by JANRAE FRANK
Edvarde had rearranged the drawing room, placing the long table crosswise at the head with himself in the middle. The leaders of the various factions were seated to either side of him.
Two adults and three children (ages twelve, ten and nine) sat in a half moon of chairs with a small, oblong table before them, on which Jeevys had placed an assortment of treats and drinks. The only thing that Isranon was aware of already was that each of the five had ended up alone on the shores of the Hillora and been taken across by the naiads, who had aided Isranon in the past. Beyond that, each had made their way alone through the forests and abandoned towns to Ildyrsetts. They had to be tough and skilled, or else very, very lucky. Glancing over them, Isranon guessed it was the former rather than the latter.
Father Telamon sat with the five refugees. At a gesture from Edvarde, Father Telamon helped a tall mon to his feet. The mage had a young face, yet he tottered like an old mon, leaning heavily upon his walking stick.
"If it pleases you, lords, I would prefer to sit while I give my accounts. Standing for long periods pains me greatly."
"Let him sit," said Isranon, and the others nodded.
Jeevys brought him a chair, and he settled before them. The mage's nearness brought the scent and taste of his pain wafting to Isranon. Normally sa'necari dined upon the taste of pain, and it brought them great pleasure: it sickened Isranon.
"My name is Zorrance. I was once the clerk-marshal of Charas in charge of keeping the Hall of Words running smoothly." He winced, the lines of his face tightening. "I should have abandoned Charas and ridden away with the Sacred King. The prophet, Ishladrie, promised our end should we have snow at mid-summer. It happened. I ignored it."
Isranon touched the godmark on his forehead. "My liege-god says that prophecy is an inexact science."
"And so it is, but this was not."
"Get to the point," growled Haig, sitting at the far right end of the table with Zulaika and Amiri. "Tell us about the attack on Charas."
Isranon blinked, barely hearing the words of the others as the dreadful auric scent of Zorrance's suffering impinged increasingly on his awareness.
"Agreed," said Teague, leaning forward on her elbows. "What are we up against?"
Merick leaned close to Koejelus and whispered in his ear. The mage's eyes narrowed and he nodded. "Tell us about the walls."
All eyes at the great table fixed upon the stonemage. "What about the walls?" asked Father Telamon.
"For those who have either forgotten or never visited Charas," Koejelus rose from his seat, "the walls were a living creature held to that form by crystal wards that also imprisoned it."
Father Telamon made a sign against evil. "Why would they do that?"
Teague ran her gaze across the ceiling with a low whistle. "It ate people. It ate armies that tried to climb the walls. Nothing got through."
"Stop it. Stop it!" Zorrance's voice rose into a shriek, and the crosstalk ceased. His gaze fixed upon Isranon. "You are Dawnreturning?"
"I am."
"The Lady of the River said to give you a message. Destroy Zyne and Galee will be licking her wounds for centuries. Zyne was her host and mortal avatar before Galee regained her body and her godhead. They are linked."
"She told all of us that," said the nine year old mage, nervously fidgeting with a pastry.
Crosstalk broke out and enveloped the chamber in noise. Unable to bear the auric scent any longer, Isranon rose from his seat, left the table, and came to stand before Zorrance.
"I can smell your pain and fear. What did this to you?"
"One of your kind. I dueled him on the banks of the river after I fled. He crippled me. But I killed him."
"Not one of my kind."
"But you're sa'necari, aren't you?"
"You've never met my kind before." Isranon placed his hands on Zorrance's legs. A rainbow aura sprang up around Isranon, and the Hymns of Heaven sang through the room, hushing the crosstalk.
Zorrance let out a long moan. His gaze swept the room in wonder. "My ... my legs. You've healed them."
That news brought everyone rushing from the high table. Father Telamon dropped to his knees. "Blessed be Kalirion, Lord of Light, and blessed be the child born with both sides of the gift."
Heat rose in Isranon's cheeks. "Father, please. I am not the child. I swear I am not the child of prophecy. The child is hidden in Rowanhart."
Isranon retreated across the room, but could not escape the mages and Lord Edvarde.
Teague caught him by the arm and stayed his flight. "What does it matter whether you are THE child or just our blessed child? Prophecy is an inexact science."
Isranon started to protest again, and then swallowed when she parroted his words back at him. "If all of you think I am, then I am."
Zorrance pushed his way through the crowd, dropping to his knees before Isranon. "Holy one."
Merick went to his knees next, tears in his eyes. "All my life I prayed for your coming."
The other refugees followed Zorrance's lead.
Koejelus and Cordwainer knelt.
Edvarde and Nevin went to their knees.
Finally there was no one left standing except Anksha, who came and put her arms around Isranon.
Tears gathered in Isranon's eyes to match those of Merick.
Father Telamon led a prayer and all joined in, except for Anksha and Isranon, who did not know the words. Isranon felt destiny take hold of his shoulders like a heavy weight dropped upon him from on high.
Isranon's actions had thrown the gathering into chaos, and all had gone awry. "Edvarde, please adjourn the meeting. We can come together again in three days."
Edvarde declared it so, and yet no one showed any signs of departing.
Isranon turned to Jeevys. "Can you find space for these survivors on my wing of the manor? I will speak to each one privately over the next few days."
Jeevys rose from his knees, nodding. "It will be done, Holy One.
Isranon put his arm around Anksha and departed the chamber with her, sighing every other step.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOBELIA
Veranoctem 23, 1077
Attractively plump, Lobelia Cordwainer wore her upswept hair in a braided crown. She sat at a small table with a pot of hot tea, sugar and cream beside it. A decanter of fine wine and two glasses flanked a plate of delicate cream pastries in the center of the table. As Geoffry Cordwainer's wife, she had a significant amount of influence, and generally got whatever she wished despite having a very modest gift for mage-craft. Her main source of independent income came from her reputation as a skilled bio-alchemist and toxicologist. Rumor had it that she made more money from poison than from antidotes, although she hotly denied it.
She adjusted her dress, took a small mirror from her pouch and checked her hair and make-up before shouting at the closed door, "Bring her in."
The door opened and a guardsmon escorted Disharyl Scathwick inside. Lobelia gestured for Disharyl to sit and dismissed the guard with a wave. She had had to apply both pleas and pressure to gain private access to Disharyl. A sa'necari bio-alchemist could provide an unusual store of knowledge, and the opportunity to speak with one, in this case Disharyl, seemed too great to pass up. It had been twenty years since she had last spoken to one, and that had been a northerner, not a southerner.
Disharyl's lips curled with the faintest of sneers as she took her chair and glanced at the servings.
"Tea or wine, whichever you prefer."
Disharyl poured a glass of wine. "What do you want?"
"Right to the point, aren't you?" Lobelia smiled.
Disharyl's eyes narrowed as she sipped her drink. "When a human female smelling of magery sends for me – yes. What can you possibly want with a simple sa'necari blood-slave?"
"Wrong question, honey." Lobelia sneered slightly, confident that she had the upper hand in this meeting. "What could I want with a sa'necari bio-alchemist, who I have been told is one of the best?"
> Disharyl settled back on the sofa, turning her glass in her hand, studying the reflections in its dark surface as she drank. "What are you offering me?"
"Greater access to your son. My husband is planning on going north with Lord Dawnreturning."
"And what do you want?"
"Your knowledge of poisons and antidotes, venoms and anti-venoms."
Disharyl laughed. "Most of mine don't have antidotes."
"I want them anyway."
"I am sure you do. Ethan Romilay had much to say about you."
Lobelia tensed. "You knew Ethan Romilay?"
"I was his prize pupil. He said you were good, but not up to my level." Disharyl's lips came together in smug cat-with-a-rat smile. "You are Lobelia Logan Cordwainer, are you not?"
Lobelia's hands shook as she switched from tea to wine. Daring and ambitious, she had secretly made the journey to Waejontor with two older friends when she was fourteen to study under Ethan Romilay, master poison-crafter to the Kings of Waejontor. Of the three of them, only she had survived to return home. Were that ever to become known, then the rumors – that she made substantial money in secret, supplying poisons to people who wished to be rid of difficult relatives and rivals – would be proved true. "Tell anyone that and I'll have your tongue cut out for lying."
"So I'm right."
"Yes." Lobelia flicked the answer at her. "I want to learn everything that you know, especially about the bio-alchemy of sa'necari."
Disharyl let her fangs down and licked them teasingly. "Are you planning on poisoning one of us?"
"Not at the moment, but one never knows."
"Get your hands on a bottle of blood next time. I like mixing blood with my wine." Disharyl drank the last and refilled her glass. She bit into a pastry with her fangs and sucked suggestively on it.
"I'll do that."
"Do you have something to write with? You'll want to take notes."
Lobelia reached into the satchel by her chair and brought forth ink, paper, a quill and a small writing board. "Certainly."
"Then let us begin."
* * * *
Few myn bothered going into the garden any longer. Most were out in the rear yards behind the stables or up in the salle. Jeevys had divided the boys and youths up into teams of four. The defending teams were building snow forts while the attacking teams were building up piles of snowballs as ammunition. The castellan called it winter sports. The snowmyn competition had been the first of five and this was the second. The prize this time included pastries as well as more candy. Each event had a point system. The three teams with the most points would get special prizes from a peddler named Dyna, who had not yet arrived at the manor.
Grygg had wanted Stygean for his team, but the young sa'necari had turned him down. So Grygg had found someone else. Sitting in the winter-desolated garden, Stygean felt an unexpected turn of loneliness and wished that he had given his friend a different answer. A gust of wind pulled at his sheepskin hat, and he tugged it down around his ears. That offered a bit of relief, but not quite enough. So he put the hood of his cloak over his head also. The tangled brown thorns nest, which in the spring would become climbing roses, covering the arbor did little to break the wind.
A flash of blue clothed legs and a long, side-split tunic went past his vision, stopped, and started toward him. "Stygean?"
He did not bother to look up. "Go away, Chinisi, before you get me into more trouble."
Chinisi frowned and sat down on the bench beside him. "I haven't gotten you into trouble. I don't know what you mean."
Stygean sighed. She was so pretty it made him ache, but she seemed rather stupid. "Just don't bring up sex, fangs, or my appetites."
"But those are the most interesting things. You sa'necari are so different from us. What's a 'nibble game'?"
Stygean stared hard at her. "It's where two hemovores take light sips from each other's veins as part of sex."
"Oh." She looked disappointed. "So it cannot be done with a non-hemovore?"
Stygean shook his head. "That's just biting and feeding. Although most like to feed while they … while they 'outrage honor'. And that kind of thing." He hoped he had the term right. He had not really understood what she had meant by it the previous time she had used the term. He kept intending to ask Father Telamon or Nevin what it meant only to get distracted and forget.
"So they only do it with virgins or people who belong to someone else?"
Now Stygean was thoroughly confused. "Maybe I don't really understand what you meant by 'outrage your honor'. Explain it to me."
Chinisi giggled. "It means trying to seduce someone, especially a male seducing a young and innocent woman."
"Like you?"
"Yes. You see, I'm a virgin. Most of my people believe that sex should not happen outside of marriage."
Stygean considered that. "Who told you about 'nibble games'?"
"I promised I wouldn't tell. He said he'd show me how to do it."
Stygean went red. It had to be Jingen. "What did he say they were?"
"Just nibbling on each other, nothing serious. Nothing that would outrage my honor or anything."
"He lied." And I want to pound his face in. "If you don't believe me, ask Lord Dawnreturning or one of the vampires, like Amiri."
"I will do that," Chinisi declared. "I'm researching you, you know."
Oh marvelous. Stygean rolled his eyes.
"Stygean!" Nainee's voice carried through the garden. Stygean rose and walked slowly across the grounds, but he could tell from her expression that she had seen him sitting with Chinisi.
Stygean sucked air. "Yes."
"Lord Dawnreturning wishes to speak with you."
Finally. Finally he would get to explain what had happened. "Let's go."
Nainee looked irritated with him. "You're not stalking that girl are you?"
Stygean winced. "I'm not stalking anyone, Nainee. She keeps following me around asking questions."
"You put hand or fang on her – and especially that thing between your legs – and it could cost Dawnreturning a very valuable alliance. These mages and their entourage are coming with us to fight the sa'nekaryiane."
"I am not going to touch her. I swear it, Nainee."
"Okay, but if I catch you…."
Stygean repressed a sigh. Haig had definitely gone too far in his efforts to make her more assertive.
* * * *
Stygean halted at the door to the meeting room with his hand on the knob, wondering if he was in trouble again. His throat tightened, and he fought down an urge to flee, knowing fully well that doing so would make matters worse. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and hesitated. There were only four myn in the room: Isranon, Cordwainer, Koejelus and Teague.
"Come here, Stygean," Isranon said. "I want them to meet you."
The tall one with the red hair had to be Chinisi's uncle.
"Geoffry Cordwainer, Lord-master of the flame, this is my apprentice, Stygean Loosestrife, recently of Ocealay and son of Liuthan Loosestrife who was once a Captain of the Coast."
Cordwainer looked him over closely. "So you're the one had my niece in the bushes."
Stygean reddened. "We were only talking, Lord. She found me meditating and wanted to know what I was thinking about."
Cordwainer gave a low chuckle. "Sounds like Chinisi. Only don't do it again."
"I won't, sir. You have my word of honor."
Stygean felt a bit better. Evidently these introductions were a test of some kind. Then Isranon turned to the broad-shouldered female in mid-calf tunic, trousers, a set of blades at her hips and a long sword at her back.
"This is Teague Merishin the Battle-Master. Give her your wrist and lower your shields completely."
Stygean winced and complied, remembering the time that he had defied Isranon and refused to lower his shields: Isranon had responded by shattering all of the wards Stygean habitually maintained over his mind and mage centers. Her power surged through him, ex
amining and opening and closing doors within him.
Then she withdrew from him. "I'll do it. You're right. He's a battlemage."
"Do what?" Stygean asked.
"Teague will be helping me with your training," Isranon said.
"But – but…." Stygean's eyes teared up. "Don't send me away."
Isranon smiled and hugged him. "I'm not. Teague can show you things that I either cannot or do not have the time for."
"It isn't often that I get to work with the apprentice of an Abelard. He's not completely pan-elemental, but pretty damned close."
"I don't understand," Stygean said, glancing at Isranon.
"I'm descended of the sister to one of Josiah Abelard's ancestors," Isranon explained. "And one of his grand-daughters."
"As well as Dawnhand?" Stygean's eyes saucered.
"Yes. Now go sit down and have something to eat, Stygean." Isranon dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand and Stygean hurried to the middle of the table, close enough to hear what went on, but far enough to be out of their way.
Isranon turned to the mages. "I want you to examine the rest of the children. I have a theory that some sa'necari are born mage-gifted, but that the rites kill out some talents while increasing others. Then later we will take another look at my mate's blood-slaves."
They all looked eager, never having had so many sa'necari to examine and so safely before.
Stygean tried to pay attention to his food, but he kept noticing the way everyone seemed to be staring at him. Just what had Teague meant by saying he was nearly pan-elemental? That did not seem possible. The first person who came to mind was the very last person he ever wanted to speak to again: Chinisi. He excused himself from the table and walked out the door; once inside the corridor, however, he broke into a run.
Randilyn was just coming in from the yard when he reached the outer doors.
"Have you seen Chinisi?" he asked, slowing to a sedate walk.
Randilyn frowned slightly. "Yes, she is in the rose arbor where Nainee tells me you left her."
"I have a question for her. Something I don't understand. Teague is going to be my teacher for battle-magic."
