JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II Page 6

  Prince Mephistis rolled onto his side and drew his feet under him in an effort to sit. Instantly Isranon started toward his prince to help him, but Mephistis waved the youth off. Then he began ordering them into pairs to make their way to the occupied zone of Waejontor. From there, they could reach the sliver of mountains still held by their people. Ten years past the Sharani had overrun their homeland in a bitter war.

  One day they would reclaim their lands and punish the insolent Sharani. Mephistis thought long concerning Isranon. He dared not send him alone through these dangerous lands. The Sharani burned captured sa'necari alive; and yet, sending him with the wrong one was just as dangerous, for his own people were just as apt to kill him and eat him. They had come close to it at Sowayn. Mephistis would have gone with Isranon himself, but he needed to wait for his beloved Margren, and he needed time to heal. Too many in one place was just as dangerous; too many lingering close to Dragonshead would draw unwanted attention.

  "Troyes," Mephistis said, calling one of the middle ranks to him. "I want you to ride with Isranon as far as the farm of Claw Redhand. Then I want you to continue on to my brother King Baaltrystan and carry word of what has happened here."

  "Alone?" Troyes' sounded speculative, eyeing Isranon.

  "Alone. Leave Isranon with Claw. If something happens to him, whether it is your fault or not, you'll be belly down. Understood?" Mephistis snarled. Belly down and taken in the rite of mortgiefan that shattered souls.

  Troyes nodded. "Yes, my prince."

  Isranon looked uneasy, but said nothing. Mephistis appreciated that. Isranon was his only true friend and never questioned him. The prince wanted the youth safe. Nevin, the lycan lawgiver, was the youth's guurmondru, which meant loosely godfather, but was more precisely translated as Teacher of the Ways. Nevin would keep him safe.

  * * * *

  Isranon and Troyes walked north through the thickening snow along a hunter's trace, skirting a small village east of Rowan City. He watched Troyes cautiously and surreptitiously from the corners of his eyes. Troyes made him edgy just by being there. Last autumn on his birthday, which came on Sowayn, Margren had declared an orgy in Mephistis' absence. As part of the entertainment, the sa'necari had forced Isranon to run a gauntlet across the great hall as the price of rescuing the little nibari – specially bred, genetically-altered, human cattle – named Rose, with whom he had fallen in love. They nearly killed him before Mephistis, who had returned early from his journey, disrupted it. In the confusion some of them escaped with Rose and rited her in mortgiefan. Isranon could not say what part in that Troyes might have played, but his suspicions were enough to make him leery of his companion.

  Mephistis' threat had evidently sobered Troyes enough that the large sa'necari said little to Isranon that first day, which suited him fine. He considered fleeing Troyes at some point, but that would have been a statement of his vulnerability, an invitation to Troyes to take his chances and eat him. So Isranon would not do that, unless forced. He wore a brace of long blades at tied to his hips and thighs, and a longsword at his back. He tied his thick, curly, black hair at the nape of his neck. They needed to find less conspicuous clothing and horses. They were conspicuous enough being two males traveling alone in a realm where three out of four were female.

  The hunter's trace ended at a back road and they turned up it, keeping to the trees along the sides. Should they hear someone approaching, they could easily slip out of sight.

  The hunger for blood would come in time. It did not come as often as the hunger for food, although some sa'necari fed at every opportunity simply because they enjoyed it. Some fed on blood alone, by preference. Most sa'necari were still made, not born; although in the older lineages, like his own, where the rites had gone on so long over the generations that the genes had altered, the need for blood arrived with puberty as well as the means for taking it.

  Isranon could go for days without craving it, but eventually it would become a painful, aching necessity that would twist in his guts like the blade of a knife. His body felt healthiest when he took a bit each evening, like sex. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, blood and sex. A comfortable routine. That was how it had been with Rose. She had never denied him her blood or her body. His throat and chest tightened at the thought of her. Tears pressed his eyes, but he refused to let them out. It was not safe to show weakness and he had not yet allowed himself to fully mourn for her. He shook himself out of his thoughts as he noticed Troyes walking up to a house on the roadside. It was the first building he had seen in hours.

  The wood slat house had a narrow rail porch. Troyes stepped onto the porch, peered in a window through a crack in the curtains, and smiled. Barrels lined the side of the house and a long barn ran out behind them. Troyes shook the snow from his cloak as he knocked on the door. Isranon hung back, knowing what was coming. He saw the stout farmer come to the door. Troyes raised his hand and took her mind. Then he entered.

  Isranon came up on the porch, sat down on a chair, and watched the snow falling. He felt miserable. The occupants' terror ripped through him. His stomach tightened and soured. Isranon pressed his arms against his stomach. It was harder to take the terror of others, the pain of others, than it was his own. He would rather be beaten himself than to watch others beaten. Then he felt a soul shatter. Mortgiefan. Troyes was taking mortgiefan. Isranon snapped his shields up, closing it all out as tightly as he could, retreating into the silences as he had been taught as a child.

  "I hate you. I hate all of your kind..." My kind. My kind... I am a monster. What use is it to fight them? It is their nature, like the lions of the forest. No. No, it does not have to be my way.

  He was never certain how time could disappear, but darkness came. Troyes emerged, standing in the door with blood around his mouth and a contemptuous turn to his sensual lips. "Aren't you going to come in and eat?"

  Isranon lifted his head from his knees and uncurled, not remembering exactly when he had drawn so deeply into himself. "Are they all dead?"

  "Yes, half-a-mon, they are all dead."

  Isranon released a long breath. "Then I will come in and eat."

  Troyes stepped back inside, allowing Isranon to walk past him. The first room was awash in blood. Troyes had played here. There had been no struggle. He had taken them all easily with his power, snaring their minds with a touch and a glance before they realized what he was. Three adults, all women.

  The Sharani had few males. Although the curse that prevented nearly all births of males among them had ended nearly fifteen years ago, it had done little to increase the numbers of males. Only one in four were born male. One woman hung from a door by her leg, her throat slit, her blood draining into a basin. Another lay staked in the middle of the floor – that was the mortgiefan he had sensed – raped and cut to ribbons. The third was tossed across the couch half eaten. Isranon went to the kitchen, found a cup, and dipped blood from the basin, drinking it thirstily. He felt dirty, but the blood tasted wonderful; it soothed him. He saw stairs leading up. There had to be more ugliness up there and part of him did not want to see it; but part of him felt drawn to it. He climbed the stairs and found the children's rooms. Troyes had raped the children before he killed them – but at least there had been no mortgiefan; he had not taken their souls.

  "If there is a god that listens to misbegotten creatures like myself, give me a way to stop this." Then he shook himself, folding his hands behind his neck, bowing his head in resignation. The only god who listened to the sa'necari born was the Hellgod, Bellocar, and Isranon refused to either worship or propitiate that one.

  The words had become a litany, one that he often repeated in varying forms and degrees. "Sa'necari do this because it is their nature, like the beasts of the field. There is no way I can stop it. It is a fact of existence. At least it does not have to be my existence."

  It will be better when I reach Claw's farm. Isranon had probably spent more years there, hiding, than he had fleeing the sa'necari with his father and
the rest of the Dark Brothers of the Light. They were all dead now. The sa'necari had murdered them all as heretics. Isranon was the last.

  He went through the adults' wardrobes, the Sharani were large, and found clothing, tunic and pants that fit him. In Shaurone the sexes dressed closely alike except for festivals when the women liked to show their males off, by putting them in fancy robes and kilts. Then he went down again to the front room. He put together packs of supplies from their cabinets and a pair of bedrolls, which he carried out to the barns where he had glimpsed horses.

  "We might as well sleep inside," Troyes said, following him out.

  "I'll sleep in the barn." The thought of sleeping with the bodies chilled Isranon.

  "Then maybe I'll sleep in the barn." Troyes brushed Isranon's cheek. "Do you play nibble games, Isranon?" He flashed his fangs, which were still extended.

  Troyes had asked him that before. But that had been within the precincts of Mephistis' hidden citadel at Dragonshead. There, Isranon had had Mephistis and the vampire, Dane Jayce, to back up his refusals to couple with and yield his blood to the stronger sa'necari. Now he had no one and nothing, save his stubborn pride.

  "No." Isranon knew that if Troyes pushed the issue it was a fight that he would lose; he was overmatched from the start by Troyes. By never having crossed the line and taken a life in the rites, his powers were little more than a child's. He knew the spells of death magic and could use them, but his powers were weak. He relied on his blades, strength and speed; but a mere swordsmon had no chance against a sa'necari of Troyes' ability – even one who had been trained by the lycans as Isranon had been.

  "I've heard you like pain." Troyes' hand tightened on Isranon's arm.

  Isranon jerked free. He was of average height, but already becoming very broad through the shoulders and chest. He would be powerfully built when he finished filling out.

  "You've heard wrong." Isranon backed away, drawing his sword and filling his other hand with power. If Troyes wanted a taste of him, he would have to fight for it. He did not fully realize the import of what he had instinctually done; but Troyes gave him an odd look, his head cocked, and withdrew cautiously.

  "I know your kind. Never knew a sa'necari could do it."

  "Just back off and leave me alone." Isranon went into the barn, curling up in the straw. He had barely settled before he came instantly to his hands and knees. His stomach seized and heaved. Had he eaten the food would be spewing back up, but blood was always absorbed by the body as swiftly as it entered. Dry heaves wracking him for several minutes, leaving him feeling weak and sick. He had been terrified and disgusted by Troyes.

  Voices whispered around him. "He thinks you're a battlemage, Dark Brother."

  Isranon opened his eyes and saw the ghosts of two of the farmers, their children crowding around them. The third farmer, who had been shattered in mortgiefan, was missing. The familiar sick chill wrapped through him with feelings of guilt and powerlessness.

  Ghosts did not speak to sa'necari, and in this Isranon differed from the others. He had been seeing ghosts all his life. Normally these thin, shifting phantasms hated the sa'necari and the keen distaste was mutual, for ghosts were the only undead the sa'necari could neither mimic nor master.

  "What is a battlemage?"

  "You have been kept in ignorance. By yourself as much as by them."

  "But I have been around others of my kind at Mephistis' court for four years!"

  "They sense your difference and do not speak. And when they do speak, you build a castle around your mind and do not hear. We, newly dead, speak not just for ourselves, but also for all. We are the voice of many."

  Isranon bowed his head at the ghost's words. "My sister and I hid with the lycans and our nibari until Mephistis found us. With the Dark Brothers and our fathers, we did not speak of anything outside our survival. And we got that by fleeing into the silence. What is it you want?"

  We are sent here to warn you. Learn or die. Once there were three brothers. The vampire, the sa'necari, and the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits.

  "Learn what?" Isranon cried out helplessly. "Learn what?" But the ghosts were gone. He knew the old text they referred to, but not why they brought it up now. It did not change anything.

  "Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon the vampire, Isranon called the Dawnhand, speaker to spirits, and Waejonan the Accursed, first of sa'necari. Isranon defied his brothers and was destroyed, his descendants forced into the darkness."

  Did they mean that, like his ancestor, his time to die had arrived? Would it be like Dawnhand's death? Impaled on a stake.

  Isranon's sphincters tightened at the thought of a large, greased shaft entering him, forcing its way deeper and deeper until its steel point broke through the muscle at his shoulder. It had taken Dawnhand a full day to die in terrible agony.

  * * * *

  They rode as the crow flew, angling straight to the frozen Arris River. Isranon knew he could never have found his way here with the skill and certainty that Troyes did. The sa'necari spoke little to Isranon, watching him covertly from the corners of his eyes. Isranon gave Troyes no sign that he had caught those small glances. Troyes had shared out the bottles at the farm, after he filled them, with Isranon. So the youth had his own supply in the golden preserving bottles that kept blood as fresh as it came from living veins. He would not have to ask Troyes for any when the need came hard upon him four days later.

  Isranon saw that Troyes chose to take no food and clearly intended to live off the blood alone or feed again on the living. They crossed the Arris at dusk, entering the edge of the Aluin Mar'ajanate by way of the iced over fords made easily passable by a thick crust of snow that gave their mounts purchase over the ground. Troyes made camp in the ironwoods at the foot of the southern spur of the Iradrim Mountains above the village of Farennd on the third day since escaping Dragonshead.

  Troyes built a small fire, settling back against his saddle as a pillow, a preserving bottle in his hand, drinking the blood as if it were wine, rolling it around in his mouth to savor the taste before swallowing. "Why did your father give you a traitor's name?"

  Isranon ate cheese, not yet craving the blood enough to drink it. He was determined to let it become a roar in his body before he drank. He ignored Troyes, the words of the teachings running through his minds:

  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.

  "You did not answer me," Troyes prodded, setting his bottle aside.

  Isranon shrugged, building a castle in his mind, retreating into the silences. "I never asked."

  "You should ask him."

  "He's dead. They burned him."

  Troyes nodded and, when he said nothing more, Isranon knew that the sa'necari had assumed the ones who did it had been Sharani. Isranon's mouth tightened as he built that silent castle in his mind against the memory of the sa'necari burning his father and the others – those that they had not taken in mortgiefan. Only he and his sister had escaped. Shortly after that Mephistis found them and became their protector.

  "Shall I take first watch, Troyes?"

  "No, get some rest."

  * * * *

  Isranon carried his flute in a case that hung on a string around his neck. It was the only surviving relic of his ancestor, the Dawnhand, and
he treasured it. The ache to play it worsened day by day as they rode northwest. The music had often been his only comfort, since the craving for blood first came upon him at ten. He remembered Margren's mate, the minstrel, Juldrid, who used to sit and play with him on the bluffs of Dragonshead. His hands stroked the case, but he did not take it out, lest he anger Troyes unnecessarily. He had learned long ago that the music of a flute irritated sa'necari. They disparaged it usually; some even said they found it foul; but others, those most steeped in death – even his beloved prince –winced from the sound, finding it painful because the music of a flute was the sound of life. No other source of music troubled them.

  They had entered the thick woodlands of the Danae Mar'ajanate on the tenth day of riding and followed the foothills along the mountains until the Iradrims merged with the higher peaks of the Eiralyskali range. There they descended into the rugged canyons and twisted valleys that looked like an impossible giant had ripped his fingers through the soil. They traveled mostly by night, cautiously eluding the patrols as they rode deeper into the occupied zone.

  They reached the town of Hell's Widow three weeks later. Hell's Widow had once been prosperous – if anything Waejontori could be said to have been prosperous when the upper classes had a reputation for cannibalism. The Regent of Danae controlled this sector, and she had a lighter hand than the Saer'ajan. The Waejontori women of the lower classes dressed in unrelieved black, mid-calf smocks that brushed the tops of their boots, their faces framed in heavy scarves, walking with eyes downcast as befitted their sex – or so custom decreed. This stood in marked contrast to their Sharani overlords, who strode among them with their arrogant manners, like males in their pride.

  Isranon wished that Troyes had not chosen to ride openly into the town. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the Sharani could simply look at them and smell sa'necari. Troyes looked over all the signs on the inns and taverns. Isranon could tell that he was looking for something. Finally, Troyes must have found what he sought, because they turned in at the yard of one near the outskirts at the far side. A boy started to take their horses and Troyes shook his head, asking to see the stable master. When the man came, Troyes whispered something to him that Isranon could not hear, and then passed him gold and a small object. Isranon understood: this was a waystation.