JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING III Page 2

  "Not going," Arruth said, dully.

  "You have to go. You can't start skipping classes." Jysy pulled her kinky tangle of ringlets back, tying them. Jysy's shoulder length black hair was a dense nest of tight curls, her skin a reddish chocolate midway between her ma'arams' Sharani bronze and her Jedruan sire's deep black-brown. Arruth looked far more like her ma'arams, bronze-skinned, a slender nose and broad cheekbones that formed a delicate heart with her tiny chin, her black hair more wavy than curling, and already showing signs of having their height, being a head taller than her older sister. Jysy was like their oldest sister, Birdie, who was a priest of Dynanna the God of Cussedness, and took after her Jedruan sire, Zarim, getting her smaller than usual stature for a Sharani and curly hair from him. She grabbed at the blankets and Arruth slapped her hands.

  "Don't touch me!" Arruth twisted away from her sister.

  "What am I to tell Master Yukiah?" Jysy demanded, irritatedly. "He's the likeliest to demand an explanation." The armsmaster always demanded to know why one of them did not show up.

  "Tell him it's my menses."

  "Have you started getting them, Arruth?" Jysy asked, abruptly interested. Most Sharani started at ten, but Arruth appeared to be a late bloomer. They also were never the least bit incapacitating, no cramps like the outlands women complained of – however, both of the sisters had been quick to catch onto using them as an excuse to escape chores on occasion.

  "I'm bleeding, yes." Arruth shrank even deeper into her blankets.

  "You have some rags?"

  "I borrowed yours."

  "That's great! That's really great! I'll tell Master Yukiah."

  Jysy ran out of the room. Arruth held it all in until she heard the parlor's door into the corridor click shut. Then she balled up and began to sob.

  "I am going to kill them. I am going to kill them. I don't know how, but I am going to kill them. I will wear their ears on a chain around my neck."

  A knock on the door made Arruth look up. Thinking that Jysy had returned, she hastily wiped her tears on a corner of the blanket to hide them. Then she heard the slight squeak of the wheels on Cass' cleaning cart.

  Cass, the servitor, who cleaned the west wing suites, was clearing out the dishes from the previous day. She was a large matronly woman with five children – two of whom had been accepted into the school – and had been taking care of the west wing for as long as any one could remember. She also wiped noses, comforted broken hearts, and bandaged skinned knees for the younger occupants of the wing. Arruth liked Cass. Everyone did. Everyone trusted Cass.

  "Still in bed?" Cass asked, inclining her head with a curious, concerned expression. "Not feeling well?" She pulled a pile of clean sheets from her cart.

  Arruth shook her head.

  "Have you seen a healer?" Cass left her cart by the door, placed the sheets on Jysy's nightstand, and sat down on the edge of Arruth's bed, patting her hand.

  Arruth nodded. "The nasty one."

  "You mean Solance? Want to talk about it?" Cass asked gently. "We've all had run-ins with Solance at one time or another. He's a nasty mon."

  Arruth almost told her. Then she thought of Talons' and feared telling anyone lest it get back to her. The last thing she wanted to happen in the world was to see Talons disappointed in her. "No."

  "All right then," Cass said patiently. "Can you at least move to the couch in the parlor so I can change the sheets?"

  Arruth nodded and moved to the parlor, dragging the blanket with her.

  * * * *

  Lord Agasthenez Wrathscar sat with his daughters, Philomea, Elomina, Darguarite, and Belyla, in the lower floor study of his large suite. Lord Wrathscar rose from his desk once Belyla arrived. He watched her settle her slightly plump body into a chair, running her eyes nervously around the room, from face to face before dropping her gaze to her folded hands. Wrathscar and his other three daughters had waited for her to join them before beginning the planned conversation.

  Lord Wrathscar was a darkly impressive man, tall and broad through the shoulders, olive-skinned and black haired. He weighed two hundred and sixty five pounds; and none of it was fat. His deep-set eyes had a brooding cast, as if constantly measuring every thing he saw. He wore his thick black hair in a club at base of his bull-neck. A heavy square-cut beard, which covered the lower half of his heavy boned face, and the curling hair on his arms combined to give him a bearish look.

  A small divan and three chairs made an island in the center of the deep green carpets. All were sparely padded, since Wrathscar did not wish people to become too comfortable in his presence. Only his own chair was padded to the point of comfort. It served his philosophy of dominance. It let his guests and associates know who ruled. His two oldest daughters, Philomea and Elomina, shared the divan, curled into the corners, watching him warily. Darguarite sat quietly in the farthest chair.

  He rarely brought his daughters to court, keeping them carefully closeted at his manor, although they were allowed to visit their friends here from time to time. Many new shifts in power had begun taking place since the betrothal of his son, Bryndel, to Talons. So he brought all four of his daughters to stay in their West Wing apartments as pawns in his game.

  "This is why I'm allowing you back to court," he said, running his eyes possessively over them. The oldest three were light-skinned blondes like their dead mother, but the youngest, Belyla was olive-skinned like himself.

  Wrathscar walked over behind the divan, closing his hands on Philomea's shoulders, kneading them. Philomea leaned back against him for a moment. He smiled at that, a lips-only smile. His eyes never lost their hard edge.

  "I want you to listen to the gossip and bring me all you hear." He moved about the room as he spoke, going from daughter to daughter. He stroked his fingers through Elomina's yellow hair and chipped Darguarite under the chin to force her head up. Each one nodded obediently at this contact and he came to Belyla last. Belyla was his only disappointment – other than her brother.

  Belyla flinched when he ran his fingers desultorily along her arm. He gripped her arm, tightening it to the point of causing her pain. If she would not love him, then at least she should fear him. Belyla stifled a whimper and he released her, leaving a darkening bruise on her arm.

  "But stay away from the Guild. I don't want you associating with Guildsmyn. They're too dangerous." Wrathscar dismissed them with a curt wave and returned to his desk.

  * * * *

  Talons Trollbane sat on a balcony of the Music Chamber, a large cabaret and canteen maintained to keep the students and holy-assassins-in-training to the nethergod Hadjys the Dark Judge on campus until the priests could ascertain whether the deity would confirm them or not. The Assassins' Guild did not prey on innocents, but took their victims for a price within the strictures of their religion as an offering to their god. They were the holy avengers of their god who then claimed the souls of their victims, dragging them into his nine hells for purging and punishment.

  From where she sat, Talons could see nearly all of the central section of the castle grounds. Below her, the quad, a large green and gardens located in the center of the compound, sparkled with light from oil lamps hanging from tall poles along the winding paths. At any other time she might have enjoyed looking at it. The city of Havensword had been chiseled into the side of a tall peak in descending walled levels wrapped around and around it. Ishladrim Castle sat at the highest point. The castle grounds held the palace on the north side, forming a quad with the Guild school and university to the west; the library and the high temple of Hadjys to the south; and the Guild training grounds to the east. The training grounds included a substantial bit of forest called the Stalking Grounds, an equestrian section with lists and a salle as well as several obstacle courses.

  She did not want to sit there in the Music Chamber, bored by the sound of harps and lutes coming from the interior. Bryndel, her betrothed, had insisted upon their coming here ... and she had promised her grandsire she would not h
urt him for simply being obnoxiously male. Talons moved the candles around the table listlessly. It was supposed to be romantic, but she simply felt trapped.

  "Hello, Talons." Gylorean Galee smoothed her blue-black hair as she took a chair beside the granddaughter of Takhalme Gee. The Guild's first lord-lieutenant claimed to be of Nordrei descent, but those who knew that sylvan race well would have found her hair and nut-brown skin a taste off.

  Talons tensed. She had never been able to say exactly what it was about Galee that set her on edge. The woman was vain, with a bedroom reputation of immense proportions that only her standing with Talons' grandsire allowed her to get away with. Maybe it was simply that Galee seemed prepared to take anything between her legs that carried the proper equipment. The woman was a hedonist unrivaled in the court. The clinging fabric of Galee's ice blue gown left nothing to the imagination – as usual. Talons lifted her glass of wine in a casual salute and then sipped it. She had to be, at least, somewhat polite. If the Grand Master had not chosen to place her among his core elite, she would have found herself under Galee's command. Talons felt thankful that she was not and never had been one of Galee's agents.

  Galee's slanted eyes, with their conspicuous folds at the corners, slid around the balcony and then over her shoulder into the main chamber as if making certain they were not watched. "And where is your betrothed? I thought you came here together."

  "Bryndel is fetching us some food."

  "Ah. Bryndel is such a nice boy." Galee turned, closing the small privacy doors. Galee's fangs slid from their sheaths and she thrust with a sudden rapier of fascination into Talons' mind, taking her. All Talons' will and focus faded from her grasp. Her arms folded across the table and she leaned forward, staring empty-eyed into the deserted quad.

  Galee smiled, reached to stroke Talons' face, and noted that the heir no longer so much as flinched. It had become so simple after all these months. She stretched across the table, and murmured softly as if her words were the sweet nothings of lovers. "When I have destroyed the Guild, replacing it with my people, I will have crippled or possibly even slain Hadjys through the symbiosis. If that doesn't kill him, this will." Galee flexed her fingers, her nails became claws and venom oozed from the tips. "Your god will die and he will not be the first I have slain."

  Deep beneath the upper layers of her consciousness, Talons heard Galee and her thoughts thrashed, screaming like a mon chained to the bottom of the sea, unable to break the surface and breathe. Dynarien! Dynarien, where are you? Can't you hear me? She called out to the mon she loved in desperate trapped silence and he did not answer. Tomorrow Talons would remember nothing at all of this, except the residue of her terror, which had been the pattern for months.

  The vampire felt the way she struggled, inclined her head to watch Talons' face interestedly, and tightened her hold, causing Talons' mind to go still and empty. She drew a vial from her robes, pouring it into Talons' wine. "It is time to drink your death."

  Talons raised the glass to her lips and drank it, smiling. "It tastes like cherries, Galee. I like it." Galee was so good to her, so kind and sweet. She loved Galee.

  "I am glad you enjoy it, dear." Galee laughed softly. "You are a sweet cow who will give me the world."

  "Thank you, Galee. To serve you is to love you." Had Galee asked her to, Talons would have put a blade through her own heart to please her.

  * * * *

  Bryndel Wrathscar came out onto the balcony with a platter, slices of steaming beef pink in the middle with gravy over them, thick biscuits and chunks of potatoes. His mouth opened and he stared a moment. "Galee," he asked stiffly. "What are you doing here?"

  "I saw you and thought to say hello. Do I need a reason?" She pouted at him teasingly.

  Defiance glimmered for an instant in his eyes, like a trapped child. "No. Of course not." Bryndel Wrathscar was darkly handsome like his father, but slender and lighter of build. He moved with a studied boneless grace as he placed the platter on the table. "Talons, are you all right?" Bryndel noticed how she stirred sluggishly as if coming from a trance and frowned suspiciously at Galee. He knew that Galee was a vampire of some kind, as well as one of his father's secret allies. Should the Guild discover that she was one of the undead, they would kill her. Bryndel also knew that Galee was a creature of secrets, withholding many things from him. Which he believed was just as well, since he doubted he could ever handle knowing them without going mad.

  "Yes. I'm fine," Talons answered.

  Bryndel kissed her, glaring at Galee. The woman had done something to Talons, he felt certain of it.

  "You will both be at the party tomorrow night?" Galee asked.

  "Yes, we'll be there," Bryndel said without so much as a glance in Talons' direction.

  Galee smiled, rose, and left.

  Talons still refused to wear dresses for him, but he did not complain as much since she allowed him to touch her and she never refused him sex. Those deadly black, fingerless gloves that could summon her magical runed tiger claws never left her hands. She slept in them. That still bothered him. He had not been able to convince her to give them up.

  "I love you, Talons," Bryndel's hands closed on her breasts, pinching.

  Talons stiffened, endured it, forcing herself to relax. "I am beginning to love you, Bryndel. Truly."

  "I want that, Talons. I want this to be a love match."

  Bryndel released her, cut up the meat, and began playfully feeding her.

  Talons forced herself to laugh and made a game of it, but the food seemed to stick in her throat. Edouina, please come home. Dynarien, Dynarien, Dynarien, you promised to come when I Called. Where are you? The matchless assassin who had made her first kill at eleven, felt caged and trapped. She felt an undercurrent of unfamiliar and inexplicable panic, which she could neither explain nor escape, haunting her. She had not cried since childhood and yet the tears were there now, close to the surface and demanding expression. Talons had never been a player, avoiding politics and social interaction; she was a loner, a hunter, operating in the shadows, and answering only to the Grand Master; and now she was in over her head and she knew it. When games needed to be played, it was her lover Edouina who played for both of them. But Edouina had been in Shaurone cleaning up the rest of the mess caused by the infiltration of the Guild by the Waejontori's Gold Ravens. Six months without Edouina. And now five weeks without Dynarien.

  "Let's take the food to your rooms," Bryndel suggested. "I'm ready for a ride. I cannot understand why it's taking so long to get a child."

  "I cannot understand why you are in such a rush. The wedding isn't until fall."

  "My father wants proof you're not barren."

  "Perhaps one of the Readers should check me," Talons suggested, as Bryndel stroked her between the legs. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. She wished she were far enough along to feel Dynarien's children moving.

  "Let's go."

  Talons stood up and walked out. Dynarien. Dynarien. Dynarien. Answer, damn you!

  * * * *

  Dynarien heard her calling through the link they shared. She could not hear him, but the voice of her emotions reached across the distance to his mind. He grabbed the edge of the cot, used it to roll himself onto his side, and cried out at the pain in his ribs and shoulder before he could stop himself. His long, red-gold hair fell across his fair-skinned shoulders and into his face as he pushed again at the cot, struggling to rise. Two novices in brown robes rushed to him. Dynarien shoved them away, tipping himself out of bed only to stumble to his knees hard and cry out again, clutching his arms tightly across himself. His crushed bones, ribs, chest, and shoulder were healing; but not fast enough for what he heard in her voice. His was the only cot in the canvas tent, since they had wanted him to be apart from the common soldiers because of his rank. But they always had people sitting in the tent with him in case he needed anything.

  Cool hands touched his face. He looked into the earthmage Laurelyanne's eyes which were like dark l
eaves. Lines had come into her face and white in her hair since the death of her youngest and last surviving son, Brendorn. "Why are you doing this?" she asked him.

  "Talons calls to me ... she's in trouble." Dynarien's sweet tenor was edged with desperation and pain.

  "Is she the one you said you loved?" Laurelyanne asked gently.

  "Yes." Dynarien swallowed, fighting the anguish.

  "She's marrying another. She says she loves him."

  Dynarien shoved at the cot angrily. "It's a lie."

  Laurelyanne sighed. "You can't know that."

  "She carries my child. I promised to go to her. There's more."

  "You are in no shape to do that, lord. Rest. Let yourself heal."

  "I can't. She needs me." And then it all poured out in soft, half-choked anguish, of how both Patriarch Eshraf and Talons herself had argued with the Grand Master that a plot and a vampire existed; how they had argued against the match between the Wrathscars and Talons, and gotten nowhere. Dynarien, because he was neither Creeyan nor Hadjysheen, had been forced to remain silent and in the shadows – impotent.

  Laurelyanne's eyes went soft and maternal. "Perhaps I can speed things up. We have a common affinity in the earth. Let me move you into the tent I'm sharing with Josiah where I can tend you both at the same time."

  Dynarien gave her a smile of gratitude.

  * * * *

  Terrys' bedroom in her private apartments reflected the character of the mon to a degree that Belyla always found enchanting. Delicate white furniture imported from the east, with legs wrought in patterns of arching daffodil stalks. An ivory bed stood in one corner covered by a lace-edged spread, white with appliqué pink flowers all over it. Even the lace and linen curtains on the open windows reflected the dainty femininity of the young mon who gone against the court's grain to befriend Belyla when no one else would. As the last of her family line, Terrys had been allowed to inherit the fortune, lands, and titles that gave her a freedom Belyla envied. To be free! Oh, to be free, thought Belyla.