had insisted upon brushing his coarse locks back and tying them in a tail.
Ducking his head, Travis mumbled, "Sorry about your cousin."
Nineteen-year-old Darianna ran her fingers through her silver hair, which had a bright orange streak down the middle. She shoved her chair back, leaned across the table and hugged Nevin. "I always liked Nikko. He was a sweet young dog."
"So that's what this is about? Nikko?" Nevin turned his face away, his mouth tight. "I'd rather not talk about him. If I do, I'll probably start keening and what will the humans think?"
"That you've lost your mind, probably," said Luck, scratching idly at his winter beard, which he grew each year to keep his face warm. "Most can't deal with emotional displays – especially like you folks do it. No offense meant."
"None taken." Nevin shook his head in tiny, restless movements, returning his attention to his tankard. He drank it down by a third before he spoke again. "It's a poor trade if we save all these humans we've never met only to lose those we love most back home."
"Have you spoken to Isranon about it?" Luck asked.
"Several times." Nevin shook his head again before returning his gaze to his tankard as if he could see the reflections of his memories in the golden liquor. "He used to do whatever I told him to. Now it seems like he never even listens."
"He's no longer the boy who used to follow you around all the time, Nevin." Darianna patted his arm. "He's all grown up."
"Isranon is unwilling to make time for Stygean. Every time the boy goes to Isranon asking when the lessons will resume or what he ought to do, he gets sent away," Nevin growled bitterly. "I see so much hurt in the lad's eyes..."
"Maybe we ought to spend more time with him," Darianna suggested.
"Don't look at me. Boys with fangs aren't my cup of tea," muttered Travis, which earned him an exasperated glance from Darianna.
Luck ran his gaze across them as if assessing the possibilities. "I'm in favor of it. The boy has no one left. And I think he's trying to behave. If Isranon can't or won't make time for him – as you've said, Nevin – then we ought to step in."
"It won't be the same, but we're better than nothing." Nevin downed the last of his ale and gestured at a passing nibari for more. "So we're agreed?"
Travis opened his mouth and Darianna poked him in the ribs, bringing a reluctant nod from him.
CHAPTER FIVE
CORDWAINER
Veranoctem 9, 1077
For the past decade, Geoffry Cordwainer had been archmage of Ildyrsetts, serving King Jurgen VI in every way demanded of him. Like most of the native Ildyrsetti, he was a lanky mon; the kind that would turn gaunt as he aged, and his hair was as red as the element he had mastered. Where Koejelus had insisted upon a surprise visit, Cordwainer asked for preparations to be made, customs to be observed, and he came alone. Nans had finally permitted Isranon to move about his suite freely, and so they met in the parlor. Shielded by formality, Cordwainer framed his words with care.
"Edvarde offered us very little information about you, other than the fact that you rescued King William Gryphonheart of Gormondi, have renounced your dark ways and hold the possibility of stopping the Minnorian Empress from penetrating further into Gormondi and Darr."
Isranon listened to the long-winded sentences and struggled with some of Cordwainer's words. He spoke Engla – sometimes referred to as the common tongue – and Isranon had only begun to learn it four years ago. He had gotten a lot of practice by reading the spellbooks and journals that Josiah had given him. That, and the fact that many languages of the region were actually dialects of Engla, ensured that Isranon's fluency was rapidly improving, but he still had a ways to go.
"Edvarde says that you call yourself a 'majios sa'necari'. I want you to explain what that means."
Nevin, sitting at the end of the table where he could look at both of them, raised a hairy eyebrow. "So the interrogation of my spiritbrother continues."
"They need to know." Isranon reached over and squeezed Nevin's arm reassuringly. "Most sa'necari are born with a mage gift in addition to the natural necromantic talents. However, it fades in the course of adolescence. I believe that the rites of mortgiefan strengthen the necromancy and destroy the other gifts. The Dark Brothers left all of their arcane talents undeveloped, believing that their use would lead to the darkness of the rites. So I have nothing to go on other than my own experiences and theories."
"You're a conundrum, Isranon. It is hard to credit the rumors and Edvarde's insistence that the most powerful mage since Josiah Abelard is a sa'necari renunciate."
"A conun– A what?" Isranon glanced at Nevin for an explanation. "Is that bad?"
Nevin translated the word into lycan, bringing a smile to Isranon's face.
"I suppose I am."
"Suppose?" Cordwainer sounded bemused, wondering if Isranon was being disingenuous. "You're sa'necari-born. We brought only veterans, Isranon. There isn't a master or journeymon among us who hasn't accounted for at least half a dozen of your kind."
"And the apprentices? You brought some of them also." Isranon smiled gently so that his words would not be taken as criticism.
"I stand corrected. Yes, we brought some of our apprentices and novices."
"The red-haired girl is your daughter?" Nevin leaned closer.
"My niece. You've met her?"
A loud guffaw exploded out of Nevin. "She keeps trying to pet us. If she wasn't so cute about it, one of us would have given her a tongue-lashing. We're lycans, not dogs."
"She's never been around lycans before."
"I gathered that."
Isranon's head came up with a sharp glance at Cordwainer. Chinisi? What will Stygean do when he learns her name is that of his dead mother? "I doubt that she's more peculiar than my wife, and the lycans get along well with her."
"I would never call Lady Anksha peculiar." Cordwainer's bemusement faded into discomfort.
"Then you have not been listening to her." Isranon laughed. He had watched her earlier pulling all of the stitches out of her knitting and growling at it before she rushed off for another of her daily lessons.
Geoffry Cordwainer's lips twitched and he yielded into a chuckle. His wall of formality melted like an early frost on a warm morning. "Koejelus and Merick have satisfied me as to your benign nature. I am more interested in your arcane training. How, precisely, are sa'necari taught their arts?"
"I wouldn't know. My powers never passed beyond the level of an adolescent. The turning point is with the rites. Sa'necari power cannot mature without them. The Dark Brothers never practiced the Arts Arcane: neither those of the Light nor those of the Darkness. All that I know of them I learned through observation and instinct."
"Observation and instinct will not teach you to call down the Sunfire Lances. Not even I can do that."
"Josiah Abelard Stormbird taught me." Isranon raked his eyes across the ceiling, lost for a moment in his memories of Josiah.
"The one they say was Abelard himself returned?" Cordwainer's eyes narrowed, doubt and suspicion arriving at mention of the Mage Master.
"That one. And he was Abelard returned to his own lineage." Isranon studied Cordwainer's face, wondering what proof he could offer the mon. "He gave me the Mage Master's spellbooks and journals."
The stunned incredulity in Cordwainer's eyes told Isranon that he had struck a nerve, even before the firemage spoke. "Can I see them?"
Isranon nodded and gestured to his spiritbrother. Nevin rose and returned with a small chest, which he placed upon the table. Isranon opened the mage-locked chest with a word of command, lifted out a stack of books and placed them in front of him. "This is only a small number of them. The rest are stored."
