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BLOOD DAWN

DARK BROTHERS OF THE LIGHT-BOOK III

By JANRAE FRANK

"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."

–Creed of the Dark Brothers

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.

–St. Tarmus of Lorendon

BEWARE THE BEAST

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Fear the night my darling child.

The Beast-she hunts where no one walks.

Anksha-demon of the wild.

No mercy there for those she stalks.

Akin to none–though human seeming,

Beware her claw–lest ye turn pale.

Though the Bitch of Brandrahoon's preening

Can never hide her furry tail.

All Sa'necari fear her well…

She feeds alike on those, and man.

She'll rend and tear your skin to hell,

Or worse–your soul in mortgiefan!

Sad met this mistress in the dark.

Draw not close and don't be crude.

For an erring child out on a lark.

Shall meet their end as foul Anksha's food.

–Lycan traditional teaching song

CHAPTER ONE. fall of minnoras

Two days from Minnoras, Timon began to see people on the road. They had
crossed theIdarRiver above the place where it fed into the Hillora, and struck
the south road to Minnoras a day back, then the main road that morning. The
highway was wide and deeply rutted by the passage of countless wagons over the
centuries. Scattered stands of white pine sprinkled through with red oaks
leaned out across the edges of the road with a barrier of green leafy brush
and tall plumed grasses between the stands and stretched to the forest proper.
They passed no one going south toward the city, but many people going north.
The majority traveled hurriedly with just the clothes they wore, not so much
as a pack on their backs or a bag on a stick. Occasionally heavily laden
wagons rolled past accompanied by several outriders. Timon saw haunted,
frightened faces everywhere.

Timon had ridden out with a token guard of ten royals. He had seen no need to
bring lycan scouts. This should have been enough for anything they might face;
now he began to wonder. He could tell that these people were running from
something–all of them. He spied a female with three children and seeing her
without a male to protect her was odd; women rarely traveled alone.

"You there!" Timon called to the female. He dismounted and squatted in front
of her.

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She cowered, clutching her children tight. She flinched from his gaze,
dropping her head like a whipped dog.

Timon frowned at the fear he saw in her eyes. "What are you running from? Is
there trouble in Minnoras? I won't hurt you."

"Bad trouble," the mon said, shifting uneasily. "All the priests are dead.
Something howls in the night on the rooftops. Folks going missing."

Timon reached in his pouch, pulled out some coins, and put them in her hand.
"Make for Shaurone, mon."

Shaurone was the most powerful nation on the continent, and the most willing
to take in refugees. While Vallimrah was nearly as strong, the Valdren, one of
the six high races of sylvans, were an insular lot, and did not like humans
entering their lands. In Timon's estimation, Rowanhart was already shaping up
as the third strongest realm under the Sacred King, but it was much farther
from Minnoras and harder to reach. She would still have to travel through
Angrim and Beltria, realms Timon had a serious dislike for because their
aggressively monotheistic religion denied both the Gods of Light and the
hellgods. He doubted the Angrimers and Beltrians would harm a lone female with
children and their roads were closely guarded.

"Yes, lord. I intend to. Thank you, lord." Then she fled with her children.

Timon remounted and they rode further before anyone spoke.

"Sounds like Zyne has gone rogue," Amiri said. She and Zulaika rode closest
to Timon.

"My father should have sent word by now," Timon said thoughtfully. "We had a
decent network in place for such possibilities. Furthermore, Zyne is notsa .
Bodramet's papers saidsa 'nekaryiane." His father had several winged shifters
that he could have sent with messages. If he had sent them, they had not
arrived at the estate. Timon had always relied on riders and birds. None of
his Borealysyn were mirror-gifted or shifters. If myn did not have that gift
before becoming undead, they did not develop it. A warrior mage in his days as
a living mon, his father had it. He had learned it in Imralon on the island
continent of Sealandia before they were forced to flee the wrath of
Willodarus. They had clearly not planned for contingencies as well as they had
believed.

Timon had never told his father that his choices of who dwelled at the estate
were based on the secretive philosophy of the Borealysyn that he had founded
without his father's knowledge.

"The best laid plans," Zulaika replied.

Timon nodded. He had always been cautious by nature, made more so by the
circumstances of his death four thousand years ago. His father took chances
enough for both of them. Which was not to say that his father was reckless,
only more willing to take risks. Timon wondered if Hoon had lost this toss of
the dice as he had so many recent gambles. Hoon's legendary luck seemed to be
finally running out on him.

"Unless he's doing this himself?" Zulaika suggested.

Timon shook his head. "Destroying a city is not my father's idea of getting
himself a kingdom. It has to be the sa'nekaryiane's work. All the more reason

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to reach my father."Or would he? Destroy a city? A rumor had come from Charas
that Hoon had slain all of his nibari and others who might have told the
Sacred King where to find his holdings once it became clear he would lose.

* * * *

The candles had burned nearly out in the little lamps, and the stink of
drowned wicks in liquid wax trailed across the room with thin plumes of black
smoke. Darkness stole across the study like a stalking cat. The wingback
chairs rested on clawed feet in the center before an ornate walnut desk with
curved, flaring legs that narrowed into wooden paws.

Hoon sat at his desk, brooding, his eyes distant. Something had gone wrong,
but what and where? He saw very little of Zyne these days. His venomous
secondary nails had slid from beneath his primary nails to drip little pools
of poison as he pressed them into the wood.

A knock at his door preceded its opening and two Lemyari and a lycan entered:
Kalmaryn, Telemon and Imric.

"Lord, I think we are about to be betrayed," Kalmaryn told him, and then gave
him the rest of the tale of what they had seen across several nights of
watching Zyne.

Hoon considered their words, and found his thoughts drawn back to a time when
he and Mephistis had stood upon the battlements of his lost citadel near
Norendel."You are a dangerous dreamer, Hoon. And you begin to frighten me,"
Mephistis had said. To which Hoon had replied, "I would not need to free the
Hellgod, I would make a new one."

But he had not made a new one; he had released one–that vapor from the box.
"I agree. Galee gave me a box to place by Zyne's head when she rose. I think
more came out of it than information. I think Galee came out of the box."

"Is that possible?" Kalmaryn asked, frowning.

"With Galee, anything is possible. Have you seen any new royals?"

They thought about his question. Yes, they had seen a few.

Hoon sighed. "Get everyone out. ' Amalthea to Jedrua.' I will leave last."

"Lord?" Kalmaryn sounded alarmed, both by the fact that Hoon intended to
leave last, and that he had spoken that particular code. Amalthea meant that
they were to flee as swiftly as possible, stopping for nothing, all the way to
Hoon's estates on the southern continent of Jedrua.

"Get out. If I don't reach Jedrua, Timon is your lord."

"Yes, lord." Kalmaryn bowed himself out, his expression grave.

The word was spread through the mansion and once the last of them had left
safely, Hoon sealed the secret passages beneath the house with a word of
command lodged in a crystal, and then destroyed the crystal.

* * * *

Timon could taste the fear laying like a fog over the streets and oozing from
the buildings. It lingered in the back of his throat like the taste of bad
blood. This city was not a cup he wished to drink from. Timon saw no children

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playing in the streets. The few people abroad walked quickly without meeting
anyone's eyes, their cloaks pulled tight around them against the early autumn
wind. A glance at his companions told Timon that they tasted fear also, as
well as noticing its manifestations.

He had intended to spend several days here. Now he just wanted to get the
flute, warn his father, and leave. No. He just wanted to leave. Timon wished
he had brought Anksha; who could have told him much more than his own senses
could. But she had remained behind to guard the estate and Isranon.

Something was out there, something none of his kind had seen in many
millenniums. He needed to see it for himself, to make a judgment call on this,
to take its measure. He was not a captain who ordered his myn into battle, but
one who led. Until he had done so, he would not risk Anksha who might be the
only one strong enough to stop it.

No one came to take their horses when they entered the mansion grounds. He
signed to his companions to wait there, dismounted and knocked on the door. A
servant Timon remembered answered. He turned haunted eyes to Timon.

"The master is in his garden," the servant whispered.

Timon nodded. The place was empty. As he passed the table in the great hall
he saw that everything had been removed on it and in the middle were two
objects: dried flowers, azaleas and jasmine.Amalthea to Jedrua. The code .
They were to disperse and flee to Jedrua. Everyone had been sent away. Timon
climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden and found his father.

Hoon sat on the bench beside his withered plants, staring out across the
city. He remained sitting, as if unable to take his eyes from what he saw.
"Timon! I was sending this to you today, but I see you've come for it instead.
He picked up an envelope from a stack before him and handed it to Timon. "Turn
around and go. I sent everyone away this morning that could be spared. The
rest will go tonight."

Timon took the envelope. "What went wrong?"

"I don't know," Hoon said, sounding distracted. "The city has become flooded
by sa'necari, lesser bloods, royals that I do not know. Several of my people
have been killed."

Timon tensed. "People I know?"

"Zinzi. They left her head hanging from my gatepost with a note saying they
knew me. Ulik has vanished and all his birds are dead. Galee is in the city. I
feel her."

Zinzi. I should have confided in you."Galee? Father, Galee was destroyed. The
Twice-Born Son tore her head off." Galee had turned his father. Timon had
wondered for centuries how long his father, Brandrahoon, could continue hiding
from the vengeance of Dynarien, the Twice-Born Son. He sometimes felt as if
that yuwenghau son of Willodarus, God of the Woodlands and Wild Creatures, was
close to breathing down all of their necks. Sooner or later Dynarien and his
twin sister Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity would come after all of
them. The divine pair, warrior-brother and trickster-sister, were very
dangerous. They had destroyed Galee. Surely she could not have returned.

Hoon finally looked up at his son. "There is something else in the city.
Something that smells like a yuwenghau, but different." He stood suddenly, and
seized Timon in a tight embrace. "Whatever happens, Timon, remember that I

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love you."

"I love you, too, father," Timon responded, struggling to Read the mon.

"There are fresh horses in the stable. Take them and get out."

Timon gazed into his father's eyes. When he released his father and left, his
spirit felt troubled. His father's words hung in his mind like a proclamation
of disaster. What smelled like a yuwenghau but wasn't?Irrfelghau? Oh, hells
let it not be an irrfelghau, the dark opposite of the yuwenghau, the get of
the hellgods. A sa'nekaryiane and irrfelghau both? Godwar. And my people with
no gods to turn to.

* * * *

Gylorean Galee held court in the highest room of the restored mage tower;
surrounded by the noble sycophants she had taken. Many of King Vansolo's most
trusted lords now resided within her ranks, seduced into servitude with
coercions firmly planted in the deepest levels of their minds. She watched her
stolen courtiers flinch and wince at the sounds of her angels feeding above
them on the rooftop.

Her divine body glistened in the torchlight as if oiled and her garments were
fashioned to please her legendary vanity, clinging to every perfect curve, the
bodice cut low to reveal the mounds of her breasts. A young, nude male knelt
beside her throne in chains. Constant terror had left him dull-eyed in a state
bordering on shock. Her fangs had made trails of scars on both sides of his
neck and along the insides of his arms. She had not taken his mind yet because
she liked to hear him scream. He was the king's youngest son, who had ridden
off two weeks ago, heading for Gormond's Reach. King Vansolo, suspecting
danger, had tried to send him to safety–but there was no safety from Galee.

This time nothing would be left to chance. Minnoras was not as large or as
guarded as Creeya had been. She would return for Creeya. Yes, she would
indeed. This time all would fall to her. The interfering yuwenghau Dynarien
would die. His sister, God of Cussedness, little trickster, would also fall.
Galee dreamed of it constantly.

Galee had begun to consider what types she would hold back as her cattle to
breed. The Nine had provided good stock to work with when they brought
settlers from distant worlds. Aberrant lineages needed to be weeded out, like
the Sharani and the lineages of the three brothers. Dawnhand had prophesied
her destruction by one of his descendants as he hung dying. That would not
happen. Isranon was the last of them.

Her eyes swept her ranks of courtiers and fell upon Ulik, Hoon's former
master of birds, who was sitting on a sofa looking torn between discomfort and
unease. The activities in the chamber were slowly turning into an orgy with
Galee's approval. Ulik sat beside a vampire who was feeding noisily on the
daughter of a noblemon while her father looked on pale-faced and shaking.

"Ulik, come forward," Galee commanded. She turned to a servant. "Two glasses
of the Special Blue. One for me and one for my good servant, Ulik."

Ulik rose and approached the throne she sat on. He dropped to one knee.

"None of that." She pointed to a cushioned stool near her feet.

Ulik sat and the servant gave him the crimson wine. His hands shook as he
accepted the proffered glass.

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"Drink. They tell me you wish to be a vampire as your reward for betraying
Hoon. I am considering it."

"Thank you, Holy One," Ulik replied and tasted his wine. "It's an interesting
flavor."

Galee gave him a venomous smile. "You'll get used to. It's an acquired taste.
Drink all of it."

Ulik nodded and downed the wine.

Galee's claws emerged from beneath her primary nails as she leaned very close
to him. "I have given you your wish."

"What?" Ulik asked, startled.

Galee grasped his arm in a grip like steel talons and pierced the flesh,
sending her venom through him. Ulik stiffened in anguish as it sped burning
through his arteries. "Your wish," Galee repeated. "It was spiked with
Ylesgaire blood. But first you die."

"Noooooo!" Ulik screamed.

"Yes. Lesser blood. You must fear the daylight, not enter unless invited. You
will be an animal who knows only its hunger for five or six centuries before
you regain some shreds of intelligence."

"Gods have mercy," Ulik sobbed, digging his nails into his blackening arm.

"I am your god," Galee purred. "Did you really think I would make you Lemyari
after you betrayed Hoon? Give you that much power? I can't trust you with
power."

Ulik sagged in her grip and she let him drop to the floor, where he lay
gasping, and struggling to breathe.

Galee flicked her hand at Ulik. "Throw him in the sewers to die."

Two servants dragged Ulik away.

Then Galee spotted Mondarius. "Tell me, what of our servants at Hoon's
estate? I have had no word from them."

Mondarius swallowed hard, dropping his eyes. "Timon destroyed them."

"Timon is alive?" Galee snarled, her face twisting completely out of shape.
"Tell me they killed at least one of them! Mondarius!" She rose from her
throne and backhanded the Divinator, sending him slamming into a wall. "Tell
me they killed at least one of them."

Mondarius paled, dragging himself up with his back sliding along the wall. He
moved unsteadily to a table, pressing both hands palms down upon it for an
instant as he strove to recover himself. The Divinator took out a mirror, laid
it on a table, and consulted it. "Isranon lingers, dying. There is no cure.
The blades of the Master of Blood insured that."

"You had best hope he does not linger long. What of the assassins you sent
after the abominant king's children, nephews and that fireborn prince?"

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The Divinator again consulted his mirror. "They reached Rowanhart yesterday."

"Good." She gestured at her captain of guards. "See that Timon does not leave
my city alive. My angels will accompany you. It nears time to make myself
ruler, Mondarius. Shadow court no longer, but in full truth."

"I will not fail you, Holy One," Mondarius said.

"And what of the necklace with my spells upon it? I can no longer sense
Anksha when I reach out to it."

"I don't know, Holy One. I gave it to her and she put it on."

Galee's face twisted again in displeasure. "Then she took it off and did
something with it to block me. She should have found it irresistible. I
intended to rip her mind through the necklace. This is your fault. I've dealt
with demon-eaters before. You haven't."

"Surely, Holy One, Anksha cannot be a threat. You've killed the rest of her
kind."

"So I have," Galee purred settling back in her chair with mercurial
satisfaction. She stroked the captive prince beside her and felt him shudder.
"But a demon-eater is always a threat. They were one of the Tinkerer's
greatest weapons in the last godwar. You will see to her death also."

"Holy One." Mondarius bowed deeply, backing to the door, and then turned. Out
of her sight his withdrawal turned to full flight.

* * * *

Nans sat with a frightened mon in a dark corner of the nearly empty common
room of an inn in the tradesmyn's quarter. She and the Rowdies had stayed here
before. They knew nearly everyone in the quarter, yet it had taken Itch all
day to find anyone who would talk to Nans. The gossips, the people who
actually knew what went on, had all vanished. Nans had never seen a city so
obviously on edge before, but she was young for a yuwenghau, a mere sixty
years old, and she had stayed out of wars her entire life. She did not want to
fight one now.

Ordinarily Nans would have gone to thetempleofWillodarus first, but everyone
she had spoken to, beginning with Seri, had assured her that all the priests
were dead. No temples had been spared. It seemed pointless to make her usual
rounds, starting with the temples. Her freerangers normally used the temple of
Willodarus here as a stop over on their journey to Donyanon and then Galeador,
making rounds of the temples along the east bank of the Hillora each fall,
then back up, cross the bridge at the North Fords and down the west bank as
far as Treth. Freerangers were the only humans welcomed whole-heartedly in the
sylvan realms such as Donyanon, Vallimrah, and Galeador.

"The members of the cult say she is a god, the Glistening One," the mon told
her uneasily.

"Could she be yuwenghau, Nans? A rogue yuwenghau?" Travis asked.

"No. Yuwenghau never take twisted forms. Only irrfelghau do. There have not
been any of them since the Age of Burning. The Hellgod cannot get out of the
Escarpment to sire them."

"But what if, and I'm saying, what if, a mon could find wiggle room through

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this Gate of the Hellgod we're always hearing rumors of. I mean my old dog
could find wiggle room through the damnedest cracks."

"A crack in the escarpment?" A chill prickled along Nans' back and down her
arms. The Nine Gods of Light, the ruling divine pantheon, had sealed the
Hellgod, Bellocar, and his surviving wives and get behind walls of earth,
magic, and technology in the far north, raising the tremendous Katal
Escarpment as a final barrier.

"The Nakesht have sure been finding wiggle room for centuries."

Nans wished Travis had not reminded her of that. "An irrfelghau? Travis, I
need to get a look at this thing, but I want the rest of you to get out of the
city. Itch, take charge."

Itch grinned and nodded. He was second in command, but Travis was always
talky enough for both of them. Itch's half-brother Luck had taken the wagons
on to Gormond's Reach to put them out of reach of any possible skirmishes with
those children along.

The sounds of fighting erupted from the streets. Nans went to the door and
peered out. A winged mon, her body shimmering shades of green, stood on one of
the roofs laughing as soldiers and citizens fought. Nans darted back into the
inn. "All of you get out the back… reach the horses and get out of the city.
It's going up in flames. I've seen our monster and it may well be an
irrfelghau–or it may be something far worse. I'll meet you in Merkreth's
Crossing."

"What are you going to do, Nans?" Itch asked.

"I'm going to the temple like we always do."

"Nans, the word on the streets is all the priests are either dead or fled.
There isn't a temple hasn't been hit."

"I can't go without checking, Itch. Not after seeing that thing."

"Be careful."

* * * *

Timon caught a glimpse of something as large a mon on leathery wings.
Trumpets sounded. The city guard had been ordered out. Shouting and the sound
of racing feet caused Timon to glance back. A tide of panicked people broke
toward them, filling the streets. The guard rode the people down, striking
randomly. The winged creature landed on a rooftop and sang. The guardsmyn
hesitated.

"What's that?" Haig asked.

"Nekaryiane!" Zulaika shouted. "Flee!"

Timon kicked his mount into a gallop and they broke for the gates. Caught in
the song the guardsmyn and the crowd focused together on the escaping
vampires, and turned to take them. Amiri dropped to the rear, reaching into
her pouches as the crowd gained on them. Her contacts in Charas had managed to
steal some of Dynanna's multi-colored globes of beast repellant, although she
had no idea which did what. It took great daring for someone to steal from the
thieving God of Cussedness. Pie, the little fellow with the crayons and funny
cap, had assured her they might come in handy when he sold them to her. She

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threw a handful of each color in all directions. Flames exploded and a
terrible stench filled the air. People scattered, mounted guardsmyn fought to
control their panicked horses, and the crowds descended into chaos of flight
and confusion.

Amiri and her companions broke through the gates and raced free.

"What the hell was that?" Timon shouted.

"Don't ask me," Amiri shouted back. "I don't know."

* * * *

Hoon walked to the edge of his rooftop garden. The last of his servants had
gone. He had held back his shape-shifters leaving those who could fly, like
himself, until last. Now, they too had been sent away, carrying his messages
of disaster to his remaining holdings.

Everything was dust.

Even in seeming destruction Galee had found a way to betray him, to use him.
He should have expected it. She always destroyed her tools when she no longer
had need of them. He and Waejonan had been tools. Nothing more. Only Isranon
Dawnhand had refused to become her tool. Galee must have told Waejonan to
murder him. She must have put that thought in their brother's head.

Hoon watched Timon break for the gates and then win free. He smiled. They
would not take him now. Hoon changed into a huge devil bat, rising. He would
catch up with Timon and they would ride to Jedrua together.

Heavy fibers tangled his leathery wings, their attached weights dragging him
down. Magic shrieked agonizingly through his body, forcing him back into his
own form. Hoon fell into the planters, overturning them. Hands seized him,
spellcording his wrists and sealing them with runes of destruction before
freeing him of the weighted spellcord net. Two Lemyari jerked him to his feet
and yanked him around to face a midnight blue nekaryiane–no, sa'nekaryiane;
Hoon could sense the warmth of true life pulsing in her veins.

"Hello, Brandrahoon," said the sa'nekaryiane … her silken voice so familiar.

"Galee." Even as changed as she was, he still knew her standing there with
three death angels around her. One of them was Zyne; the other two were shades
of green and Hoon did not recognize them.

Gylorean Galee gripped his face, her claws making tiny punctures in his skin.
"I should kill you now, but I want to watch your face when I butcher your son
in front of you. I saw him leave, and my forces are already riding to
intercept him. I will have him before morning. Once Minnoras is in hand, I'll
raid that little estate of yours. You should never have trusted Mondarius with
so many of the locations of your holdings."

"Lord Hoon." The Divinator stepped from the shadows.

"How many of my holdings do you know?" Hoon asked, his eyes narrowing.

Mondarius looked taken aback. "This one, the one to which Timon rides." He
began to tick them off on his fingers. As the realization of how many had
already been emptied over the last few years showed in Mondarius' face, Hoon
laughed at him. Galee cast Hoon at Mondarius' feet, snarling. The Divinator
unclipped a weighted cat'o'nine-tails from his belt and beat the skin off the

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vampire's face–and still Hoon laughed.

Zyne slipped her arm through Galee's. "Gylorean, my dearest, the king has
taken the bait."

"Treacherous bitch," Hoon spat at Zyne, his hands on his bloody face, wrists
banded in cerulean, black, crimson and puce with the deadly seal runes
dangling.

Zyne sneered and then kicked Hoon. "I had a good teacher."

"Timon?" Galee asked.

"He and his people broke free," Zyne said. "I have sent soldiers and shifters
after them and an irrfelghau. I kept the angels home since tonight we take
another piece of Minnoras."

Irrfelghau!Hoon's mind screamed and the strength of defiance failed him. Get
of the hellgods. His son would perish.

* * * *

Nans kicked her highly trained steed, forcing it to jump and lunge, directing
it through her wilderkin gifts, shoving at people trying to pull her down. She
was swept to the side, separated from her myn. A solid weight hit her, knocked
her from the saddle, and sent her rolling into the crowd. She twisted under
their feet; slashing legs, hit the side of a building. Fangs sank into her
shoulder. She hit the creature in the side of the head with the pommel of her
sword, her tremendous demi-god strength shattered its skull. Blood and gray
matter splattered her. Nans rolled against a house, kicked open a door and
flipped onto her feet, spinning to face the crowd. She cut six myn down in
quick succession, and then ran through the house, sheathed her blade and
climbed onto a window; from there she went up onto the roof and crouched in
the shadows of three chimneys.

* * * *

Travis saw Nans fall, but he did not see her escape and began to scream and
curse even as he fought his way steadily toward the gates. He glanced and saw
that there were now only seven of them and then there were only six. They were
being cut down like grain before the scythes. A vampire dropped from a roof
onto Itch. The creature wrapped around Itch, sticking claws into his ribs.
Travis shouted and slashed the vampire. It released Itch, who slumped forward,
but managed to keep his seat. The vampire snarled, leaping at Travis. The
ranger caught it in mid-leap, a clean thrust that nearly ripped the blade from
his hands. The creature died. Travis wiped his blade and sheathed it. Then the
surviving Rowdies won through the gate. He caught Itch's reins, leading his
horse in their flight. They had lost four including Nans, and Itch looked to
be in a bad way.

Travis called back over his shoulder, "Hang on, Itch."

"I'm trying, Travis." Itch folded up over the heavy pommel, wrapping his arms
around the saddle horn, and holding his seat with an effort.

* * * *

Gylorean Galee sat on the tower roof licking Zyne's neck as they watched the
four units of guardsmyn marshalling on the palace grounds. It seemed that the
king was planning a sortie against the rioting in the streets and, possibly,

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against the Poor Quarter which she had taken first.How amusing it all looks ,
Galee thought. She had also taken the Tradesmyns' Quarter. In fact, her
influence was now felt throughout the city. Hidden shrines had been built
where nightly sacrifices were being offered to her.

"It's nearly time to sing them a song, my lovely. Which section of the city
do you wish to take next?" Galee stretched languorously while she waited for
their answer.

"Let's take the palace," said Zyne.

Galee kissed Zyne's lips. "And then I shall rule as the God-Queen Gylorean of
Minnoras."

"That sounds so sweet," Zyne sighed. She stood, spreading her wings. "It is
time to sing. They are nearly to the quarter."

"We will turn these units back on the palace. Tonight I will sup from other
royal veins."

* * * *

Nans saw those nameless others escape, wondering at those little exploding
globes they had used. She could have used some of her half-sister's toys right
then. The obvious strength and skill with which those people dispensed with
their opponents made her question their humanity and wonder what they were.
Vampires? Certainly she had sensed nothing yuwenghau about them. Her kind
usually recognized each other. Blood spread in a widening splotch through the
shoulder of her tunic and the wound throbbed painfully. She would have to move
soon before something or someone spotted her. Nans pressed the heel of her
palm into her shoulder; she needed to do something about it, but not here. She
had seen Itch wounded and two other rangers die, and, for the moment, anger
overrode other feelings.

Nans moved from her shelter to the edge of the roof and jumped to the next
one, scuttling along like a crab, using the chimneys as cover. She saw fires
in the distance; buildings were burning and she could still hear the clash of
steel.How long is this fighting going to continue? Apparently the winged
creature had some kind of insurrection in progress. Vampires were involved.
Could it be some new form of vampire? She stood up, got a running start, and
jumped the street.

Toward morning, she reached the Willodarian temple, dropping into the alley
behind it. The back door stood ajar. Nans drew her sword, nudged it open and
slipped inside. The silence hit her. The first room was a kitchen and opened
off the servants' quarters. Blood splattered the cabinets, floors, and walls.
She turned quickly. Then she saw the first body. It was old Jeris. They had
gutted him. Nans knelt, touching his neck, Reading him. This had happened less
than four hours ago. She found each room empty, which give her hope until she
reached the chapel.

Now she knew where the missing people were.

She dropped to her knees in sick horror, clutching at her stomach, and
vomiting; then wracking sobs seized her, followed by more vomiting. Sa'necari
and divinators had been here. The chapel was a charnel house. They had
gathered everyone here, priests and servants, their mates and families. The
high priest had been ritually vivisected on his own altar. The other priests
had been staked out around it, the males on their bellies and the females on
their backs and taken in rites ofmortgiefan . Their families and children had

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been bound along the walls, torn and eaten by something in a savage fury of
hunger.

This had happened last night while she was checking out Seri's rumors. She
should have come straight on, disregarding what everyone told her about the
destruction of the temples. They had waited for her, assuming she would make
her usual rounds. They must have been counting on her to get them out. Nans
silently cursed herself for changing her plans.

* * * *

Timon's band rode long into the night, alternating their pace to spare their
mounts. They left the road, choosing a hunter's trace he knew and cut through
to a back road. They rode until dawn when they camped to rest and feed. Timon
finally took out the letter and read it:

Timon,

This is an Amalthea to Jedrua. Just as when we fled Waejonan's people after
Anksha killed him. The sa'nekaryiane is Galee somehow returned to even more
monstrous life. There are irrfelghau emerging from the escarpment through a
portal in the eastern lands while their powers are still dormant. Several of
our people have perished getting me this information, which is why I have
lingered this long. Use the information wisely. Whatever happens, my son,
remember that I loved you and forgive me.

"What could there possibly be for me to forgive, father?" Timon folded the
letter, tucking it inside his shirt. Then it hit him. His father had not
expected to get out. He hadnot gotten out. "Zulaika, he did not get out."
Timon stared back the way they had come. "He did not get out."

She pressed a bottle into his hands. "We'll pay her back."

He scarcely noticed the vintage which one of the royals had labeled
"vengeance": he was drinking sa'necari blood–Bodramet's blood.

"My father was a good mon before Galee got her claws into him, before my
mother betrayed him with my uncle… He was a good mon, a good father, and a
good husband. He was stern and, at times, harsh. But he was not cruel." Timon
closed his eyes, taking another pull from the bottle.

"People cannot be who they were," Amiri said, walking over to them. "Only who
they are and that changes."

"I know it," Timon replied. "I know it well." He hesitated, running his hand
through his long black hair. "Assign a sentry. Everyone get some rest."

* * * *

A mon dragged at Nans arm; drawing her back to awareness. "Please, please,
help us."

Nans shook herself. For the first time in her life, she had been lost in
shock. She had no memory of how the time had sped. The chapel had grown dark.
The mon held a torch and Nans saw two ragged and battered looking children
crouched beside her; their eyes empty mirrors of the horror around them. Shame
flooded Nans. She had always considered herself to be a strong mon, but she
had never been seen anything to match what she had witnessed the last two
days. Other folk's needs had always brought forth a greater strength in her
than her own. Nans pulled herself together. "Come on."

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She did not know this mon, did not even ask her name; she simply answered to
the call of her need. They moved into the ambulatory, averting their eyes in
silent denial of what lay in the chapel. Nans had a fleeting image of Travis
telling another of his constant stories of his old dog. If she got out of
this, she would never tell him to shut up again. When they reached one of the
back rooms the mon lit a lamp, shielded it and put out her torch.

"Jeris hid us among the roots, under the onions and garlic. The lesser bloods
did most of the searching once the sa'necari had broken in to allow them
passage and they don't like that stuff."

"You're from the temple?"

"No. Visiting. My husband–" her breath caught for a moment and then she saw
the blood and torn shoulder of Nans' tunic. "Let me see that. My husband lies
in the chapel. We're healers from Whiteoak. We visit the temple for a few
weeks each fall."

"Bad time to visit. I can't take you back to Whiteoak. I must try to reach
Merkreth's Crossing."

"It needs stitching," The mon reappraised her, watching for how she would
handle it, being female and looking only eighteen. "Your first wound?"

Nans laughed, a bitter sound. "I'm a ranger. They didn't give me my runes
without knowing I could fight." She looked at her with a weary, half-smile.
"You're puzzled because I'm a woman, I look young enough to be a green kid,
and I have not a scar on me. Stitch it up. It's not my first wound. I won't
flinch."

The mon, Deryna, told how when it had become apparent that they would never
succeed in escaping the city, the priests and others had barricaded themselves
in, praying that a freeranger company who made periodic visits in the fall
would arrive to get them out. Last night the city had erupted in blood and it
became too late.

"It was my company they were waiting for. We heard the temples had been
destroyed or we would have come straight here."

"Are you the only one left?"

"I'm the only one who got through. Some escaped–made it through the gate."
She thought of Itch and the three who had died and her throat tightened.

They went from room to room, seeking for whatever they might need in fleeing
Minnoras. The people who attacked the temple had come for lives, not booty,
turning the temple into a dining table for an obscene appetite. Nans took all
the food, gold, medicines and healing herbs that she could carry, shouldering
twice the weight that a strong male could. She also took a strong fighting
staff. She traded her ranger's pants and tunic for a healer's brown robe, but
kept her blades. Then Nans doused the place with oil and set it burning–one
more burning building in a burning city. No one would notice or investigate.
There would be no sign to anyone that survivors existed and had escaped.

CHAPTER TWO. escapes

Timon's band entered a clearing surrounded by tremendous chestnut trees fifty

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feet in diameter with very little brush beneath their lofty canopy. The barren
ground, sun-starved by the trees, had thick layers of mulch and leaves
collected from the passage of countless seasons. It smelled of decay and
something else, something unfamiliar. Then shapes moved in the shadows beyond
the trees, tightening around them.

"Timon!" Zulaika shouted, her horse curveting, as she drew her blade.
"They're all around us."

Armed and armored riders entered the clearing with a huge male at their head
wearing blackened armor emblazoned with the crimson death-tree crest of
Bellocar hung with its dreadful fruit of decaying bodies and skulls. The
leader was the largest figure Timon had ever seen short of a troll. The
vampires were only lightly armored, and no match for their adversaries on
their barded horses. His people were about to be torn to shreds. Humans and
their allies, regardless of which god they followed, always came after his
kind with overwhelming force. There were never fair fights between them. The
minions of the hellgods played that same game, only double.

"Our God demands your deaths!" the leader shouted.

Timon's lips curled back from his fangs in a bitter smile and he unlimbered
his greatsword. "Come and get it."

Amiri acted first. She tossed a handful of beast repellent under their
horses, and then charged into them. Some were explosives, erupting in flames.
Others were gaseous and smelled of skunks, blinding the horses and riders that
got the first close whiff. Some oozed something green that got into their
attackers armor and itched like mad. All that Amiri knew was that the little
people called the Badree Nym manufactured them for the God of Cussedness in a
village near Blue Dog Pass.

The others followed Amiri's lead.

"You're mine!" Timon shouted, charging the leader whose horse bucked out of
control. He drove his blade into the mon's side hard, forcing it through the
links of his chain with all his undead strength. He twisted the blade before
tearing it out of his opponent's body to make certain of his kill.

To Timon's shock the mon did not fall, but brought his own blade driving at
him. Timon shifted in his saddle, turning his body to avoid his opponent's
blade and the sword opened his leg from hip to knee. The vampire cried out in
anguish. He had known pain before when getting cut, but nothing like this. He
reined his mount away from the creature, for creature it was and not a mon at
all–no mon could have survived the wound he had given it and come back at him.
The creature's blade described an arc at Timon's head. The vampire met it with
both hands on his hilt, yet he could barely keep it from his neck. The
creature's eyes shone redly with lust for Timon's blood and the vampire knew
he was about to die. Desperately, Timon sent his mount springing to the side
and disengaged his blade. He slashed the creature along its arm and whipped up
to strike at its head. Then he screamed as the death-tree blade slipped
between his ribs.

Timon's opponent laughed and stuck him a second time before the vampire could
recover. Not since his turning had Timon ever hurt this bad. He collapsed
across the pommel of his saddle, barely able to remain mounted. The creature
raised its sword to finish him.

Amiri threw a handful of beast repellent, splattering Timon's foe. The rest
of the attackers had fallen in the first startled reaction to the

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unconventional assault. The creature shrieked, dropping its blade to claw at
its face as flames caught at every scrap of cloth it wore. Green vapors oozed
through its armor and its horse reared screaming. The vampires circled it,
riding slowly, darting in as they found an opening. In a rage, it drew a
second blade and charged Timon suddenly. "My God says you die, Timon!"

Timon barely fended off the wounded creature's attack, getting cut twice more
before the others charged in and killed it. It had missed his head and his
heart, yet Timon felt as if he were dying. "Let's get out of here!" Timon
kicked his mount into a gallop.

"We need to tend your wounds," Zulaika shouted.

"Later."

"We need you awake not torpored!"

Or worse… Am I dying again? This time to perish in truth?They had to get out
of there before Galee could throw something else at them. "That was a demon!"

* * * *

Travis called a halt as soon as they lost sight of the city, moving into a
wooded area, to let the horses rest. The six survivors gathered in a small,
cold camp. Iuf took charge of rubbing down and feeding his, Travis's, and
Itch's mounts while Travis tried to manage Itch's wounds.

"What the hell got him?" Woodfine asked, squatting beside Itch for a better
look. He was the youngest son of a minor Gormondi noble, who had persuaded his
father to allow him to train in the Willodarian temple as a ranger after
meeting Nans when a boy.

"Vampire of some kind," Travis answered. "It doesn't look like anything is
coming after us. They'd be on us by now. They were hell-bent for leather,
chasing that other group. Woodfine, build up a small fire, screen it."

The wounds were three small punctures about half an inch round, like fangs,
but widely spaced. The flesh had necrotized, blackened with green, pustulent
centers. Around the wounds, Itch's side was reddened and splotchy with spidery
lines of infection.

"Venom." Iuf ran his fingers through his scruffy brown hair as he let the
word out.

"Yeah," Travis said, his tone grim. "Feel his forehead. Fever. He's burning
up and his skin's clammy. I haven't seen this before." He touched the little
Willodarian holy symbol of the bear Itch always wore around his neck. If Itch
died, Travis would see that the symbol reached his half-brother Luck along
with the rest of Itch's worldly possessions. He owed Itch that much. "I guess
this puts me in command."

"I guess it does," Woodfine agreed. Rank was earned among the rangers, not
handed out because of one's birth; so, noble's son or not, he obeyed Travis's
orders without question like all the others.

"We gotta warn King William," Travis said, a faraway note in his voice. "But
damn it. I sure as hell don't want to be the one to tell him Nans is dead."

"I'll tell him," Woodfine said, phlegmatically.

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"Yeah, you do that. And Woodfine, throw together one of those side slings for
Itch's horse. I want to pack him up like we did those avalanche victims, three
years ago. So long as he's alive, we're not leaving him behind."

* * * *

Itch had grown very weak by morning, with signs that the venom was causing
some kind of internal bleeding: blood in his urine, flecks of it around his
nostrils, and he was coughing it up. They got him wrapped tight and suspended
from the side of his horse in the sling, a wooden frame lashed tight to the
saddle.

"He's dying, Travis," Woodfine said, the dark depths of his eyes haunted.

"I damn well know it. If my old dog was here he'd bite you for shoving it in
my face." Travis leaned against his saddle, the hand holding the reins draping
the pommel, the other tightening to white knuckles on the cantle.

"No'un's shovin', Travis," Iuf interposed. "We're all hurtin'. We've never
had us a war. You're the only officer we got left."

"We're not soldiers, Iuf."

"What would your old dog do?" Woodfine asked.

"Bare his teeth and fight."

"Then Old Dog was a soldier."

"Get mounted," Travis said. "There's a farm about two hours down the road.
Big one, as I remember. We'll try to purchase supplies. Maybe we can rest up
for a day in his barns."

"Now Travis is a soldier," Iuf observed to Woodfine as he swung into the
saddle.

* * * *

In the late morning hours, the rangers came upon the edge of a grazing field
and spied the farmer's two-story wood frame house shortly after. They followed
a winding pine shaded path to the front door. Travis had scarcely dismounted
when three of the ugliest dogs he had ever seen trotted around from the
direction of the barns, tongues lolling out, and tails wagging, followed
shortly by the farmer. They were huge beasts the size of ponies, showing
mastiff blood in their blocky heads and stout bodies. The farmer had seen the
way they shot out of the barns and knew he had company. When he got not so
much as a sound from them he had at first been puzzled and then alarmed. They
always growled at strangers and neighbors alike, backing them away from the
house. The dogs were well trained; no one came closer than the flower gardens
unless invited. His neighbors knew to ring the bell on the rope to announce
themselves.

When he got there, Travis was sitting on the ground, grinning with the three
ugly dogs licking at his face and wagging their tails happily. "My old dog
would have really liked you guys."

"Wilderkin?" the farmer asked, puzzled.

"Who, me?" Travis asked, flashing his Willodarian ranger runes at the farmer,
before dropping them inside his shirt on their chain. "Nah, just got a way

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with dogs."

The farmer, Ryss Redoaks, laughed at him. This mon might not be wilderkin,
but it was common knowledge that Willodarian rangers often had special gifts
with various animals and this one's was clearly dogs.

Travis stood up. "We need to purchase supplies, remounts if you've got them,
and we could use shelter for a day. Barns would be fine. We're not hard to
please. We've seen battle. We've got wounded."

Farmer Redoaks sketched the sign of the bear and then shouted for his sons.
They took the horses and the farmer led the rangers inside. His wife,
daughter, and daughter-in-law met them. They carried Itch to an upstairs
guestroom and as soon as they unrolled the blankets Woodfine had secured him
in, the smell of corruption from the necrotizing wounds made them gag. Only
the daughter-in-law, Ona, who had had some healer training, handled it well.
"One of those damned demon-vampire's stuck him, didn't it?" she asked, even
before she saw the wounds. She threw a layer of bleached linen pads on the bed
and indicated that Travis should lay him down there.

Itch's clothing was soaked with filth. Ona removed it, wrapped it up, and had
her sister-in-law carry it down and throw it in the fire. "Burn it well."

Itch's entire side had blackened; spidery webs and reddened blotches spread
across his chest. His breathing had become stertorous.

"You know what these creatures are?" Travis asked Ona.

"No one knows, beyond the fact that they're royals," Ona replied. "There are
rumors. Our farm lies on a major trade route and I get called out sometimes
for my skills. How much lore do you have, ranger?" She mixed drugs as she
waited for him to answer. The best she could do for the dying mon was to ease
his pain. Ona raised Itch's head and then had to massage his throat to induce
swallowing once the drug was in his mouth.

"Not much. Nans and Itch had most of it. But she's dead, she fell in
Minnoras, and he's–" Travis swallowed and nodded at his friend, unable to
speak. "That's Itch."

"Well, last fall the heir of Creeya was murdered, and there's still no word
on whether the son of our god survives or not. If he does, then he is acting
in secret."

"Which one?" Travis felt chilled. Was this thing going after all of
Willodarus' children.

"Dynarien. The mother of the blood stuck him in Creeya, all ten fingers. The
High Patriarch says that they may be Lemyari, the dread ones from the Burning
Age."

Travis relaxed just a mite. "He's alive. The Divine Twins ripped Lord Hoon a
new asshole in Charas. They got the stolen pieces of their souls back in the
process."

"That is wondrous news. Mark this well. The Lemyari carry the venom in their
fingers. A tiny bit paralyzes. More kills, how quickly depends on how much and
whether they get it into an artery. There is no antidote."

"Travis?" Itch's voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

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The ranger moved to Itch's side, taking his hand. "I'll take care of them.
I'll warn William."

"And … and I'll … say 'hi' to Old Dog." Itch's head fell forward, his chin
resting on his chest and then settling to the side.

Travis held Itch's cooling hand and wept.

* * * *

Ryss Redoaks kept to the ways of the earth and forest, with private shrines
to Davera and Willodarus on his property. He sold the Rowdies remounts, pack
animals, and supplies and threw in extras, calling it an offering and a
blessing. Ryss intended to hide his shrines and quietly make a waystation of
the farm. He was a true believer and appreciated the warning. He also insisted
that Travis take his youngest son, Shayne, along as part of the company.
Travis had some misgivings, not knowing what kinds of dangers they might be
riding into, but he accepted–it would probably become just as dangerous here
on the farm. Ryss buried Itch in his own family plot, aging the grave with
some discreet application of mulch and leaves. No one would suspect that it
had not been there for years.

Ryss's wife stitched them black armbands at Travis's request and he tied five
black ribbons to each of them: Nans, Itch, Brierly, Dorys, and Timfinn. Then
they rode out to catch up with their wagons. "Old Dog, My Big Blue," Travis
muttered, "I sure wish you were running with me now. I was never meant to be a
Freeranger Captain, but the job's mine and I guess I gotta do it. The Rowdies
are depending on me."

Horses travel faster than wagons roll so Travis and his survivors overtook
the van at the Fords of Hillora six days later. As they rode up the line,
Travis could not meet any of their eyes. The black armbands spoke for them, as
did the absent faces. He drew even with Luck and flinched when he looked at
him.

"They didn't make it. I'm sorry about your brother. We're all that's left.
Get everyone across the fords and then circle them at the first clearing.
Defensive circle. Horses inside the perimeter. I'm only going to tell it
once."

* * * *

Shouts rose from the courtyard and Anksha went to the window. "They've been
attacked," she hissed, pointing at Timon. "Timon is hurt."

The company that had set out so proudly from the estate now looked bedraggled
and hag-ridden. Zulaika and Amiri were at Timon's side the moment he started
to slide from his horse, trying to help him, but he shook them off.

Ephry left his chair by Isranon's bed, joining Anksha at the window, fearing
for Timon, and was relieved to see the tall vampire dismount before limping
heavily into the mansion. "Stay here, pet, I'm going downstairs."

Ephry took the stairs two at a time and then simply vaulted the railing to
land lightly on the lowest floor. He saw Timon and rushed to his side, concern
written deeply into every line of his delicate features. Timon took Ephry in
his arms, kissing him. Ephry's fingers dropped to Timon's thigh, tracing the
edge of the bandaged leg in mute question, then poked through the tears in
Timon's tunic where he found more bandages. Timon should not have needed them.
Vampires healed swiftly, their wounds simply closed within minutes, hours at

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most.

"Ambush." Timon's hand tightened on Ephry's. "It's Amalthea." He pitched his
voice to carry through the hall. "Everyone, you know what to do. No one will
be left behind. No one will be sacrificed. We are a holding. We are a family.
We will not compromise our honor. The old ways have never been our ways. We
are Borealysyn."

Ephry hugged Timon, grateful that he had finally spoken the secret name, and
his father be damned. All of his vampires had lived in tightly controlled
discipline and honor among their nibari. A cheer went up from the nibari and
the vampires. They had known, but kept it guarded from Timon's sire who had
little knowledge beyond rumor of the heretical sect. Ephry and Timon had
realized that part of Isranon's attraction to them was the similarity of the
Dark Brothers to the Borealysyn.

"Get into your units, and prepare to evacuate to my holdings in Jedrua. Avoid
contact with my father's people. May whatever merciful gods heed the prayers
of pariahs, hear us, and gather us safely back again." Then Timon headed for
the stairs.

"What is an Amalthea?" Nevin asked as he and Olin fell into step beside them.

Timon started up the stairs to Isranon's rooms, "Amalthea was my mother. She
betrayed my father with his brother…." In a sudden rush Timon decided to end
the time of secrets and he told Nevin all of it. "Waejonan. His brother,
Waejonan. My father is Brandrahoon. She and Waejonan then murdered my
siblings. They left me for dead. My father turned me to save me. We murdered
her. We and all of our people were forced to flee from Waejonan afterward.
That is the significance of an Amalthea. That kind of flight to safety. The
tale of the three brothers draws to an end I fear."

* * * *

Anksha frowned at the bandage, relinquishing the chair by moving onto the
bed, crawling around the pillows. The tall vampire settled into it, leaning
forward with his elbows on his knees, although that made the injured leg ache.
Soon he would feed properly and that would heal him. Perhaps Auclos. The lad
had been eyeing him hungrily–that one enjoyed being bitten and ridden. Timon
could do with a little of both just then.

"If you're dreaming of blood, lover, you're dreaming in the wrong direction,"
Ephry pouted, licking his way along Timon's neck.

Timon snatched his hair, prisoning him. "I intend to fuck you senseless,
Ephry, and drink the wine of your veins. But we must talk first." He pushed
Ephry to the floor to curl like a dog around his legs. "It hurts. Tear the
bandage open and lick it. Your rough tongue might ease it, lycan."

Isranon shoved himself up in bed. The movement caused him pain in his stomach
and chest. Weakness made his head swim with the effort. Anksha caught him
under the arms, wrestling him up, waddling backwards like a duck with the
blankets and pillows tangling around her. Nevin and Olin helped her and they
got him sitting comfortably.

Ephry licked the blackened wound along the cracked edges in measured strokes.
Timon sighed. Only kenda'ryl or certain types of runed blades could have done
that to him. Ephry loved Timon so intensely that if he found this abhorrent he
did not object, but continued to work at cleaning it. Lycan saliva contained a
healing element, which aided them, part and parcel of their remarkable healing

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abilities.

"What the hell could do that to a Lemyari?" Nevin asked.

"It nearly killed me. It had a black sword. We had to stick it and stick it
and stick it. The deathtree was on its blade, its armor."

"Irrfelghau," said Isranon. "Ghosts keep whispering 'irrfelghau' to me. I
don't know how it's possible. Bellocar is spawning them and getting them off
the escarpment."

Timon looked incredulous. "Ghosts? You're sa'necari."

"I am a speaker to spirits like Dawnhand." Isranon saw the disbelief in all
their faces. "Ephry, your grandfather's spirit came by two days ago. You are
fair, but he was an albino. He told me that when you were ten, you became
angry over a toy you were refused and ran away. You got as far as an old
abandoned mill, which you picked for a lair, except that the floor was rotted
in places and the stairs partly gone. You fell through during one of the worst
floods in twenty years. You broke both hind legs and almost starved before
they found you."

Ephry paled to colorlessness, swallowing nervously.

"Timon, your life was one long tale of pain, yet you found your honor out of
it. A sad little girl with golden hair, whose spirit hovers constantly around
you, is trying to talk to you, but you cannot hear her. She says to remember
the blue flowers of spring and the red ones of summer that you made chains of
to hang about her neck. When you come to the great waters, tell the tavern
master at the Caravansary of the Fallen Pillars the truth as you know it, mark
it on the maps and send for the man who is a woman."

"My sister Elyse!" Timon gasped. "Her soul was freed from the legacy when
Mephistis died."

"Now do you believe?" Isranon asked tiredly. "If the spirits say it was an
irrfelghau attacked you, then it was an irrfelghau." A wave of pain caught
him. He looked down at the warm wetness spreading across his stomach. The
embedded spells had reopened the stubborn wounds and he was bleeding. He
sagged back against the pillows, his face ashen.

"Isranon," Timon called to him, but he did not answer; he had slipped away
from them again.

* * * *

"Wagons can be replaced, lives can't." Travis addressed the Rowdies standing
in the center of the camp. "Sooner we're out of here, the safer everyone will
be."

Seri looked frightened, glancing from face to face as Travis spoke. Luck
noticed and put his arm around her shoulders. She carried Oddo in a backpack
one of the rangers had given her. She had not stopped crying since hearing
about Nans.

"Load everything irreplaceable on the horses and abandon the rest. We've
enough gold to buy what we need along the way. I'm breaking us up into three
units. The safest route is the longest, up through Darr and over the top into
Gormond's Reach before coming down to Merkreth's Crossing. That's the way to
carry the children. That's your unit, Iuf. Second group heads straight for

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William Gryphonheart with news of what happened. Woodfine, you're in charge of
that one. Sooner or later–sooner I'm afraid–that creature is going to come
slamming up against either Darr or Gormond's Reach. Luck and I are heading for
the Crossing to watch for any Taladrim or ranger companies that might come
through to alert them. Should any of you get separated in skirmishes with
these assholes, get to the Crossing." He paused to scan their faces like Nans
would have. "Good luck."

Travis went to Seri and squatted down in front of her. "Now don't you worry,
little Seri. Iuf is going to get you and your brothers and sister safely to
your Aunt and Uncle's place. I promise."

Seri nodded, her eyes on her hands.

Travis put a thick finger under her chin and lifted her head. His hand was
broad and heavy, calloused and hard, but his touch was gentle. "You trust me?"

"Yes," Seri answered in a small voice.

"Then go on over to Iuf so he can get you mounted up. We're putting you on
the gentlest, best mare we have. She's a good horse. And Iuf's a good mon."
Travis reached into his pockets, brought out some silver coins, put them in
Seri's hands, closing her fingers over them. "Get yourself some candies at the
first town you reach."

Seri managed a small smile and got to her feet.

* * * *

Nevin and Olin had never seen an evacuation pack up so quickly. Everyone knew
what to do and did it. The estate was like a single huge symbiotic creature.
The Lemyari would be taking their nibari with them. Those nibari served their
masters in full trust. A large measure of that trust was bred into them over
the centuries and other parts were learned. Their slavery was written in their
genes, but their devotion was earned, like nurturing the bud that becomes a
flower. A nibari might allow themselves to be drained to death by the masters,
but a devoted nibari would take up arms against anyone or anything that
threatened a master rather than flee before it.

A small group gathered on the roof top garden. Timon stared at the plants
with regret. This had been his only real home for centuries, but now he had to
consider his people and those he loved. "Isranon is still too weak. He'll
never survive an Amalthea." Timon said. "I'm not even certain how much longer
we can keep sustaining him the way we have. The spells have started eroding
our efforts."

"Then let us take him to Treth," Zulaika persisted. "We either try to find a
life-mage or we try those necromantic shamans. We approach his injuries from
his human side or from his hemovore side."

"Life-mages will not touch a sa'necari," Timon said.

"I could make them," Anksha said flatly, her eyes narrowing.

"There are only five survivors of the genocide, Anksha," Timon told her. "And
they are all traveling with the Sacred King. You would never get close to
them." Mephistis had masterminded the genocide of the life-mages, but a few
had taken refuge in the only temple no one dared go up against: the temple to
the God of Cussedness. Dynanna defended her handful of temples with strange
creatures and Badree Nym–the sweet child-like pariahs of the sylvan races, who

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could knock a house down without realizing it. Mephistis and his father had
been fools to threaten that one.

"Then it's Treth. We can't wait any longer," Zulaika said to Timon. "We've
filled carry balls with books, potions, and valuables. Things that might tempt
the houngans of Treth. Some of the nibari and lycans will come with us. We'll
just be one more group of refugees and travelers in this mess."

"But he's so weak," Timon said.

"The sa' nekaryiane's people will be on us any day now, Timon."

Timon nodded. "Go on. Meet us in Jedrua when you can."

"I'm going with them," Anksha said.

Timon looked down at her and ruffled her hair. "Good luck to you, pet."

Then Timon carried Isranon to the large wooden boat of a wagon with walls and
roof. The rear opened horizontality in the middle with a small step that slid
down when the bottom half opened. Inside were a bed and a cot fastened to the
sides. Cabinets were built above them. Chests were lashed to the sides nearest
the rear door.

Nevin climbed in first and threw back the blankets. Timon got Isranon settled
onto the bed as comfortably as possible. Nevin adjusted the blankets, tucking
them into the raised edge that prevented a passenger from rolling off in
reaction to any jostling on the road. Although Isranon had gotten enough
strength back to manage a few steps around his room with aid, he could never
have made it that far. Ephry followed with a package that he placed beside
Isranon.

"What is that?" Isranon asked.

"Your blades. The ones we took from you when you became Anksha's blood-slave.
She has ordered that they be returned," Timon said. "This is your company now,
Isranon. You are their lord, Zulaika is your captain. Anksha is your–"

"Pet!" Anksha exclaimed, crawling in from the front of the wagon through a
small door. "I am your pet."

Timon nodded. "A good idea. Should anyone discern that Anksha is not human,
tell them that she is your familiar and you are a mage, Isranon."

"I will do that." Isranon ran his hand around his neck. He felt oddly naked
without his slave-collar. Timon had had it removed yesterday and he had still
not become used to that. "I am their lord? In truth? Or is this a pretense?"

"In truth." Timon clasped Isranon to him one last time and then settled him
back. "We'll find each other again, Isranon," Timon told him. "I promise.
Whether it is in this life or the next."

"The three of us," Ephry told him. "Together, always. We'll hunt the big
boars."

* * * *

Isranon's company traveled roads already choked with refugees, mostly women
and children. The majority of the males had been trapped by the nekaryianes'
songs and remained in Minnoras, hunting those of their own who had not

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succumbed or making sorties against those who had fled. There were a few
males, but only a few, among those who had escaped. Isranon's large, armed and
well-provisioned company was conspicuous among the tattered refugees. They
comprised the ten Ymraudes and five Lemyari as outriders on their war-trained
barded horses, their mounted nibari riding close to the wagons. Haig's nine
female nibari, four with infants–including Nainee–and five still swollen with
offspring, rode inside the rear wagons. The two male nibari belonging to Haig
rode mounted: Eustyn, who had once belonged to Isranon, and Sylimon, a sterile
male whose main purpose until then had been to bed the females when they
wished it without being able to get children on them. Six lycans paced the
three wagons like gigantic dogs, and the drivers rode with a companion each.
Nevin drove the wagon carrying Isranon and Anksha with Olin beside him. The
nibari of the Ymraudes could fight if forced, but Haig's had never been
taught. Haig's nibari would provide sustenance to his three companions and
Isranon, as well as help around their camp. Timon had also given Isranon four
female nibari and their six offspring who ranged in age from eight to twelve;
two of them were nearly old enough to be blooded and bedded for the final
stages of their training.

Anksha did not complain about concealing her tail beneath her trousers. All
this misery bothered her. She rode curled up against Isranon, worrying about
him, worrying about Timon and Ephry, and worrying about Hoon. She did not feel
like the great and terrible demon-eater any more. She felt like the lost
little creature she had been when Hoon had found her all those centuries ago.
Her species were tough, but they were not invincible. She did not remember
what kind of creature killed her mother, but it seemed huge in her memory.
Hoon had killed it. Her mother had lingered a few days, telling Hoon that the
little one's name was Anksha. But that was all Hoon understood and Hoon never
found another creature like her. He was never certain whether 'Anksha' was
'who' she was or 'what' she was.

* * * *

The mon with the staff continued to haunt Isranon's dreams, although he never
again saw the staff as clearly as he had in the first one; its image had faded
to mist in his mind. That night the dream became a nightmare.

Isranon stood in a crowd of onlookers as the mon was brought forward onto the
scaffolding. His hands were spellcorded behind him to block his powers. He
staggered between two guardsmyn, forcing them to hold him up. A herald
unrolled a parchment and read from it the mon's crimes. The only word that
Isranon caught was 'treason.'

The herald withdrew and the guards stripped the mon of his clothing, leaving
him completely nude. Isranon's stomach tightened at how terribly marked he was
by the torturer's tools. Guards lifted him to a table and tied ropes to his
ankles. His legs were pulled so far open it looked as if his hips must soon be
torn from their sockets. Then the executioner came forward, wearing a black
mask over his features. He was as muscular as a prime bull. His assistant held
a thick pole with a sharp steel head. The executioner nodded and his assistant
began greasing the head, while he examined the condemned's anus. He took out a
short, broad blade and opened this entrance for the pole wider with small,
considered cuts. The condemned mon shuddered at each quick slice.

"Galee!" he screamed. "Galee, my scions will cast your soul to the winds!"

Revulsion tightened in Isranon's gut, but he could not look away. Horror held
him prisoner and he murmured his revered ancestor's name under his breath,
"Dawnhand."

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A sa'necari moved to the front of Dawnhand, placing a hand on his shoulder to
Read him as the sentence progressed and make certain everything went properly,
that the most important internal organs were not touched. Then the executioner
pressed the pole into Dawnhand's body and moved to the butt-end with his
hammer. He began to give it little taps, glancing at the sa'necari between
each set and, at his nod, would start again. Dawnhand writhed convulsively and
screamed. His bowels let go, followed by blood and fluids. As the pole
progressed deeper it stiffened his body out. A bulge appeared in his right
shoulder like a huge swelling beneath the muscles. The sa'necari signaled a
halt, pulled his blade, and sliced the bulge. Blood and fluids gushed from it.
The sa'necari nodded and the hammering began again. The steel head emerged
from Dawnhand's shoulder, streaked in gore, and glinted in the sun. Once it
had gone far enough through him, they tied his ankles to the pole and, with
great care not to jostle him, sat it in place upon the scaffolding, nailing
the bottom to the frame between two beams and securing the top with a short
strut. Dawnhand twisted and groaned.

The crowd cheered; adults and children threw filth and garbage at Dawnhand.
Sickened, Isranon turned away, walking toward the forest beyond the clearing
where he saw two people standing. One of them looked familiar. When he got
close enough to tell, he saw the mon was Hoon. The female … he felt certain he
had seen her also, and then he remembered the woman in Hoon's mirror. She had
nut-brown skin, pointed ears and blue-black hair: Gylorean Galee.

"How long before he comes for me?" Hoon asked bitterly. "How long before I
end like that?" He gestured at Dawnhand.

"I can make you strong, Brandrahoon. Strong enough to protect your family.
Strong enough to oppose your brother."

"I don't want to be sa'necari, Galee. I don't want to be like him." Hoon's
voice was hollow.

"Oh, but you would not be sa'necari at all. You would be something else
entirely. You would be like me."

Hope flared in Hoon's voice. "How?"

"I take your blood and I give you mine."

"Do it, Galee. Do it."

They walked deep into the forest. Isranon followed them, drawn like a moth to
a flame. Galee sat upon the ground and patted the earth beside her. Hoon sat
down. For an instant Hoon looked nervous and uncertain. She opened his shirt,
her fangs flashing. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of her fangs and
he tried in vain to move away from her. She gripped him tightly, forcing him
backward despite his struggling, pressing him into the dank black soil and
rotted leaves. According to legend, the world had not known of or contained
vampires until Galee made Hoon. But then what was Galee?

Isranon was so lost in thought that he almost missed what he had come to
witness.

"No. No. Noooooo!" Hoon's despairing scream snapped Isranon back. Something
in the way that Galee straddled Hoon, attacking his throat, reminded Isranon
of Anksha.

Isranon stifled a scream of his own and tried to run, only to slide into a
nest of pine needles. Galee lifted her bloody mouth from Hoon's torn throat

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and stared at him. She could see him.

"Dawnhand? No, not Dawnhand … he's out there dying. Who are you? Tell me who
you are."

Isranon scrambled to his feet and fled, her voice echoing after him.

He woke alone in the wagon, shaking like an aspen leaf in a gale. At least he
thought he was alone. Gradually he became aware of a mon sitting on the other
cot. He did not recognize the battered, seamed face at first. Then it came
back to him as the ghost's identity banished the last vestiges of his vision.

"Josiah?" He clutched at his friend's presence as an anchor.

The ghost smiled. "Hello, Isranon."

"Why have you come?"

"You comforted me in my captivity. And we have a connection that you may not
realize. When Bodramet attacked you in my room, I cast shared life on you.
When Hoon struck at me as the spell was cast, far more tumbled through than
blood."

"That odd spell of yours. Yes, I remember it. You gave me your blood, but in
such a strange fashion. Hoon forced you to drain a mon to death with it."

The ghost looked deeply distressed. "It was not meant for such things. It was
meant to give life, not take it. We are connected by it. By that and our
friendship."

"I wish I could have protected you." Isranon remembered the days and nights
he tended Josiah after each round of torture Hoon inflicted upon the mage. He
had been just as helpless to save Josiah and Mephistis as he had himself. He
fell into troubled silence. Meeting his own doom with stoic courage was one
thing, watching it happen to someone else... If only he had been strong enough
to become the hunter and not the hunted.Your teachings were wrong, father. We
should have resisted the sa'necari, not fled them.

"Isranon, it is my feeling that it may take a broken mon to heal a broken
mon. To that end I will tell you the first place to look for help. You will
need a lot of help to reach Treth. The darkness hunts you and the light does
not want you."

Isranon pushed himself up on his elbows and managed a sitting position
despite the pain it brought him. "As it has ever been."

"You will not wither from Anksha's feedings or any other touch of hers."

He had long wondered why Yoris had begun to wither first. "Why not?"

"Because of that moment of Shared Life. I do not fully understand it, but I
know it. Perhaps your sufferings will bring forth the latencies and you will
even find a way to heal yourself…. From that moment in the attic, you carried
the potential to be greater than Bodramet, greater–possibly–even than
Mephistis."

The ghost fell silent for a time and then began to speak once more. "You and
yours really know very little of the human lands and how they work. You are
pariahs and outcasts. Here the first person pariahs and outcasts go for
assistance is to an infuriating little god named Dynanna. Two days north of

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here you will strike a stream. Follow it to an old hunter's trace; continue on
that north, northeast to an elm hollow. There you will find an abandoned
shrine to Dynanna. Ask her nicely and I think she'll listen."

"A god? A god listen to a sa'necari?" Isranon hardly dared to hope. Josiah
had taught him a little about the Gods of Light during their intermittent
conversations. Because of his weakened condition and spending so much time in
the grip of Sanguine Rose, he remembered it only in small parts.

"Yes,"Josiah replied. "She will listen. I must go. My strength fades. I will
return when I can."

He considered the words of his ghostly teacher and friend. Then he made his
decision. When Anksha appeared a little later, he told her, "Anksha, tell
Zulaika I need to speak with her. We're going to a shrine to Dynanna."

CHAPTER THREE. flight

The acrid smoke of burning buildings obscured the moon. The evening breezes
cast the drifting cinders far and wide, like angry fireflies. Roofs caught
fire and the flames spread. The night became a hell of shifting patterns in
black and orange, screaming people and the moans of the dying. Nans walked
through streets choked with panicked citizenry, keeping herself between
Deryna, who carried one child on her hip and held the other by the hand, and
the chaos swirling around them. She kept them easing along close to the
buildings.

Bodies littered the avenues, many of them women and children. They had to
step over and around the dead. Nans focused away from the sights,
concentrating on her goal of reaching the city gates. Her life-long
concealment of her true nature as yuwenghau, demi-god, would end this night;
the enemy would soon know that one of her kind strode among them. She glanced
and saw that Deryna had acquired another child, herding it along in front of
her. With her greater than human strength, Nans used the staff to knock horses
and riders from her path when they came plunging at her, crushing their skulls
as soon as they went down. Nans fought with a single-minded intensity, beating
her way through the violence whipping around her.

A mounted guardsmon charged her. She slammed the heavy metal head of the
staff into the horse's chest. Bone cracked as the beast went down; the sound
was lost in the noise of conflict. She stomped her foot through the horse's
skull and crushed the pinned rider's throat with her staff.

"Yuwenghau," people murmured and a few managed to cling to her wake.

At the gates, the guardsmyn and followers of Galee strove to prevent anyone
from getting out. The people were meat and the meat would not escape. Nans
reached the gates as six soldiers tried to draw it closed.

"No, damn you," Nans snarled, spinning the staff. The first soldier died with
his throat crushed by the blunt metal cap on the staff's end. She knocked two
more down and stomped them hard in the stomach, rupturing their internal
organs as she closed on the last three. She parried the fourth's sword, jabbed
him in the groin, and brought the metal head up under his chin with enough
force to snap his neck. The last two fled. She let her staff drop. Her hands
closed on the cold metal frame of the portcullis, her muscles flexed and then
she tore the screaming, twisting metal off its hinges. Nans strode forward
with the portcullis and battered the heavy oak and steel outer gate with it

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until the wood splintered and the steel shrieked. More soldiers came running
with the two who had fled in the lead. She sailed the ruined portcullis into
them, and then seized what remained of the gate with a wrenching twist that
left it hanging half off its hinges. "You prick-whores will not be closing it
now," she cursed.

She scooped her staff up and walked through. The yuwenghau continued walking,
only half-noting that she had acquired a tail of people until she reached the
sheltering trees beyond sight of the walls. Then Nans paused to discover that
she had picked up twenty odd women and children, and three men. "Let's get
well clear of here before they send something after us."

No one argued with that. They walked until the children were too tired to go
further; one of the men was stumbling by then and leaning on his companion.
Nans allowed them to rest beneath the trees in as much concealment as could be
managed and took stock. There were no unbroken families among them. A few of
the women had simply picked up children they found on the street as they
followed in the aftermath of Nans's carnage. The children seemed to range in
age from a year to twelve years old. Two of the men, Kell and Ifor, were
guardsmyn. The third, Orim, was a shopkeeper. Orim had had his family with him
when they made the attempt to escape and he had got separated from them. He
sat with his face in his hands, sobbing.

Deryna went to Ifor first, getting his clothing open. He had a long tear in
his side. Nans squatted beside him and Kell turned to her with a war-strained
look of gratitude. "Holy One, thank you."

"None of that." Nans realized abruptly that she was shaking with rage and
caught a deep, fortifying breath before continuing. "Few of us really enjoy
being addressed that way. And I'm only half-blood. I'm just Nans. I'd rather
every single one of you," she scanned their faces, "forgot what I did back
there. I don't want those bottom-wetters to know what I am…"so they can't get
my measure "before I cram it down their suck-ass throats."

They all nodded agreement to that.

"We need to make a travois for Ifor," Nans said.

"I'll get it started," Kell answered and headed into the trees to hack down
some straight branches.

"Get the children organized and assigned to the adults in little groups. Keep
them moving in the middle, ready to dive into the bushes at the first sign of
trouble."

The rest of the adults moved off to implement her orders and Nans found
herself alone with Deryna.

Unlike the majority of wilderkin, Nans was classified as a predator and
lacked the peace aura that prevented those with it from hunting. It also meant
that she did not wake up knee deep in furry creatures every morning, although
she could summon them as messengers when she needed to send them to others of
her kind in emergencies. She did not yet have enough information to justify
that. She still did not know what this creature was; only that it existed.

Nans realized she was clutching her wounded shoulder when Deryna gently pried
her hand away. Pain coursed through her. She had been blocking it out
instinctively, and awareness came in a rush and a wince at the healer's touch.

"Let me have a look." Deryna took her aside, "tsking" at the way Nans had

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torn it open again. She changed the bandaging.

"You think those things will come after us?" Deryna asked.

"There are always myn looking for easy prey when trouble breaks out. They
want as little word getting out as possible about what is going down in
Minnoras. They'll try to sweep up everyone that ran. They'll also try to play
gobble-gobble with the outlying villages. The sa'necari haven't taken and held
lands other than Zol and Waejontor. Both realms have fallen. Zol was literally
blown off the map by a yuwenghau. Zol's surviving sa'necari, those not caught
in the city, scattered. Until now they were not much of a threat. But if
they've been gathered into Minnoras?"

"Ria Torrundarsdottir. She called the Hammer of Heaven," Deryna said,
pointing out what some of the legendary yuwenghau were capable of.

Nans nodded. "Sharani grandchild of my half-brother Teakamon, Shepherd of the
Wilds, and a daughter of Torrundar Storm Lord."

"Full blood?"

"Nearly and Torrundar's favorite. I never met her. But I've heard the tales."

* * * *

That mon might as well stop screaming,Gaeatyra thought as she stole through
the trees and brush, slipping from one patch of deep shadow to another beneath
the bright moonlight. It would only send people scattering in the opposite
direction–with the possible exception of herself, of course. Gaeatyra was of
the Taladrim, solitary hunters, running with their moonwolves at their sides;
distress, terror, and pain were magnets for a Taladri. A faint, hard-ass
expression, half-sneer, had got locked onto her face out of habit during the
last Great War and rarely left her for long: it was there when she dropped her
hand to her moonwolf's white ruff before parting the brush once she was
certain that she had to be nearly on top of the screaming mon.

Willodarus's rangers and Tala's Hunters, the Taladrim, had been sent to the
northwest of the Merezian continent as soon as word of the nekaryiane's rising
went out to the temples. It was not until the refugees appeared that the city
of her rising was ascertained. That thing had attracted every undead creature
from vampires to revenants from as far north as Waejontor and as far south as
the Grey Dawn into this region, as well as the masterless sa'necari. Gaeatyra
would soon have her third kill in as many days.

The mon lay staked out in the middle of a crudely made pentagram cut into the
earth while a male rode her. He trailed a blade along her leg, drawing blood
in the first stages of mortgiefan.

"Fucking sa'necari," Gaeatyra muttered. She walked out, caught him by the
back of the head, and slit his throat before he even knew she was there. Blood
fountained over the mon. Gaeatyra threw him onto his back, straddled him,
pulled a gem from her pocket, popped it into his mouth, and staked him with
her blade through his heart. A white vapor tried to escape from his body only
to be drawn into the gem. Gaeatyra pocketed the gem. This one would not rise
undead. She had caught his soul. She would do a formal dismemberment after
tending his victim.

"What's you name?" Gaeatyra asked.

"Ari Kolbren," she said, her sobs quieting until she got a good look at

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Gaeatyra as the Taladri moved to cut her loose. Then she screamed.

At first glance the rangy broad shouldered Sharani looked male, wearing three
necklaces of ears and other bizarre things, including teeth and claws, a pair
of bandoleers, a variety of strange weapons, a sword, and a backpack. Her
hawkish face was seamed and scarred, her hands rough and calloused. She was
altogether an unpleasant package.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Gaeatyra said, startled by Ari's reaction. "I
mean, why should I want to hurt another woman? Unless, of course, you came at
me."

"You're a woman?"

Gaeatyra laughed. "I'm not a monster, if that's what you're thinking." She
finished with Ari's bonds and the mon curled up into a shivering ball.
Gaeatyra touched her gently. "Come on, I need to see what he did to you.
You're bleeding. I'm one of the Taladrim. Our purpose is to search and
destroy. Willodarus's rangers, like Nans Gryphonheart, who I hear is in the
area, is to search and rescue. We are opposite sides of the same coin. If we
cross paths with Nans, I'll leave you with her. But I will not simply abandon
you." She kept talking, using her patter of words to reassure the terrified
mon much as she would an animal, and slowly got Ari to uncurl. The sa'necari
had barely begun to work on her; there were only three slashes. He had been
taking his time. The two on her right leg were shallow, but the one on her
left was deep. Ari would not be doing any walking.

Gaeatyra cleaned and bandaged the wounds, then took a look at the blade the
sa'necari had used. If it was a baneblade, then Ari was going to die anyway
and rise undead in spite of anything Gaeatyra could do; they cut the soul as
well as the body. Those blades were forged by upper echelon sa'necari; and
Gaeatyra had a feeling he had not been one–he had died too easily. She turned
the blade over in her hands, reading the runes. The runes were ugly, but the
one she feared most was missing. Ari would still have a hard time, so Gaeatyra
decided to keep her until she found someone capable of helping her.

Damn the sa'necari and their black arts. The world would be better if they
were all destroyed.Gaeatyra felt a flicker of regret that having Ari along
meant she would not be getting a lot of kills until she found help for her.
Gaeatyra had a bet going with Timjimikin, another Taladrim, that she would
have more new ears than he did by winter solstice.

"Your dog," Ari said, stretching her hand out as the moonwolf sniffed at her.

Gaeatyra shrugged, saying off-handedly, "Emer's a wolf."

Ari snatched her hand back and looked ready to curl up again.

"He won't hurt you either," Gaeatyra's voice turned even dryer. "Emer, fetch
the horses. We'll camp here until dawn."

She opened her pack, pulling out a shirt and tunic, which she handed to Ari.
"It will probably fit like a sack and drag in the dirt, but at least it's
clean and you'll be covered."

Ari scrambled into it. Her alacrity pleased Gaeatyra. Maybe there was some
backbone to the mon.

"I'm going to cut him up. If that bothers you, look the other way."

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Ari looked ready to spew. "Why are you doing it?"

"If I don't, some sa'necari can raise him and either send him after us or
figure out what we are and where we went," Gaeatyra explained.

That seemed to shock her silent, and after a few minutes she said softly,
"Truly?"

The sheer idiocy of that question almost provoked an irritated non sequitur,
but Gaeatyra bit it back as she gathered nearby sticks and started a fire. She
did not want to upset or frighten Ari even more. "Where are you from that you
don't know about undead?"

Ari stilled going colder, feeling the world dulling around her. "Angrim." She
turned her back on Gaeatyra, huddling down by the fire.

"Figures." Even if the Angrimers had problems with undead, they would conceal
it: they never admitted that the supernatural was a threat to them. One of two
realms anathematized by the Nine Elder Gods, Angrim worshipped a single deity
in whose name they persecuted all other religions, all magic and arcane gifts
in a bloody, intolerant fashion. Some of the stronger tribes, among them the
Sharani, had kept their aggressions contained for centuries. Trade had been
limited and fraught with hazards. Religious sanctions had been imposed on all
who had intercourse with them as giving aid to those who did harm to their
brethren. "What the hell were you doing this close to Minnoras?"

"I–I ran away."

"Well, you've run right into a war."

Gaeatyra finished cutting out the sa'necari's heart and tossed it in the
dirt. Her wolf emerged from the shadows to eat it after dropping the leads of
two horses by the Taladri's knee, one a fine saddle mount and the other laden
with packs.

Ari watched all this with intense curiosity. "You are very strange folk."

Gaeatyra guffawed at the irony of that. "We say the same of Angrimers."

Ari fell silent for a long time, he hands resting on her chin as she stared,
unseeing into space.

Gaeatyra did not want her brooding. "Be nice and I'll introduce you to the
Sacred King." Gaeatyra figured anecdotes might put her at ease and take her
mind off her terror.

Ari blinked. "You know her?"

Gaeatyra grinned. "I threatened to put her over my knee and spank hell out of
her when she was sixteen."

"You're joshing me."

"She'd just brought her friends into Sharatier on a hare-brained errand on
the eve of Aevrina Coleth's attempted coup and nearly got them all killed. I
had a damned hard time getting them out of the city in one piece." Her voice
gentled a bit. "Course, you're only sixteen once."Bunch of screwy kids even if
they had been just consecrated as paladins. All but one of them were dead now.
It made her feel old.No, Gaeatyra reconsidered,two were still alive, if you
counted the dwarf . Gaeatyra was fairly certain the dwarf was still alive. But

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all the others in that group of youngsters–all dead–except Aejys.Damn the
sa'necari! I'll kill every one of those bastards I get my hands on .

Gaeatyra wrapped Ari in one of her blankets for the night and settled nearby
to sleep with Emer guarding. Dawn came bright with a breath of breeze.
Gaeatyra watched Emer's body fade into a smoky wisp that only she could see as
he returned to his natural state for the duration of the daylight hours: Emer,
like all moonwolves, was a ghost.

Ari stirred sluggishly in Gaeatyra's bedroll, levering herself up on one arm
to blink at her. The Taladri did not like the glazed look to her eyes. She
felt her forehead and found fever. She mixed a distillate of willowbark and
holadil, steadying her hand to help her drink it. Then she packed up, wrapped
Ari in a blanket before putting her on the horse, and mounted behind her.
There was a village to the north where she might be able to buy a cart. A
wagon would be better. The sa'necari had had an ample purse on him.

* * * *

Isranon felt the ghost before he saw him, waking to Josiah's chill presence
in the darkness. Josiah sat on his bed, seeming sad, his shoulders slumped,
and head down. Josiah straightened when he realized that Isranon had awakened
and was looking at him. Had Josiah been flesh, Isranon would have taken his
hand or squeezed his shoulders in a gesture of comfort. The mon had died well,
but not easy. That touched the sensitive core of Isranon. He felt wide open to
the ghost's feelings, unable to close them out, and it added a psychic edge to
his own suffering that normally he only felt in Anksha's presence after he had
gone too long without feeding her.

"You will reach the shrine soon," Josiah told him.

Isranon struggled to push himself into a sitting position with his palms and
gritted his teeth against both his weakness and his pain. "Good. What is
troubling you?"

The ghost was silent for a time and then spoke hesitantly. "My body still
sits on the Commons at Rowanhart."

"Rowanhart?" That perplexed Isranon since Josiah had died in Charas. Josiah
had had a mage tower there, a tower whose very name made Isranon ache with
desire: theDawnlightTower . It called to him both because it shared part of
his ancestor's name and because it suggested the Gods of Light whose
acceptance he craved.

The ghost nodded. "Kalirion sent it there with his priests and paladins. I
belonged to him once. He still claims me. He geised the city–most of it–for
how they treated me. So I lie there … in my coffin while they raise a temple
with a sepulcher within it for my body. And all the while I lie there. There
is a stasis to preserve my body until they can lay it to rest."The ghost
sighed, its form wavering. "I failed my god, Isranon. I did not simply show
pride toward him, I defied him."

Isranon straightened, shocked by the revelation. Why would anyone wish to
defy a God of the Light? He could not bring himself to ask why. "Josiah, let
me help you."

"You cannot. If I knew how, I would tell you. I have been forbidden to return
to those I love. Kalirion has blocked my return to the wheel. I created my own
nightmare. And I can find no path to atonement and forgiveness. Forgive me. I
did not mean to share this…."Josiah faded away.

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"Josiah, come back."

Isranon felt certain that Josiah had intended to speak of something else
entirely, but now the chance was gone. He could have magically forced Josiah
to return, but did not wish to risk their trust by doing so.

He ran his fingers around the base of his neck, where the skin was lighter
than the rest.This is not the life I expected to have as a slave.

* * * *

The vampires spread out around the shrine as Anksha and Nevin helped Isranon
out of the wagon. Nevin stood, his arm around Isranon's waist, gripping him
firmly. The lycan never said it, yet he bitterly resented how wasted Isranon
had become, remembering all the years they had hunted together, how proud he
had been when Claw granted him hunting privileges on Clan lands. Nevin had
always predicted it, saying, "Here is a fine mon." None of them had been
certain what to offer at an outland god's shrine, but Olin and the nibari had
decided on wine after discussing Isranon's vision of Josiah.

Nevin saw how the little shrine's door hung half off its hinges, overgrown
around the edges with weeds and pressed on all sides with trees. Would any god
be found in such a place? The symbol over the door had been nearly
obliterated, and only the faintest of imprints remained. Moving his head from
side to side, Nevin discovered that from certain angles the symbol caught the
fading edge of the last strands of sunlight through the leaves, appearing as a
faint question mark.

"It's abandoned. I hope it has not been desecrated," Zulaika muttered,
dismounting.

Isranon's legs gave and he sagged between them. Anksha and Nevin steadied him
and went on, half carrying him. Unseen animals squeaked and scurried in the
darkness. Zulaika lit a torch and found a wall bracket for it. The flickering
flames revealed the shrine as a simple structure, square, and plain. Rows of
benches made two aisles leading to the altar.

Zulaika pulled boards off the broken windows, allowing sunlight to slant onto
peeling green paint and the patches of grey, weathered wood beneath.

Olin and Randilyn placed the bottles of wine in the wooden box beside the
altar, calling on Dynanna in reverent tones. She appeared promptly; startled
to hear her name called where it had not been spoken in over a century. She
looked nothing like anyone could possibly have expected, totally
unprepossessing in her scruffiness. The god had long red-gold hair hanging
loose about her shoulders, a piquant nose, large green eyes, and lots of
freckles. She wore a white longshoremyn's shirt over pants with large buttoned
pockets. Dynanna looked about to see if an offering had been placed in the
loot box, spied the wine and tucked the bottles into her pockets.

The troubles she could get people into–and out of–were both legion and
legend. According to many priests of many gods, Dynanna's unpredictability and
uninhibited impulsiveness made the little trickster potentially one of the
most dangerous deities in their world; far beyond her stature as a very minor
young god–a yuwenghau.

Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared as she realized what they were.

"Just what the hell do you think you're trying to pull this time," she

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snarled, snapping her fingers to materialize a lightweight mace. Sa'necari and
vampires–Mephistis and Hoon had caught her once. They had slain her son,
LorenRain. They had nearly slain her, but she had jumped to Kalirion and the
Sun Lord healed her. Once was enough. "No more shit!" She lifted the mace,
whose name was Basher, and started toward them with her other hand raised to
summon her paladins.

"Please," Isranon cried, pulling free of Anksha and Nevin. "Please, hear me."
A hard wave of pain doubled him over and he fell, clutching at his side and
stomach.

Dynanna stopped in the middle of summoning and peered at him. "What's wrong
with you?" She lowered her mace to waist level, ready to raise and strike if
necessary.

"I'm sa'necari born," he gritted out. "But I'm pure. I've never committed
mortgiefan… Because… I refused to do it… other sa'necari hurt me… the same
ones… who hurt you. Anksha killed them."

Dynanna came around the altar and touched him, Read him. "Shiiittt. They sure
pulled a number on you." Her face softened with concern and she clipped the
mace to her belt. She Read him more deeply and goggled at the magic patterns,
seeing their potentials. She owed Kalirion a favor and giving him Isranon
might do it. Collecting favors to be called in later was one of her favorite
things. She owed Kalirion for saving her life, but she owed him even more for
her accidentally messing up Josiah. She had also accidentally-on-purpose
messed up Kalirion's garden with her favorite gopher curse after refusing his
proposal of marriage. Dynanna just was not the marrying kind: kids yes,
husbands no.

"We're pariahs. We've lived in peaceful symbiosis, vampires, shifters, and
nibaris. Now the sa'nekaryiane, the undead, the sa'necari, the followers of
the Nine, all hunt us."

Dynanna's expression softened still more. "I take in pariahs, outcasts, and
general untouchables, but you're a real pack of hardcases. Well, gather round
and I'll see what I can do."

Anksha blinked. Dynanna was a very strange god.

The whole crew filed into the shrine.

"You know, I used to pretend to be a vampire and scare potential paladins by
biting them. I thought it was a grand joke until I actually met one of you
guys."

Zulaika laughed and then the rest of them did also.

"First thing, though I'll need to mark a couple of you the easy, nice way so
you'll have a direct link to call for help if you need it. I have a feeling
you'll need a lot of help. Doesn't mean I'll Hear. I get busy and preoccupied
sometimes. But you never know."

"Me," Isranon said. "You are now my liege-god. Of life and limb and earthly
worship."

Dynanna laughed.

Isranon frowned. "Isn't that what they say?"

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"That's what knights and paladins say to kings. You don't know much do you?"

"I guess not. We're from Waejontor. It's different there, but we want to
learn."

A chorus of "ayes" sounded behind him. Dynanna laughed again, her voice
filling with delight. "I never thought I'd have a collection of vampires and a
sa'necari to call my own. It's gonna burn a little. Take your robe off."

Anksha helped him get out of his robe. He still dressed like a blood-slave,
but the clothing was heavy silk and wool and finer than anything he had ever
worn before.

Dynanna gaped at all the scars. "Shiiitt. You've sure been treated rough."
Then she spotted the brand. "You're an escaped slave?"

"I was to the sa'necari," Isranon said. "I am lord of my people now."

"Meaning these folks?" Dynanna swept her hand at the company.

"Yes."

"Okay, let's do it." She picked a spot on his shoulder and touched it. He
winced at the sharp burn, but it was over quickly. Then there was a question
mark squiggle on his skin. "Next?"

"Me," Anksha said.

"Are you certain, little beast?" Dynanna asked. "Most of my paladins are
Badree Nym." Dynanna would never forget what a beating Mally, who called
herself the warrior princess, had given Anksha a century ago with her little
wooden sword while playing in the forest one morning. Mally had magically
dropped a tree on Anksha and then paddled her bottom with the wooden sword
until the demon-eater was in tears. Anksha would never forget both the pain
and the humiliation. But Anksha had jumped Mally first, biting and scratching,
so to Dynanna's mind, she had gotten her 'just deserves.'

"Nym?" Anksha squeaked. Her eyes got large, and her lower lip thrust out as
she studied the mark on Isranon's shoulder. Then she squared her shoulders and
said, "Yes."

Anksha pulled her shirt off and put up with the burn, determined to be as
brave as her Isranon. Then Dynanna marked Randilyn and they moved on to other
things.

One by one the others came and swore fealty to her. Zulaika and Amiri came
last, catching her eye with a pledge of silence as it registered in Dynanna's
awareness that these two had already been marked by one of the Nine Elder
gods. Now what was one of the Nine doing marking vampires? Then she recognized
Amiri and gave her a sly wink, knowing Amiri would probably spend weeks trying
to puzzle that one out. Did all the Ymraudes belong to the Tinkerer?

The trickster speculated on what Amiri's reaction would be if she discovered
the little old mon who had been selling her trinkets for years and advising
her on courses of actions was actually Dynanna. Amiri had done her lots of
favors, mostly unwittingly.

"I'm not a healer. I'm a trickster. However, my mark should prove you're
talking truth to people. You'll need gold in places, not just those esoteric
things you're planning on bribing houngans and shamans with. That I can help

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with." She snapped her fingers and two chests appeared. Then she thought for a
while and summoned some map cases, marking some places and routes for them.
"I'll alert my folks to watch for you and help." She replaced their stores of
food for the shifters and nibaris. Dynanna wished she could do more for the
vampires, but they just smiled when she gave them her regrets.

"A ghost gave me a prophecy years ago," Isranon told her.

Dynanna chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "Don't know much about prophecies,
but run it by me."

"She said that the echo of the Dawnhand would be kindled to fullness within
me by the touch of the all talent and I would ride with gods and kings of
light to the shores of Ildyrsetts where I would find my ancestor's staff."

Dynanna blinked, her head dropped low until her chin nearly touched her chest
the way a wolf would lower it and she stroked her chin with her thumb as she
circled him, considering. "Are you telling me Dawnhand's your ancestor?"

"Yes. Is there something wrong with that?"

"Nooooo." She rubbed the side of her nose as she considered. "You do kind of
look like him now that I notice. In fact, you look exactly like him. Except
for the ears. His had points. He was sylvan, you know."

Isranon had not known that for certain, but he nodded for her to continue.
"You knew Dawnhand?"

Dynanna gave him a smug cat-grin. "Of course. He was my brother. That's why
our daddy gave him the staff. He was a favorite son and all that."

Isranon swayed in shock as murmurs of surprise susurrated around him. He was
descended of a God of Light, yet he was condemned to the darkness by his birth
as sa'necari. He might walk the edges of the Light with Dynanna as his
liege-god, but he could never step fully into it.

"Skin's a mite dark." She leaned her face in to look closer, scratched under
her nose, then rubbed her folded finger underneath it. "Hmmmn. I know where
the staff is."

"You do!" Isranon's heart raced.

"Yup." She circled him again, pausing to poke him in the shoulder. "Not quite
as tall, maybe. But Dawnhand's been dead a long time. I might not remember
right anymore. I can arrange for you to pick it up in Ildyrsetts, cause that's
where it is. He doesn't know its name or what it does, so when someone offers
you a staff, just say yes and ask no questions. Promise?"

"You have my word." Ildyrsetts. But where were the gods and kings? Dynanna
clearly did not intend to ride with him.

"Okay. Now I'm out of here," Dynanna said.

"One more thing," Anksha cried out urgently. "One more!"

"What?" Dynanna looked down at her.

"A flute! Isranon needs a flute."

Everyone looked startled except Isranon, who smiled as Anksha told the story

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exactly as Isranon had told it to her.

Dynanna smiled and then snapped her fingers. A lovely silver flute appeared
in her hands. "No one wants to become a monster, Isranon." She placed it in
his hands.

Isranon felt a wave of warmth spread through him as he lifted it to his lips
and began to blow. All the fears and worries vanished from his heart. It
seemed for a moment that he could see Timon standing near, his head up,
listening with a look of such love in his eyes that it brought tears to
Isranon's own and then he was gone. Isranon lowered the flute. Dynanna was
also gone and the little party was alone in the shrine with their gifts. He
felt more certain now that although he had been born sa'necari, he would never
become a monster.

Father, somehow, some way, I have stepped to the edge of the light. I wish
you were with me. I am to have the staff and you told me I wouldn't. I don't
have to fight for it either; I'm not seeking conflict. She's going to give it
to me.

"Zulaika," Isranon said. "Will we go through Ildyrsetts on the way to Treth?"

"No. We're taking theWest Bank Road since it gets us there faster."

"But I must get the staff."

Zulaika gave Isranon a long, sympathetic look. "I know how important it is
for you. But Treth must come first. Your life depends on it. We will go to
Ildyrsetts second."

"But we will go?" An edge of disappointment crept into Isranon's tone.

"You are lord of this company, Isranon. We will go."

* * * *

The stretch of dense forest had yielded to irregular patterns of scattered
woods and open ground. Had Nans been traveling alone she could easily have
sustained a forced march of thirty to fifty miles a day in full armor and pack
for up to a week before seriously flagging. They were damned lucky to make ten
with the women, children, and dragging Ifor on the travois, especially
considering how exhausted the Minnorians were from the traumas of the falling
city. Most of the time they did not make five. They started to see small
groups appear on the road by the second day, mostly twos and threes that had
also gotten out. Those who had been lucky enough to get out with a horse or a
cart passed them. No one spoke. They seemed to close themselves off in silent
terror that someone might ask something of them that they were too tired and
frightened to give in their desperation to survive. Whenever someone from
Nans' band tried to stop one of those, Nans would shake her head and call them
back, gesturing them into their place.

The food that Nans and Deryna had taken from the temple, while adequate for
their own needs, did not stretch for so many. By the second day Nans found
herself faced with a need to locate more either by hunting or approaching a
farmhouse. When they came upon a grazing field early in mid-afternoon of the
third day and Nans spied the farmer's two-story wood frame house, she made her
decision. She settled her charges in a cluster of pines offering concealment
from the road along the winding path leading to the front door and approached
with Deryna and her children. Nans left the guardsmon Kell in charge of the
others with help from the shopkeeper Orim.

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Three dogs trotted around from the direction of the barns, tongues lolling
out and tails wagging, followed shortly by the farmer. They were huge beasts
the size of ponies, showing mastiff blood in their blocky heads and stout
bodies. The farmer appeared right behind them.

Nans squatted, rubbing their ugly heads. "Nice dogs."

The farmer frowned, noticed Deryna with the children, and made a shrewd
guess. "Wilderkin?"

Nans caught the odd raising of his eyebrows and something else suggesting
that he had seen this reaction from his dogs before. Travis? Had Travis
stopped here? Nans took a chance, her hand sliding around her neck to snag the
chain that held her runes. She drew it up and flashed them at him.

"Come inside out of sight," Ryss said.

"I've people hidden in your pines, women and children. Wounded."

"Get them into the barns. Wait. I'll send my wife to do it with that one." He
indicated Deryna. "Bring them up a few at a time. Now let's get inside."

The farmer led them in. They found his wife in the kitchen, and one of his
granddaughters offered to help with the two children. The moment he had Nans
alone, he leaned close to ask her, "You would not happen to be the yuwenghau
we were told died in Minnoras by an old dog who came through three days ago?"

"I'm Nans." She told him the story and why she preferred he kept it quiet.

"We buried one of your people behind our barns. Six of them rode in wounded,
asking for shelter. We gave it. This land is all we have, all we've known, so
we intend to try and stay the course. If things go sour, I would like to know
that my women folk had somewhere to run to. What can you offer me in exchange
for the aid you want?"

"You have pen and paper?"

The farmer fetched them and then watched while Nans wrote out two letters,
affixing them with her seal. His eyes widened at seeing one addressed to the
High Priest to Willodarus at Leighston, Gormond's Reach, and the other to King
William Gryphonheart. "You must be the bastard of…." He clapped his hands over
his mouth.

Nans gave him a lop-sided smile, her head ever so slightly tilted, and her
eyes slitted as she chuckled. She had not been called that in years, but this
was a long way from Gormond's Reach and customs changed more slowly the
further from the center you got. It had taken the kingdom a long time to
recover from the scandal, especially since her mother had become pregnant by
hugging a tree that turned out to be a sleeping god–which took a lot of
explaining. Her mother, more than a little bewildered by the experience to
begin with and then being a stubbornly defiant sort on top of that, created an
uproar with her refusal to name a father. "No offense taken."

* * * *

Itch's grave lay in the farmer's family plot, unobtrusive alongside older
graves. They left her alone there. Nans felt grateful for that. Itch Hollens
and his half-brother Luck Settlesby had ridden with her for ten years. She
trusted Travis to get the company out of Minnorian territory. Travis was a

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good mon, almost as good as Itch. "Damn it, Itch!" Nana cursed. Why'd you have
to buy it, mon?"

She did not cry. There was a tightness and an anger; a hollowed out feeling,
wondering who else she had lost. The farmer said there had been only four
others with Travis, which meant the city had claimed three besides Itch. She
owed someone a blood debt. "I'll see that debt paid, Itch. I tried to keep us
out of wars. We were strictly search and rescue. We walked right into that
one. It's the Rowdies' war now and we're going fight it. I'm going to fight
it. I'm going to give them hell, Itch. I promise."

Nans said a prayer to the Creation and sent out a call to her father, not
knowing whether he would even Hear her–he never seemed to; her gifts were not
strong enough.

* * * *

"Uhhmmmn," Gaeatyra grinned, watching the wagon start to roll north out of
the village at twilight. It was not even a village, just a cluster of four
houses with their fields fanned out behind them. The kind of thing that became
a village. One mon on horseback, a driver, and two on foot. She could smell
sa'necari, blood, and terror. So could Emer who was phasing back into flesh
beside her as the light faded. They had hidden Ari beneath some low pines a
yard off. Gaeatyra strung her bow and put three clothyard shafts into the
horsemon in quick succession, knocking him off his mount certain that he had
to be the sa'necari and wanting to be sure of him.

"I want the wagon, Emer." She shot the driver. The two on foot charged her.
Gaeatyra just had time to put aside her bow and draw her sword.

"Taladri!"

The wolf raced past the myn to get the team headed off before they could
bolt. Gaeatyra grinned at the fact that they had recognized what she was and
then frowned at their tabards: the ancient deathtree of the Hellgod: crimson
on black.

She ducked a swing at her head, dropping into a squatting crouch and shoved
her blade into the mon's groin. Kicking him off the blade, she scuttled
sidewise to avoid his companion and then erupted upward with a smashing side
blow and retreated.

"Stupid Sharani bitch."

"New colors, Minnorian?" Gaeatyra sneered.

"My God's colors. I have seen the Queen."

Emer secured the wagon, and then sprang snarling onto the mon's back. As he
staggered forward under Emer's weight, Gaeatyra shoved her blade into his
chest.

"Good wolf. Stay with Ari while I check out the houses."

First she checked out the myn she had brought down. It was a good thing that
she did. She had been right: the one on horseback had been sa'necari. He was
an old one, steeped in death, hard to kill. He drew the arrows from his body,
glaring at her. Seeing that she had noticed him, his lips moved in a spell,
his fingers weaving. Gaeatyra's hand slid quickly along her belt as she
charged him, finding what she sought by feel and she struck him with three

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small white stones, smooth and carved like quarter moons.

The sa'necari screamed at the backlash of power as she turned his spell,
reaching for the runed blade at his belt and striking at her.

"Don't think so." Gaeatyra slashed his hand off, kicking the blade away. The
sa'necari scrambled to his feet, staggering and clutching at his bleeding
stump that gushed blood over both of them. Gaeatyra kicked him under the chin
sending him onto his back, and then methodically stomped and stabbed him until
he stopped moving. She snatched her spellcords out, corded him to be on the
safe side, and popped a gem in his mouth as she straddled him. Reversing her
sword, she brought it down two handed and drove it through his heart, twisting
it several times. The white vapor of his soul tried to rise free only to be
sucked screaming into the gem, which Gaeatyra pocketed. She checked out the
driver next. He was human. She would behead them all to be safe, but it could
be taken care of later. The dangerous one had been dealt with.

She retrieved her stones and cords, cleaned her blades, and then sauntered
toward the houses. People started to emerge.

"Taladri." A middle aged mon approached her, leading the others. "They are
saying a hellgod has risen in the city and that we must worship her."

"Don't know about that." Gaeatyra scooped up the bane-blade, pried the
sa'necari's fingers loose from it, dropped his hand and wrapped the blade up
in a bit of cloth she kept for such things before putting it in one of her
bandoleer's compartments. "I'll keep the wagon, the horse when I catch it and
take the bodies and all their pieces far from here to dispose of them so they
can't connect them to you. What the Taladrim do know is that a nekaryiane and
possibly a sa'nekaryiane has risen and taken the city. She appears to have the
seiryn's gift for influencing males, so I'd advise having the womenfolk do any
talking to the creature if she decides to put in an appearance here. I doubt
she will. You're smallfolk."

Gaeatyra walked to where she had left Ari, brushing aside the drooping
branches. The young mon was fighting the death magics hard and that touched
Gaeatyra. Ari stirred as the Taladri slipped her arms under her shoulders and
legs to lift her up.

"You get them all?" Ari asked.

"Always do."

"Good." Ari leaned her head against Gaeatyra's shoulder, having long since
ceased to care that it meant nesting her face in those necklaces of human
ears.

"A wounded comrade?" the headman asked, stepping aside to let her pass and
then following. His people were already piling the bodies in her appropriated
buckboard.

"Someone I rescued."

One of the villagers started to take things out of the wagon, but the headman
clapped his hands to get their attention and shook his head. The items were
returned. Apparently they were paying her for rescuing them. Gaeatyra laid Ari
on the front seat.

"I'd like to go with you." A stout mon approached her. "I'm Mardeth. Your
friend needs tending. You cannot both fight and tend. How far are you going?"

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"Merkreth's Crossing." Gaeatyra never liked having help underfoot. Like all
the Taladrim, she was a loner. 'A mon travels fastest, who travels alone.' Yet
it had been difficult carrying Ari. She hesitated. Then said, "So long as you
don't expect to be entertained."

"I don't."

"Climb up and keep an eye on things."

Emer fetched her horses and Gaeatyra tied them to the wagons. By then the
Taladri had registered that no one had come out of the fourth house–the one
she had seen the raiders emerge from last. She went to investigate. No one
seemed willing to go in with her, which aroused her suspicions. They appeared
to have an obvious reluctance, holding back, glancing at each other uneasily.
Only Mardeth sat impassively staring from the wagon, as if unaffected by her
decision to go there.

There had been five people living in the house. They were all dead. The
sa'necari had rited them. Gaeatyra came out and spoke to the headman about it.

"We feared it," he told her. "He said he would make an example of one family.
Made us draw lots. Otherwise he would kill us all."

"So you just gave him a family?"

"What else could we have done?"

"Better a clean death than what he did to them!" Gaeatyra grabbed the
headman, dragging him to the house. She kicked the door open and shoved him
inside. The headman blanched and fell to his knees, vomiting.

"Their broken ghosts will haunt this place for eternity or until the true
child of light wields the Sunfire staff to restore the broken souls to the
wheel. I doubt you'll live to see it."

As she emerged from the house, Gaeatyra saw that Emer had caught the escaped
horse and Mardeth had tied it to the back of the buckboard. The Taladri
mounted up and they left. Toward morning, Mardeth finally spoke. "I objected
to surrendering like lambs to the lottery. They could make us worship with our
mouths, but not our hearts. Father hit me. I disowned them all."

"Headman?"

"Yes."

* * * *

A week later, they pulled up in front of an inn in Three Forks late in the
afternoon. Gaeatyra favored this one, glancing over the three stories of
lighted windows in the gathering dusk. The innkeeper knew her from many
previous stays and never questioned what she did or why. That made her
comfortable.

"Wait for me," Gaeatyra said, dismounting. "I'll get us a room for the night
and come back for you."

Weary folk, most of them armed, filled the common room. She spotted two that
she knew ran with Nans Gryphonheart: Travis Potshard and Luck Settlesby from
Gormond's Reach. "Travis! Luck! Where's Nans?" She caught the look in their

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eyes, the armbands and knew what they were going to say.

"She didn't make it. I saw her fall… and… she didn't get up," Travis said, a
soul-deep bleakness edging his words. "Minnoras was a bloodbath. Sa'nekaryiane
took the place. That was bloody to begin with. Populace saw it happening. They
must have connected it with the dead priests. Remember how they rose up and
stopped Zol fifteen years ago? Well, they must have thought they could do it
again, cause they went after the bitch and her troops. She made mince of
them."

The news about Nans left a hole in Gaeatyra. They had had their differences,
but they were comrades and, after a fashion, friends.

"The bitch turned everything loose on the people." Luck drew a leather thong
from beneath his shirt with a scrimshaw round carved into a bear. "Itch didn't
make it either. Vampire got him. Travis got the fang-ugly."

"Sorry about your brother. He was a good mon." Gaeatyra found it easier to
speak about Itch, who she had less of a connection to, than Nans. "I have a
badly wounded mon outside. It's not so much the wound itself as what caused
it." She pulled the wrapped blade from her belt and laid it in front of them.
"You take a look at it while I arrange for a room and get her inside."

Luck slipped his gloves on before he unwrapped it. Gaeatyra nodded her
approval at that: it was common knowledge that most sa'necari shit you did not
touch barehanded until you knew whether it was safe or not.

Gaeatyra got the only room left. It had only a single bed so the innkeeper's
wife and daughters put up cots for Gaeatyra and Mardeth; Ari would get the
bed.

Travis appeared at her elbow. "You want some help getting your gear up,
considering you've got wounded?" Travis knew Gaeatyra's attitude toward having
help underfoot.

"Yeah." She stopped abruptly. "Travis, I think you're wrong. Call it a gut
feeling, but I can't believe Nans is dead."

"Gaeatyra…"

Gaeatyra's lips curled back, making her uglier than ever. "You actually touch
her dead body, Travis? You dig her grave?"

"No. I saw her killed. We all did. She fell and didn't rise."

"Then you don't know for certain." She spat on the ground.

Travis changed the subject with a rueful look. "How far you intend on going?"

"Merkreth's Crossing."

"You mind if we ride along with you?"

A wolfish grin split Gaeatyra's face. "So long as you don't mind my
collecting a few more kills along the way."

"Deal."

* * * *

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A week farther down the road, Nans finally saw some of the trouble she had
been expecting. Ryss had sold her a wagon and a two-horse team, which meant
the small children rode and Ifor was able to rest lying down in the back. The
guardsmon was improving slowly. The adults walked in a defensive square around
it. Deryna drove.

The road forked a hundred yards ahead of them, its length veiled by willows.
The ground fell away to Nans' right in a short, sharp drop to a brushy field
leading into a thinly wooded area. Nans heard a sizeable company approaching
along the left fork as they neared it. She signaled a halt to check it out. As
the yuwenghau trotted toward the fork, she heard Deryna suddenly whip up the
horses behind her with a shout and spun to see six myn climb up out of the
bushes onto the road. Seven followed from the woods to her left. She ran back,
shouting for everyone to run, and saw more emerge from the trees to the other
side. They all obeyed, except Kell.

"You're not fighting them alone," he said.

Nans cast aside the staff in favor of her sword. They backed away, letting
these people come to them, giving their own more time to flee.

"Fine sword."

It was the first time Kell had seen her draw it. GimliGloikynen, god of
dwarves and metalworking, had given it to her the day she came of age. That
was the day the nobility of Gormond's Reach stopped referring to her as the
Bastard–at least to her face–because gods and magical creatures arrived at her
party with gifts. She would never forget the looks on their faces. Nor would
William. The king still laughed about it. They would laugh about it again, if
she won through this.

None of them made any move to try and go after the fleeing women and
children. Instead they formed a semi-circle around Kell and Nans. A huge
armored mon strode onto the road, his breastplate bearing the deathtree of the
hellgod.

"Yuwenghau, Our God demands your death."

"What the hell?" Nans knew, standing there with no armor, facing so many
armored myn, that she and Kell were about to die. She could not fight all of
them without catching a blade in the back. "Kell, run. They don't want you.
Just me."

"No."

Nans sprang at the armored mon, getting in a hard blow that dented his
breastplate and staggered him three steps. She sensed his descending swing
more than saw it, darted aside, and rolled into a back flip to her feet.
Horses broke into a charging gallop; Nans could hear the clatter of their
hooves and the jingle of their harnesses. From the corners of her eyes, she
caught the unexpected sight of riders attacking their assailants.

Kell cried out. She had no time to turn and look, for the armored mon came at
her again. She stayed low, making him work to hit her, and shoved her blade
into his side with a tearing twist. The mon sank to one knee, struggling to
rise. Nans stuck him repeatedly and, just as she was beginning to wonder what
it would take to kill him, he fell.

Their attackers lay strewn across the ground, fallen to a company of horsemyn
whose standard was the gray-green banner of Dynanna. Nans goggled in

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astonishment. Her sister's faithful had never gone in for soldiering, and
these people knew what they were doing–or perhaps not–considering they had
chosen an inane trickster as their liege-god. Mercenaries by the way they
carried themselves, and good ones. Strange and getting stranger. Then she saw
Kell on the ground, his leg being bandaged by a slender brown-haired female.

Nans approached them. "My thanks. I'm Nans, my friend is Kell. The rest of
our party has fled. Women and children."

"I'm Randilyn. I'm a ni–" she caught herself. "I'm a helper. Zulaika there is
in charge."

The mon on the barded horse looked Trethian to Nans, black-brown skinned with
a tight cap of curling hair ending in long beaded tails, chain mail showed
beneath her tunic. Zulaika gave Nans a polite nod, gestured, and her riders
formed up, except for Randilyn. "We did not appreciate seeing two beset by so
many. Our wagons will be along presently. You can ride with Nevin on the first
one. We'll catch up with your people. Then you are on your own again."

They took nothing from the slain, leaving them as they were without looting
so much as the smallest pouch. Randilyn must have caught the odd look passing
across Nans' face because she glanced a question at Zulaika. Kell began
cutting the pouches off the dead myn and searching their pockets, going so far
as to pull their boots off. Randilyn sprang to matching his efforts. Nans
noticed the way she watched and imitated Kell, it was strange. How could
anyone one hesitate to strip dead enemies of their gold? It was a matter of
survival. Even for a well-heeled company as this one clearly was. And Dynannan
rogues at that.

Nans went to the body of the huge mon she had slain and knelt. She drew her
belt knife and cut the chinstraps from his helmet. She pulled it off and
sheathed her blade. The mon's eyes stared unseeing up at her. His irises and
pupils were a solid, deep scarlet and where the whites should have been, the
eyes were black as ebony.

"Irrfelghau," Nans gasped.

Zulaika nudged her horse forward and stared over Nans' shoulder. "So it would
seem."

The wagons reached them, and the driver, a scarred, black-haired mon, who
smelled lycan to Nans' wilderkin senses, first closed the narrow door between
the seat and the wagon's interior before indicating that she could climb up
and sit beside him. Not before she heard the sounds of someone tending an ill
or wounded mon. She also smelled another creature, something she could not
identify beyond that fact that it was, like herself, a predator. The wagons
were large, the kind the military used to move supplies to, or wounded from,
the front, but they were lightly loaded. Nans could tell that by the way they
moved.

What in the creation's name is going on here? Who are these people? Why
should we matter to them?Nans was totally baffled.

* * * *

After Isranon and his companions left the shrine, Dynanna considered for a
long time whether to go to her garden or the little village at Blue Dog Pass.
Her twin was traveling with the Sacred King, so it would do no good to Call
him. She savored her new religious acquisitions. She could certainly use these
guys to play holy hell with the Hellgod's plans or those of his allies. They

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were wildcards thrown into the hand she was about to deal to the dark
ones.Yup, funsies! She decided on the village.

The little people swarmed her when she popped in. They chattered excitedly.
Their huge pointed ears marked them as Badree Nym. Many wore costumes from
Pieface's tales. Pieface was forever bringing home stories from worlds distant
in time and space since he was a world walker. Drakengrim, in his black pants,
formal jacket, white shirt, and cummerbund, strode toward her smiling and
displaying his fangs. He was the only Nym with fangs because a vampire had
attempted to turn him one dark night. The magic had misfired–as it so often
did when it was turned against a Nym. Drakengrim only fanged fruit and could
suck an apple dry in nothing flat.

Frozbie, the vampire who had attempted this, hung upside down, draped over
the shoulders of a sturdy stone golem named Frankie Grymlynstine. Frozbie
started whining about his ulcers as soon as they reached her. Drakengrim's
innate gift was transmogrification and it had had a profound effect on
Frozbie, who had once been the most feared Lemyari in existence besides Hoon
and Galee. Two other Nym were attempting to pry open Frozbie's tightly
clenched fangs to shove another piece of pie into him. Along with Grym Ghoul,
they constituted the Frightful Four and were the second tier of Dynanna's
paladins. Grym trailed them in black robes and a cowl with a scythe at his
shoulder. His skin was as pale as the dead.

Dynanna loved every one of them. They were intensely sweet, helpful folk.
However, if frightened, startled or otherwise upset, their uncontrollable
poltergeist effect knocked everything down around them. Few of them ever
gained full control of that and their other gifts. Which was why they were
pariahs. They scared everyone except her.

She realized after awhile what it was about Isranon that totally made this a
good decision: He had the Abelardian genetic patterns in his magic centers.
They had not woken up yet, but when they did? Yup, definitely going to be
interesting. He seemed to have Dawnhand's gifts also.

"Yup, guys, we gotta talk," Dynanna said to all of them. "I just got me a new
sack of trouble to play with."

She gathered her two main paladins, Pieface and Sugar Maple, and the
Frightful Four. There was trouble to be made and she would have to make it. In
a moment she intended to be on her way to Kalirion to tell him what she'd
found … and maybe wheedle a few things she needed from him.

CHAPTER FOUR. dark brother of the light

Four days after they first encountered the Dynannans, Nans' group had camped
in a small clearing on the roadside with a scattering of elm trees at the
edges. It was shady and half secluded from view, which Nans preferred to being
completely out in the open. The less notice they attracted the better. Deryna
and the other women had the children up, filling their bowls with oat porridge
from a large kettle that Farmer Redoaks had sold them. Nans bent over,
attaching the horses' traces.

"Nans, you gotta have a look at this," Orim said.

Nans finished buckling the harnesses before she looked up. "What is it?"

Orim glanced around at the women and children. "No, I want to show you."

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Nans frowned, wondering what it could be that he did not want to mention in
front of the others, but followed the shopkeeper into the trees. Orim pointed
at something laying in the shadows. Nans felt a shiver as she came close and
found that it was a body, laying face down, withered, but fresh. She knelt and
turned it over. Its lips were twisted back from its fangs in a rictus of true
death.

Her expression hardened. "Ylesgaire. Did you kill it?"

"Me?" Orim gulped. "I've never killed anything in my life. I just found it.
And there's three more just like it. Come on."

Nans beheaded the corpse to be certain of it and then followed Orim from body
to body doing the same. Her thoughts drifted back to those Dynannans. They had
been camped nearby last night, but left at dawn.

Could the Dynannans have done this?

* * * *

Isranon rolled onto his side and tipped himself forward to swing his legs off
the bed. He folded up with his arms across his abdomen, waiting for the
initial pain and nausea to pass. Then he grasped the edge and pushed himself
upright. With his fingers walking the edge of the bed to support and help him
balance, Isranon reached the chest and used that to reach the doorway. He made
it to the end and stared down at the steps, which had been left down. He
gauged whether or not to try them. More and more he resented his weakness.
Nevin, returning to the wagon for him, saw what Isranon was trying to do and
rushed over to him.

"Slow and easy," Nevin said, and sliding an arm around Isranon's waist,
helped him down. Isranon pushed away from his spirit-brother, determined to
try and make it to the fire on his own. Amiri, who was shoving sticks into the
flames, noticed this and straightened to watch. Isranon's face screwed up
against the sharp, knife-in-his-gut sensation that came with standing and
walking. He managed three steps before his damaged legs gave and he stumbled.
Nevin caught him. Instantly Amiri sprang forward and swept him into her arms.
She carried him to the pallet they had made for him beside the fire. Isranon
sighed as they got him settled. Randilyn brought a blanket and wrapped him.
Ever since his wounding, he had a hard time staying warm. Willa, Zulaika's
nibari, put pillows to his back allowing him to sit comfortably. Then Nainee
brought him a bowl of food.

Isranon slowly spooned the stew into his mouth, looking across the road to
where that healer camped with her small band. Haig had already melted into the
gathering darkness to stalk the edges of that woman's camp and keep the
predators away. There were only three males with them and two were wounded.
The third was not a warrior. Isranon could tell that by the way he carried
himself. The healer leading them could fight well, according to Zulaika. They
were ragged, sad-looking creatures. If they had dared to risk the discovery of
their true nature Isranon's people would have taken them in.

"Lord?" An unfamiliar voice called out to him from the road. Isranon saw two
ragged women approach with four children in tow. The older woman, grey streaks
in her dark hair, called out to him again. "Lord, can we sit by your fire?"

"Fetch them over here, Nainee," Isranon told her.

"That isn't wise, Isranon," said Zulaika, frowning deeply.

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Isranon met her gaze without wavering. "I am lord of this company. You are
merely my captain."

Zulaika looked taken aback, half-ready to argue, and then abruptly acquiesced
with a curt bow of her shoulders. A look of startlement passed over all the
faces of his people.

"Fetch them, Nainee. They seem hungry," Isranon said.

Nainee brought the women and their children to the fire. They huddled close
to the flames with their hands extended to the warmth, looking cold. Randilyn
ran to the wagons for extra blankets, while Nainee dished up stew for each of
them.

Watching the newcomers eat hungrily, Isranon wondered how long it had been
since they had eaten. He smiled at the children as Anksha appeared and started
cramming their pockets with candy. Candy seemed to be Anksha's answer to
everything. She patted their heads and ruffled their hair, evoking shy smiles
from them.

"Thank you, Lord," said the older woman, scanning those moving about the
camp. "This is your company?"

"Yes," Isranon said. "This is my company. Zulaika there is my captain."

"What is your name, lord, that I might thank you properly?"

Isranon hesitated. He dared not risk his true name getting out where it might
help the sa'nekaryiane to track him, and said before he could think,
"Dawnreturning."

The sons of Dawnhand's lineage did not take a name upon themselves; they
received it from their fathers. However, Isranon's father had died before he
could give Isranon a name, which left him only Isranon, son of Isranon, and
nothing more. He did not know where the name came from, only that it felt
right. Everyone, except the newcomers, stared at him open-mouthed for an
instant. Then his people started to move again.

"My Lord Dawnreturning is very kind. Are you from faraway?" the older woman
asked.

Nainee started refilling the bowls. The newcomers ate slower now that their
stomachs were getting fuller. Gratitude showed on all their faces, and seeing
it warmed Isranon's heart.

"Yes. Very faraway. We are traveling to the shrines."

The woman nodded. "It is a bad time to be traveling to shrines. My name is
Myrna. This is my daughter-in-law Ruth. Our village was attacked a week ago,
my husband and sons slain. We fled."

Isranon nodded, inclining his head politely. "I am sorry for your losses."

"You are injured, Lord Dawnreturning?"

Isranon tensed and hesitated again. "I was wounded in some fighting. As you
say, it has become a bad time to be traveling to shrines."

After that they ate in silence for a time. Then Myrna asked, "Could we travel

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with you? We would work hard for you."

Isranon shook his head. He wanted to reach out and ease their suffering; but
he needed a safer path than by taking in outsiders and risking exposure. "No."

Myrna opened her mouth to argue.

Isranon silenced her with a gesture. "You see that other camp over there?"

Myrna flicked back a strand of grey hair and nodded.

"They are just as safe to be with as we are." Isranon put all the reassurance
he could into his voice. "Their leader is a healer named Nans. She will take
you in."

Myrna started to rise and Isranon stopped her. "Wait," he said. "Nevin get me
a purse."

Myrna's eyes widened to saucers when Nevin returned with a purse. Isranon
offered the whole thing to her. "You'll need to make a new beginning."

"Oh, but my Lord Dawnreturning, I couldn't."

"You can and you will. Otherwise I will be offended."

She hesitated.

Isranon rolled onto his side so that he could stretch his hands to hers. She
moved to stop him, seeing the way it brought lines of pain into his face. As
her hands reached for him, Isranon put the purse into them and closed her
fingers over it. "Take it. I have it to spare. Now go on."

Myrna nodded, gathered up her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Isranon
watched them go, wishing he could have done more. Sending them away was not
what the light was about, but his people would guard them from afar.

* * * *

Nans watched the goings on at the Dynannan camp with interest and stood up
when she saw the women and children approaching her camp. They had blankets
draped over their shoulders and the older woman carried a heavy purse of coins
in her hand. Nans wondered briefly if the Dynannans had sent these newcomers
as emissaries.

Myrna went to her and stopped, extending her hand. Nans clasped it in
greeting. "I'm Myrna. Lord Dawnreturning said you would take us in. He said to
talk to your leader, someone named Nans."

"I'm Nans. We'll take you in."

"Thank you. We will feel much safer now. He said that we would be as safe
with you as we would be with him."

"Did he?" The question was rhetorical, but Nans wondered how he had figured
that out. "And which of them is Lord Dawnreturning?"

"The wounded one. See him?" Myrna pointed.

Nans' eyes narrowed to get a good glimpse of him in the darkness. She had
suspected that there had been a wounded mon in the wagon when they gave her a

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ride on it.Dawnreturning ? What a strange name for a Dynannan. Just what had
her sister gotten into? "Come on and we'll get you all bedded down for the
night."

As Nans led them back, she wondered how he had gotten his wounds and where
his name had come from. There were several cultures that used names like that,
almost exclusively sylvan. She had never heard of a Lord Dawnreturning and she
had been to all the sylvan realms over the years. Where had her sister found
him?

* * * *

On our own again?Nans pondered Zulaika's words from their first meeting as
she found her party camped for the third time in a slightly over a week less
than a hundred yards from the Dynannans. Not a single morning had passed,
since Orim found those first bodies, that she had not found more dead
Ylesgaire, royals and sa'necari slaughtered along their line of travel, but no
live ones. It was as if her party and the other scattered refugees had
acquired mysterious guardian angels. Once she began watching for it, she spied
lycans stealing through the woods at night and standing guard over them from
the shadows beyond where they camped. That driver, Nevin, had smelled lycan.
She had no doubts in her mind that these strange people were Deryna's 'angels'
and the ranger was not about to argue with it. They showed no sign of wanting
to communicate, keeping to themselves. Dynannans were pariahs, often with very
good reasons, so she would respect that. Still, to satisfy her sense of
caution, she would like to have known exactly what kind of pariahs they were.

Each evening she watched the Dynannans move their wounded Lord Dawnreturning
from the wagon and make him comfortable by the fire so that he could get some
air. Not a day passed that they did not have someone approach their camp who
had been fed and then sent over to her own to be sheltered, as if they were
hiding something. Nans had probed every group of women and children they sent
to her for more information about them and got very little. Furthermore, the
Dynannan generosity was extreme. Each group had arrived with blankets and
gold, and in the cases of those with sick children, healing herbs. In light of
the herbs, Nans had to assume that they had their own healers. Nans had
mentioned to Nevin while riding with him that she was a healer so he knew he
could ask if their own were not helping their lord enough.

"Why do they stay apart?" Deryna asked for the hundredth time.

Nans shrugged. "They are Dynannans. Who can understand them? I don't."

"You could ask your sister."

Nans snorted contemptuously at that. "Myhalf -sister," she stressed the
'half', "and I do not get along. I am firmly convinced that she's a few eggs
shy of a dozen…. And dangerous to boot. I've spent forty years telling her
twin brother, Dynarien, that he should stop coddling her. If enough of us
stood up to her, maybe she'd finally grow up."

"You shouldn't talk of her that way." Deryna's youngest crawled into the
healer's arms, nestling in her lap. Nans leaned over and ruffled the boy's
curly hair.

"And how do you speak of your sisters?" Nans asked him.

Point made. Neither Deryna nor the boy answered that.

Nans ran a hand through her hair. "I suspect they're a bunch of renegade

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mercs who deserted their employers when this war turned ugly."

"They rescued you and Kell…."

"I owe them. I pay my debts." Nans heaved a sigh. None of it made sense, none
of it at all. She had run out of explanations for this company's possible
origins or nature. Soldiers and mercenaries, even those who had been refused a
charter and bond from the Captains of the Coast, did not pledge to Dynanna.
"We're getting deeper and deeper into their debt as we ride. I'm certain of
it."

"Those bodies…."

"Yes." Nans felt a grudging gratitude for their presence. With that large
company camping always nearby, it had become easier for Nans to convince other
refugees to join her own ranks. Yet, it was all very strange. She had seen
children and women with infants among those who tended their fires and cooked
their food. Soldiers might have fled with their families, but not mercenaries.
Mercenaries generally had no families. "If they're still with us when we reach
Merkreth's Crossing, I'll ask about them."

"Well, for now, they are my angels." Deryna responded.

* * * *

Isranon sat near a stream watching the growing band of women and children. He
liked the soothing sound of the rushing water as it spun and rippled around
the rocks breaking its surface. Nevin had overheard Nans calling them her
secret angels. Vampires and sa'necari–angels? Haig, who had been a knight and
forcibly turned, had choked with laughter, before becoming charmed by the
idea. Isranon knew how much emotional anguish it had caused Haig to find
himself changed into the very creature he had spent his life fighting against.
Haig acted as if he had regained his lost knighthood and spent more hours than
any other patrolling ahead and behind with the lycans, taking out dark things
that might threaten the children. He said that he wanted Dynanna to be proud
of her vampire-knight and sometimes he swore he thought he heard his liege-god
chuckle, which suited him just fine, considering she was a trickster.

Isranon could taste their fear and suffering like a palpable thing. His
people fed on it when they killed with their rites, when they took death and
rape with the blood. It disturbed the vampires also: the Ymraudes because
their nature was that of bonded symbiosis and the five Lemyari because they
had lived in carefully controlled symbiosis under Timon's leadership as
members of the Borealysyn. Timon called them the children of the midnight sun
and they came from many lineages, but he had never spoken the name aloud until
the night they fled. One day Isranon would ask Haig what it meant. Isranon
wondered if the taste of fear made their hunger worse. If so, they handled it
admirably.

Laying on his pallet by the fire, he resented the weakness in his body. He
had always cherished its strength, as if that made up for the fact that his
magic would never be the equal of the other sa'necari because he refused to
participate in the rites. Now that strength was gone, shorn from him by those
same sa'necari. Some days he hurt so bad that it forced tears from his proud
eyes. On those days he was most sorely tempted–as those sa'necari must have
known he would be–to cross that line and take that one life that would heal
him. He could almost justify it. He considered asking Zulaika or Olin or any
of them, to go back and catch him a nasty evil mon, someone who deserved to
die–and then he would shake himself free.

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No one deserved to die like that.

They had barely set out the next day when the jostling of the wagon set
Isranon to clutching at his chest and stomach again in pain.

"Damn you, Bodramet! Damn you to the deepest hell of the nethergod," Isranon
gritted out. "I will never give in. I will never surrender. I will not be
forced into the rites."

Anksha poked her head in through the front door and looked at him. "Isranon?"
She climbed in back and sat down on the chest nearest his bed. "Are you
hurting again?"

"If you ever forced me to commit the rites, Anksha, I would kill myself. I
will not walk in their evil with my honor stained."

Anksha frowned worriedly. "I would never do that. I promise. Do you need the
Rose?"

Isranon nodded and allowed her to pour him some and help him drink it. "Why
are you so good to me?" he asked as he lay back again.

"Because I love you. You are my special friend."

* * * *

Each day they passed more straggling groups of fleeing people. Some times
they would camp near others who had simply collapsed along the roadside at
night when they could go no farther. They were all sad little clumps except
for Isranon's company and that group that had some cohesion because of the
presence of that tall healer they had rescued at the forks, Nans. Isranon had
listened to her talking to Nevin that day. He wished he had dared to speak to
her, but healers were usually Readers and, with a touch, she could have
discerned his nature.

Isranon watched Nans go back and forth, bringing as many of those little
clusters forward as she could persuade to come into her own and finally give
up. The terror of what had happened in Minnoras and was still happening in the
countryside made people reluctant to trust each other. Yet, the healer was
always trying to save as many as she could, bringing more and more under her
guardianship; sometimes she failed because the little clusters of refugees
were too distrustful and suspicious after their experiences to accept her
offer of aid. Isranon admired her persistence and generosity. That was what he
had imagined the Light would be about–something that his own had never been,
until now. Yet, they were not really of the Light. Dynanna had cautioned them
not to reveal their natures.

Their wagons, repainted since leaving the shrine and now pale green with the
rune of Dynanna a deeper green squiggle, drew some strange glances; those they
did not understand, having little solid experience of other people's
interaction with deities, especially the God of Cussedness. They had always
been too insular. The other cultures were food. Until Isranon had ridden out
of Waejontor six years ago with Mephistis, he had really known nothing of
them.

That evening Zulaika and Amiri, the two Ymraudes, tall chocolate skinned,
well muscled, and athletic, had first watch. They passed easily for human;
their elaborately plaited hair with hundreds of intricate beads of wood, bone,
and semi-precious gemstones drew every eye. They told people they were from
Jedrua and, although they had the right coloring, Jedrua had never produced

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anything to compare to them.

A scream alerted the camp to trouble.

Zulaika and Amiri had their spears up running out to the middle with a shout
at Olin to get Isranon into the wagon. Anksha ran behind them. A hundred yards
back down the road, seven Ylesgaires came out of a stand of trees, grabbed two
women from one of the isolated groups who were not attached to either of the
two camps, and began to feed. Four more had spotted the group near Isranon's
camp and raced in their direction. They must have been hiding buried beneath
the ground, waiting for nightfall and therefore been missed by Isranon's far
ranging guards like Haig.

Isranon's face twisted, hearing the screaming. All those years among his
people, unable to act except in isolated circumstances, all those years of
being forced to turn away and try to shield himself against the pain of
hearing, of knowing. No longer. Some of the lesser bloods simply picked up
their meals as they found them, attacking each little cluster as they came on
them. Others headed straight for the two camps at the end.

"Stop them!" Isranon shouted, shaking off Olin's attempt to move him.

The cinnamon-haired woman lifted her staff, walking toward the nearest
undead. She smacked him in the side of the head as he sank his teeth into a
young girl. That got his attention. He came loose from the girl, snarling.
"You are meat."

The woman regarded him dispassionately. "Cliché." Then she shattered his
skull. Ylesgaires joined in, turning the tide abruptly against her.

Seeing more lesser bloods charge the woman's back, Zulaika gave an ululating
cry, ran forward, and staked the nearest one. Amiri got another.

The woman grinned at Zulaika as she bashed another vampire. "Thank you."

Haig and Garin hollered at Anksha to stay with Isranon as they engaged the
lesser bloods and the fight turned quickly against the attackers. Jun and
Keahi began grabbing women and children, herding and carrying them toward the
camps at the far end where the other women received them, helped by the nibari
and the two lycans, Olin and Nevin. The nibari went among Nans' people.

"Please," Randilyn said to Deryna. "We can protect you better if you bring
your people over here."

Deryna shouted at the women, "Get the children over here!"

The nibari began making a firebrand circle, standing with their torches on a
tightening perimeter–lesser bloods did not like fire. Kell and Ifor saw what
they were doing, seized a brand, and limped into the circle with them. Orim
the shopkeeper began shoving the wagon toward the others to serve as a wall.
Haig's two males jumped in to help Orim with it.

Isranon stood, swaying unsteadily, one hand to the wagon, watching, every
hair on end, every necromantic sense open to the death and undeath moving
around him. Something was not right. He felt a chill slide about him on every
side. This was not a small, roving band of Ylesgaire that had stumbled on them
by accident: this was a strike force that had descended upon them, possibly
having tracked them from Hoon's manor after finding it abandoned.

"Jun! Keahi! They've circled us!" Even as he said it, he knew there were too

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many to handle–too many for him to cope with even had his power and body been
whole–twenty or more rushing out, bent low as they crossed the open ground,
taking advantage of the small folds in the land itself. There were royals with
them. Even if he could stop the lesser bloods how could he stop the royals?
Worry about the lesser bloods first. The firebrand circle would never stop
that many. Some would certainly get past the nibari–and himself. Then he
became aware of a mon standing nearby, his face aged before it's time by a
rite that had once burned the magic out of him, seamed and battered –but the
magic had come back.No. Not a mon. A ghost , Isranon corrected. And only he
could see him.

"Josiah!"

"Dark Brother, you have the power. Just because you never found it, doesn't
mean you don't have it. Hit them!"

Isranon staggered toward the attackers. He could barely stand, yet rage
burned brightly in his face and adrenaline rushed through his blood. He called
power into the palms of his hands, raising the sa'necari power to command or
destroy the lesser undead with a word. He threw twists of energy in rapid
motions, tearing the souls out of the attacking lesser bloods and they
collapsed in the dirt, empty husks. Then he spied a royal of Lemyari blood
rushing down, ordering the surviving Ylesgaire to form up better. What could
he do about the royals? His spells of undeath denial were not strong enough to
rip their souls from their bodies.

"What do I do?"

"Like this," Josiah said, and touched him to pass the knowledge.

Isranon whirled out a lashing whip of braided power, black and gold–black and
gold?Whence had the gold come?–crisping a swath of the lesser bloods at its
touch. He felt as if a turning of the wind had swept the heat of a bonfire in
his face, melting all the bones, flesh, and strength of his body. Agony like a
fresh twist of the blade in his gut staggered him, but he remained standing,
seeing others–several of them royals–descending on the merging camps. He felt
again the sa'necari blades in his body as Bodramet and his followers had stuck
him. His damaged legs trembled with the stress of standing. Isranon fought the
urge to crumple and clutch himself. The embedded spells must have had a
trigger to respond to his use of magic. Blood spread through his shirt in a
widening splotch, and crimson striped his thighs.

Josiah turned to him, "Careful now, in long lances, Isranon. Incredibly
selective lest you hit your own as well as the enemy."

The ghost touched him again and more knowledge flooded him. Power sang a
counterpoint crescendo to his pain, lending him an ecstasy beyond anything he
had ever imagined possible. "I cannot believe I am doing this."

"Just do it."

* * * *

Nans heard Deryna scream and her head came up as she finished splintering a
lesser blood's head to bloody ruin. A royal had Deryna, twisting her head back
by her hair, her arms pinioned. Six others were pulling down her people. She
would never reach them in time. The camps had merged and others were already
running back to engage the new threat. Nans moved. Then she saw two things:
the littered bodies of the lesser bloods, and Lord Dawnreturning raising his
arms, gesturing. Lances of black and gold-laced mage energy struck down every

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creature attacking their camps. The mon was a master mage. As she started
toward him, he folded up, collapsed, and lay very still. Nans broke into a
run. She dropped to her knees beside him. His robe and pants were awash in
blood.

"How badly are you hurt?" She reached for him and, in the torchlight saw the
pink-white ridges of scar tissue lining his neck. Nans turned his head to see
the other side before anyone could stop her and found a similar track of scars
there also. Some of it was recent. She sucked in a sharp breath and hissed it
out. "Vampire or sa'necari?"

When Nans started to ask another question, Isranon shook his head, struggling
to breathe. "Sa'necari… Re-opened my wounds–the strain–embedded spells…."

Anksha crouched next to him, regarding Nans intensely, watching for her
reaction. Anksha's magical energies made her black hair halo around her head.
This was the first time they had seen each other close, two powerful predators
daring each other to act and the shock of recognition of each other's natures
showed on both their faces.

Nans wondered if this one could be the Beast who was spoken of in whispers in
so many parts of the continent. She had never seen anything like her before.
Nans read Anksha's body language and knew if she said one word wrong or gave
the smallest sign of threat that the creature would be upon her in a flash. It
was evidently the mage's protector, possibly some kind of familiar. "I am a
healer," Nans said. "Perhaps I can help. Let me get my things. You saved these
people. I am now doubly in your debt."

"No, uhhhuhh," Isranon groaned, twisting up. A small group of his people
assembled about them. Zulaika gathered him in her arms. Nevin and Olin stood
close beside her with Amiri.

Deryna joined them. "I am a healer also, let me help."

"No," Isranon repeated. The pain had worsened, making it hard to think, and
he weakened steadily. Amiri tilted his head up, pressing the bottle of
Sanguine Rose to his lips, supporting him as he drank, and unable to mask the
desperate concern on her face.

"Rest, Isranon," Amiri ordered. "You did well here."

The drugs and blood hit quickly in his wasted body. His mind slid sidewise as
if into strange visions and his haunted eyes met Nans', touching her with his
fears and sorrows. The ranger shivered as he spoke, "The Darkness hunts me and
the Light does not want me. I was born a monster. Yet I refuse to become one.
For this sin they left me for dead." His strength deserted him, his eyes
rolled up in his head and he fainted.

Zulaika lifted him. "I need to get him into the wagon and change his
bandages, get more of the medicine into him." She walked away.

The strength of the woman surprised Nans; to lift a male so casually, even
one so wasted as Lord Dawnreturning, was not an easy task. "How bad is he?"

"He's dying," Nevin told her. "We're fighting hard to slow it down, build him
up some. Blessèd Dynanna suggested we take him to Treth to seek a cure."

Nans winced at hearing her obnoxious half-sister called 'blessèd'.

"Is there something wrong with that?" Nevin asked.

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"No, it's just that I've never heard Dynanna referred to in such reverent
tones. Why won't you let us help?"

Nevin's eyes narrowed to slits of suspicion. "You don't want to help. We're
pariahs for good reason."

Nans exchanged glances with Deryna. By then both camps had gathered and
arrayed themselves in lines facing each other. "Try us. You saved our lives,
all these women and children. You saved Kell and I back at the fork. I am
certain you've been guarding us for over a week. At least give us a chance.
What do you think, Deryna?"

The healer nodded. "Your mage damaged himself saving my life and my children.
Tell us your story."

Nevin considered. "We can defend ourselves should you turn on us."

Anksha crouched close to Nevin, baring her fangs to let them see she had
some.

The lycan told them. At the end Nans and Deryna grew thoughtful. Nans had to
initially fight the idea that she was looking at fifteen vampires, eight
lycans, and nearly thirty of their cattle–which they had trusted with
weapons–an irate familiar, and a sa'necari renunciate, all of who had pledged
in good faith to Dynanna. Or so it seemed. One wrong move and they were in
more trouble than Nans could get them out of. Then Deryna stepped into the
void.

"You can confirm this by Reading him Nans," Deryna said. "I would like to
Read him also. Would you allow us to do this, Nevin?"

The scarred lycan brightened. "You could Read for the purity of the soul?
Dynanna called his soul beautiful. She marked him. She marked several of us.
His greatest dream is to walk in the Light."

That broke the tension and Nans laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Yes,
Nevin, we can do this."

People on both sides of the line were grinning by then, catching the
infectious joy spreading from Nevin. The lycan led the two women to the wagon
and showed them in.

"They've heard our story, Zulaika," Nevin told her at her glance. "They're
going to Read him." The Ymraude tilted her head curiously, moving aside to
give them room. They pulled two folding stools near and Nans touched Isranon's
forehead while Deryna took his wrist.

Nans decided to go to the heart of the matter, sweeping deep into his soul
before touching on his body. The pure crystal clarity and blinding whiteness
leapt forth into her awareness like a taste of heaven and the Gardens of the
Nine. She had never seen anything like it. She withdrew a level to the magic
centers unable to believe he could possibly be sa'necari; yet there were all
the black bands of death magics. They were twined with gold.Gold? That was the
magic of Light, an opposing element. The mon was a maze of contradictions. But
he was pure.

"Nans! He is so pure," Deryna gasped. "We must help him."

Nans shook herself free. "We must try."

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"If you can help him, then we must help you," Zulaika said. "There is room in
the other wagons to carry the rest of your women and children. It would be a
bit crowded, but we could do it. And our mounted nibari could double up. We
could also guard you all better. How far are you going?"

"Merkreth's Crossing," Nans said.

"We'll get you all to Merkreth's Crossing in exchange for your help with
him."

"Seems a fair trade to me, Nans," Deryna said.

That these people had taken Isranon Dawnreturning as their liege-lord in some
arcane fashion and Dynanna as their liege-god would take some getting used to.
Nans ran her hand through her hair before answering. "It is. Do you have the
blades they used?"

"Yes," Amiri said. She brought out a shielded black box from one of the
cabinets. Nans could feel the dark energy rising from the blades as Amiri
lifted the lid.

"Are they safe to touch?" Nans asked.

"For me, yes. For you, no."

"Deryna, fetch my gloves from my pack," Nans said.

Deryna nodded and left the wagon.

Amiri held a blade out for Nans to examine with her eyes while she waited for
her gloves. Nans recognized the runes of the Hellgod and the maker's mark of
the Master of Blood. She shuddered, marveling that Isranon was still alive.
Amiri turned the blade over and revealed the Divinator runes.

"Shit!" Nans cursed. "Every time they stuck him, another set of those spells
was embedded in him. I'm not certain there is anything we can do, but I'm
going to try."

Anksha sidled up to Nans and sniffed her. "You smell funny."

Nans' nostrils flared. "So do you. What are you?"

Anksha laughed. "I'm Dawnreturning's familiar."

Nans nodded. So she had been right about that. She opened Dawnreturning's
robe and saw first the scars and Dynanna's godmark, then her eyes were drawn
to the slave brand on his shoulder. "He is a slave?"

"Was," Anksha said quickly with a glance at Zulaika. "Sa'necari captured and
enslaved him, but we freed our lord from them."

"That's fortunate," Nans replied, her eyes going thoughtful. "Usually they
make depnane of captured enemies and heretics and they end on their altars
soon after capture."

* * * *

"Where did the magic come from, Amiri?" Isranon asked her as she Read him
again the next morning. "I never had power like that before. I don't think any

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sa'necari has it."

Amiri shook her head as she lowered his wrist back to the bed and
straightened his blankets. "I don't know."

Had Josiah's strange spell that day in Hoon's attic done this? Had Josiah
somehow transferred some of his incredible power to him? Isranon almost told
Amiri about Josiah and then held back. So far he had told no one about his
friend's ghostly presence. It all felt too personal and private to share.
"Sa'necari don't have extra gifts like these."

"There is some variation among even sa'necari, Isranon."

"It was golden…. Like sunlight."

"Yes," Amiri acknowledged, "it was."

"For a moment it almost felt like I was a mage of the light, rather than a
misbegotten sa'necari." Bitterness underlined the last half of his statement.

"Isranon, you did a good thing. Let go of the rest."

"I will try."

* * * *

Hoon had not fed in over a month: because of his great age, his body had
become very efficient and he had not begun to feel it seriously until
recently. He hung in chains from the ceiling, nude and aching from the last
taste of the whip the torturer had given him. Without blood he could not heal,
but neither could he die unless they put a stake through his heart or cut off
his head. Galee must have sensed his hunger because she came in and stood
staring at him for a long time. She wore midnight blue silk that clung to her
voluptuous body, the neckline plunging almost to her navel and the skirt slit
up one side to expose her left thigh. To look upon her was to desire her; even
Hoon was not entirely unmoved despite his hatred of her.

Galee gave him a venomous smile that melted into a sneer. "Hungry, Hoon? I'm
starting to feel your need rise up through the walls."

Hoon stared at her and said nothing. He no longer tried to talk to her.

She circled him as sensuous as a serpent. "I have more ideas of what to do
with you. I have begun finding your estates and properties. Alas, empty. All
empty. I would be in a better humor if you had let me catch some of them.
Where have they gone, Hoon?"

"I don't know," he replied listlessly. His chains rattled as he shifted
uneasily, trying to watch her.

"Let's make you hungrier," she said, catching him by the hair and twisting
his head back to expose his throat to her satisfaction.

Had Hoon been a living mon, rather than undead, he would have screamed when
those fangs, longer than any other, entered his neck; there was pain and then
dizziness, confusion, and worsening hunger. The irony that he had made this
monster possible when he made Zyne almost made him laugh in her face, despite
her interminable sucking as she drew more of the life out of him. The dungeon
turned grayer and dimmer; his vision began to blur.

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A group entered the dungeon. Hoon could barely make them out. Two of them
dragged a battered third between them. At least three of them appeared to be
nekaryiane like Galee; others were royals or lesser bloods. Hoon could not be
certain of anything any longer.

Galee lifted her bloody mouth from his neck, stepped back and gestured toward
him. Two Ylesgaires fastened onto him, one on his arm and the other onto his
member, sinking their fangs as deeply as they could to feed. Hoon could take
no more and screamed insanely, withering. Hunger made his mind a roar of
disorientation. Why was Galee doing this? He would not be able to tell her
anything in this state, not where those holdings and caches were. He would
become a mindless, starving creature that would attack anything and everything
that came near it once freed.

She gestured and the myn dragged the battered male vampire close. Galee
smiled as one of the male's captors twisted his head up so that Hoon could see
his face.

Hoon's mind cleared at the sight of him: Timon. "My son…."

"Father, help me," the captive begged.

Galee snatched up a spear and drove it through Timon's heart.

Hoon screamed. He saw his son's spirit slip away from him for eternity. He
screamed louder, passing into unthinking grief and rage, reaching for Timon
with his mind, farther than he had ever reached before, farther than he had
ever dreamed possible and touched–Timon?

<Timon? You're dead!>

<As dead as undeath, father . > Timon laughed.

<But where are you? > Hoon asked, confused by shock and hunger, unable to
think clearly through the terrible weakness.

<An hour's ride north of Oakleigh. Where are you? >

Galee laughed. "We have units in the area. Go get them."

Hoon realized then Galee had tricked him, following his link with his son to
find him. His mind screamed. <Flee, Timon! She knows where you are! >

Galee gestured and the lesser bloods sprang onto the vampire lord, draining
him to a shriveled husk that could no longer communicate with his son. Once
she had Timon, there would remain only Isranon and then Mephistis' children in
Rowanhart to challenge her rule of the undead.

* * * *

Isranon dreamed again of the place where Dawnhand died. But this time he was
the mon on the scaffolding, the executioner preparing his anus to receive the
pole with small cuts of his blade. Then they drove it through his body, the
wooden rod stiffening him out slowly as they forced it deeper until it broke
through his shoulder. Beneath him the crowds cheered his tormentors, laughing
at his screams and hurling insults at him. Then the pole was raised upright,
his feet were bound to it, and they set the butt into the base built to
receive it, nailing it into place. He screamed until his throat seized up and
he had no breath left to cry out. His head lolled forward as he died.

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He came twisting up in his bed with a gasp, his eyes wide and desperate.
Nevin changed and caught his arm before Isranon could dump himself onto the
wagon floor. "Nevin, they impaled me… Like Dawnhand."

Anksha stirred on the opposite cot and regarded him with eyes like saucers.

"You need some Sanguine Rose," Nevin told him, reaching for the bottle.

"No. No–they cheered. They enjoyed watching me die."

"Isranon!" Nevin gave him a small shake. "Listen, my brother. It was a
nightmare. Not real."

Isranon eased his grip on Nevin's arm. "Seemed so real. Took me so long to
die. It hurt so terribly. Was it a vision of the future? Is that what they're
going to do to me when they catch me? The sa'nekaryiane is chasing me. I know
she is."

"Time for more Sanguine Rose. It's your wounds speaking."

"Nevin," he started to protest.

"Hush, now and drink or I'll have Anksha make you."

Isranon lifted his eyes to Anksha, who nodded. Nevin filled a glass and
helped him drink. He grabbed Nevin's hand. "What if I don't get better? What
if I'm like this the rest of my life?"

"Then I will take care of you for as long as you live," Nevin said. "I will
never abandon you."

Anksha huddled, gripping her knees tightly with tears running down her face.
"Dawnhand. Dawnhand," she murmured with an inconsolable twist to her voice.

Isranon wished she would answer his questions about his ancestor, especially
when her reactions were this intense.

* * * *

Nans carried Isranon from the wagon. The Sanguine Rose had restored him
enough that she felt confident of allowing him out. They were keeping secrets,
however; their new friends were not to know yet that she was a yuwenghau
ranger named Gryphonheart. Only the original core group had known that and
never spread it as the band had grown along the road. The reason had been
brought home hard to them when that thing in armor came after Nans at the
fork.

Isranon lay by the campfire wrapped in blankets, still too weak to sit
unaided, children clustered around him, chattering so rapidly he could not
keep track of what any single one of them was saying. However, one oft
repeated fragment came through clear: 'our mage' over and over and over,
filled with pride, feelings of security, as if–even wounded and damaged as he
was–just having him there made their world right again; and possessiveness,
the children had acquired a champion. This was not what he had expected. He
felt happy and wanted in ways he had not before, and poignantly vulnerable
before their gratitude.

Nevin emerged from the wagon with Isranon's flute and placed it in his hands.
Isranon gave Nevin a beatific smile. "To stand with the Light, even if I
cannot stand within it…. This is what I dreamed it would be," Isranon

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murmured.

The lycan's eyes crinkled and he ruffled Isranon's hair as he had done when
the sa'necari was a boy. "I know. And it is good."

Isranon put the flute to his lips and blew a sweet song of simple joy.
Everyone turned to glance and smile at him. The final vestiges of his
nightmare vanished and he no longer heard the echoes of people cheering his
death.

As Nevin moved away from Isranon, Nans caught his arm. "A sa'necari that
plays a flute? I have always been told they hate the sound of it."

Nevin shook his head, "Lord Dawnreturning is the only one left who does not."
Then the lycan went about his business. They avoided using Isranon's real name
in front of the children and their mothers. Nevin knew that Isranon had been
right–the sa'nekaryiane was after him. Having struck at him once, she could
easily do so again.

Deryna and Nans spent days Reading Isranon, consulting with each other and
with Amiri. They knew how humans, sylvans, and their related races reacted to
various herbs and drugs, but sa'necari were outside their experience. One
mon's cure was another mon's poison; that being the case, they wanted to be
cautious. Amiri agreed. The ingredients in Sanguine Rose that eased Isranon
also had hallucinatory side effects in the quantities he required at that
point. They needed to find something else. The obvious choices were holadil
and pollendine; holadil being preferable since it also promoted healing and
kept down infection. However, it might not be strong enough for Isranon's
pain, which was all that pollendine was good for. Pollendine, the highly
refined form of the herb pollonae, was highly addictive, usually only given to
the dying. He would be almost as badly off as he was now, but without the
hallucinatory dreaming–although in dangerously high dosages Pollendine
produced that also. They could add amphereon to counter the hallucinations and
give Isranon more energy, but in higher doses or frequent usage it could
ultimately put too much stress on his heart. Finally they decided to try
alternating the Sanguine Rose with straight troll's blood and small dosings of
holadil.

* * * *

Timon's wounds from the deathtree sword were still healing with exquisite
slowness and discomfort, despite Ephry's willing ministrations. He had trouble
getting into the saddle each morning and steeled himself to it. So he made a
point of being the first to horse and the last dismounted every day of their
flight. Dustyman, his gelding, was so steady Timon could write letters in the
saddle, and yet wild enough in combat to contribute well to a fight. Timon had
already mounted and sat guarding his followers when the desperate mind-touch
of his father reached him. He reined his horse about, shouting, "Ride! They
know where we are. Galee has my father."

The camp responded with alacrity, packing up. A shout came from the side and
Timon saw Ephry suddenly spring forward, knocking him from the saddle. Timon
hit the ground hard and came to his feet fast. Ephry lay unmoving beside him a
death-runed arrow protruding from his chest. Had it struck Timon, it would
have ripped his soul from his undead body. Despite the fight erupting around
him, all that Timon could think of for a moment was Ephry. Timon dropped to
one knee, touching him and getting no response. Ephry was dead. It had
happened so fast! Timon straightened, shouting to his myn, "Kill these
assholes!"

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He rallied his forces, his commands forcing order upon them. The lycans
ripped through the archers as the warriors engaged the force that Galee had
sent against them. Most of their adversaries were just myn, not trained
soldiers. They wore ragged symbols of the Hellgod, Bellocar, crudely sown onto
their clothes; vigilantes, people swept up from whatever sewers Galee's
priests and nekaryiane had found them in in both Minnoras and the other
city-state they had taken–Lymyntown. One of them had just got lucky trying to
kill Timon and got Ephry instead. It ended quickly.

Timon could hear Auclos and Eilwen weeping as he started back to where he had
left Ephry. He felt totally alone and hollowed out. First Isranon and now
Ephry. He had lost everyone he loved. Even his father, since Galee would
certainly kill him too. Timon moved the weeping nibari away, gathering Ephry's
body in his arms and simply sat there.

"We're draining the assholes for the bottles, Timon," someone said.

Timon nodded, but could not yet speak.

* * * *

Timon found that his father's messengers had reached Oakleigh hours ahead of
him and the house had already emptied; that message had probably been sent out
the same day that Timon fled Minnoras. His father's habit of having
contingency planning always in effect at his holdings, necessary for estates
belonging to the undead in a world of the living, had served well. He laid
Ephry's body in the middle of the bed and adjusted the silken coverlets over
him.

"You were fine, and brave above all others, my wolf. I will never forget
you." Then he kissed Ephry's cold lips and started to draw back only to fall
to his knees weeping and drag the corpse once more into his arms. He kissed
Ephry's face, his lips, his hair, clinging to him. "Ephry."

Auclos entered and seeing him, placed a hand on Timon's shoulder. "Don't let
the others see you like this. They're coming. We're ready to fire the house."

Timon sucked in a fortifying breath, lowering his dead mate to the bed again.
Auclos took the chimney from an oil lamp and poured the contents over Ephry
and the bed. He handed Timon a package of lucifers. They both struck one and
tossed them to the oil soaked coverings. The flames flared up as they backed
away.

Soon it would be one more burning building in a sea of burning buildings as
Oakleigh would most likely fall to Galee's forces before morning. The town did
not even have a wall. He found that Naugly had already discovered the two
symbols left on the dining table in paint to indicate the household had safely
gotten away south toward the pass. It looked like some nameless vandal's
obscenity.

The company watched for a moment as the house went up in flames. Then Timon
led them on, fading into the growing ranks of the refugees fleeing south. The
Galeadorians would hold the old trade road through theGreyDawnMountains south
to the sea open as long as they could. Timon was half tempted to try turning
east past Charas and strike the other pass through the Grey Dawn, the one that
led onto the plains of Murshay'di and down to the gulf of Tovante where he and
his people could then take ship to Jedrua. Remembering Isranon saying that he
needed to speak to someone at the Caravansary of the Fallen Pillars decided
him. He would head for Tovante.

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He ran that last contact with his father through his mind. Somehow Galee had
tricked or forced his father to make that last betraying contact that had cost
his mate his life. How in hell's name had she managed to strike at them and
how could he keep her from doing it again? Why was she even chasing them? What
threat were they to her? Hoon had never challenged her openly. None of them
had. He had simply tried to stay out of her way. The only open move Hoon had
made against anyone in the dark ranks was when he sent Anksha to take
Mephistis. That was not it at all. Galee simply could not tolerate a rival,
even an implied one, or an uncooperative ally. Timon kept an iron lock on his
thoughts and feelings, not daring to let the smallest fraction emerge. There
would be time enough to let it out when he had got them to safety.

* * * *

One morning Nans supplied another piece of the puzzle of the ghost's prophecy
that people had been ignoring mostly because they assumed that Isranon knew.
"The all-talent is, or rather was, Josiah Abelard. The Abelard gift is the
mastery of all forms of magic. It doesn't always manifest exactly that way.
There is randomness to it. He was not personally a life mage, but many of his
descendants have been."

Nans poured a golden liquid into a glass and supported Isranon as he drank
it.

"I don't have much holadil left, but you should be able to buy it in
Merkreth's Crossing. We'll get there around midday tomorrow. I appreciate your
allowing us to continue on with you that far."

The pain eased from Isranon's body and he soon slept. It had taken several
days for her and Deryna to get the dosage right, but with patience they had.
This sa'necari, at least, was not much different from other humans.

"Come into Merkreth's Crossing with me, Anksha. I'll help you buy what you
need in the way of supplies to get you farther south. I'll also see that you
get some books on herbs and healing, basic things on the human uses. You're
right to head for Treth. There are ways to ease him and maybe strengthen him a
bit, but no one here can seriously help him. You give those letters I've
written to King Bohannon. He knows me." Then she slipped the Willodarian
necklace of carved seeds, flowers and animals from around her neck. "This
isn't just a pretty, Anksha, this is very special. It was given to me by one
of my teachers. I'm giving it to you because I can see how much you love
Isranon and you love with the ferocity of a wild creature, mama lion. This is
a necklace for the mama lion." She put the necklace around Anksha's neck and
Anksha could feel the magic in it. The necklace had been charged with the
essence of the woodlands that Anksha loved.

Impulsively, Anksha reached out and hugged the healer.

"Others may call you the Beast, Anksha," Nans said. "But this necklace is my
naming gift to you, you are nowmalei'leonys–l ittle mama lion."

CHAPTER FIVE. sacrosanct

Located at the junction of five overland trade routes, Merkreth's Crossing
was the largest city on the southern edge of Gormond's Reach. Nevin drove
while Haig rode on the seat beside him with Isranon supported in the crook of
his thick arm so that the sa'necari could see their arrival. Isranon wondered
about the grey-brown mass spreading out from beneath the city's high

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stonewalls. As they neared, Isranon could see people moving about and
understood; homeless refugees from all over had already built a shantytown
from cast off lumber, sticks, and cloth as near to the walls as the civil
authority would allow. It saddened him to see it, forcing him to wonder at how
many hundreds of people were being harmed by the sa'nekaryiane's depredations,
how many had been forced to flee, and how many had not made it.

Zulaika signaled a halt while a defensible interval still remained between
their company and the nearest cluster of shacks and tents. They immediately
set to getting their camp raised with military precision. Nevin tied the reins
of his team up and jumped down. Haig shifted Isranon to his arms and handed
him to Nevin. Randilyn and Willa stretched a bedroll on the ground for Isranon
to rest upon, not wanting him on the cold earth. Nevin got him settled with a
blanket that Nainee brought him. They always saw to Isranon first and he could
feel their concern. Later, when the chill of the autumn evening came, they
would move him back to the wagon for the night.

Isranon felt grateful that while the day was cool, it was not enough so for
them to decide to leave him in the wagon: those wooden walls had begun to feel
claustrophobic. Nans' people set their own camp up on the side nearest the
other refugees, almost as a barrier between the Dynannans and these unknown
others. Isranon wondered at that, since the two camps had existed as a single
unit for more than three weeks. Part of him felt insecure watching them,
feeling a silent rejection in this. It did not last long. As soon as the
mothers were settled, they began to wander over to him with their children.
Isranon was hugged, kissed, and thanked for having gotten them safely to
Merkreth's Crossing. Then Anksha appeared with a bag of candy and sat grinning
toothily beside him, dispensing treats to the children. Isranon's joy at this
became a chalice filled to overflowing. Yet it also tired him, and Nevin
returned him to the wagon far too soon for his satisfaction.

* * * *

Nans walked with Anksha at her side along a dusty street of shops and
taverns. The heels of their boots clicked smartly on the raised wooden
boardwalk. Anksha had her tail bound inside her leather trousers to hide it
and she carried a sack thrown over her shoulder to bring her purchases home
in. She scanned the moderately trafficked street with a keen eye between
flicking glances up at Nans. Nans gave her an amused smile, watching her. She
knew that Anksha had been in many cities, yet her new attitude since joining
with Nans seemed to be making the demon-eater view things differently, search
for different things in the crowds and buildings, which lent a childlike
newness to everything. Nans hoped that was a good thing, since walking with
Anksha was like having a lion on a fragile leash. The Beast had a lot to learn
about the sapient races she normally fed upon, which was why Nans had wanted
to bring her in alone. Nans knew that Anksha had stalked, terrorized, and
eaten humans, but except for the nibari, she had never associated with them.

Then Nans spotted the two faces she had hoped to find, but not counted upon
it. "Travis!" Nans shouted, crossing the street. "Mon, it's good to see you!"

Travis and Luck were emerging from the dry goods when they turned at the
sound of her voice and broke into a run. They met her in the middle. "Gods,
Nans! We saw the vampire get you! We thought you were dead!" Travis cried.

At six feet, Travis topped Nans by an inch and Luck by two. He reached her
first with Luck close behind. Both men grabbed her, the three of them turning
round and round for several minutes. Anksha craned her head interestedly
beside them, grinning at their exuberance. When they finally released each
other and stood back, Nans said, "All it got was a piece of my shoulder,

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Travis. I crawled into a house and then up onto a roof. I'll tell the rest
later."

"Itch didn't make it," Luck said.

The joy at seeing them went out of Nans. "I know. We'll miss him."

"Neither did some others," Travis put in.

"Tell me about it later." She glanced at Anksha, flashing two fingers
discreetly at her myn in a long established code.

"And who's this wee bit of nothing?" Travis asked, bending to ruffle Anksha's
hair and look her in the eyes.

Anksha regarded him closely, wrinkling her nose. She could smell sweets on
him. "Malei'leonys."

Travis grinned up at Nans. "Might small for a mama lion. Nans, you name her?"

Nans gave him a bemused smile. "I did, actually. Did you get Seri to her
Uncle's?"

Luck dropped his eyes.

Nans noticed Luck's movement and turned to him. "What happened to her?"

"They took in the littles, but they refused Seri."

"Why?" Nans had never seen Luck look so uneasy just talking about something.

"She's pregnant. We left her at Brethren of the Woods cloister. They're
willing to take care of her. She's comfortable with that."

Nans exhaled sharply. "She's too young. She'll never survive childbirth.
Didn't anyone offer her tansy?"

Luck shook his head. "She refused it. Seri said the child was her penance.
She's their novice now. If she makes it, she'll have until she's sixteen to
decide whether she wants to take final vows or not."

"That's harsh."

"I know it, Nans. They're going to do everything they can for her–everything
Seri lets them, anyway."

Travis looked uncertain what to make of Anksha, so he reached in one of his
pouches and pulled out a package of honey candies to offer her a piece. She
accepted it, smiling. "Mama lion indeed!" he said when he glimpsed her fangs.
"Can I talk to you private for a moment, Nans?"

Nans frowned and then glanced at Anksha, "You'll be all right here?"

Anksha nodded, crunching her candy. Travis gave her another piece before
walking off with Nans.

"Look, Nans, Gaeatyra's in town. She's brought in a girl she rescued from a
sa'necari. Interrupted an act of mortgiefan. Girl got cut up. Wasn't
bane-runed. But it's bad. She's real sick."

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Nans' expression tightened. If someone knew how to put the spells in, could
they also know how to take them out? "Give me the blade. I may know someone
who can help, but it's got to be no questions asked."

"Sure, Nans. Where you want me to meet you?"

"We're camped just outside of town. It's those Dynannan wagons. They don't
know I'm Gryphonheart. I told them I'm just a country healer. I'd appreciate
it if you didn't enlighten them."

"You're traveling with Dynannans?" Travis was incredulous, knowing how Nans
and her half-sister didn't mix well.

"They helped me rescue a bunch of folks. Women and children. Their Lord
Dawnreturning, a mage, was cut up bad by sa'necari. But he may be able to help
this girl of yours."

* * * *

Travis and Luck followed Nans to the wagon and Luck waited outside. The camp
was thick with women and children as well as the Dynannans. Luck sat and
listened to the refugees describing their rescues. Travis climbed into the
back of the large wagon where a young mon in dark trousers and a loose-sashed
robe lay on the wider of two beds, fastened to the sides. The ranger could
tell at a glance that the mon was seriously ill. A coarse, shaggy brown-haired
fellow of middling height, but massively built through the shoulders, like a
squat bear and wearing the skin that matched his hair to prove it, sat on a
trunk near the head of the wagon. When he saw them enter, he moved to help
Isranon sit.

"I'm Haig," the mon said. "This is Lord Dawnreturning, our lord-mage."

Travis extended his hand, gripping Haig's firmly. "Lieutenant Travis
Potshard, Gryphonheart's Rowdies. We're a Willodarian search and rescue unit.
But these days we're doing more fighting than anything else. We've got a
wounded girl. Sa'necari was rite'n her. A Taladri stopped him."

Isranon rested against Haig's shoulder. "Do you have the blade?"

"Right here." Travis took it out, handing it to Isranon.

Isranon unwrapped it, turning it in his hand. "It's a minor death-web. Not
meant for the rite at all. I've never tried to pull one out. In theory it's
possible. I have seen something similar done."

"You're awfully knowledgeable," Travis said suspiciously.

Isranon turned a disquieted glance on Nans.

Nans fixed Travis with a withering glare. "I said no questions asked, Travis.
I owe these people my life and so do a lot of others."

Isranon straightened a bit in the crook of Haig's supporting arm. "If you
will bring the girl, I will try."

Nans lingered after Travis and Luck left, a haunted, off-center light in her
eyes.

Isranon frowned a question. "Is there something you need to say?"

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Nans inhaled sharply, her head dropping and then coming up again. "I hope you
can help this girl…. There was another one. A twelve-year-old named Seri. Two
myn raped her and left her pregnant. A midwife tried to persuade her to drink
tansy, but she refused."

"She's too young. It will probably kill her. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Isranon, you and she are both carrying a load of undeserved guilt
on your shoulders. I think you could have talked her out of refusing the
tansy."

"I could still try," Isranon said.

"It's too late. She's entered a cloister. They will not allow her out and
only priests can enter."

* * * *

Luck and Travis carried Ari from Gaeatyra's dray, which they had borrowed, to
Isranon's wagon. They handed her up to Haig and Nans, who moved to her to the
cot where Anksha normally slept, opposite Isranon. Then they climbed inside
and settled on the edge. Haig opened a folding chair beside it for Isranon to
sit. Luck kept his eyes on Ari and his feet, trying not to stare at how
heavily Isranon had to lean on Haig to reach the chair. Haig squatted
patiently beside the mage.

Travis shook his head. "Sa'necari did that to him?"

Nans nodded. "Cut him up bad and twisted his insides. They're traveling to
Treth to see if the shamans can fix him. Otherwise he's probably going to
die."

Luck snorted softly. "Too late for that one awreddy. Look at him."

"I'm looking," Travis muttered.

Isranon placed his hands on Ari's body and called to it. A web of black
energy formed over her. Sweat beaded on his face as he held it.

"What do you think he is, Travis? Luck?" Nans asked.

"He's working it reverse of how he's used to doing it," Luck, the most
phlegmatic of the pair, said and nodded thoughtfully.

Travis's eyes went wide. "But that doesn't make any sense. That would mean
he's … ooooh, Nans!"

"He was born sa'necari."

"Hell shitting damnation, Nans! Have you lost your mind?"

Luck scowled and thumped Travis, who subsided.

"There's a lot we don't know, Travis. He's a Dark Brother of the Light. There
was a bunch of sa'necari born who rejected the rites, who didn't want to
become monsters. The rest of the sa'necari hunted them all down and killed
them as heretics. He's the only survivor. He's pure. I Read him. Since he's
the last they wanted to make an example of him. All he has to do to survive,
to end all the pain he's in, is to cross that line and take a life in
mortgiefan. He refuses to do it."

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"That's ugly. Gods, that's ugly," Travis swore under his breath.

"Nans," Isranon called. "I need your consecrated dagger to cut it loose. Then
she should be all right."

Nans put her dagger in his hand and he cut the web away. Travis saw how pale
the mage had grown from the effort. The color had returned to Ari's face and
she looked much better. This Dark Brother had freed Ari to finally heal.

"Thank you, Dawnreturning," Travis said. "I owe you."

"There is no debt. It is what I do." Isranon put his hand on Haig's shoulder,
rising only to twist and fall. Travis darted forward and caught him, feeling
his hand come away warm and wet as Nans and Haig lifted Isranon to the bed.

"Nans!" Travis showed her his hand: there was blood on it.

She looked and cursed. "Get your girl back before Gaeatyra discovers she's
missing." Nans stripped Isranon's robe off. Travis and Luck stared at the
scars and bandages. Nans's story notwithstanding, there should not have been a
mark on him–sa'necari did not have scars, blood healed everything. Much of
this pre-dated this attack she described and those wounds, at least, should
have no scars. Nans must have figured what Travis was thinking because she
said, "I told you, he's not like the others, now git. I need to try and keep
him alive and I don't want Gaeatyra showing up to cut his throat."

Haig watched them go. "You've known these myn a long time, healer? You trust
them?"

"Yeah. You can trust them."

"And their leader? This Gryphonheart?"

"Yeah."

* * * *

"I don't need more proof than that, Travis," Luck said, as they drove Ari
back to the inn. "If he'd crossed the line, he would not be laying there
bleeding. His wounds would not have re-opened."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." Travis rubbed his bloodstained hand on his pant
leg, but the blood had dried and would not come off without water. He felt
just a tad spooked until he looked at the sleeping mon, her face cleared of
pain and fever. Now that was nice–real nice. Nothing Travis liked better than
a successful conclusion to a rescue. That kind of thing made a mon want to
strut and crow. That was why he had joined up with a search and rescue company
in the first place. Luck tied the horses up, and then climbed in back to
bundle the blankets around Ari better before handing her to Travis who came
around to take her.

"Where the Hell you been with Ari!" Gaeatyra demanded.

"Awwww, shit!" Travis shifted Ari into Luck's arms, pivoting to face
Gaeatyra. "Get her upstairs, Luck."

"I said, where have you been?"

"We took her to a mage. He cured her."

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Gaeatyra's expression relaxed. "What kind? Not a life mage. Survivors are all
traveling with the Sacred King."

"Not a life-mage. Follow us upstairs and check her out." Travis rubbed his
hand on his trousers again.

Emer, pacing ghostly and unseen in the waning sunlight, sniffed at Travis's
hand, unnoticed by them. Only Gaeatyra could see him and for the moment she
had other things on her mind.

Once in their rooms, Mardeth helped Luck get Ari shifted back into bed. Her
eyes opened. "Gaeatyra?"

The Taladri grinned, moving to take her hand and Read her. "You're going to
be just fine now, girl." Gaeatyra started to say something else, but that was
when she noticed the way that Emer kept sniffing at Travis's hand.

Travis, seeing the change sweep over Gaeatyra's face, started backing toward
the door. Luck saw it too and tried to head her off.

"Stay out of my way, Luck. Unless you're ready to die." Her voice had dropped
very, very low and soft. "Emer's been smelling Travis's hand since we entered
the building. I'm going to see what's on it."

A shiver ran through Travis, both at the thought of the unseen wolf–ghost by
daylight–and what Gaeatyra would find on his hand. She would know the smell of
sa'necari blood just as Emer did. Travis bolted. There were only a few more
minutes of daylight left and then her wolf would be flesh and blood again.
Gaeatyra was not one of those people you could reason with.

He ran through the hallway and reached the stairs, racing down the first
flight and then vaulting the balustrade over the last. His leg caught the edge
of a table. He twisted and crashed, landing in a heap of splintering chairs.
People screamed and he heard the landlord cursing. Travis scrambled up,
running again. He had to get the blood off his hands before they could catch
him. He made it to the door and into the street; as he did he saw the sun had
gone down and knew it was too late: he would never escape Emer.

The wolf was on him before he could draw another breath or take a step,
rolling him across the ground and when he finally came to a stop by striking
the supporting post of a porch roof, Gaeatyra stepped on his chest to pin him.
"What's on his hand, Emer?"

The moonwolf sniffed, whining.

Gaeatyra hissed. "Sa'necari blood. And when is that a reason to run away?"

"Gaeatyra, please, I promised Nans."

"Nans is here? She got out? Speak to me, Travis. That sa'necari is alive."
Gaeatyra's lips curled back. "I don't know what your game is, but I'm going to
kill this one." She took her foot off him. "Track him, Emer."

Travis got to his feet. "Gaeatyra, he saved Ari."

"Bullshit."

Travis grabbed at her. "Listen to me."

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Gaeatyra spun, her foot catching him hard in the chest, roundhouse, Travis
hit the side of a building, slid down and lay still.

Luck saw it as he left the inn and ran to his side. "Damn Gaeatyra, fucking
madmon!"

Gaeatyra ignored him. "Track, Emer."

The moonwolf raced off, Gaeatyra loping beside him.

They ran through the shantytown of refugees and then circled downwind of the
Dynannan camp, seeing the lycans. It would be tough getting in. This whole
situation looked crazy. There were at least twenty or thirty women and
children camped here with the Dynannan wagons in the middle. She recognized
seven more of the Rowdies. The wagons appeared to have roughly ten or twelve
guards, mostly female and at least that many auxiliaries as well as the
lycans–she knew a wolf from a lycan by smell.

"Come on, Emer, there's got to be a way to get in there and get us a
sa'necari."

* * * *

Isranon woke to the howls of wolves from ages past and dreams beyond
dreaming. He felt for Nevin and Olin, only to find neither. "Nevin! Nevin,
help me!"

The wolves wove through his mind and eyes, inner and outer, dancing through
the wagon in chains of being, rising on their hind legs, turning as they
reached for the moon's embrace before dropping again to earth. They sang in
forlorn solemnity of windswept vastnesses that diminished the self with its
sense of infinity.

"Nevin!"

Then the note changed to one of warning.One comes, speaker to spirits. One
comes, speaker to spirits .

Isranon rolled onto his side, pushing himself up.Wolves. Wolves. Wolves. He
staggered, doubled over to the back of the wagon, leaning far over the rear
gating. They had left him alone to conference, thinking him deeply enough into
the embrace of Sanguine Rose that he would not awaken for a time. The ghosts
of the wolves were thick through the camp. No one else could see them. Isranon
had been pushing his new found gifts too hard these past few weeks, which
triggered off new rounds of pain and suffering in his damaged body as those
deeply lodged spells sought outlets to strike at him.

Damn Bodramet! If he thought this would drive me to cross that line, he was
wrong.

"Nevin! Anksha! Anksha, help me!" Just then a wave of pain got him and he
fell forward out of the wagon. "Anksha…."

* * * *

Gaeatyra saw no other way for it, so she simply walked into the most crowded
group of women and children, using them as cover while she tried to get close
to the wagons. It was thin cover, considering she was head and shoulders
taller than all of them being Sharani. The children eyed her, and then began
stooping to pick up rocks.

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"What are you doing here?" a child asked.

"What do you want?" another child asked.

The children clustered around her, following warily, all of them asking the
same questions. Their hostility sent a shiver up Gaeatyra's spine as they
closed around her.

"I'm Taladri. I'm here to protect you. I'm chasing a sa'necari."

"Only magic mon here is our sick mage. You better get out of here," a child
warned in ominous tones.

Emer whined, drawing Gaeatyra's attention. The camp had filled up with
ghosts, the dancing, weaving forms of ancient wolves. "The chieftains! What
the hell?" One of the children chose that moment to shy a rock at her,
striking her in the back. "Hey! I'm on your side!"

Then they all let fly at her.

* * * *

Nans sat holding Isranon's wrist Reading him. Randilyn had found him
unconscious on the ground behind the wagon and it looked as if he had fallen
from it. Nans had put him to bed.

Isranon's eyes fluttered open and then widened. "Ghosts. Someone is coming.
Someone with a wolf. This place is full of ghosts. Ghost wolves."

"Shit. Gaeatyra." Nans stood up. There was only one way to handle this
without someone getting hurt. She climbed out of the wagon. "I'm the only one
that's got a prayer of stopping her. Everyone stand down, but be alert."

Haig and Zulaika exchanged glances. This healer suddenly did not sound much
like a healer.

"Gaeatyra, I know you're out there," Nans shouted. "Might as well come in
before someone gets hurt so we can talk about it."

"You're hiding a sa'necari, Nans. I want him." Gaeatyra sauntered into the
firelight with Emer at her heels, trailed by glaring children with rocks
clutched in their hands and their mothers who had picked up sticks of
firewood. All of this lent the tableau an air of incipient riot. The children
and mothers began another chant of "Leave our mage alone!" and looked well
prepared to back it up.

Gaeatyra winced. "I'm one of the good guys!" she roared.

Nans raised her hands for silence. "I will handle this." The crowd quieted.
"All I have is a dying mage, Gaeatyra. A mon who has saved a lot of lives."

"Taladri." Haig spat.

When Gaeatyra had closed the distance, Nans hissed low, "What did you do to
Travis and Luck?"

"Nothing permanent," Gaeatyra sneered. "Travis got some of your sa'necari's
blood on his hands. Emer smelled it. He tried to get away before Emer could
figure it out and I had to beat him some."

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Nans' hand shot out in a blink to catch Gaeatyra's throat. "Damn you,
Gaeatyra, if you've hurt him, so help me…."

Gaeatyra's lips curled back in a sneer and she shrugged.

Haig knuckled his chin. "Are you certain she is a healer, Zulaika?"

"She says so. She has done well for Isranon. I know little of human healers."

"I have lived among our kind so long, I too have forgotten. But I am fairly
certain they were not like this."

In the end they played it by the numbers. Nans sent four in to stand as a
wall in front of Isranon: Anksha, Haig, Zulaika, and Amiri. She put Nevin and
Olin on the bed with him. Finally she got a firm grip on the Taladri and
stepped into the wagon with her. It was awkward. Nans sat herself and Gaeatyra
on Anksha's cot to give her the story.

Gaeatyra seemed to listen with only half an ear and the sneer never left her
face. "I want to Read him. If what you're telling me is true, then I'm no
threat to him. However, if it isn't…."

"Give up your weapons, first," Nans said. Gaeatyra could easily decide to
stab Isranon to death and then worry about fighting her way free afterward.
All Taladrim were that way, and Gaeatyra especially. They were all suicidal
maniacs, almost sociopathic in their obsessions with the kill.

"You can't seriously expect me to do so? He's a bloody sa'necari! I can smell
it from here."

"No," Isranon said, the resolution in his voice too strong to be denied.
"Trust is vital…" He was so tired he could barely speak. "If she cannot be …
convinced … that I am different … then let it end now."

"Is. Ra. Non," Anksha pleaded, clinging to his arm.

He put her hands gently aside. "Anksha, please, roaring noise in my head … go
to Nans."

Anksha sighed and moved to stand by the ranger, the others followed. Only
Nevin and Olin refused to budge. The Taladri glanced around at them before
dropping to her knees beside Isranon. She pulled off her gloves and touched
him. He was definitely sa'necari, the black threads in the interweaving of the
magic patterns showed that, but they were wound about with gold like a braided
rope and beyond that was a blinding white purity showing that he had never
taken a life out of appetite or in a dark rite.

Then she turned her awareness to other points within him and saw the damage
the sa'necari had done and cursed silently. "You're right, Nans. I don't know
what he is, but so far as I'm concerned, he's sacrosanct. He's got nothing to
fear from me. I'll ask the rest of the Taladrim to let him be."

Relief rippled through them at Gaeatyra's words. Then Gaeatyra drew her
gloves back on and moved to Nans' side. Anksha immediately flung herself onto
Isranon and hugged him tight.

"Don't you ever do that again, Isranon." Anksha's voice trembled.

"Anksha, Roaring Noise, I can't promise that."

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Anksha kissed him impulsively on the mouth and Isranon flushed. Nevin
chuckled.

Gaeatyra shook her head ruefully, as if she could not imagine what was
possessing her to allow a sa'necari to live. "I do have a suggestion. I think
you should increase the amphereon in that brew you're giving him. In Shaurone,
when we've had to deal with these blades in the absence of a life-mage, the
spell-breakers have had to resort to some fairly crude methods to get the
death-webs out. A third of the victims die, most of the others end up
crippled, damaged, never really well. Ari's clean, as if she'd never been cut
with the damned thing. No spell-breaker could do that. Until now I'd've said
only a life-mage could do this."

The Taladri motioned Nans to follow her out, reached into her shirt, bringing
forth a drawstring pouch that hung around her neck. "I owe him for Ari. I have
no idea how something like this will affect him, but I'm giving it to you
anyway for direst emergency." She brought out three grainy lumps like hardened
brown sugar. "It's going back to powder so you'll need to moisten it again to
use it or toss it in a pan and melt it."

"That concoction of yours wouldn't be blue-moon's mourning and angel-tears?"

"Yeah. I cook the oils down into some maple to preserve it and take the
bitterness out. Consider it an apology for decking Travis."

* * * *

"Sacrosanct…" Isranon murmured. "I am not certain I understand that word." He
lay staring at the wooden ceiling, picking out the edges in each board that
comprised it. "That is why she decided not to kill me. She said I was
sacrosanct, Nevin."

The lycan moved closer to him, touching his hair fondly. "Yes. It means she
decided you were inviolable, possibly holy and sacred."

"Me, Nevin?" His voice held a child-like incredulity, completely open and
vulnerable. "I am not a monster… Is that what it means? I mean, I helped that
girl… I healed her."

"Isranon," Nevin interrupted. "You need to rest and cease worrying. You have
done a lot of good today."

"I am sacrosanct." Isranon murmured again. "My father would be proud of me.
If only he had known that resistance was the way to the light." He slipped
into drugged slumber.

Olin relieved Nevin sitting with Isranon; Nevin climbed out the back to
stretch his legs.

A slender, hard-muscled mon with silver hair streaked with red fell into step
with Nevin in the darkness at the edges of the camp. She walked with a
confident stride, extending her hands to him in greeting. "I finally caught up
to you. The camp was filled with ghosts. I almost bolted. I couldn't see them,
but I felt them. Is Isranon all right?"

"Where did you come from, Daree?" Nevin demanded.

"I told you, I've been tracking you. I thought all winter about how strong
you are…. Staying with him until the end. It must be tearing your heart out to

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watch him die. Finally I had to come back and stand with you."

"Then you don't know," he growled. "He began to flourish despite the Beast's
drain … and then a group of sa'necari nearly butchered him. He's dying. We're
barely keeping him alive."

Darianna's eyes softened with concern. "I am sorry. You're in love with him,
Nevin, aren't you?"

Nevin tried to shrug away from her, but she caught his shoulders and held on.

"Tell him," she persisted. "Or are you still grieving for Larrigus?"

"Larrigus." Nevin winced. "It's been six years…."

"Six years is too long without love, Nevin."

Nevin bristled at her. "What would you know about love, youngster."

"More than you realize. And you are already grieving for Isranon and he isn't
dead yet."

"Oh gods," Nevin's voice suddenly hoarsened and he dropped to his haunches,
folding up with tears streaking his face. "I love him."

Daree knelt and wrapped her arms around him. "It's all right, old wolf. Let
it out."

"It's wrong… I am his mentor. The mentor and the student…"

CHAPTER SIX. battle-mage

King William Gryphonheart of Gormond's Reach had ridden out three days past
heading for the border near Merkreth's Crossing with twenty knights and forty
auxiliaries, mostly foot, and a small baggage train. He did not expect serious
resistance, considering the reports had suggested nothing more dangerous than
small skirmishing parties and disorganized raiders. Lord Euen of Darr, the
freehold between his kingdom and neighboring Beltria, had been sending him
frantic messages for weeks, predicting this was the precursor of worse to
come. That might well be. Euen's fears might also be a reaction to the death
of his youngest son a year and a half ago in Charas. His grief could be
affecting his judgment, his ability to calculate the dangers. Euen had not
been the same since Kanz died. So William had decided to see for himself what
chanced along their shared borders in the direction of the wilderness between
their lands and the city-states.

The King's company rode through the sun-dappled shade of deep forest, the
ground rising steadily as they ascended from the watercourse they had been
following. William had chosen to take back roads to Merkreth's Crossing,
making it less likely–he hoped–that anyone would mark his passage until he
arrived there. The trees thinned around a grassy knoll already sere with the
first touch of early frost.

One of the auxiliaries sounded his horn as they crested the brief space of
open ground. They found themselves faced with black-clad horsemyn backed by
foot troops ten across and six deep. Their adversaries stood under a banner,
scarlet on black, a single rune from no language William recognized. Shadowy
shapes moved beneath the treeline behind them. Worse and worse.

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At their head sat a monstrous knight in mail and breastplate with shield and
lance at ready. A heavy axe hung from his belt. He rode his huge, barded steed
with an easy arrogance.

"Our God demands your death, King William." The gargantuan knight rode
forward, couched his lance, and charged before a reply could be given, his
warriors, and monsters racing at his heels.

William met him squarely; the creature's force was tremendous as its lance
struck his shield. The king's shield shattered. He and his horse were both
hurled to earth. The creature came about, tossing aside its lance and drawing
forth its tremendous axe as it sprang from its mount to finish the fallen
king.

* * * *

Isranon's company were two days beyond Merkreth's Crossing, just preparing to
move on again, when they heard the horn call. Roughly half the company had
mounted up and sat their horses around them.

Isranon remained by the fire, waiting to be helped into the wagon. Haig rose
from his side. More and more the Lemyari had taken on his old ways and
attitude from the years he had been a knight of Oakleigh, insisting on being
among those who stood closest in defense of Isranon; showing deference to his
lord in his words and actions; and to his chosen liege-god in his daily
prayers.

"That's trouble," Haig said. "Are we going to answer it?"

"Yes," Zulaika said. "Lycans guard the wagons. Warriors to me!"

Haig mounted up, nodding to Nevin to take over with Isranon.

"I'm coming," Isranon said in a tone that brooked no disagreement; every inch
the lord of his company. He caught Nevin's arm and rose to his feet. Josiah
had shown him how to fight: he would not stand by while people were in danger,
whatever the price.

"And I," Anksha insisted. No one questioned it. They knew what she could do.

Zulaika and Haig exchanged uneasy glances, and then looked to Isranon to
gauge the level of his determination. Zulaika nodded. They turned their mounts
to double up.

The company galloped down the road, knowing only that people were in peril
and they had pledged themselves to a God of Light, having no idea what that
might entail in regard to Dynanna specifically. Soon they heard the clash of
steel, and the screams of the wounded and dying. Zulaika left Isranon standing
in a tangle of willow trees at the edge of the battle to begin casting,
leaving him her spear to lean on and then drew her sword.

"Stay hidden in the trees, Isranon," Zulaika told him. "Don't let them see
you."

"I will," Isranon said.

Zulaika and the others rode into the battle.

Isranon saw movement beyond the willows and he could sense fear, hate, rage,

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and terror. He parted the trailing branches that draped him with their
spear-shaped leaves in gray and green, to see first the banner of King William
and then that of the Hellgod, Bellocar. Where once he had been more warrior
than mage, he had become more mage than warrior. He would use what weapons he
had.

"You need a staff, my friend."

"A staff?" Isranon looked and saw the faintly shimmering form of Josiah.

"Most mages use them. And it will help you stand. No big magics. You don't
want to hit your friends."

* * * *

Anksha saw the gigantic knight as they charged into the ranks and the
shifting breezes carried his scent to her. While Anksha could be a creature of
thought, she was to a far greater degree a creature of instinct and she knew a
demon when she smelled one. The demon-eater's hair haloed with energy and she
screeched, leaping from Haig's horse before he could stop her; darting through
the press, avoiding blows and the hooves of struggling horses, making for the
demon as he lifted his axe to strike the king. She leaped upon his back,
biting into his neck, chewing on his bones while she clawed his eyes out. No
bone existed that she could not snap with her powerful jaws. He staggered
back, stumbling, the axe falling from his fingers. The bones shattered and the
demon moved no more, collapsing to the ground. The press of the battle swirled
around her even as she started to rise from her victory, shrilling her
triumph. King William cried a warning to his rescuer. Then Anksha heard
someone shout her name and looked up too late as a dying horse collapsed on
top of her.

* * * *

"There's the wagons," Nans said. She was dressed once more as a ranger in
brown and green leathers over a chain corselet. Her surviving Rowdies had
finally gathered. She had three wagons and outriders now, and had gone after
the Dynannans. "But there doesn't seem to be anyone here."

They rode up to the lead wagon and she saw Nevin sitting there with Willa,
Zulaika's bonded nibari.

"Where are the others?" Nans asked.

"Zulaika reported some people in trouble up the road and they went to help.
Isranon and Anksha went with them. Sa'necari trouble," Nevin said.

Nans turned to the others. "Come on. That's got to be William's party." She
led her rangers off at full gallop.

* * * *

"Two birds with one stone," the sa'necari sneered, stepping out from the
trees. "A king and the last descendant of the three brothers." Power rose from
him in waves, visible to Isranon like heat distortion on the deserts at high
summer. "I will have the bounty that's on both your heads."

Isranon retreated, stumbling.Last? What did he mean,last? This one was like
Bodramet unleashed or Mephistis. Then the memories of what Bodramet and the
others had done to him came rushing through his head and heart. His faith in
his newfound powers wavered, and he knew he could not fight this one.

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Josiah saw the change in Isranon's face, the uncertainty, and cried out to
him, "Isranon, let me in!"

Isranon reached without thought to the ghost as the sa'necari's first strike
shattered his shields, knocking him to his knees. Josiah slipped into
Isranon's broken body, becoming an undulating aura playing across his
features. The sa'necari, who had not been able to perceive the ghost's
presence, frowned at this strange manifestation, uncertain of what it meant.

Josiah transformed Zulaika's spear into a shimmering golden shield of power
and used it to drag himself to his feet. His other hand filled with dancing
tongues of black and flame in the classic stance of the battle-mage: power in
one hand and a weapon or shield in the other. Power sang around him like a
thousand defiant birds, rose within him like the crescendo of the hymns of
heaven, and they came together like a sweet melody of faith in the
righteousness of creation.

Taken by surprise at this startling epiphany, the sa'necari hesitated. This
was not the broken member of his own kind, the one who had refused the rites.
He was facing an enraged battle-mage of the light. He reached for a different
set of spells, a different set of defenses. Before he could marshal them,
Josiah cast the searing energies into the sa'necari's face and burned him. The
sa'necari collapsed, screaming as the fires crisped him to a cinder.

Then Isranon and Josiah turned their wrath on the rest of the attackers. The
sun itself became Isranon's weapon as his gestures called the Sunfire lances
from the skies, one of the most potent of battle-mage weapons. Blinding shafts
of fire and light struck the most powerful creatures that Isranon could spy.
He chose his targets with care, precision and speed. Dark creatures and evil
myn fell like sheaves of grain before the scythe. Their bodies sizzled and
their burning flesh filled the air with a terrible stench, their skin flaking
off, and forming a drifting ash on the battlefield. The dark ranks
disintegrated in confusion, trying to flee and not knowing in which direction
lay safety, for they could not see Isranon standing in the trees.

Several knights of King William were shouting, "Battle-mage! A battle-mage
has come to our aid."

* * * *

Travis spotted Isranon at the edge of the skirmish, half-concealed by the
descending branches of the willow trees, and then saw the mon sneaking up
behind him "Hey, Luck! Over there!" He set his heels to his mount, hoping both
that Luck was behind him and that luck would be with him so that he could
reach Isranon before the other mon did. "Dawnreturning, behind you!"

Isranon started to turn. The mon, realizing he had been seen, leaped forward,
casting his spear into Isranon's back. The mage fell to lie face down,
unmoving. Travis screamed in rage, urging his mount into a gallop as the
soldier put his foot on Isranon's shoulder, twisted the spear savagely and
yanked. Travis came down upon him too swiftly for the mon to free it, his
mount plunging into the curtain of branches. The ranger's highly trained horse
reared, striking with its fore hooves and driving the soldier to his knees.
The mon threw his hands up in a vain effort to protect his face as he scuttled
backwards, reaching for his sword. The horse's hooves came down again and
again, shattering his head, crushing his chest, and tearing his stomach.

When Travis saw that the soldier no longer moved, he flung himself from his
sweating mount with a stay command and dropped the reins. Travis winced at the

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spear standing in the mage's back, dropped to his knees, and checked him: he
still breathed. Travis shoved his fingers into Isranon's wound, freed the
spear, and threw it aside. He scarcely realized he had been cursing
continuously since he first saw Isranon's attacker sneaking up on the mage
until he stopped. He jerked his saddlebags off his mount and dug into them for
cloth to staunch the bleeding. Travis packed the wound with a roll of bandages
and tied that in place. Then he cradled the mage. An image of Itch Hollens
dying flashed through Travis's mind and he muttered, "Awwww, come on…." He was
not having much luck keeping people alive lately–saving folks had been the
reason he became a ranger–and it made him ache.

Isranon's eyes fluttered open. "I know you… You brought that girl."

Travis rummaged one-handed in his saddlebags and came up with a small flask
of Dragonsbreath, a dwarven whiskey more famous for its potency than its
taste. "Take a swig of this," he said before addressing Isranon's statement.
"Yeah, sure did. Now just you don't go dying on me cause I didn't get here
sooner."

Isranon choked a moment on the burning brew and then Travis made him take a
second shot of it. "But… But you know … what I am."

"Yeah. I know what you are," Travis responded. "You're a good mon. My old dog
would have liked you."

The expression of surprise on Isranon's face, followed by a blossoming of
trust, was so child-like that it wrenched Travis's heart to see it in a grown
male. Then Isranon gave a small smile an instant before closing his eyes and
losing consciousness.

"Damn, damn, damn," Travis cursed. "Some rescuer I am."

The sound of a horse nearby made the ranger look up as Luck dismounted beside
him. "How is he?"

Travis gave him a beseeching look. "Just give me a hand here. I think it's
bad. But hell, I don't know for certain… he's sa'necari. I know plenty about
killing them. But I'll be damned if I know anything about saving them."

* * * *

The fighting had been intense. Zulaika recognized King William's banner and
that of Gryphonheart's Rowdies. They were involved with a king and a
freeranger unit. This was definitely not keeping their heads down like the
healer and their liege-god had advised. She needed to find Anksha and Isranon
quickly and get away from here before too many questions were asked. Zulaika
searched among the wounded for their missing ones, and as she did she saw one
small foot beneath one of the fallen horses. Zulaika feared the worst as she
reached down to lift the horse from Anksha. The little she-creature made no
sounds, moving not at all.

"Let me help."

Zulaika found herself looking into a face she had not expected to see again:
Nans. "I can do it." The vampire shrugged the healer off.

"They should not see how strong you are. You've created enough suspicions
already."

"And," Zulaika said archly, "assuming that you can lift a horse, human, why

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should it be all right for you to lift a horse and not me?"

"Because I'm their ranger, Zulaika. I'm Nans Gryphonheart. When I lift this
animal, draw the little one out very carefully. When she's clear, tell me."
That was when Zulaika really looked at the mon. Nans wore muted brown and
green leathers, her cinnamon hair braided back, bow at her shoulder, quiver,
and sword at her side–every inch what a freeranger captain should be. She
lifted the dead horse, working it back off Anksha with skill, wedging her feet
and weight perfectly so the carcass did not shift wrong and tumble onto
Zulaika and the demon-eater. Zulaika marveled at her strength. Nans threw the
dead animal aside as soon as they were clear.

"Gather your wounded and the others," Nans said quietly. "I've left my wagons
back with yours."

Nans ruffled Anksha's hair, murmuring, "Poor little demon-eater."

"Nans!" King William came striding toward them with several knights in tow.
Around them the foot soldiers of Gormond's Reach were butchering the enemy
wounded.

Nans closed her eyes, shaking her head at Zulaika. "My cousin, the king. Go
on, I'll catch up. I've come to pay off the rest of the debt I owe Isranon.
I'm going to help you reach Treth. But for now, I've got to talk to him."

Zulaika nodded and left.

William's craggy face had more emotion in it than Nans had ever seen as he
grabbed her, holding her tight. "They told me you were dead."

"I'm hard to kill, William. Vampire took me down and we rolled into a
building, so Travis didn't see me get back up." She ended the embrace and
stepped back. "I knocked his head in."

A wry, approving smile graced William's rugged features. "Resourceful
cousin."

"I need to get my myn camped. Then I'll come back and we can discuss all
this."

* * * *

They plaster-casted Anksha's broken arm and leg. Other than that she seemed
fine except for being out cold. Amiri assured Nans that this was a healing
sleep typical of demon-eaters. Nans missed Deryna and the others she had
rescued, although it was nice to have her Rowdies back. She still had to deal
with William, but that was set for a morning meeting. Amiri had insisted that
it would be best to have Isranon and Anksha in separate quarters for better
tending until one at least had awakened.

Travis sat beside Isranon in the tent. The night had turned very cold and
they had built a fire in a brazier. The mage lay on a cot, blankets and furs
piled thick on top of him. Travis felt bad about not reaching him in time to
prevent that soldier from driving a spear into the mon's back. He had done
everything he could think of since then and all to no effect. "If I'd still
had my old dog," he muttered.

"He needs to feed," Zulaika said. "Anksha is the only one who can force him
to. We're out of troll blood for the Sanguine Rose."

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"Can't someone just put some blood in his mouth and stroke his throat?" asked
Travis. He had thought of trying that, but Isranon had slipped into
unconsciousness too fast for Travis to think to offer him his wrist.

"The sa'necari denied him the blood's gift, so human blood won't heal him. It
needs to be strong blood," Zulaika explained. "And when he's this weak, his
fangs won't come down. He can't fasten on and feed. He has trouble making them
work anyway. He's terrified of becoming a monster. Isranon has to consciously
relax a great deal before he can feed."

"My blood would do it," Nans said. "I'm yuwenghau. My sire is Willodarus. But
how are we going to get him to feed?"

"Ahhhh," Zulaika said, understanding at last how Nans could lift a horse.

Travis's mouth screwed up in a reluctantly thoughtful expression as if he
knew very well that he could solve the problem but that suggesting the
solution would probably earn him tons of disapprobation. However, he had to
say it anyhow. "Now, I'm not trying to be funny or belittle this," he said,
with a palms-out, pushing-wave of his hands at them as if to ward off the
comments he knew he was about to get. "But I had an old dog that I had trouble
getting to eat and I would just sort of massage his throat and gums for awhile
and then sure enough, he'd let me smear the food in his mouth and then pretty
soon he was eating on his own. Mind if I try a few things?"

Zulaika looked at him like he was crazy, but Nevin smiled. "We did something
like that with my great grandfather. He stayed in wolf form the last years.
Let him try."

"Well, if you can get his fangs to come down, Travis, I'll stick my wrist in
his mouth." Nans said, "And that's something I thought I'd never do for a
sa'necari or anything else with fangs."

Travis moved to the edge of the bed and tried to visualize Isranon as his old
dog. At first it took some doing, as he felt a bit self-conscious, then he
simply closed the others out and started stroking Isranon's face and throat,
murmuring reassuring noises, talking to him, working his hand in his mouth,
massaging his gums. Gradually it became a rhythm, almost a meditation in which
Travis lost himself, remembering his old dog. He had loved that old dog. It
was a big shaggy beast of no breeding. A boar got it. The old dog had dragged
itself up for one last hunt when it heard the younger dogs bay the beast. But
what a boar! His mind flitted from memory to memory in random wanderings,
seeing the dog now young, now old, now young again. Something sharp pricked
his fingers, bringing him from the thoughts. He looked down and his fingers
were bleeding.

"Nans!"

The yuwenghau pushed Travis aside and, without hesitation, shoved her wrist
in, spearing the artery on the hungry extended fangs of the injured mage.
Isranon fastened onto her, sucking. Color returned to his face and his eyes
fluttered open. He came loose from Nans with an expression of horror.

"Isranon, take what you need. It's freely given," Nans told him, pressing her
wrist against his mouth. "You are not a monster. We'll catch you some trolls."

Isranon fed again, tears running down his proud face. Nans slid her arm under
his shoulders and lifted him up so that she cradled him like a lover and
comforted him with more than words as he fed. "You are not a monster." She
enveloped him with the warmth of her body and the auric presence that was

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wilderkin, soothing him on a primal level with the animal empathy, as if he
was a frightened wild creature. It eased his heart and soul. She got past the
castle walls he had built in his mind to close out the terrors of being a
monster among monsters, and it brought tears to her eyes to see how much pain
and suffering was there. When he had fed, she sent him to sleep.

"I sensed you using your gifts," Amiri said. "What did you do to him?"

"I'm a wilderkin predator. We're very rare. I did some healing. I can't
normally work with sapients, but being a sa'necari, he's also a predator. His
primal channels are raw and open, screaming in pain. It's what's blocking his
ability to feed." Nans stroked his head. "Such a proud, sensitive mon, and so
broken. Each time I feed him, I'll work with his channels. Eventually he'll
stop blocking."

* * * *

The pavilion of King William had a huge heavy bed, jade green velvet
curtains, a wealth of blankets, and all the lovely things that made being a
king worthwhile. Carpets spread across the ground made Nans want to pull her
boots off. It also explained why it took him forever to get to a battlefield
and why the enemy could set up an ambush so easily. If she had to find herself
in a war she would take her Rowdies over his knights any day of the
week.Strike like lightning and run like a rabbit.Kind of mixing my metaphors,
but I'm not at court any longer for someone to lecture me about them.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you had acquired a battle-mage? I would have
had him from you in a blink! He saved our skins. What did you say his name
was?"

Battle-mage?"Lord Dawnreturning is not mine, he's my sister's. I'm having to
call in favors for these skirmishes." She tried to think about what kind of
magic she had seen Isranon do. None of it had looked like battle magic.
Nothing dramatic, just effective. But then again she had arrived late and seen
very little of it–someone had shoved a spear in Isranon's back about the time
they slammed into William's attackers.

"We all are," William said, sobering. "And how's the little creature that
rescued me? What did you call her? A demon-eater?"

"Yeah, a demon-eater. One of a kind, far as I know. She's the mage's
familiar. Malei'leonys is tough. She'll live."

"You know, you really should come home some day, Nans." William put his hands
on her shoulders.

"And see how old everyone's gotten when I haven't? They say yuwenghau wander
because they want to. It isn't, William. It's because we outlive our homes."

"Speaking of favors, I've sent emissaries to the Sacred King. She's leading a
mass exodus of theWest Bank towns, villages, and farms to safety in Rowanhart
at the urgings of the priests and her god. If matters are as bad as Lord Euen
and the priests are saying, I'm going to need her armies. I didn't actually
believe it until now, but I wanted to take no chances. I am glad I didn't."

"The Sacred King…." Nans turned thoughtful. Encountering her would likely
prove a fatal disaster for her entire company now that she had taken in
Isranon's group. She had heard the Sacred King Aejystrys Rowan was an
intolerant asshole, quick to execute anyone even suspected of being in league
with the darkness. "A wise decision for Gormond's Reach, I'm sure."

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William frowned. "What are you not saying? I can hear it in your voice. I
need her armies. The only comparable forces are in Shaurone and Vallimrah.
Neither of which are going to cross Beltria to help me. They are not going to
make a war to stop a war, and Beltria will never grant them passage."

Nans shook free of her musings. "Nothing, William. Nothing at all."

* * * *

Returning to the battlefield, Nans claimed the demon's body and several other
bodies of what looked like significant creatures on the grounds that the
little demon-eater required special feeding, had them hauled to her camp, and
drained them for the preserving bottles. The rangers were both appalled and
intrigued by the arts of the sa'necari, especially those strange bottles that
preserved the blood as fresh as it came from the veins. Nans found that one of
those carrying globes was an 'ice box' so she butchered the demons–it turned
out there were three of them–and tossed the body parts in to feed Anksha. She
pulled some books out of the other globes to read. This would probably be the
first time that a scion of the light had ever read what the vampires and
sa'necari had to say about their own kind and it intrigued Nans.

Nans Read Isranon again the next morning. The wound in his back had closed,
yet he was still far weaker than he had been at Merkreth's Crossing. She
guessed that came from all the energy he had spent rescuing King William's
party. She could not begin to understand how he could have cast the battle
spells everyone described having seen him wielding; that part had been over by
the time she and her myn arrived. One remarkable change had taken place: where
before the magic centers and patterns had been black webs of sa'necari energy
twined with gold they were now banded with all the other colors of flame as
well. She had absolutely no idea how to Read that.

"Damn. I could reason with Gaeatyra, but I can't reason with a king. The
Sacred King's coming up along the main inland route and her van is getting
larger all the time. They're moving slower and slower. That's unfortunate for
us. We'll have to take the coast road which will make us go a long way around
to reach Treth."

"You're coming with us?" Nevin asked.

"That's why I fetched the Rowdies. We're known. You won't be as conspicuous
in our company. People know us and trust us."

"Why avoid the king?" Zulaika interrupted.

"Two of her closest friends were just murdered. The king believes Hoon was
responsible. And that means she's going to be hunting sa'necari and vampires
with a vengeance. She was nasty to begin with, so now she's worse."

"But you don't believe. Why?"

"Because, Zulaika, I am fairly certain both Hoon and his son, Timon, are
dead."

Nevin looked up sharply from tending Isranon, shaking his head at this news.
"How can you know?"

"One of my father's creatures saw a vampire, chained and broken in a dungeon
in Minnoras. The sa'nekaryiane called him Hoon. Hoon called her Galee." Nans
exhaled heavily. "A younger male Lemyari was dragged in. Galee put a spear

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through his chest, killing him. Hoon screamed one word. 'Timon.' Now you
understand?"

Tears streaked the shifter's face. Zulaika reached wordlessly for him.

Nans stood. "I'll return as soon as I get us on the right path toward
Ocealay. We'll follow the coast road to Treth." She paused, adding; "I was in
Minnoras at the time the city fell. Ranger and yuwenghau notwithstanding, I
barely got out with my life. I came across those women and children and then
we came across you. I've always suspected my sister was a few eggs shy of a
dozen, discovering a sa'necari and some vampires as followers of hers pretty
much proved it until I Read Isranon."

* * * *

Volo rode his dappled grey gelding slowly into Merkreth's Crossing, drifting
through the scattered crowds in the late afternoon. His formal name, which he
rarely gave to anyone, was Volosarius Doramys. His family's estates in
Waejontor had been lost to the Sharani conquest and most of his kin had been
burned at the stake for being sa'necari. He had supported himself for fifty
years as a bounty hunter to those who were not choosy about who they paid so
long as the work got done and sometimes as a hired assassin. He looked no more
than twenty-five years old: the rites kept him young. Children formed the
mainstay of his diet, since they had far more years to steal than adults.

He wore his cowled hood up and his cloak pulled tight against the chill
evening breeze. A thick beard covered his narrow jaw, square-cut to conceal
the effeminate lines of his face that might have screamed 'Waejontori' to
those who knew what to look for. Spells made his amaranthine eyes appear to be
a warm brown: another betrayal of his true nature dealt with.

It was late enough that most people had gone home, and too early for the
taverns to begin to fill. Yet a tavern was his destination. He dressed like a
commoner, someone to be underestimated. Leather thongs wrapped his pants legs
tight against his boots all the way to his knees. A heavy wool tunic, the same
unremarkable sepia of his pants, stretched to his knees. A set of long knives
rode at his hips, hanging from a battered leather belt. Boiled leather
vambraces covered his forearms beneath his sleeves. Unseen, he carried his
hellblades in a slender case fastened to his belt beside his money pouch. One
was a dueling blade, jagged like a shark's mouth; the other was his
bane-blade, runed for death and undeath, to slice the soul as well as the
body. No one had yet survived a taste of either blade.

He took a turn through the slums. The deepening evening was too cold for any
of the residents to be outside, which disappointed him. His feedings went
unnoted when he chose his victims from their unwanted denizens, and children
and women here were usually easy to lure away with the promise of gold or a
meal. Volo left the slums when he neared the north side of town, turned west
and rode up to the Gateway Tavern. The hostler appeared. Volo threw him his
reins and a silver before going inside, hoping his old contacts would still be
frequenting this place. Volo had not been this way in years and had no way of
knowing how much of Prince Mephistis' old network had been picked up by the
Minnorian Queen since the Prince's death.

The interior was dark, lit by oil lamps hanging from the sides and small
candles scattered across the tables. The big bar dominated the left side and a
line of booths the right. It stank of rank bodies, smoke, and whiskey. The
odor of pork cooking in the kitchen reminded him of the smell of human flesh
on a grill and made him hungry. He focused himself tightly to prevent his
fangs from descending. If his contact still lived at the Crossing, he would

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get everything he needed there.

Volo scanned the room as a pretty servant came up to him.

"Can I help ya, Master?" the young female asked.

"I'm looking for a friend."

"Someone to warm yer bed, or someone ya know?"

"The latter. However, if I don't find my friend, I might consider the
former." Volo ran an appreciative eye over her.

She smiled with a wag of her hips and started to show him to a table.

"Does Hanson still come around?"

"Hanson? Oh, ya. He's in one of tha back rooms."

"Take me to him?"

The servant started to hesitate. Volo flashed a bit of silver at her and
shoved it down her bodice, tweaking her nipple in passing. "This way," she
said.

The girl ran ahead of him to open a door. There were three tables in the room
and it was thick with smoke. Volo spotted a saturnine man sitting in at a
corner table with three others and smiled. He strode over to them and extended
his hand. "Hello, Hanson. It's been a long time."

Hanson gripped his hand. "Yes it has." He turned to his companions. "Excuse
me, but business has come up." He winked at them.

Volo followed Hanson to his house on foot. A wind came up and Volo pulled his
cloak tightly around him, head down against it. Hanson's home lay in the
richest district of Merkreth's Crossing. Only a few were finer. Hanson was a
gem syndic. They walked up the steps of his columned veranda and through a
heavy walnut heartwood door into the main hall. Servants immediately appeared
to take their cloaks, led by a stout butler. Volo's nostrils flared as one
whiff of them told him they were all nibari. Hanson had not changed his way of
operating at all. No one served a master better than nibari.

In the privacy of his home, Hanson allowed his eyes to resume their true
color and Volo did likewise; to do anything else would have been rude. One of
the females dipped Volo a curtsy with her head tilted properly to offer the
favored vein in her neck. Volo licked his lips, and his fangs came down as his
body reacted to her succulence.

"Will you be staying the night?" Hanson asked, seeing the way that nibari had
looked at Volo.

"I left my horse at the tavern."

"I'll send a servant for it."

"Then I guess I am staying the night," Volo said.

"Seeing as how you like her," Hanson allowed a faint smirk, "I'll send
Semirys to your bed tonight. You'll find her tasty and willing. She's a
screamer once you get solidly between her legs. My family has been breeding

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her bloodlines for centuries on one of our estates. Only the Black Cliff
produced better stock."

The stairs at the end of the hall swept gracefully upward to the second
floor.

Hanson led Volo upstairs. "If you ever decide to settle down, Volo, I will
sell you a fine stud and some broodmares from that bloodline. They would give
you a decent start at a good herd."

"I'll consider it. There is one who I am currently hunting who will bring me
a king's ransom and more than enough to settle down."

A left corridor took them to the small hall, as Hanson called it. A small
table with a pair of chairs sat on one side and, on the other near the
fireplace were two hugely comfortable looking chairs with a modest table
between them. Hanson poured blood-spiked wine and then turned to Volo. "Human
or sylvan, light meat or dark. Or are you in need of a rite?"

Volo smiled and sipped the blood wine. "You always offer splendid
hospitality, Hanson. Always. A rite would suit me best, preferably sylvan, and
light meat. However, business first."

Hanson rang a bell for a servant. The butler, a substantial nibari, round and
spoilt-looking, like a contented steer, answered.

"Your wishes, Master?"

"Depnane for both of us. Bring those two pales ones who just went fang-shy."

"Yes, Master Hanson." The butler bowed himself out and closed the door
quietly behind him.

Volo's eyebrow rose just a trifle and then he hid his surprise. They were
going to kill two as a snack. Hanson must be in a very generous mood. Or else
he had just gone through a culling of his nibari. Depnane were those marked
for death, usually nibari, slaves, or captives. Slaves and captives were too
dangerous to keep long.

"So what brings you here?" Hanson asked.

Volo took a folded paper from inside his cloak, spreading it flat on the
table and setting some candles on it to hold it open. "I've come from Minnoras
where I picked this up. Queen Galee has placed bounties on all of their heads.
Substantial amounts. I'm willing to pay well for information if you've seen
any of them pass this way." He tapped the name at the top. "Isranon, son of
Isranon. Last of the Dark Brothers. That's the one I referred to. A king's
ransom for his head."

"The late prince's catamite…." Hanson rolled the last word around on his
tongue. He rose and went to a table near the window, opening a drawer and
returned with a piece of paper. "This is the most recent list. There is now
another one who is worth far more."

Volo accepted it from Hanson and stared down at the new name above Isranon's.
"Lord Dawnreturning? I've never heard of him."

"Nor had I. He came through here a few days ago with a large group who
continued on."

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"What is he?"

"That is a good question. They are saying he is a battle-mage who was wounded
and possibly crippled by sa'necari. Yet, he managed to nearly single-handedly
wipe out a unit of Minnorians led by an irrfelghau."

Volo felt a thrill run through his body. He lived for the hunt, the chase,
and especially the way the strong ones resisted to the last as he ingested
their lives. "Dangerous."

Hanson leaned forward on the table, his elbows propped on its highly polished
surface, fingers laced to rest his chin upon. "Very. Lord Hoon's pet is
traveling with them. I saw her on the street here."

"That means Isranon is with them."

"Of course he is.

Volo considered the implications of Hanson's knowledge and made a guess.
"You're serving the queen?"

Hanson laughed, a sensual mocking sound. "But of course. All of the late
prince's old network has gone over to her from as far north along the coast as
Brunstrat to as far south as Ocealay."

Volo was hooked now. "So what do you know?"

"That Isranon, and it must be him, cured a young girl of a hellblade wound by
drawing the web out and severing it. He gave himself away completely there."

Volo blinked. "I would not have thought him strong enough."

"It could only have been him. Timon butchered the rest of the sa'necari at
Hoon's estate."

Volo sighed. He should have known that the southern truce would not hold. So
now the vampires were back to slaying his kind as rivals in power. The queen
would change that.

"Do you serve the queen?" Hanson asked, abruptly.

"I? I have only served myself since the fall of my homeland."

"That's not an answer. Do you serve the queen?"

"I am notin service to her. But I look forward to her victories. I will be a
loyal citizen. I want only to settle down and raise my cattle in peace."

"An admirable goal."

Volo gave him a thin smile. "I intend to hold you to the offer of a stud and
mares, old friend. Especially if Semirys tastes as fine as she looks."

"Oh, she does. She definitely does." Hanson smirked. "Tell me all of it."

Volo finished his wine. "I tracked them to an old shrine to the trickster and
desecrated the altar there so it could not be used again to summon her. And I
followed them here. They left many bodies in their wake."

"They will leave more. It will be a challenge for you, Volo. Are you up for

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it?"

"I am."

Hanson nodded and rang a bell. A servant answered. "We are ready for the
depnane now and arrange for two rites at midnight." He glanced at Volo. "As I
recall you like them young for the rites. I have a thirteen-year-old unblooded
boy and an eleven-year-old unblooded girl. Your preference?"

"The girl." Volo felt a warmth and eagerness spreading through him. It had
been several years since opportunity allowed him to glutton like this.

The servant bowed himself out.

The butler returned a little later with two young females. "First position,"
the butler growled.

They winced away from him to kneel before the two masters with fear in their
eyes, their heads slightly lowered and tilted to the sides to expose the vein;
their wrists crossed behind their backs. Volo ran his hands over the blonde,
opened his knees wide and indicated that she should press herself between
them. She shuffled forward without breaking position. Volo drew his blade and
slit her bodice open. She shuddered and now he could taste the fear rising
from her. Delicious. He saw the depnane brand on her shoulder and guessed it
could not be more than a few days old, not yet healed. Fang-shy nibari had to
be constantly weeded out of the herds, preferably before they had a chance to
reproduce. Humans or sylvans might have tried to flee the moment the brand
went on; but not nibari, for resistance had been bred out of them.

Volo's fangs descended and he licked them.

"Is there anything else I can get you, Masters?" the butler asked. "Or will
this be enough for now?"

"It will be enough, Ilyc. I'll ring when we finish," Hanson said.

Volo decided he would not enter his meal's mind to mitigate her suffering,
and drink it up instead in all its sweet fullness. He tangled his hands in her
hair, twisting her head around to get the best angle. She did not fight him.
He half-wished she would. That was the thing he enjoyed most when he consumed
one of the free races. Volo tore the vein open with his fangs, fastened his
mouth over the heavily bleeding wound, and sucked hard. She gasped at the
pain, her body shuddering in his hands. He inhaled the fragrance of her terror
as she began to die. Her arms drooped to her sides. Her heart hammered, then
struggled, finally fluttered a bit, and stopped. She sagged forward and slid
down until her dead face rested against Volo's crotch. Volo pushed the corpse
away, letting it fall to the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and
cleaned his mouth off. Turning, he saw that Hanson had finished with his also
and was pouring them both another glass of wine.

"That was delicious," Volo remarked. "I take it, that she's another of your
special breeding?"

Hanson rang for the butler to remove the corpses. "Yes."

"Have you named and registered the bloodlines?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. My family calls the breed Asphodel Dawn."

"I like it. You will be seeing me when I collect the rewards. Say a young but

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proven stud and six of your top mares?"

Hanson nodded. "I can supply your needs."

* * * *

Volo set out the next day with a packhorse and all the supplies he needed for
a long journey. Hanson had sold him twenty bottles of good blood, including
some rarities like demon and troll blood. Volo had to exercise restraint with
the straight troll's blood, as it was too easy to get drunk on it. He had
tried to talk Hanson out of one of his carrying globes, but Hanson refused to
sell it. They were too rare to part with. It was said that Hoon had dozens.
Maybe he could steal some when he made his kills.

Hanson had given him good directions, so Volo found the battlefield easily
enough. He stood in the middle of the field, smelling the death and blood that
lingered there, sunk into the earth to feed the asphodel. The death flower
would bloom here in the spring to mark this spot as it so often did where many
deaths had enriched the soil with blood. Two pyres had been built here. One to
burn the enemy dead and another to burn the loyal dead. The people of the
light were cautious to leave nothing behind that the necromancers could raise
and send after them.

A recent rain had mingled the ashes with the muddy soil and washed away the
physical scents. The psychic scents, however, could not be so easily erased.
He wished he could speak to the spirits and make the ghosts of those who had
died here tell him what he needed to know. The only sa'necari born who had
that gift were the Dark Brothers, or so they claimed when he tortured them to
death. He had burned Isranon's father at the stake as a heretic, after killing
the rest of them. That had been the only time Volo had ridden with others of
his kind. Necrodez had been leading them at the time, and was the one who
rited Isranon's mother. She died screaming Isranon's name. The boy and his
sister escaped. The thought that a mere twelve-year-old boy and his
ten-year-old sister could escape them had angered Volo. Necrodez added insult
to injury by denying Volo his fair share of victims for the rites from that
adventure. After that Volo had returned to working alone. He wondered if
Necrodez was also going after Isranon. It seemed likely that he was. It would
be very satisfying to get there first.

Volo went to the place where one pyre had burned and ran his fingers through
the muddy mix of ash and soil. Humans had been burned here. There was nothing
to interest him. So he went to the other spot. His nostrils flared and he
rested on his haunches, running his fingers through the oily soil. Sa'necari,
human, but no demons or irrfelghau. That puzzled Volo at first because Hanson
had sworn that both had been included in the attackers. Then he recalled
Hanson saying that Hoon's creature was traveling with that company. He had
found signs a short distance back that two companies had merged and then
traveled on from there. It made no sense, because Volo was certain the other
company had been Gryphonheart's Rowdies.

He threw himself on his belly, opening his awareness to the movement of magic
in this area. A pull came from the willows behind him. Volo rose, turning
slowly and widening his perceptions. Now he was certain. Volo walked slowly
toward the stand of willows, pausing repeatedly to scan again so he would not
have to do it over again. He brushed aside the trailing strands, wincing at
their touch. Willows, like rowans, did not like dark magics, nor those who
produced them. Once past them, he spotted a spear point half-hidden by brush.
Volo grasped it just behind the point and pulled it free. The tip had dried
blood on it. That was what had attracted him. He sniffed it and then licked
it.

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"Sa'necari … and not blooded in the rites. Too pure. The only Dark Brother
left is Isranon." Volo grinned and headed back for his horses. It looked like
they were taking the coast road. He would overtake their lumbering wagons
easily.

CHAPTER SEVEN. stalkers

Isranon slipped in and out of consciousness while Nans and Amiri did
everything they could for him, but without the Sanguine Rose or straight
troll's blood the best they could manage was to keep him comfortable with
pollendine. Each night Nans fed him from her wrists in hopes that her
half-divine blood would strengthen him. They were traveling as fast as was
possible without destroying their horses and Nans had changed from using four
horse teams on the wagons to six pulling in tandem. Being forced to take the
coast road to Treth added weeks onto their journey and everyone knew that they
would not make it before the onset of winter.

Nevin hovered over Isranon constantly, fretting in silence that each time he
slept he would never awaken.

"I helped to save a king," Isranon said with wonder in his voice. "It was a
great deed. I am not a monster."

"You were never a monster, Isranon."

Nevin spooned a thick meaty soup into Isranon's mouth. The Rowdies and the
lycans had gone hunting that morning and returned with venison. They had also
tried to pick up the trails of some trolls for the blood Isranon required, but
failed.

"And Nans is a yuwenghau…." Isranon laughed suddenly. "She's a god."

"Demi-god. Divine knights-errant, godlings, and immature deities. The lowest
rank of the divines. Nothing like the Nine Elder Gods of the Pantheon of
Light."

"But she is still a god."

Nevin chuckled. "Yes, Isranon, she is still a god. I don't want you to think
she's invincible. She isn't. She's harder to kill than mortals, and she will
not grow old."

Isranon grinned, listening to Nevin slide into his teaching tones. For a
moment Isranon felt as if he were sitting at Nevin's knee again, receiving his
lessons. It was a pleasant feeling, warm as a blanket on a cold night.

"And she's the cousin of a king," Isranon said. "The prophecy was right. Just
not in the way I thought it would be."

"I told you not to spit in the eye of prophecy."

Nans peered in through the front of the wagon. "It is my turn."

Nevin withdrew with the now empty bowl and Nans took his place. She rolled up
her sleeve and extended her wrist to Isranon. His fangs came down more easily
this time. Nans always seemed indifferent to the pain as he bit into her. She
watched him suck her flesh with a tiny smile.

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Isranon would have smiled back had he not been latched onto her wrist. The
taste of her blood filled him with pleasure, sending echoes and images through
his mind of green fields of purple flowers, the cool darkness of old forests
with their canopies of leaves. He wondered if she did it deliberately or if it
was a manifestation of her divinity. It soothed him and he rested within the
embrace of her aura.

When he finished, she handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth off and poured a
glass of medicine. He smiled at her contently. His life had hope again,
because of Nans.

"Now, back to sleep," she ordered after he took the medicine.

Isranon nodded and then curled up, feeling at peace.

* * * *

The knocking came loudly at the front door and Dawnhand started from sleep.
He lay spooned around his wife, Melisandra. She woke also and stared at him
with frightened eyes as the knocking became a peremptory pounding and a voice
demanded, "Open in the name of the King."

"Get to the children, Melisandra," Isranon told her, reaching for his staff
in the corner where he kept it. The staff was gone. Without Warrior, he could
never hold them back. Yet he dragged a sword from the pegs on the opposite
wall. "Go to the children! Hide yourselves until you can flee."

Then he emerged into the hallway and ran for the main chamber, not waiting to
see if his wife had obeyed. He had to trust that Melisandra had, otherwise
their four children would certainly die. He knew what his brother, the king,
called 'mercy' and found it disgusting. The door burst inwards and soldiers
poured in as he reached it. Isranon spitted the first one. Even without the
staff, Warrior, he would not be taken easily. He summoned power in his other
hand, but did not dare use fire in the house without knowing if Melisandra had
got out with the children. A soldier clubbed his shoulder with a mace and he
lost his blade, screaming obscenities at them. Then a net woven of strange
fibers, puce, cerulean and crimson hurled over him.

Spellcord. "Nooooo!" Isranon struggled to get free of it and one of them hit
him between the shoulder blades causing him to arch backwards. Another struck
him in the stomach, and then they all began to beat and kick him as he
crumpled up unable to breathe. Spellcord was fastened to his wrists and sealed
with runes as they tied his hands back. They dragged him out into the
courtyard of his estate.

Melisandra, his three daughters and their son stood there, the females
looking frightened and his son tight-faced. Isranon's heart sank. Waejonan
stepped into the light of the torches held by his soldiers. Isranon's youngest
brother was beautiful, perfectly androgynous, and delicate of features,
pale-skinned and black-haired, with the pointed ears of their sylvan kind.

"You are arrested upon a charge of treason, my brother," Waejonan smirked.
"You have an assignation with a greased pole tomorrow so I can watch you
dance. Your daughters are condemned to the military brothels."

"Bastard!" Isranon cursed and a soldier hit him hit him hard enough to drive
him to his knees. His oldest daughter, Soreeh, sixteen, went still as stone
hearing this. Little Risha, barely ten years old, clutched at her mother's
skirts. Twelve-year-old Bethie patted Risha's shoulder with tears in her eyes.

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"I will however keep your fine wife for myself. And your son." Waejonan
sauntered over to the captive females and, one by one, he ripped their bodices
open while his soldiers held them. "By morning, Isranon, even the little one
will have had a soldier between her legs. You can think about that while you
wait to die."

Isranon stilled, gathering his courage, and said, with a sudden stoic calm,
"Be brave, all of you."

Then the soldiers dragged him away.

Isranon woke shivering in the wagon. He finally knew with certainty that the
mon in his dreams was Isranon Dawnhand; that meant that they were not dreams,
but visions. He had suspected as much, yet could not understand how and why he
was having them. They left him chilled and sad.

Throughout the day as people came and went around him, he finally began to be
aware of things and noticed first the general air of sadness and then the
black armbands, yet he saw no one missing and at first hesitated to ask. That
evening, he caught at Olin's sleeve and asked, "Who?"

Olin winced and hesitated.

"Who?" Isranon repeated.

Olin looked away from Isranon, reluctant to meet his eyes. "Timon."

Isranon sucked air in sharply, his lips parting and his eyes widening just a
little. "You're wrong. He left the same time we did."

Olin shook his head miserably. "She caught him … killed him in front of his
father."

Isranon felt suddenly sick and hollow. "Does Anksha know yet?"

Olin mouthed the word, 'No.'

* * * *

The link between Isranon and Anksha gradually grew painful again. She had not
fed upon him in three weeks, worrying about how terribly fragile he had become
since the battle. He said nothing. Isranon did not want the Rowdies to know
the nature of his bond with Anksha, to know that he was her blood-slave. They
treated her like a pet and she behaved like one. They all gave her candy and
petted her. She romped with the lycans, mellowing into a feral child state–no,
not child-like, she was a cat in humanoid form, a large, dangerous cat, for
the moment playful and content with her playmates; a lion on love's leash. Her
limbs had healed with incredible speed and the casts had come off a week ago.

Now her nearness became a roaring agony in his mind and body, searing through
his flesh from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. The palms of
his hand tingled and his loins burned. A weight pressed on his chest,
clutching around his heart, as if to burst it. He felt her sitting on the
wagon's seat, talking to Nevin.

"Anksha," he croaked, through dry, cracked lips, his throat tightening,
barely able to get the words out, realizing with desperate panic that he was
on the edge of another attack. "Anksha … help me." Her presence became a
roaring noise in his mind, screaming through his awareness, splitting his

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thoughts. "Anksha!" His voice finally came loose from his throat in a shriek
of agony. "Anksha!"

Anksha rushed in followed by Nevin and Amiri. Her eyes saucered and she could
feel his pain. "Isranon?"

"Link … feed… Please feed," he gasped.

"Lock the doors." Amiri ordered.

Nevin got the doors locked, changed, and curled up beside Isranon. The mage
clutched at him for support.

Amiri unfolded a chair and moved close, taking Isranon's hand. "It's bad.
Damn. Anksha. If you don't go back to feeding regularly the link's going to
kill him."

Anksha whimpered. "But he's so weak. I hurt him."

"You hurt him worse if you don't. It was too late the moment you took him. He
isn't like the others. It's this constant contact. He gets no relief. Get it
over with."

Anksha climbed on top of Isranon, starting for his throat, and then spun,
jumping off. She pushed up his pants leg and bit him there in the femoral
artery instead where there was some fat and muscle. Isranon still clenched
Nevin, but it did not hurt nearly as bad and the sensation was startling.

"What in Creation is she doing?" Amiri asked. She and Randilyn had tried some
interesting positions and arteries in their feeding and sexing, and she'd fed
from that one herself a few times, but the Beast had never varied in her
feedings–always straight for the throat with such consistency that Amiri had
noted in her journal that the Beast must be a throat feeder by nature and
possibly by necessity. Amiri squatted, observing the way that Anksha's fangs
and lips handled the artery behind Isranon's knee. Anksha appeared to have no
difficulty with it.

Amiri stroked her head. "Don't take too much, just sooth the link."

Anksha came loose from him, her mouth, and face bloody, disengaging her fangs
and sliding them out of him as gently as possible. Isranon flinched, crying
out softly. Anksha licked the wound to close it, straightened his pants, and
crept up to him with tears in her eyes. Amiri went to the cabinet for a bottle
of demon's blood. Isranon needed trolls blood; the regenerative agent was
strongest in trolls' blood. Amiri got him up and fed him.

* * * *

They set a strong pace each day, as Nans grew more desperate to avoid the
Sacred King. There was no time for hunting. There was no war yet on theWest
Bank of the Hillora, but the spectre of what happened to Timbren–which had
been consumed in its entirety during Hoon's war with the Sacred King–was in
everyone's mind. The Nine, the elder gods of the pantheon, had instructed
their priests to order an exodus of the West Bank: all the small isolated
villages and towns, the little freeholds, cotwolds, farms, everything
scattered through the wilderness had been ordered to run north with the Sacred
King. Her company, which had been a small riding, had grown to the size of a
major city in motion, moving slower and slower. Godwar, the priests
proclaimed, and the people flocked to her for protection.

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Nans merged Isranon's people with her own, making a single company of them
with Isranon and Zulaika's blessing. They were all in this for the long haul.
She promoted Travis to Itch's place as second and made Zulaika her third. She
integrated their lycans into a single unit of scouts, leaving Nevin and Olin
assigned to Isranon, and Anksha as her wildcard. They had also been instructed
that no one was to call Isranon by any name other than Dawnreturning.

No one minded killing trolls to feed Isranon, because trolls were universally
considered vermin; they fed primarily on humans and other two-legged sapients.
Anksha had a very narrow window of time in which to catch a troll. Yet none
ever came near enough to the camp. Anksha did not understand that, but Nans
did. The auric scent of wilderkin predator registered on their psyches as a
very large, very mean creature. In other words, when they came too close to
camp, the trolls smelled something that would eat them and backed away. Nans
had not yet learned to damp it down.

Travis was delighted to have a new audience for his old stories. Most of them
revolved around that old black dog whose name was Blue. Travis could never
quite explain why he had named him that as a child. The Rowdies knew them all
by heart and endured them good-naturedly, along with his usual embellishments.
They gathered around the fire. Amiri and Nevin sat with Isranon, who lay
wrapped in a blanket on a folding cot. Randilyn, Amiri's nibari sat beside her
master, smiling. Nans wanted to keep his morale up by including him in their
banter and not leaving him isolated in the big wagon.

"Now my sister had a drum that always sat on the floor," Travis said. "My old
dog always ignored that drum. My sister liked my old dog. She gave it treats."

"Your people are good to their dogs," Isranon said, fascinated. "My people
don't keep dogs. We have lycans."

Nevin snorted. "We're not pets, Isranon." He yanked his spirit-brother's dark
hair and then twiddled with it affectionately.

"My old dog wasn't just a pet," interjected Travis. "He was my best friend.
He was almost as big as you and black as a Trethian on a moonless night. Black
as Bohannon's butt."

"You've never seen Bohannon's butt," Luck observed dryly.

"How would you know?" Travis shot back.

"I know Bohannon," Nans said walking up to them. "You are definitely not
pretty enough for him. For one thing, you don't have tits."

Travis flushed. "Well anyway my old dog was black…" he started up again and
then exploded. "Will you all shut up? You're ruining my story!"

Everyone laughed.

Anksha, crunching candy beside Isranon, rolled over on her back and kicked
her feet, bumping the cot. Olin nipped at her and she kicked his hairy side,
setting off a chase through the camp with several other lycans joining in. A
gray lycan with a red streak down the middle of her back slipped in, settling
beside Travis. He reached and stroked her ruff. "You're new, girl, aren't ya?"

Nevin gave her a long look and she slowly winked at him. "Yes, she's new
here. Several of my clan have joined us recently."

"Welcome then, Smokey," Travis said, scratching behind her ears.

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Darianna made a contented noise and licked his face. Travis laughed, wrapped
his arms around her neck, and hugged her like he would a big dog. She wagged
her tail.

A shriek of panic startled Travis and he jumped to his feet.

Randilyn blushed brightly and ducked her head. "I thought I felt something
crawling on my hand…."

Amiri gave her a shake. "Randi, if you don't learn to control this flinch
reaction of yours, one day you'll scream and no one will answer when you need
them to."

"I'm trying. I'm really, really trying…." Randilyn snuggled up to Amiri and
laid her head on her master's shoulder.

Everyone laughed.

* * * *

Necrodez did not like hunting in the off-season and only a very valuable kill
could lure him and his small band of humans and sa'necari from the estate he
maintained in the south. He had been one of the fortunate ones whose holdings
lay far enough from the city-state of Zol that they had not been destroyed
when the yuwenghau, Ria Torrundarsdottir, called down the storms of heaven on
Zol in the last great war. Still, it had hurt his purse and sent him back to
bounty-hunting for the past ten years. He did not do assassinations, unless
they could be achieved on the highways by ambuscade, which was his forte.

Even had he not received a personal request from the Minnorian Queen to go
after this one, he still would have. Everything he had heard so far had
intrigued him. There were two names on her list and Necrodez wondered if he
was the only one not blinded by the nature of the two myn's reputation. On the
one hand, you had Mephistis' little catamite, the boy who had escaped him more
than ten years ago, a Dark Brother of little or no magical talent. On the
other hand, you had a battle-mage, named Dawnreturning. How could the others
be so stupid as to not connect them as possibly the same mon? The word Dawn
was the giveaway. Isranon the catamite was a Dark Brother, the lineage of
Dawnhand had become Dark Brothers in defiance of Waejonan's descendants.

"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."

"What?" asked Gathos, Necrodez's second in command, hearing him mutter the
words.

"Dawn, Dawnhand, Dawnreturning. Isranon, son of Isranon, son of Isranon…. I
wonder if we'll get two bounties instead of just one out of this?"

Gathos ran a hand through his hair and then dropped it to his sword hilt.
"You think Isranon is this Dawnreturning?"

"It's possible. He could have rediscovered his ancestor's power."

"That would be a shame. The queen ain't gonna pay double."

Necrodez laughed softly. "Then we simply find a mage to kill and take his

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head along. She won't know the difference when I'm done."

The bounty hunter and his myn crept closer to the camp. Autumn had not yet
stolen all the leaves from the trees, so there was still plenty of cover to
allow them within striking distance of their quarry. Necrodez knew that every
freelancer and bounty hunter passing through Minnoras was looking for the two
myn currently riding with these people: the battle-mage Lord Dawnreturning and
Isranon, Prince Mephistis' buttboy. Whether or not they were the same person,
it still looked like this would be Necrodez's lucky night.

He glanced up at the full moon. It was both a blessing and curse. Sa'necari
did not need that much illumination to see. The more steeped in the rites they
were, the better their vision could make out the heat signatures in the night.
However, the humans in his band were not so fortunate and must rely upon the
moon. Necrodez had watched the mage strike down most of the monsters in the
unit that the Minnorian Queen had sent against King William Gryphonheart. The
mon was dangerous. But he had also seen the spear that struck Dawnreturning
down, so the mage was wounded and less of a threat. He was easy meat now.

Studying the camp further, Necrodez noted the number of females wearing
armor. None of them looked Sharani, that abominable race of warrior women who
had destroyed Necrodez's homeland. Several of them looked Jedruan or Trethian.
There were two possibilities there: one, they had simply been attracted from
all over the two continents by the fact that Gryphonheart was a woman; or two,
that somehow a band of Ymraudes had made common cause with Gryphonheart.
Either way, Necrodez did not think they provided much of a threat, living or
undead they all perished the same.

Necrodez signaled his myn to him. "Gathos, take three and start killing the
sentries."

The mon nodded, told off three, and melted into the forest.

Necrodez needed to find a human sentry to drain him and suck the mon's visage
from his body. He and four companions would then go in and take Lord
Dawnreturning from under the camp's noses. "Pacionsuidae, the first sentry is
mine. You come at him from the front and I'll take him from behind."

The greasy looking mon with stringy black hair nodded and slipped into the
trees.

* * * *

Woodfine walked the south edge of the camp, his cloak pulled tight around
him, listening to the sounds of the night. He saw the fires and knew that
Travis would be telling more of his stories to his new audience. He wished he
could be there listening. The story hour would be ended by the time that he
was relieved.

The youngest son of a noble, he sometimes missed his family and his father's
court in Gormond's Reach, especially in the stillness of the nights when it
was his turn to keep watch. He had not been at court since the day he carried
word to William about Nans' presumed death. He was grateful to have been
proven wrong.

The bushes ahead of him rattled and he stopped with his hand to his sword. A
greasy-haired mon stepped out in front Woodfine and he drew his blade free.
Distracted by the one in front of him, Woodfine did not hear the mon behind
him. A hand suddenly clamped hard over his mouth and a blade slammed into his
back and angled up under his ribs. The ranger's strength fled. His sword

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slipped from his fingers. Woodfine coughed blood against the palm preventing
him from crying out. The burning magic of the hellblade raced through him and
he knew that he was dying even before his assailant gave the blade a savage
rotation through his lungs and spleen. The scream of anguish rising from his
throat could not get past the powerful hand on his mouth. His knees gave. The
hand released his mouth, but he could neither breathe, nor scream with his
throat and lungs filling up with blood. He coughed hard, choking and gasping
for air as he drowned in his own Blood. Crimson fluid came up and splattered
his chin and tunic.

Necrodez wrapped an arm around Woodfine's chest as the mon sagged, settling
to earth with him. He tangled his fingers into Woodfine's hair and twisted his
head to the side. Woodfine blinked at him through eyes already dulling with
the approach of death. Necrodez sank his fangs into the ranger's throat, tore
it open and fastened onto the spurting flow. Woodfine's body gave a last
convulsive shudder as his blood-starved heart struggled to beat and then he
went still.

* * * *

Luck got his name because the unlikeliest things always tended to happen to
him. That evening he saw Zulaika and Willa slip off into the woods and decided
to trail after them. Unlike the others in the company, he and his dead brother
Itch had come from the slums and seen far more ugliness in their young lives
that anyone else there, except for Isranon. He wore a brace of throwing
daggers up each sleeve, and several more on his belt as well as the long
knives they all wore at their hips and the sword at his shoulder. He had also
learned to play his hunches. It was a formless hunch that set him to
following. Others might have said it was simply curiosity or distrust of their
undead allies, but Luck actually had no problems with them because he trusted
Nans and nothing much bothered him.

He found Willa sitting with her shoulders braced against a tree and her
breasts trust forward. Zulaika knelt in front of Willa, unlacing her bodice.
Luck found his body reacting to the sight of a fine pair of tits exposed in a
sliver of moonlight filtering through the autumn leaves. The Ymraude nuzzled
Willa's breasts. Willa gave a soft moan, pressing herself more firmly against
Zulaika's mouth. A tiny sob of pain came from Willa and her moaning deepened.
In the stillness, Luck could hear Zulaika's sucking and realized he had
overheard the instant of the Ymraude's fangs entering Willa's breast. He
started to turn and leave when a flash of silver in the moonlight and the
sound of something moving in the trees caught his attention.

Luck flicked two blades from his forearm sheaths and threw, following them
with two more and reaching for a third set before waiting to discover whether
and what he might have hit.

Zulaika raised her head, snarling at him and reaching for her sword.

"In the bushes!" Luck hissed, running past them.

He nearly fell over the body laying there. He had managed to put all four
blades into the mon. Luck would have whistled if he had not feared there were
more out there: luck had definitely been with Luck.

Zulaika squatted beside him with Willa behind her. "Gathos! Willa, warn the
camp."

Willa ran back.

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"You know him?"

Zulaika nodded. "Sa'necari. He runs with Necrodez. Bounty hunter."

"Damn."

"We must check the sentries," Zulaika said. Her hands became claws and she
ripped through the sa'necari's body, going deep into the chest cavity to tear
out his heart. "That one will not rise." She shoved the heart into a pouch at
her side.

"I agree."

They walked the perimeter, keeping to the shadows and avoiding bright patches
beneath the moon.

"Woodfine should have been here," Luck muttered.

Zulaika's eyes saw better than a mere humans and she went to a small patch of
bushes. "He is here. Dead."

Luck joined her, hissing curses. "Damn. Piss-swizzling cockwhores." Woodfine
had been a close friend. They had ridden together for six years.

"Bounty hunters," Zulaika told him. "They've come after Dawnreturning."

Zulaika unhooked a horn from her belt and blew the "Fear, fire, foes,"
signal. It would give away the fact that their enemies had been discovered,
but she did not want more dead sentries.

Luck looked at her and then nodded. "Let's check on the rest of them."

* * * *

Isranon's head jerked up at the sound of the horn call. Around him all of the
lycans were dropping to all fours and changing form. Nevin went only as far
his transitional form and drew his sword, running to the edge of the camp.
Anksha, standing on the far side of the fire, spun about on the balls of her
feet and scanned the center. Isranon pushed himself onto his side and then his
knees, seeing Woodfine approaching him. "What is going on?"

Necrodez knelt beside him. "Lord Dawnreturning?"

"What is it, Woodfine?" Isranon asked.

Anksha glanced in their direction.

"It appears the camp has been infiltrated," Necrodez said. "Come with me to a
safer place where we can guard you."

Isranon put his hand on Necrodez's shoulder and allowed the mon to help him
to his feet. The mon's strength seemed stronger than Isranon imagined a
human's would be. Instinctively, Isranon's fingers brushed Necrodez's neck. A
rush of images poured through Isranon's awareness and he saw Woodfine dying
with Necrodez's fangs in his throat. He shoved free of Necrodez with a shout.
"Anksha!"

She charged toward them.

"Damn you," Necrodez snarled, reaching for a spell as he drew the concealed

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hellblade from his sleeve.

"Luminos!" Isranon shouted. "Luminos!"

Light filled every corner of the camp and spread into the forest beyond it.

"Falsity fall!" Isranon screamed out the command for a variation of Josiah's
spell of revelation. If there were any others wearing stolen forms in the
camp, they would be stripped bare of their deceptive appearances.

Necrodez's face twisted in rage as his body was forced back into its true
form. His fingers wove a web of blackest magic and he pitched it at Isranon.

"Sa'necari!" Anksha yowled, as another one charged to Necrodez's aid. She
somersaulted over the sa'necari's head, avoiding his castings. She whipped
around and sprang like a tiger onto her opponent's back, tearing his throat
open from behind with her claws. He fell, clutching at the wound and drowning
swiftly in his own blood.

Isranon called up his golden shield, shaping it in front of him as a long
oval.

Necrodez's spell rebounded on him as it struck Isranon's shield. The backlash
staggered the sa'necari and he screamed, recovering with an effort. He had
lost the element of surprise and now faced an enraged battle-mage of the first
rank. Necrodez called up his own dark shields, black energy rising between
himself and Isranon. A lance of flame descended from the skies and shattered
Necrodez's shields. "Noooooo!"

Anksha started to run forward, but seeing all the magic flashing back and
forth, she hesitated.

Isranon struck Necrodez with a second lance of the sunfire. The sa'necari's
flesh sizzled and he shrieked in agony. He stumbled backwards, attempting to
flee. This battle-mage was too strong for him. Isranon called down two more
lances before Necrodez could manage three steps. Necrodez crumpled, his body
turning to ash.

"There's more of them," Isranon said, putting his hand on Anksha's shoulder
to help support him as he lurched through the camp, looking for more foes. The
sound of steel meeting steel filled the air. He could hear the cries of the
wounded and dying. Every time he stepped around a wagon or a tent, he found
another struggle. Isranon sucked in a fortifying breath, gauged the fight, and
struck hard.

They came around a corner and saw Travis backing up, beset by two myn in
chainmail. A sword struck Travis in the chest, and the ranger crashed to his
knees. One of his foes raised a sword to finish him. Isranon snarled, calling
the sunfire to strike Travis's opponents. They shrieked and flung themselves
about, the fires swiftly consuming them. Anksha lowered Isranon to the ground
and ran to Travis.

"I'm all right," Travis muttered. "My chain held. Just knocked the wind out
of me."

"Come on, Old Dog," Anksha said, dragging him to his feet and calling him by
the nickname the lycans had given him.

Together Travis and Anksha got Isranon up again and continued through the
camp. Each time they found another sa'necari, Isranon summoned the lances and

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incinerated them. He raged among their attackers until silence settled like a
blow and they paused near the edge of the camp. Isranon sucked in a breath and
pushed away from them to stand swaying.

A cool hand touched Isranon's arm and he spun with another spell on his lips,
only to find himself facing Nans. "It's over, Isranon. We got them all."

"Thank the Gods," Isranon said, crumpling against her as the adrenaline rush
that had been sustaining him evaporated. "Thank the Gods." Consciousness fled
and his body sagged in Nans' arms.

* * * *

Volo saw the flashes of light and then the sunfire lances descending. The
battle-mage was fighting. He was powerful indeed to summon the sunfire itself.
Caution and planning had always been Volo's strong point. He had always found
that stealth, cunning, and deceit served him well, another reason why he
preferred to work alone.

When he had gotten as close as he dared, he hid himself and waited for
morning. When the company had moved on, Volo crept out to see what he could
Read from the devastation.

He found a single unburnt body with its heart torn out by nails. A vampire
must have accounted for that one. It seemed exceedingly strange that vampires
and a sa'necari heretic would be traveling with a Willodarian company. But
these were strange times. He turned the body over and recognized the dead
one's face: Gathos. The slain sa'necari had been a member of Necrodez's
company of bounty hunters.

Necrodez had been powerful. His methods were snatch and grab, with the kill
coming later. Clearly he had handled this one wrong and paid the final price
for it. Volo felt suddenly very grateful for that long ago break he had made
with Necrodez.

Volo went to the remains of the camp and sifted through some bones among a
pile of burned bodies. There had been five sa'necari and ten humans burned
here. A single skull called to him and he picked it from the debris, knowing
instinctually that he held Necrodez's skull.

"You were a fool," Volo muttered. "But a powerful one. I will learn from your
mistakes. I will rite this battle-mage and make his strength my own."

* * * *

The wind swept the shores of Torment Lake on a blindingly bright day for the
middle of autumn. A festival had been prepared for the Night of the Dead,
Sowayn, and the sa'necari would celebrate it with death and dark rites. King
Waejonan had insisted that Isranon Nighthand, son of Dawnhand, attend with his
wife and their son. Nighthand had learned the lessons of his father. His
mother had thrown herself from a balcony rather than carry a child by Waejonan
after he had forced her into his harem. He had found his middle sister's
broken body on a trash heap after her spirit's sad lament had led him to it.
He had buried them both in secret places, prayed to his gods, and wept. Since
then, Nighthand had tried to harden his heart to grief, to all emotion, but it
was difficult since he had been raised to love.

He watched the soldiers setting out the bleeding tables on the beach for
mortgiefan and raising the scaffoldings for more impalements. The numbers of
his uncle's sa'necari cult were growing. They ruled through terror and

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cannibalism. He had learned the rites, but always found a means to side-step
participation in them. His uncle was losing patience with him. Had he held any
hope of escaping to another land, he would have taken his family and fled. But
all who tried to escape died on the poles with their families. He had tried
discreetly for ten years to find his other two sisters and failed.

"Nighthand." Waejonan walked up and slapped him on the back.

He turned and acknowledged the mon pleasantly. "Uncle Waejonan, it was nice
of you to invite us to observe the festival in the capitol."

"I have many special treats prepared for you before the day is out,
Nighthand."

Nighthand forced a smile, forced his hands not to tighten into fists of
frustration and distress at his sides, as Waejonan directed him down among the
bleeding tables. A crowd of onlookers had begun to gather. Soldiers moved them
back from the area around the bleeding tables where only the participants
would stand. A scream rent the air and Nighthand looked up with a shudder. The
first impalements had begun. His stomach soured and, as always, the image of
his father dying like that flashed through his mind. Waejonan had forced him
to watch it as an object lesson in obedience.

They stopped at a bleeding table where a young mon was secured nude. She
could not have been more than twenty, yet she looked haggard and worn.
Nighthand guessed that she was a castoff from one of the military brothels. He
refused to allow himself to feel anything as he looked down at her.

"That one is yours," Waejonan said.

Nighthand's stomach tightened. "My uncle, I am not ready…."

Waejonan snarled. "You are more than ready. You have been ready for years."
Then he pointed at a nearby table where a small nude child of five lay
belly-down and bound tightly. "You will do her now, or I will do your son…. I
did Brandrahoon's children … every single one of them."

Nighthand swayed as if someone had slammed him in the head. "Tobrin?"

The bound child whimpered, "Daddy…."

He wanted to go to his child, but dared not tempt Waejonan with anything that
might be considered weakness or defiance–depending on how his uncle chose to
interpret it. Only utter obedience would save them both. Without another word,
Nighthand disrobed for the rite. Acolytes came forward and drew obscene runes
upon his body with scented oils mixed with black pigments. The staccato
pounding of his heart grew loud in his ears. Part of him wanted to scream in
outrage and another wished to cower. They led him to his place between the
sacrificial victim's legs. Waejonan placed a death-runed blade in his hand,
folding his fingers overit. Nighthand's member remained soft and he prayed it
would not rise. Waejonan seized his cock, awakening it with a touch of his
sensuality. Nighthand cried out in a mix of pleasure and anguish. Waejonan
guided him into the victim and withdrew to watch. Nighthand's balls tightened
and his cock ached with need as he began to move inside her, arching his back
to take himself deep. Chanting rose around him, drawing him into their rhythm,
forcing him to match it with his thrusts. Her weeping became a counterpoint
song to the chanting. His blade hovered above her body. He could feel his
awareness of his surroundings fading, narrowing to the center, which was the
young mon into whose body he plunged and moved.

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"Now stick her," Waejonan whispered.

Nighthand brought the blade down into her belly with a twist. She screamed,
yet he barely heard it through the trance state.

"Again, higher," Waejonan commanded.

Nighthand shoved the blade into her chest. He could feel his loins gathering
pressure to spill his seed into her dying body.

Waejonan grasped his hand, moving the blade over to the other breast,
preparing him to slip it into her heart. "Finish!"

Nighthand exploded inside the mon and drove the blade into her heart in the
same moment. Her soul shattered. He felt himself sucking up pieces of it in a
rush of fire through his being. Giddiness enveloped him. Nighthand had never
felt so powerful before, so lifted. His eyes lost their whites, irises and
pupils, becoming a single featureless blood-violet orb. Fangs descended from
his gums to prick his lower lip. Nighthand was no longer human. He lowered the
knife, trembling with reaction. Waejonan took the blade and an acolyte placed
a chalice of blood in his hands. Nighthand raised the chalice to his lips and
drank, finding it rich and good.

"More," he said, surprising himself. The acolyte refilled the chalice with
human blood. Nighthand drank it down in a single draught. It filled him with a
sense of well-being. "Who was she?" he asked out of idle curiosity.

Waejonan sneered as if a trap had just been sprung. "Your little sister,
Risha. I heard you had been making inquiries. They were both here, Risha and
Soreeh. But by now, Soreeh is dead as well."

"Oh gods," Nighthand gasped, reeling away from the table where the body of
his sister lay violated. He snatched up his blades from the ground and reached
the table where his son lay bound. He cut the boy free and held him
desperately tight against the horrors of his uncle.

"You will no longer fight me when I order you to share in the rites, nephew,"
Waejonan said. "Now take your son and leave."

"I will obey."

"Mortgiefan!" Isranon woke with a scream, sweating and chilled. Instantly
Nevin's arms were around him, holding and supporting, comforting.

"It was a nightmare," Nevin told him.

"I committed mortgiefan and it was wonderful…. It was horrible. I am a
monster. I am monster," he sobbed. "She was my little sister and I took her in
the rite … and the taste of her…."

Nevin turned to Olin, "Fetch Amiri quickly. He's having another attack."

Isranon's stress was so great he did not feel the single wound that re-opened
and bled along his stomach.

Amiri arrived first and Read him. "You're clean, Isranon. Nevin, pour him
some pollendine." She made him drink before she would allow another word out
of him. They settled him back in his blankets and she asked, "Now, explain
this to me."

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Isranon told her about the dreams, the flashbacks, and the visions, all of
it.

Amiri listened with a deepening frown. "You're astral traveling back along
the lineage. I am putting a stop to it now. As weak as you are, the stress
could kill you."

Nans climbed into the wagon and sat on the chest at the end of the cot. She
asked Isranon, "Have you ever done this before? When you were a child
perhaps?"

"I have always been a speaker to spirits. I see and speak to ghosts."

"Like those ghosts wolves when Gaeatyra came?"

"Yes."

"But not the other?" Nans persisted.

"Not the other. Not until now." His voice thickened gradually with the drugs.

"Could there be something you want desperately that only traveling the
lineage might give you knowledge of?" Amiri asked.

"The staff, Warrior. Had it not been stolen in the night, Dawnhand would
never have been taken."

"How long has this been going on?" Nans asked.

Isranon settled deeper into the bed. "They began shortly after I was wounded.
I saw the staff clearly in that first dream and never again. Now it has become
blurred, a lance of white light…. I wish I could see it again. I was too ill
to hold onto the image."

Anksha leaned forward on her cot, her eyes huge and troubled. Isranon glanced
at her and she looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I will make you an amulet to ward your dreams and sleep, Isranon," Amiri
said. "Spirit travel in this manner is dangerous…. Unless you know what you
are doing."

* * * *

Josiah came more often to speak with Isranon following the battle for King
William Gryphonheart. Having seen Isranon hesitate when faced with a powerful
sa'necari, it became clear that he needed more intensive training and
confidence in his powers–though Josiah wondered if his friend would ever have
the faith in his magic that he had once had in his blades.

Isranon found an indescribable comfort in the ghost's presence. He had
promised himself that he would learn, no longer holding himself walled within
his own mind, and he soaked up everything Josiah told him with a desperate
hunger he had never dreamed he possessed. Isranon was discovering the power to
fight back and knowledge was the key. He embraced the sad ghost's teachings as
he once had Nevin's lessons in the blade and the hunt. The empty, stubborn
defiance he had shown toward Bodramet and the sa'necari faded; replaced by
growing confidence in his power to resist and fight back.

Anksha helped also. Her love was a brightly burning thing, hungry and intense
with the need to keep him alive. And Nevin. Nevin was never far from him, a

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strong, stalwart presence. He held tight to life for their sake. Isranon still
had his moments of defiance and anger, determined that Bodramet would not be
victor in this, that he would live in spite of the injuries they had done him.
So he passed the time in shifting moods as the wagons rolled slowly on toward
the coast road and Treth.

* * * *

Volo continued to follow and study. The battle-mage had a strange familiar
that was always at his side. He had never seen anything like her. And the
ranger captain made the hairs on his arms rise, although he could not say why.
Getting past the sentries would not be easy. The captain now had the lycans
pairing off with the humans to patrol. They would have to winter somewhere.
Volo could already taste it in the air. Once they settled for the snowbound
months, other opportunities would present themselves.

CHAPTER EIGHT. edvarde

The snows overtook them in Ildyrsetts. Nans had an old friend with a big
house on a large estate at the edge of the city who was always willing to put
them up for the winter and was glad of the fellowship. Nans knew that Lord
Edvarde's estate could put up a company as large as hers for the winter on
short notice. The Rowdies now numbered ninety odd, which made them a
substantial freeranger company, not the largest, but definitely substantial.
So she headed there.

The sighting of her banner had the castellan himself at the gates long before
they arrived. Old Jeevys stood stamping in the chill and breathing on his
mittens, grinning. He had all his stablemyn in attendance and an army of
servants. "His lordship's been complaining that you were taking your own sweet
time getting here."

"I didn't tell him I was coming," Nans growled, dismounting and throwing her
reins to the nearest hostler.

"Where else would you go for the winter?" Jeevys asked. "Come on, everyone
into the house. It's cold out here. The feast is nearly ready. The Great Hall
is decorated to celebrate your arrival. The best suites and apartments have
been aired out and since there's so many of you we've opened up the old
barracks wing. I hope your myn don't mind sharing space a bit. Two and three
to some of the apartments."

Zulaika laughed. "Many of us are shieldmates and bonded couples."

"Ah, that is good to know," Jeevys said.

"And the lycans like comfort sleeping," Nevin added, dropping from the wagon.

"Jeevys," Nans growled, catching him by the elbow and putting her mouth to
his ear. "I haven't been here in four winters."

"Oh, that, well, Lord Edvarde has been hearing word of you for weeks. By all
accounts you were clearly headed for Ildyrsetts. He's been collecting
sightings of you from everyone who came through. We've been putting in
supplies like mad."

Nans sighed. "Tell him I'll be in shortly to see him."

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"It's a party, Nans. How many did you bring?"

"There's ninety-five in my company, including lycans."

"Ninety-five! Ninety-five guests for the winter with lots of stories! Lord
Edvarde will be so happy." Jeevys started rounding up her myn and herding them
into the manor.

Nans went to the back of the first wagon, extending her arms to Haig who
eased Isranon, well wrapped in blankets, into them. Then, with Anksha and
Amiri walking beside them and the lycans following, they headed for the manor.

Seeing Isranon carried Jeevys asked, "Is he hurt? We can get him into bed. We
have prepared something special for the little creature who helped save King
William."

Anksha perked up at that, her head cocked as she listened with an expression
of rapt attention.

"He's weak from an illness. Dawnreturning, do you feel strong enough to join
us for dinner? Lord Edvarde has a feast ready. Or should we simply put you to
bed? The whole company is attending; he's even prepared something special for
Anksha."

"Is this your mage?" Jeevys asked eagerly, peering at Isranon.

Nans nodded. "Yes, this is Dawnreturning."

"I'd like to be there," Isranon said.

Nans carried him into the great hall and it was as if his mind exploded and
his eyes took on a little boy look at the newness all around, utterly charmed
and fascinated by everything, seeing a world without fear and horror, without
darkness and terror. Yet what struck Isranon with the most intensity were the
decorations. After all the dark dreams and dark times, this kindled warmth and
wonder within him that he had rarely felt, even as a child among the lycans.
Edvarde had hung the halls with tinsel and solstice decorations, holly
wreaths, and strings of pinecones mixed with delicate, brilliantly colored,
blown glass animals of all descriptions. The ceiling, walls, and rafters were
hung with them as well as with the various symbols of the Nine Elder Gods. The
most wondrous thing of all was a tree, set in a corner of the hall, and
decorated in the same glory as the walls and ceiling. Isranon had never seen
anything decorated for a holiday celebration of the Light.

Edvarde believed in comfort before formality, so the head table was a long
one nearest the hearth with large comfortable overstuffed chairs. Then he had
two rows of tables run down the sides carefully spaced so that none of them
ran so far from him that he could not catch bits of conversation just in case
something interesting got said and he would not miss a good story.

"Put him next to Edvarde," Jeevys told Nans.

"He'll need some cushions and pillows."

"I'll send a servant for them."

Nans carried Isranon to the large chair, eased him down, and settled herself
beside him. In spite of her best efforts, Isranon had grown still more wasted.
Too long deprived of the Sanguine Rose, he could no longer stand on his own
without falling. Prolonged withdrawal from the arcane cocktail had also

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produced a host of other symptoms, such as night sweats and terrors
interspersed with chills and fits of shaking.

Anksha curled up on the floor beside his chair, watching him with a
wide-eyed, pensive fondness, her lower lip thrust out a tiny fraction.

"What does it mean, Nans?" Isranon asked, gesturing at the decorations.

"Solstice." She squeezed his arm, then reached inside her cloak, and produced
a bottle of pollendine pouring him a quick measure. "Everyone's favorite
season."

Isranon drank it down and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand as she
discreetly returned the bottle to its place. "Why?"

"Soon it will be solstice," said a bright, eager tenor.

Nans and Isranon glanced to see Lord Edvarde had arrived to take his place at
the table. Edvarde was tall and thin, lifting each leg with care and precision
like a gaunt wading bird, every nuance orderly to a fault. His long, thin face
completed the image of a bird, from the high-bridged nose to his cheekbones
like fishing hooks above their deep hollows, and a knobby chin. "The Night of
Sun Return which is the night when Ishla's call was finally answered, the
night the Eight burst through the veil to this world and one became nine. The
Nine drove the Hellgod into the north, sealing him and his wives behind the
escarpment. It was a long, hard war. In the course of it, the Nine slew
several of his wives. So it is also called the Night of God Return."

Isranon's eyes continued to rove the decorations. "How does one celebrate
it?"

Edvarde gave Isranon a curious smile and then glanced at Nans. "Why, by
giving gifts and making offerings."

"And if one has nothing to give or to offer?" Isranon asked.

"It does not have to be physical. Something as simple as 'I love you' or 'I
pledge to you, my liege-god' is sufficient. It is a time to give thanks and be
grateful."

Isranon felt a profound sense of relief, thinking of Dynanna. He slipped his
hand into his shirt, stroking the godmark on his shoulder. She was not one of
the Nine, but she was still a God of Light. He could keep solstice. He could
be a part of this, even if it were only a minor part. He gazed at Edvarde with
warm gratitude in his expression. "I can keep solstice."

Jeevys reappeared with servants, who set to busily getting Isranon
comfortable. Soon he had pillows on all sides and a bright blue quilt across
his lap. Joseth, a full-bodied female, whose coquettish manners denied her
middle years, adjusted the quilt twice and trailed her fingers along Isranon's
arm in a swift suggestion.

They seated Anksha at a lower table where she snatched a handful of candies
from a dish while Randilyn dipped into another. Then they grinned at each
other and shared. The corner of Anksha's eye kept drifting to Isranon and she
began to nibble her lower lip thoughtfully as she watched Joseth fussing over
Isranon and practically shoving her bosom in his face. Anksha left the table,
dropped down on her belly, and crawled along until she reached Isranon. She
shoved her head between Joseth and Isranon, practically between the woman's
large breasts, causing her to give a little startled cry. Anksha turned her

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head around, pushing firmly at Joseth like a squirming cat, and soon had her
shoulders wedged betwixt them. The rest of her followed until the servant
would have had to reach over her to continue touching Isranon. Anksha gave a
feline smile and crept onto his lap. Everyone, including Edvarde, laughed.

The servants had opened the old nursery for the infants, and arranged for
someone to sit with them, which had allowed Nainee to attend with Haig. Nainee
nodded at Anksha's antics. "Look at her, Haig. I believe Anksha's jealous."

Haig followed Nainee's glance. "What? Anksha jealous? She owns him, body, and
soul. What has she to be jealous of?"

"Body and soul… But heart?"

Haig grimaced. "She could compel it if she wished."

"Haig, you don't understand her at all."

"And you do?"

"I think so." Nainee gave Haig a mysterious, feminine smile. "Anksha is
female, with a woman's heart. My guess is that she has never been in love
before. I'm going to get her alone and talk to her."

"The Beast is in love with Isranon?" Haig gave a snort of disbelief. "I knew
she cared, but I would never have dreamed…. The Beastin love? Like a woman for
a man? I can't credit it, Nainee. I can't."

Nainee shrugged and let the subject drop.

When the dinner broke up, the tables were shifted to their normal positions
about the room and people found their way to quiet spots. The old timers who
had been here before showed the new ones about or servants simply showed them
to their rooms.

They moved Isranon close to the fire, where he then sat half-dosing in a
cozy, over-stuffed winged chair. Jeevys wrapped him in a Chirakahn buffalo
robe, his feet propped on a padded stool. Isranon sipped a hot exotic beverage
they called chocolate. The beast's gigantic, long-horned head was mounted over
the hearth and Isranon found himself staring at it. It was truly impressive.
Lord Edvarde was a fount of stories and according to him, the Chirakahn were
one of the thirteen tribes of the Euzadi nomads, the finest horse archers on
the Merezian Continent. Isranon had no trouble at all imagining what it must
have been like seeing them bring the beast down, firing from horse back,
riding past it as it bellowed and charged. He snuggled deeper into the robe.
This was the first time he really knew what it felt like to be among humans,
and he liked it. Hoon's estate had merely been a gentler re-creation of
Waejontor and he had thought that was wondrous, running and hunting with his
beloved Timon and Ephry. But this was so peaceful. Edvarde put him completely
at ease. Anksha curled up on the floor beside Isranon and he ruffled her hair
affectionately. She gave a deep-throated rumbling purr in response, something
he had never heard her do before, and he smiled.

"Your mage needs a staff," Lord Edvarde insisted quietly to Nans, sitting
apart from Isranon. "Can't have him hobbling around with just a walking stick
or a cane. Not proper!"

"Now, Edvarde, we can't afford a staff and it would not be right to impose on
your hospitality for such an expensive item," Nans argued quietly.

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"Not at all. Not at all. I know just the mon and it would be a privilege. I
will send for him tomorrow. He'll assess Dawnreturning's needs and have him
one made to fit his talents and affinities."

Nans rolled her eyes and sighed. She dared not trust someone she did not
know, and risk the discovery that Isranon was sa'necari. It would have been
useful to have someone explain the bizarre manifestation of battle magic that
occurred when Isranon had rescued King William. They had been attacked twice
more on the journey, minor skirmishes; the sa'nekaryiane still pursued
Isranon: that was when she saw the magic for herself. Isranon had called down
the Sunfire lances. Battle magic, of the fire mage class. Sa'necari were not
mages, per se. So what did the gold and flame braiding in his magic centers
mean? "No offense, Edvarde, I am afraid we must refuse."

"Nans, you break my heart. Such a fine young mon deserves a fine staff."

"Battle mages don't use staffs," Nans said.

"Ahhh, so that's it. A sword in one hand and power in the other. But he's
been too crippled for the fighting style. You've been holding back on me,
Nans." Edvarde's eyes slipped quietly across the chamber to Isranon. "It isn't
just an illness, is it?"

"No, Edvarde, it isn't." Nans tone softened into bleakness. "Sa'necari nearly
butchered him. We're keeping him alive through some rather arcane means.
That's why we're going to Treth. I have some friends there who can help him."

"And in spite of all that he saved King William Gryphonheart."

"You heard about that?" Nans wondered just how much and what Edvarde knew.

"Word travels very fast, Nans. Especially to my ears."

"Then you already knew he was a battle-mage," Nans accused. Very little
happened in the lands along the banks of the Hillora on either side or
immediately north of them that Edvarde did not discover with astonishing
swiftness. She suspected that he must have a story pact with the naiads of the
Great Banks and Sundering Flood.

"Not for certain. It gets lonely out here and I love a good story. One person
said he was a battle-mage. Another said he was Torundarian, lots of thunder
and lightning. That was a grand tale. I decided long before you arrived that I
would get him a present. I never dreamed that he had gone into battle this
badly injured to begin with. Raw courage, Nans. Heart. That took heart.
Admirable, Nans. Absolutely admirable."

"Can you also understand why we don't want people poking around in his magic
centers and his body? Reading him. He needs his privacy."

"Yes. His inner devastation should not be put on display. I'll have a
fighting staff made to the same specifications as the one they did recently
for Amberlin Willidar, Lokynen's wife. He can charge it himself. They're still
bragging about that one."

"That's fine with me." Nans thought ruefully of Amberlin and Lokynen, a
marriage so incestuous that even some of the divines had protested against it.
Lokynen was Amberlin's uncle ten generations removed, as well as her paternal
half-brother. Both had been sired by the war-god Badonth, who had a reputation
for seducing women of his own lineage to strengthen his descendants' gifts of
battle-magic. It was logical that Edvarde would keep track of Amberlin, seeing

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a good story there.

"And something for the little creature that saved William from the demon.
What can I give her? A solstice present. We'll have a solstice party."

Nans laughed. Once Edvarde decided on an excuse for presents and another
party that was the end of it. No wonder he already had the decorations in such
heavy emphasis.

* * * *

Volo watched them ride into Edvarde's estate and puzzled how he would get
inside the walls. He tied his horses to trees in a pine covert and waited for
darkness to enshroud them. Once night cloaked the manor house, Volo slipped
through the snow-draped trees and ice-crusted brush to the walls. There would
be no going over the walls: they had to be at least twenty feet high, sturdily
built of stone with stout machicolations at the top. He went round it on foot
until a red-brown glint caught his eyes and he discovered a disused postern
gate that must once have been kept for secret entrances and exits. Now it was
rusted shut. One of Volo's unique talents was locks. He ran his hand along the
edges of the gate, sending power along its frame in a thin blade. The binding
rust dissolved and fell away. His fingers reached the lock and it clicked open
with a creak. Volo waited for a long moment to see if anyone had heard it and
then he went back after his horses. With so many newcomers in the manor, he
doubted they would notice two more horses among the rest.

He smuggled his horses in and settled into a little used shed near the
kitchen to wait for a servant. He needed to steal one of their forms to
insinuate himself into the house and it must be one with access to the main
rooms; otherwise he would have taken one of the sleeping hostlers in the
stable.

In the morning, he emerged from his hiding place to wait in the shadows near
the back door to the kitchens, watching for someone to leave. Two sheds stood
out from the kitchen, built along the inner walls and he stood at the edge of
one of these, prepared to fall back into the deeper shadows amidst the drifted
snow or to lunge forward to take a victim, whichever the exigencies of his
goals demanded.

Volosarius licked his lips and ran the tip of his tongue across his fangs,
waiting.

He did not wait long. A young male came out and opened the wood box without
noticing him. His mind was so simple, that the sa'necari bounty hunter did not
even need to touch him to take him. He stripped the servant's mind of
memories, collecting them into an accessible package. The one he sought was
inside.

The self-proclaimed God-Queen of Minnoras, a sa'nekaryiane, had placed a
handsome price on Isranon's head. Either she was desperate to get him, or he
was some kind of threat to her, or else it was simply to encourage hunters
like himself to risk the company Isranon kept, which by all accounts was very
strong. Volosarius had journeyed a long time. Isranon's company included a
battle-mage, Lord Dawnreturning. He had never heard of him before, which
niggled at his mind since he prided himself on knowing all potential opponents
and enemies. The battle-mage would be a problem, but not an insurmountable
one: Volosarius had slain battle-mages in his time, and knowledge that such a
one was here would only serve to keep him cautious. He carried, folded in his
pocket, the list of and prices for those the God-Queen wished slain.

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Volosarius's satisfaction would double when he rited Isranon. He savored the
thought as he lifted the servant in his arms, carrying him into the stable.
The sa'necari drank the servant to nothing, absorbing even his form, which he
assumed after burying the corpse so deeply back into the bales of straw that
the mon would not be found before spring, and then entered the house with the
wood. Only very powerful magic could pierce his shape changing. It was a trick
he had learned from Necrodez, but Volo was more cautious than his late rival.

"Back so soon, Grey?" Joseth swished past Volo with the lunch tray for
Isranon's room. He always took the midday meal resting. "I expected you'd want
to steal some time with Ingabet."

Volo shrugged. "I've someone else on my mind these days. So many new faces…
Can I help with that?"

Joseth handed him the tray. "Save me the walk. I've a dozen things to do and
I've some new faces myself." She winked.

Volo took the tray up to the room, recalling it in Grey's stolen memories. He
had found little of worth in what he gleaned from Grey. The man had been privy
to no secrets. He knocked and then entered. There was a golden-haired Ymraude
nibari in the outer room of the suite and Grey's memory gave him her name.

"Hello, Randilyn," he said pleasantly. "Can I help you with this?"

Randilyn took the tray from him. Her bright smile made him hungry. "We can
handle it, Grey. Thank you."

He followed her into the bedroom uninvited, trying to look eager to please.
She didn't order him out, so he considered that a victory for his disguise. In
the room was another Ymraude nibari, this one dark-haired and olive-skinned.
Again, Grey's memories gave him the name.

"Hello, Willa. Are you absolutely certain I cannot help you?"

Willa started getting Isranon up. "No, Grey. We're fine for now. Why don't
you go help Joseth? I'm sure she has more for you to do."

Volo stared at the mon in the bed. Grey's memories said this was Lord
Dawnreturning, but they had to be wrong: although Volo had not seen Isranon
since he was a scrawny boy of twelve, who had managed to escape the massacre
of his people, he was positive that this mon was he.

Willa also sharpened his appetite. Ymraudes were selfish royals, refusing to
share for even the smallest of nibble games. Perhaps he would take both of
their nibari when he rited this renegade. That might indeed be appropriate.

For the time being, Volo would observe and wait patiently until he could
completely consider the situation, take his opponents' measures. Then he would
lay his plans. Volo did not wish to end like Necrodez. Caution would be his
watchword.

* * * *

The hunters spread out through the woods, led by King Waejonan himself. All
of the human soldiers carried torches that threw a glare among the trees.
Three dozen sa'necari searched with them. The exile Brandrahoon had somehow
broken into his old home and murdered his wife, Amalthea. Amalthea had become
a favorite of Waejonan's and the king intended to punish her murderer.

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Nighthand had been sa'necari for seven years by then, and taken over a
hundred lives in the rites of mortgiefan. Every time he did so, Nighthand saw
his little sister's dead face, felt his hand on the blade and his cock inside
her. It gave him nightmares, but his powers grew at a great rate. It was a
compromise. He had gained a measure of influence with his uncle and few
sa'necari would try his powers. Nighthand had fought many duels with other
sa'necari; defeated and rited them, adding their accumulation of stolen souls
to his own. He told himself that he did this to protect his family, but
sometimes–as he did that night–he wondered if it could actually be because he
had begun to enjoy the power as much as he enjoyed the taste of human blood.

No one entirely understood what Brandrahoon had become, only that he was
undead. Gylorean Galee, Waejonan's mentor, called Brandrahoon a vampire, a
Lemyari vampire, and admitted to making him what he was. That had caused a
falling out between Galee and Waejonan serious enough that Galee had left the
king and vanished. Waejonan wanted no one to have powers he could not gauge,
much less use to oppose him.

Waejonan strode through the woods boldly and Nighthand followed him.
Nighthand noticed that the two of them had become separated from the rest. He
was certain that there had been torches nearby not moments ago.

"I have found them," Waejonan shouted. "Call the others."

"No, my brother," Brandrahoon said, stepping from beneath the trees to
confront them with a drawn sword. "We have found you."

Arms like steel bands suddenly imprisoned Nighthand's arms. A familiar voice
whispered in his ear. "Call out or move and you're dead."

"Timuundar… he killed you…" Nighthand shivered in the grip of flesh as cold
as death itself.

"I am dead, cousin. Undead."

Waejonan cupped his hand, making an upward clawing motion and blackest magic
enveloped Brandrahoon. The vampire lost his blade, convulsing on the ground
before the king.

"The king is killing your father."

"I don't think so," Timuundar replied evenly.

Then another voice was heard from the bushes. "Oh, filthy sa'necari. It is
time to die." The small, feminine form darted at Waejonan's back, one claw
landing on his buttocks and the other on his neck as she took him down.
Anksha's teeth sank deep into the base of his spine, biting through it.
Waejonan screamed long and hard. Anksha tore out his eyes and opened his
throat.

Timuundar shoved Nighthand onto his face and disappeared, followed by Anksha
and Brandrahoon. Nighthand scrambled over to Waejonan and began shouting, "The
king, help the king!"

Prince Dragojkan de Waejonan arrived and knelt over his dying father. A
venomous smile came on his face. "There's no mending that with blood." He
opened his pants, tore away his father's trousers, and then he mounted
Waejonan and rode him into death. That was the beginning of the Legacy and the
means by which it was passed from generation to generation. Nighthand did not
know that, but the tiny passenger in his mind that was his sleeping

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descendant, Isranon, did.

Isranon sighed as he forced his way from the dream to waking, and he reached
for Amiri's small amulet resting on a string around his neck. It had failed to
keep his spirit from wandering into the past ages. He had astrally-traveled
back through his genetic lineage again and experienced another of his
ancestors' lives. It lingered in his mind that his beloved Timon was actually
Timuundar, son of Brandrahoon. Timon seemed far less savage than the Timuundar
of his vision, but he had not been Timuundar in centuries.

He was learning to detach himself from the visions and not allow them to hurt
as much as before. He now realized that what he experienced in them was not
part of him in a personal way; while his ancestors were a part of him, he was
not a part of them; he was not guilty of their acts simply because he
experienced them in this manner. Still he would have to tell Amiri that her
amulet was not working as well as before. Isranon suspected that was because
of his weakening body. The more his body failed, the thinner grew the walls
between life and the spirit-world.

"Anksha, pet," Isranon said, sliding his hand onto the soft fur of her back
and stroking her.

She slept snuggled against him and woke at his touch. "Is. Ra. Non?"

"You really did kill Waejonan, like the legends say you did."

"Yes. Vengeance for Dawnhand. Now go back to sleep."

Isranon blinked. That was the first time he had gotten a straight answer from
her about the past.

* * * *

Edvarde was as energized and excited as a child to have so many people in his
home. He was not only obsessed with collecting stories, he was a true
loremaster. Each evening he wrote in his journals about his guests, making
guesses about their true nature, never missing a nuance of behavior. There was
no harm in him, only intense curiosity, and he trusted that Nans would never
bring anyone into his home that meant harm to him or his. She had brought him
a truly fascinating group. Imagine that! A battle mage who did not know the
meaning of the Festival of Gods Return, of Winter Solstice! Hmmnnn. A true
mystery. Nans, however, flatly refused to answer his further questions
concerning Isranon. So he happily set off in pursuit of other tales for his
growing collection and the lycans became his next targets.

Lycans had no nudity taboos, although for the sake of human sensibilities
they generally wore cloaking charms, minor illusions produced by the stone
mages, on chains and thongs around their necks that would get them by long
enough to snatch up a robe or trousers. Nevin, on the other hand, had his many
times great grandfather's master-charm of changing, and whatever he was
wearing when he shifted he would be wearing again when he changed back. Claw
had tried everything to get it from him, short of ripping Nevin's head off;
since Claw was an honorable wolf, Nevin still had the charm. Edvarde
maintained what he called his "lycan room" and was immediately intrigued by
the fact that Nevin did not follow the others to take advantage of the
facilities to change into real as opposed to illusory clothing.

Edvarde knew that Isranon had the singular distinction of having been adopted
into a lycan clan and that Nevin and Olin nested with him. Anksha could also
be found in this nest sometimes. However, she could just as often be found in

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the midst of the larger nests of lycans depending on who she was with when she
tired out in her endless romping. So he decided that Nevin and Olin must come
from the adoptive clan, must therefore know Isranon's story, and set upon a
course of getting it out of them.

He came early to Isranon's room the next evening, just as Nans arrived to
carry the mage downstairs to the Great Hall where the informal dinner would be
served. Over the past few days formality, never one of Edvarde's normal
customs, was steadily being dispensed with: people ate in all the halls,
simply filling up plates from serving bowls set out here; some chose to eat
here and others took their food elsewhere. Nans had people working in the
salle, which connected to the manor through an enclosed walk, and some went
whenever they felt the need and then ate what they found among the leftovers.
Her people were settling in. So Edvarde had to do a bit of deliberate stalking
and then pounce upon his hopefully unsuspecting prey if he had any chance of
getting his stories.

Olin changed first, snatching a Trethian robe of vertical stripes of gold,
apricot and burnt orange, a bit gaudy and sashed it with a brilliant
green–even worse. Then he pulled on black trousers. Nevin simply changed and
shook his head at the younger lycan. Randilyn turned back the covers and then
shook out a folded quilt that lay on a nearby chair beside the desk in the
corner while Nans lifted Isranon up. Together they got him wrapped in the
quilt.

As Nans turned with him, they noticed Edvarde watching them. "I just wanted
to see if you needed anything?"

"Edvarde, if I didn't have my hands full…."

"Why, Nans! Are you threatening me?" he asked innocently.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Edvarde grinned and did not answer. He tugged at Nevin's shirtsleeve and the
scarred lycan's mouth twisted, giving him an evil look. Edvarde shivered. He
could not get used to Nevin's face. The only uglier scarred face Edvarde had
ever seen belonged to the yuwenghau Lokynen Willidar, who had bulled his way
through a densely trapped ruin to reach a secret cache of pre-godwar weapons
ahead of Dynanna and, thereby, come within a fraction of losing an eye for his
troubles.

"What did that?" Edvarde asked without thinking.

"Kenda'ryl. Magic metal. Scars worse than runed silver." The scars on his
lips gaped with each word, which gave his gruff voice a slight lisp as his
breath passed over it. He had been cut all the way through and it had not
healed completely back together. Nevin scratched at the long scar running
between his eyes along the left side of his broken nose to the bottom of his
upper lip.

"Kenda'ryl also?"

"You know it. Otherwise it would have healed without a mark."

Edvarde touched Nevin's sleeve again covertly and Nevin growled at him.

Edvarde jerked his hand back. "I do apologize."

Nevin's eyes flicked back and he gave him another evil look, saying deep in

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his throat. "It's real, Edvarde. Quit tugging on me, mon."

"Yes, of course. I'm being rude."

By then they had reached the stairs and started down, trailing farther and
farther behind the others. Nevin blocked Edvarde on the stairs and asked him
bluntly. "And just what do you want of me, the tale of my clothes?"

"No, just for you to sit with me, by the tree, and talk. A private story
while we dine. I know you like a nice mead and I've had a good cask brought
out."

"Well, that I do, mon, but what tale is the trade?"

"How did Dawnreturning become your spirit-brother? It is your clan, isn't
it?"

"Aye, it is my clan…." Nevin started walking again, a little faster to catch
up. His people kept an oral tradition and their skalds trained their memories
to perfection. However, this mon wrote things down and that was a surer memory
than even their skalds. Nevin had not mentioned how concerned he had become
about Isranon, but he feared his brother would not live out the winter and it
made him heartsore to think on it. It had been a joy when he had made this mon
his brother, and seeing him like this was not right. Isranon had run with the
clan, as fast and strong as any wolf, striking down the boar and the antlered
stag, strong of arm and swift of foot. And he had gone after Troyes alone to
rescue Merissa without hesitation. The tale deserved to be written down. If
Nevin chose his words carefully the location of the clan and Isranon's true
nature could still be concealed–and Nevin was a canny enough old wolf to
manage it.

"So be it, Lord Edvarde. I will give you your story."

Nevin sat for a long time with Edvarde, telling the tale in slow stages,
drinking mead, and eating his roasted boar very rare and pink in the middle.
"Isranon used to come to the Valley when he was a cub. Little bit of a thing,
trailing after his father."

Edvarde glowed with excitement as he listened. He refilled Nevin's tankard.
"Yes."

"Starting around eight, the sa'necari used to come raiding out of the north.
His father's people had to keep looking for another place to hide."

"Why?"

Nevin growled. "I'll tell you what I'll tell you and you'll leave it at
that."

Edvarde nodded and sat back so quickly he bumped his plate and nearly spilled
gravy on himself. He straightened the plate and pushed it back aways. "Go on."

Nevin took a long pull from his tankard, settled forward on his elbows, and
began again. "My chieftain refused to hide the lot of them. Too risky. So
around the time Isranon was seven or eight, his father would just send the boy
to me when they had to find another place to hide. Then once they were
established in a new place, I'd take Isranon back to them."

"So you helped raise him?"

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Nevin frowned at being asked another question and went silent for a moment.
"Aye. I trained him in his blades and the bow. I taught him how to hunt, to
fish, and to run with the wolves."

"And that is why your clan adopted him? Because you helped raise him?"

"Shut up and listen." Nevin took time to eat a few more bites. "When he was
just shy of eighteen, he came to the valley for the last time. There was a
sa'necari there. His name was Troyes. Doesn't matter why he was there. Just
that he was. Troyes was courting the Chieftain's daughter. One day while we
were out with the herds, Troyes kidnapped her. There was no one to go with
him, so Isranon went alone. When Isranon caught up to Troyes, the gutterwhore
had our clan princess tied to a bleeding table we didn't know he'd built in
the valley."

"Dreadful."

"Bloody right." Nevin took another long drink and wiped his mouth on his
sleeve. "Isranon knocked Troyes away from the table, but took a blade in the
ribs. The wound nearly killed him. But he managed to get our princess free.
Then Troyes, who was a very powerful sa'necari, came back at him."

Edvarde had begun to look completely mesmerized by Nevin's account and that
suited the wolf fine.

"Isranon lost his sword in the struggle and Troyes had him down, trying to
rite him when our princess broke his back with Isranon's sword. But even that
wasn't enough to kill Troyes, the sa'necari was that powerful. Isranon wrested
Troyes' own blade from his hands and put it through his ugly, godforsaken
heart. And that was the end of Troyes. That is why we adopted him."

Nevin paused and glanced across the room to where Isranon sat eating with
Anksha beside him. Anksha grinned toothily at him, waving what looked like a
three-fingered hand at them that she was gnawing on. Nevin flinched and
stopped in mid-sentence.

"What are you feeding her?"

"Sea-arcyens. Crustaceans. They grow back. I keep them in tanks in the
dungeons. I pull six or eight of them off at a time. They are a dysfunctional
mutation. If I did not keep them pruned they would grow so many they could not
move. Please continue with your story."

Nevin finished, his eyes misting as he watched Isranon with the servants and
some of the Rowdies fussing over him. The mon looked happy, content.

"How did he get hurt?" Edvarde pressed gently.

By then Nevin had had more mead than he should have. His eyes misted still
more and his ugly face made his pain hard to look at. Watching Anksha, he
lowered his voice so that she would not hear him. "Five of them ambushed him.
Cut him up. Raped him. Left their magic twisted all through him. Anksha found
him. We've tried to get it out, but all we've managed to do is fight it off.
Try to contain it."

"Divinators?"

Nevin stared into his tankard. "Similar. Real similar."

Edvarde dropped back in his chair. "Oh, dear gods. Merciful gods."

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Nevin's voice went suddenly very dark and he leaned close to Edvarde.
"Another thing, story teller, and if I hear you've written this down or told
anyone what I'm about to tell you I'll rip your throat out. Even if it's
Dawnreturning himself. The reason the clan sent Merissa away was to hide
her…." Nevin stared into his tankard for a moment, and then drained it. "She
carried his child. I will return when my brother has died to raise his
son–teach and protect him. The sa'necari will not kill him as easily as they
did his sire."

"You are certain he is going to die?"

"Look at him, Edvarde, and tell me otherwise!" Nevin slammed the table aside
overturning it and changed into a wolf. Nevin growled softly far back in his
throat, staring at the mess he had made, and then raced from the room.

Volo stared at the fleeing lycan, his eyes thoughtful, unable to completely
mask his curiosity at what they had been discussing. Joseth clucked at him and
he resumed slicing and serving the meat.

Edvarde sat staring at his hands as Jeevys arrived with some servants in tow,
frowning in concern and casting frequent glances in the direction in which
Nevin had vanished.

"What happened?" Jeevys asked.

Edvarde gestured with a single finger, indicating that Jeevys should stay and
the others depart, leaving the mess as it was. "Straighten it, Jeevys, and
then sit with me for awhile."

"He was rude…." Jeevys cleaned up willingly and without complaint; such was
the price of confidentiality.

"No. I was …wrong. He gave me my story and so much more. Embedded spells,
Jeevys. That's what's killing that poor, noble young mon. I will write a very
fine tale of him."

Jeevys wiped the table clean, trying not to be too obvious, glancing at
Isranon. "Divinators, my lord. Sounds like the divinators rited him an' Nans
is fightin' ta keep him alive long enough to get the components out."

"I'm so ashamed. Dyna told me I was to send for her the moment they arrived.
Now I know why. Get up to the tower, light the altar candles, and send out the
call."

* * * *

Lord Edvarde wakened in the night to a tight, bony fist on the collar of his
nightshirt, felt the sharp tingling sensation of a Jump and found himself
shivering in the snow outside his manor near the kitchen woodshed in
semi-darkness. The trickster hovered cross-legged in mid-air, warmly wrapped
in ermine and sable, her red-gold hair whipping in long strings where it
escaped her hood as she dipped his bare toes in the snow repeatedly. In her
other hand she held a pitcher of water. With a wicked grin, she dumped the
contents upon him.

Edvarde shrieked, shivering violently, his teeth chattering with cold.
Icicles formed into strings in his hair and on his face, one cluster of frozen
water gathering on his nose like a bulb. His nightshirt crackled as he
breathed.

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The god's face was flushed bright with anger, her green eyes flashing. "If
your greed for stories has killed my mage, I'll make a toad of you and then
throw you in a tank of snakes. My Daddy has big ones." She dipped his toes
again.

"Puh–puh–puh–please, Dynanna. If I fuh–fuh–freeze, I can't tell you."

Dynanna blinked, nodded. "Yeah, there's that."

Again the violent tingling of a Jump and Lord Edvarde found himself in his
most private of inner studies, the one devoted to secret lore and magic.
Jeevys already had the fire going, food on the serving table, coffee, and
condiments in liberal quantities. Edvarde had no idea how he had known and did
not bother to ask as his mon got him out of his wet clothes, wrapped him up in
a warm robe and slid his feet into furry slippers.

Edvarde raised his eyes and saw that Dynanna had given him a moment's respite
to gain a bit of warmth, but her eyes were still blazing wrathfully, her face
flushed.

"Now what is this shit about a divinator getting hold of him? I thought that
idiot sister of mine and her bloody rangers were supposed to be looking out
for him. My mage was already in bad enough shape to begin with."

Then it began to dawn on Edvarde that Jeevys had talked to Dynanna at length.
"Oh by the Nine! Jeevys, get out of here. Leave us. Go on, leave us." Jeevys
hesitated and Edvarde's voice cracked in near hysteria. "Now!"

Jeevys fled.

"Dynanna, I should have sent for you a week ago. I was wrong. I beg your
forgiveness. Nevin did not tell me they were divinators. I used the word
divinators, he said similar. Not the same at all."

"Give me everything Nevin said," Dynanna ordered him. "From the top."

Edvarde breathed an audible sigh of relief as he watched the color dissipate
in her cheeks. He even told her about Isranon's son in his desperation to
mollify her.

"A kid, huh?" Dynanna smiled wickedly. "I'll have to look in on this Merissa
and her babe. Might be useful."

"Oh, definitely, your Holiness." Edvarde shivered.

"How soon will they bring him down?" she asked after probing him thoroughly,
backwards, and forwards.

Edvarde glanced at his window. "About now? For a few hours, some breakfast."

"Jeevys usually down there?"

"Yes, actually." Edvarde swallowed nervously.

Dynanna considered, chewing on the corner of her lower lip. "Call Jeevys in
and have him bring in one of the servants, one of the ladies who flutters over
Isranon. Then you go keep my sister well away from Isranon until Jeevys and I
leave the Great Hall together."

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Edvarde knew then what she intended to do. At least she would not be dipping
his bare toes in the snow again–he hoped.

* * * *

Jeevys and Dynanna, who wore the likeness of Joseth, led the line of servants
into the Great Hall to set out the meal on the serving tables. Jeevys
indicated Isranon's favorite dishes and she filled his plate. Edvarde shook
just a tiny bit as he watched her. He drew Nans aside for a private
conference, and hurriedly led her to a seat by the tree. Despite his best
effort, the aging lord was practically babbling as he watched Dynanna draw a
chair up next to Isranon and slide her arm around his shoulder, teasing and
laughing. Anksha immediately repeated her odd, cat-like push between them,
wiggling herself up until she had separated them and moved onto Isranon's lap.
He tousled her hair and she purred. Dynanna smiled oddly and gave them a
little more space.

Nans looked at Edvarde and then at 'Joseth.' "What's wrong with you?"

"Uh, nothing. Nothing at all. I mean, just that Joseth seems to have set her
cap for your mage."

Nans laughed. "Every time we show up she sets her cap for someone. She hasn't
caught one yet. Last time it was Itch." A shadow passed over her and she fell
silent a moment in remembrance of the mon. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"I won't then. As I was saying…" His nerves did not settle until Dynanna left
the hall.

"You haven't asked once about Itch," Nans said with a sudden bitter turn.
"You have been so obsessed with getting stories from all these new faces, that
you haven't noticed the missing ones…."

Edvarde blinked. "What do you mean?" He scanned the hall.

"Itch Hollens is dead."

Volo approached them with another bottle of wine. He opened it and offered to
pour, listening closely to everything being said around him. Nans took the
bottle from him and waved him off. Volo left, heading back to the main table.

"Oh, gods, no." Edvarde could not think for a moment.

Nans sucked in a deep breath. "So are Dorys and Timfinn and Brierly. It
happened at Minnoras."

Edvarde blinked, his mind reeling. "You were there? When it fell I mean?"

Nans nodded, folding her hands together on the table. "Yes. So, okay, I'm
going to give you this single story. Maybe you will have a better idea than I
what to do with the information. If you still can, you should get it to
Amberlin and Lokynen."

"I don't know how much help Amberlin will be … their first child … its due in
late summer. However, Amberlin can get word to Lokynen wherever he might be."

Then Nans told Edvarde about Minnoras and how she met Isranon.

* * * *

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Dynanna came from the kitchens at the head of the servants who were placing
the serving dishes on the tables. She spied Nans and dropped her head to
conceal the daggers she was looking at her sister. Nans was always so
infuriatingly proper, honorable, and cautious. She was also an incredible bore
who had ruined Dynanna's fun on more than one occasion.

Isranon smiled up at her as she set his plate in front of him and wrapped an
arm around his shoulders. He was one sweet male. If she had known that his
people existed centuries ago, she would have gone looking for them. Well, at
least she had him. Dynanna Read her mage–she refused to think of him as
sa'necari–and flushed, feeling her anger rise. They were supposed to be taking
good care of him. He was so sick and weak that a serious attack could kill him
and he was on the verge of another one. Dynanna had never Read anyone who
suffered from a divinator's injuries. Dynanna had only encountered one other
person injured by a divinator. Her brother had Read that one. They had been
unable to save her. These embedded spells, now that she investigated them,
were unlike anything she had ever seen before. She was not sure what to make
of them and decided that Nevin must have been talking around the edges of what
had originally happened so as to not state that Isranon was a sa'necari. Made
sense.

She was still less than a quarter of the way through her many hoards and had
not found half of what she wanted to bring. At least she had found the staff.
But what the hell had her royal rangerness of a sister been doing or not doing
for that matter that had let her mage get in such a terrible shape? She had a
good mind to give Nans a case of hives that would have her scratching for a
month of Willodays.

Dynanna's lips pressed tightly together as she gave a curt nod in Jeevys's
direction and she slipped away from the room, to pause in the hall. Jeevys
arrived promptly and she whispered to the castellan. "Tell his lordship that
his favorite peddler will arrive in three days with presents." Then she
snapped her fingers and vanished.

* * * *

Isranon the Hawk of May, great-grandson of Nighthand, had grown old. Seeing
howthe Waejonans were passing the legacy down, Nighthand had insisted that
both his son and his grandson practice the same ugly passage. The Hawk had
outlived his son and his grandson was a mere youth of fourteen. They had also
begun a tradition of naming their first-born sons Isranon and adding a middle
name or an epithet to differentiate them.

The younger Isranon was shy and sensitive, not at all comfortable with having
been born sa'necari. Half the time the Hawk did not know what to do with the
boy. He and his son, the boy's father, had plunged into the rites with vigor
and manly determination to protect their families. Young Isranon quailed at
learning the words of the rites and even had trouble getting his fangs down to
properly feed. The Hawk had thus far resisted King Beilal's desires to force
the boy into the rites. Only his influence and the degree of magical powers
the Hawk possessed had so far protected him.

At Beilal's command, he waited in an audience chamber of the palace for the
king to join him, and felt certain that the subject of their conversation was
to be his grandson.

Beilal swept in with three of his sycophants and settled into a chair
opposite the Hawk. His face was flushed with excitement. "We rooted out
another band of the Dark Brothers of the Light. I have already declared
tomorrow a holiday so that everyone can witness the impalements."

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The Hawk forced a smile. "That is good news, Majesty. You will root out this
heresy very quickly at this rate."

Beilal smirked. "Yes, I will."

"Is this what you invited me here for? To share in your victory?"

Beilal leaned forward and clapped the Hawk on the shoulder. "Partly. I want
you and your grandson to attend. I am recreating the Sowayn celebration at
which your ancestor was first blooded in the rites. Young Isranon will be
blooded there with great pomp and ceremony. It will be a grand event."

The Hawk smiled politely, hoping that it would not be a true recreation:
Nighthand had rited his youngest sister. "I appreciate the honor you are
offering my family, but my grandson is not ready."

Beilal scowled. "The boy was ready the moment he was able to stick his rod in
a girl. I have it on good authority that he has already begun to do that with
your nibari."

The Hawk stiffened. "The servants have been talking. You know how that is …
they see a kiss and think it is a fuck."

Beilal's scowl melted into a poison smile. "Are you certain you wish to deny
that your grandson is greasing his spear?"

The Hawk straightened, trying to walk that careful line between defiance and
acquiescence. He did not wish to provoke Beilal, but neither did he wish to
submit. "What proof do you have of this?"

Beilal laughed and called for his guards. They dragged a battered female
nibari into the room. Beilal cupped her chin and tilted her face up. The Hawk
almost did not recognize her and then she registered as one that Isranon had
played with since childhood. "Tell him what you told me. Isranon has been
dipping his dagger in your chalice for months."

Tears ran down her cheeks. "Isranon and I… we've been fucking for months."

"Satisfied?" Beilal sneered. "You will bring him tomorrow. If you force me to
come for him, it will be with fire and sword."

The Hawk's thin shoulders sagged. "I will bring him."

"Good." Beilal drew his blade and shoved it upward beneath the nibari's
breastbone, angling it through her heart. She jerked with a dying moan. Beilal
shoved the blade around several times just to watch her body move. Then he
passed the corpse to his sycophants who fastened upon it for a drink.

The Hawk felt sickened by the excesses of the intransigent young king. "May I
leave now, Majesty? It will take time to ready my grandson."

"Of course."

The Hawk felt his centuries of existence heavily as he left the palace,
riding home troubled in mind and spirit. He had begun to suspect over the past
months that someone was teaching the younger Isranon the ways of the Dark
Brothers. The long ride gave him time to consider which of the sa'necari
dwelling on his property might be the one doing so. His thoughts kept being
drawn back to Sauman, who always found a reason to be absent whenever a

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holiday required the performance of the rites. Sauman was also one of the few
sa'necari preferring to live alone at the edges of the grounds in a small
cottage. The mon owned only three nibari, which meant he had to be a very
light feeder.

Arriving at his estate, the Hawk turned his mount away from the stables and
rode south across the greensward to a small cottage among a stand of rowans.
The rowans were also an oddity: most sa'necari disliked those trees for their
negating effects upon dark magic. He dismounted and tied his horse to a post
in front of Sauman's cottage. Walking around to the back, he found the
sa'necari working in his garden with his nibari.

Sauman was slight of build, wiry and nimble. He scrambled to his feet when
hesaw the Hawk and stood brushing off his robes. "My Lord, it is always good
to see you. Please come inside and I will make you some tea. Toli made fresh
crescent cakes this morning, you will like them."

The Hawk gave a curt nod and followed Sauman into the cottage. It was cozy
and warm to his arcane senses. There had never been a single act of violence
here, or he would have smelled it. "I wish to speak to you about my grandson."

Sauman looked startled and covered it quickly by putting a kettle on the
stove to heat the tea water. "Of course, lord, what is it you wish to know?"

"Are you a Dark Brother?"

"No, lord! Whatever makes you ask that?"

"Because someone is teaching my grandson."

"Not me, lord."

The Hawk frowned, sensing distress in the mon's voice and aura. He was not
considered one of the most powerful sa'necari in Waejontor without reason. He
couldtaste the lies in the mon. "Show me your eyes."

Sauman hesitated. "Lord, please…. I have never done anything to hurt you, or
your family."

"Show me your eyes," the Hawk growled. "Show me your true eyes."

Sauman began to weep. "Please, lord, just let us go."

The Hawk nodded. "I intend to."

"Lord?" Sauman's voice caught between desperation and incredulity.

"Tonight, you will take my grandchildren and flee this place. King Beilal has
ordered Isranon to be forced into the rites tomorrow, possibly with his little
sister as victim. Instead, you will take him and his sisters far from here.
You will hide them and bring them up in your ways."

Sauman came to the Hawk and fell to his knees before him. "Do you know what
you are doing? The king–"

"Yes. When we do not appear tomorrow, the king will come here, bringing fire,
swords, and magic. All who remain will die, including myself. But I am old,
Sauman. I am no loss. I will hold them off as long as I can, force them to pay
in blood for every inch of this estate."

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Then he thought of his long dead wife, a powerful mage captured in one of the
wars with Shaurone. Two sa'necari had been in the process of riting her when
he demanded her for his own and took her away. In the beginning he had tried
to break her, permanently severing her connections to her magic and forcing
her into his bed; in the end the indomitable spitfire had mastered him. With
his sylvan genes from his ancestor, Dawnhand, he had outlived her by
centuries. She would have approved of his actions here. "Josina, may your
spirit watch over them."

Isranon woke with tears in his eyes. He knew how the Hawk's tale ended; it
was family legend. The Hawk and his two sa'necari daughters mounted a powerful
defense of the estate to cover the escape of his grandchildren. Then a traitor
planted in their ranks two years earlier by Beilal betrayed them into
captivity. The Hawk was forced to watch his daughters impaled and was,
himself, taken in mortgiefan by Beilal. Thus the mystic inheritance of
Dawnhand's lineage, carefully fostered by Nighthand and his first three
descendants, passed into the arcane Legacy of Waejonan.

He wished he could share his stories with Edvarde, have them written down at
last where they could be remembered. The suffering and struggles of his
people, especially the Dark Brothers, should be a lesson in tolerance for the
world.

CHAPTER NINE. the peddler

They had come south in hopes of crossing the Sharani borders and eventually
moving on into foreign lands where no one would notice what they were, to
possibly found a new city state in the wildernesses where the Dark Brothers
could flourish in peace with their families and their nibari. Isranon, tenth
of his name, called the Ghostsinger, was sixteen when he and his father
decided to try the Sharani border. They had left a small band of their people
hidden on the Waejontori side while they scouted.

Ghostsinger heard horses before he saw the riders and sprang to his feet. His
father remained sitting by their fire. Ten women rode into view, they were
large and strong, as heavily muscled through the chest and shoulders as men.
One of them worethe crimson robes of a fighting priest of Aroana, a bradae in
the color that would not show the enemy their blood. The leader appeared to be
a ha'taren, paladin of Aroana. A green surcoat covered her chain, a golden
gryphon rampant of Danae on her chest and the unicorn of Aroana on her
shoulder. The rest were myn-at-arms in Danae colors.

Tension threaded Ghostsinger's muscles with hot wires of fear. He and his
father had known they were taking dangerous chances along this border, yet
they had hoped to find a way past the patrols–especially since there had been
no wars between Shaurone and Waejontor in a generation. They had prayed that
Shaurone had finally let their guard down enough for them to get across.

"What are you doing here?" the ha'taren demanded.

"We are poor travelers," his father said without rising.

The ha'taren shrugged. "Poor travelers, eh? We'll see." She gestured at one
of the soldiers. "Search their packs."

The priest eyed them intensely, her grey eyes narrowing. It made Ghostsinger
wary. Could she perceive what they were with only a glance?

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The soldier dismounted and began rummaging through their belongings, throwing
everything into a heap upon the ground. "Clothes. Food. Three bottles of
wine."

"Past me one of the bottles," the ha'taren ordered and Ghostsinger felt his
throat tighten and his stomach clench. The soldier passed it up. The ha'taren
tore the bottle open, tasted, and spat it out. Instantly her face transformed
into a savage mask of hatred. "Sa'necari! It's spiked with blood."

The priest came down from her horse with a bound and seized his father by the
throat before either of them could move. Ghostsinger felt her power rise and
realized she was a mage and she was Reading his father. He scrambled to his
feet only to see one of them aim a crossbow at him.

"Sa'necari, yes. Probably both of them."

"Please, we mean you no harm," his father said. "We have never participated
in the rites. We are Dark Brothers of the Light." Then he spoke the words of
their creed.

Ghostsinger looked from face to face, finding only guarded eyes and harsh
visages. This did not bode well. His skin crawled to match the tension in his
muscles. His stomach clenched.

"Read him again," the ha'taren ordered more quietly now after hearing the
entirety of the creed.

For an instant Ghostsinger felt a fluttering of hope like will o'wisps in his
middle, desperately wishing that his father's words had made a difference.

The priest did so and her face turned thoughtful. "It is as he says. He has
never taken a life in the rites."

"Interesting. Bind them."

The priest produced strands of spellcords from her pouch and two silver seals
with the Aroanan rune upon them. The seals would kill the corded person if the
cords were interfered with.

Ghostsinger panicked, thinking of his young bride who already carried their
first child. The thought of what his death would do to her, to his unborn son,
made him cry out, "Nooooo!"

"Peace, my son," said his father. "We cannot teach, if we do not risk."

The priest finished spellcording his father and bound his wrists together
behind his back. "I would know more of these Dark Brothers."

"There is nothing to know, priest," the ha'taren said. "The law is explicit.
They burn."

It was as he had feared, and Ghostsinger erupted into action as the priest
reached for his own wrists with the deadly cords. By their laws he could not
attack a sapient being, so he struck down their horses instead. His magic
swept out in a black scythe of power and the animals fell screaming. Some of
the soldiers were pinned beneath their horses, three were thrown free.
Ghostsinger raced from the camp before they could recover from his assault. He
ran until his breath was burning in his lungs and the muscles of his legs
trembled with exhaustion. When he could run no more, he crawled beneath a
fallen tree, settling into a depression of the earth created by its broken

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branches and lay sobbing. Eventually sleep came.

When Ghostsinger woke at first light, he knew what he needed to do, and
finding his courage, he returned to where he had camped with his father. He
could not abandon him if there were any possibility of rescue. The soldiers
had taken the older mon away, so he tracked them. It took him four days to
find the Sharani camp. In the end, it was his father's screams that betrayed
their location.

He estimated there were at least thirty soldiers here. People moved about in
all directions, but most were gathered to watch the entertainment provided by
his father's suffering. Ghostsinger crouched low, keeping to the shadows, and
made his way between the tents until he could see what they were doing. He
heard two soldiers making bets on how long it would take his father to die and
others betting on whether the sa'necari would die from the torture or wait to
be burned. All around the camp, they were laughing and jeering.

His father hung suspended by his arms between two poles while one mon applied
hot irons to his privates and another struck him with a scorpion-whip, its
ugly barbs gouging his flesh. Soldiers paused in their gathering of wood in
order to spit at his father.

Shock hollowed out Ghostsinger's emotions. Grief would come later. He had
never expected those who served the Light to be as savage as those who served
the Dark. The ha'taren walked up to his father and lifted his head. Firelight
glistened on his father's bloody face; and that was when Ghostsinger saw the
reddened, charred sockets where his eyes had been. Bile rose from his stomach
to his throat, hot and burning. He clenched his fists as much in anger at
himself as at his father's tormentors. If only he had not panicked, maybe he
could have gotten his father out with him.

The ha'taren gave a nod and released his father's head, walking away. Tears
ran down Ghostsinger's face as he watched his father sag in his bonds. The
soldier stacked the faggotsaround his father's feet, threw oil on his father,
and set it all burning. His father's screams cut like a blade through his
heart and Ghostsinger knew he had to act. He could not allow his father to die
like that. He straightened, lifted his hand, and called power. A lance of
black energy shafted through the camp and struck his father through the chest,
killing him instantly.

A cry of 'sa'necari' erupted and several soldiers ran in his direction.
Ghostsinger raced to the pickets, snatched up a horse for himself, and freed
the rest. A blast of magic sent the animals racing off in terror. Then he rode
away in the confusion.

Isranon clutched at Nevin's ruff, awakening the lycan. He feared having
another dream journey. The drugs for pain might give him that. Drugs … he was
so dependant on them, to keep both the physical pain and the emotional
suffering at bay. He saw the bottle on the table, but he knew he was not
strong enough to stand and reach it.

"Pollendine," he gasped. "Pain won't let me rest."Oh, Gods of Light, was
there no way out for us? Now that I am the only one left, why have you given
me a path? Why not them? I have broken all the precepts. I put the blade
throughTroyes ' heart. I killed sa'necari when they made me walk the gauntlet.
I am not as pure and gentle as they were. Why me?

Nevin jumped off the bed and changed, pouring a measure of the purple liquid
without so much as a question.

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His body shaking, Isranon released the images from the dream vision. If Nans
had not demanded that Isranon be judged fairly and openly, Gaeatyra would
happily have done the same to him as those Sharani had done to Ghostsinger's
father. Somehow he had to prove to the Gods of Light and the people he met
along the way that just because a mon was born to monsters did not mean he
would embrace their ways. "Please, Gods, judge me by my actions and not by my
birth."

Nevin returned with the pollendine and braced Isranon's hands in his as he
drank.

Unnoticed by Nevin in the urgency of the moment, soft footfalls disappeared
down the hallway as Volo hurried back to his room after listening by the
keyhole.

* * * *

Lord Edvarde's insatiable curiosity and an equal resilience brought him
bounding back from the start that Dynanna had given him. Nans was keeping
secrets. Fourteen of his guests never ate, though they took a little wine at
the table. He trusted Nans implicitly, so he was not unduly alarmed when his
suspicions were borne out. By peeping through the keyhole at midnight, he
caught Zulaika trysting with and feeding upon Willa, their embraces
impassioned and twining. He listened and watched as long as he dared, finding
that his loins reacted more strongly than they had in years, enough so that he
went looking for one of the chambermaids to ease himself with, carrying a
pocketful of pretties as an enticement–he never took anything for granted.
There were times when it seemed the servants ran him–not the other way
around–especially when they were female.

Edvarde spent the rest of the night with a lovely young girl of eighteen who
worked in the kitchens under Joseth, and had no qualms about warming her
lord's bed in exchange for the pretties he offered. The next morning, Edvarde
made certain that he was the first one downstairs. He took his place by the
solstice tree and gestured for Nans to come sit by him as the first of her
companions trailed into the hall. By the time he started speaking, several of
them had gathered in the hall around the fire.

Travis and Luck were sitting on a sofa, and Darianna was curled beneath a
table near Travis's feet in wolf form. Nans occupied the chair nearest to
Isranon; while Zulaika, Amiri and a handful of the Ymraudes were scattered
through the hall, some sitting and others standing. Haig had his arm around
Nainee on the farthest side of the room. Nevin and Olin had managed to invade
Joseth's kitchen, escaping with roast beef sandwiches while breakfast was
still being prepared, and sat eating them.

"You have brought me the strangest tale of all, Nans," Edvarde said, sitting
by his solstice tree with a cup of mulled wine, a smug expression on his face.
He spoke loudly as if making a proclamation, his shoulders back, and his
attitude that of a cheeky schoolboy defying his teachers with a forbidden
truth.

"What are you talking about?" Nans asked.

"I finally figured it out. All this privacy. At least one of your party is a
vampire and I'm certain that you know it." He pointed at Zulaika. "I caught
her feeding and trysting with her, what did you call her? Nibblet." He jabbed
his finger at Willa triumphantly.

"Nibari." Nans growled the correction.

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The warning in her voice was completely lost on Edvarde who prattled on
happily. "I've always wanted to meet a real vampire, you know. Imagine that!
An interview with a vampire! I want to write it all down." He smacked a sheet
of paper. "I've made a list of questions. I want to write it all down, I say."

"Now we're in for it," Travis muttered, drawing a glance and a nod from Luck.
The lycan he called Smokey watched him from beneath a table.

Zulaika started to speak after a glance at Nans, who shrugged, but it was
Isranon who spoke first. The mage pushed himself up and Haig and Nevin both
reacted at once, moving pillows to his back. What came from his lips was
nothing that Lord Edvarde had ever expected to hear or could have conceived of
existing.

Isranon's shoulders straightened as he found a core of strength in his will
that transcended his body's weakness. "I am the Dark Brother of the Light,
last of my kind. The Darkness hunts me and the Light will not have me," he
said.

The pure clean glow of Isranon's soul shone through his dark eyes. A spirit
shiver raised the hairs on Edvarde's arms.

"Do you always have to be so damned honest?" Travis shouted.

Isranon tilted his head up, thrust his shoulders back, and got that hard
proud look in his eyes. "I am what I am and I will not be less than that."

"Now I get my story!" Edvarde exclaimed, clapping his hands. "All of it!"

Nans growled. "Edvarde, one of these days your curiosity will get you into a
hole deeper than you can crawl out of."

"Nans!" Edvarde exclaimed.

Isranon sucked in a fortifying breath as he began the words of the 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…."

Edvarde's eyes turned to saucers. This was already sounding like one of the
harshest, most unyielding codes of pacifism he had ever heard. Warriors had
creeds this powerful… but a pacifist?

"Let each mon go to his own path, but these are ours," Isranon continued.
"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."

A haunted light had come into Isranon's eyes. Edvarde shivered and could not
speak.

"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." Isranon finished and scanned the room.

The hall had grown silent. Not even Nans had heard all of it before.

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"Dawnreturning, you are a battle mage. You emerged into the light," Nans said.

"I betrayed the creed… I have fought and killed." Isranon's eyes softened and
he lowered them to his lap. "I am the first of my people that the light ever
reached out its hand to and accepted. Even before I met you, Nans, when the
opportunity presented, I killed sa'necari. I killed my first at fourteen. He
was chasing me. I shot him and then cut his heart out. I freed the souls
trapped on their blades. I do not know where my power comes from. Isranon
Dawnhand was my ancestor and his power was similar to that of the Abelards. He
was a pan-elementalist. I am told that the wife of the Hawk was also like that
before her powers were stripped from her. Perhaps that is it. My full name, as
I style it now, is Isranon Dawnreturning. The sa'nekaryiane is hunting me, so
I gave myself the name Dawnreturning to hide behind."

"I will write it all down," Edvarde said.

Isranon smiled, trust lighting his face. "But you will not call me Isranon in
your stories."

"You have my word." Edvarde stared at Zulaika. "I've always wondered what it
would feel like to be bitten."

"Oooooh, noooo," Nans said. "We are not going there."

"I've always heard it is a wondrous thing, paradise. Willa sounded like she
was enraptured. It would be so fine an addition to my research. I could
describe it at length." Edvarde scanned their faces, appealing to them with
his eyes. "I want to be bitten."

"The only person apt to bite you is me," Nans growled and ran at him.

Edvarde gave a squeal, only half kidding and fled with Nans in pursuit.

Travis chuckled, and then noticed how the others stared. "They were children
together. Buddies. Maybe once something more, but they don't discuss that. He
rode with her forty years ago. She'll catch him and have a long, private
discussion about how that last comment was out of line."

The gray wolf slipped from beneath a table, curling at Travis's feet. He
scratched behind her ears. "You sure are a pretty one, Smokey," he said.

"We're not pets, Travis," Nevin growled.

"I know that."

"Then call her by name. Darianna. Not Smokey."

The wolf gave a small bark at Nevin that earned her a disgusted look from
him. The scarred lycan made a fending off gesture and moved closer to Isranon,
refusing to look at either one of them.

* * * *

Volo had just begun to lean against the closed door into the main hall and
listen, when Joseth appeared with a ladle.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded. "You know Lord Edvarde wants
this to be a private conversation with his new friends."

Volo sighed. "Of course, Joseth. But aren't you just the least bit curious?"

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"That's not the issue. Get outside and fetch in more firewood. Lord Edvarde
will ring if he needs you."

Volo nodded and left. He trudged through the kitchen, muttering to himself
about ugly human women. It was becoming clearer to him that the only way to
reach Isranon, assuming that by some incredible chance that he was indeed the
same mon as Dawnreturning, was to somehow force the issue.

He went through the kitchen and out the door to the shed where the wood was
stacked. According to very reliable sources, Isranon was suffering from having
been stabbed with divinator blades. Perhaps provoking another attack in him
would both provide the opportunity Volo needed and reveal just how they had
been keeping him alive this long.

* * * *

Nans saw nothing imposing about the little old mon in simple black robes who
appeared two days later at Edvarde's with two children in tow. She was hump
backed and bent with age, the lines and folds of her face were worn deep, her
nose hooked. Her stunted gait carried her along at a shuffle and she leaned
upon a shagbark hickory staff with a shepherd's crook at the top. Nans doubted
that the mon could ever have been pretty, even when she was young.

The children were another matter. They were beautiful. The boy looked about
nine and the girl twelve. She had large, soulful eyes and a quiet manner; her
marmalade hair, hanging loose to her waist, had a habit of sliding forward
around her delicate face. Sugar carried a twig broom in the bend of her elbow,
never setting it aside. The broom appeared to have been made for her like a
toy to play with.

The boy, Pie, wore a sheepskin-lined cap with flaps hanging over his ears,
and his red hair stuck out around it like a sunburst. Freckles sprinkled his
impish nose and round cheeks that topped a broad, eager grin like a puppy
ready to play.

Edvarde sparkled with joy as he showed her in. "She's here!" he cried. "I
want a bunch of you," he indicated his guests, "to go out and bring in her
wares. I don't trust the servants to handle them carefully enough. There are
simply boxes and boxes. And three stacks of staves." He clapped his hands
together with excitement.

Travis and Haig shrugged and headed out, with some of their companions
trailing, to bring them in.

"I am Dyna, a seller of used magical items," Dynanna said, in a voice cracked
and frayed. "These are my grand children, Pie and Sugar." She bowed as
respectfully as her twisted body could manage.

Nans caught a familiar taste of power rising from the mon, but it was gone
too swiftly for the ranger captain to identify it.

Nevin helped Isranon to his feet, handing him the walking stick Travis had
fashioned for him from sturdy oak. With the stick in one hand and Nevin's arm
shouldering most of his weight, Isranon reached a chair that had been brought
close to sit and see it all. Isranon's face lit up as he saw the children,
instantly captivated by them. Children had that effect upon him, especially
those he had encountered since he began to travel with the people of the
light. Even Anksha seemed charmed, snatching some candies from a bowl on the
table to give them.

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Amiri went to them immediately and hugged each child in turn. Then she
straightened and hugged Dyna. "You remember me, don't you?"

"Yup," Dynanna said. "One of my best customers." Then she turned to her
'grandchildren.' "You remember Amiri?"

Pieface nodded, grinning. "You're the one who's always telling me there are
no such things as soggy camels that fly."

Amiri laughed. She never knew what might come out of the little boy's mouth
and he delighted her. "I'd like to buy a large quantity of those globes of
Beast Repellant if you have them."

"Certainly do," Dynanna said and nodded at Pieface. The disguised Badree Nym
dug in the first chest to be set down beside them, and brought out five large
sacks of the magical glass globes.

Amiri peered into the sacks as they were passed to her, seeing green, orange
and black globes in them. She grinned and paid for her goods.

Edvarde's eyes glowed as Dynanna opened two chests of books and he set to
going through them greedily. Soon everyone was crowded near to see and even
Nans was poking through a bit out of curiosity.

A veritable hoard of goodies and three stacks of bundled staves came into the
great hall and were deposited in the middle. Dynanna unbundled the staves, and
went through them quickly. She came up with an absolutely impossible staff
that Isranon would never have considered touching. For one thing it would have
taken a mon of heroic strength to handle: six feet of hard rock maple, its
butt sheathed in nine inches of diamond that had been magically grown onto it
and incised with Kalirioni runes. The entire length of it was intricately
runed amid vines and leaves in jeweled inlays. The upper body, head, and wings
of a pegasus topped it, so solidly done in heavy burnished kenda'ryl that it
could be used to strike with that end also. Even from where he sat he could
feel the power and energy coiled around it. It was both a master's and a
warrior's staff.

"This is the staff you want," said Dyna. "This is the proper staff for a fine
young battle mage."

"I could never lift it. Much less wield it," Isranon said, resentment at his
condition flaring fresh and hot, making it hard to keep the bitterness out of
his voice.

"That's the one!" Edvarde shouted, looking up from the books. "That's the
one! It's perfect."

"Don't look a gift staff in the mouth, young mage. I make it a present to
you," Dynanna said in a very firm tone.

Isranon shook his head, but acquiesced. "So be it."

Then she went to the books, going through those just as rapidly as she had
the staves. Dynanna popped up with four. She plopped these in Isranon's lap.
"More solstice presents. No charge."

"Is she always like this? How does she make a living?" Nans asked.

"I don't know. She always does. I have to force gold on her," answered

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Edvarde.

Dynanna made certain that everyone had a present, including the nibari and
the servants. She and her 'grandchildren' stayed for dinner and then took the
remainder of her goods and departed.

* * * *

Amiri examined the staff interestedly, feeling the intense power woven into
it. "You should, at least, touch it, Isranon. Dyna knows her merchandise."

"No." Isranon continued to refuse to touch the staff. He felt depressed. He
wanted the staff, but it reminded him of all that he had lost. The staff was
beautiful and seemed to call out to him, yet he did not want to try and lift
it only to find that he could not even bring it onto his lap in his weakened
condition. Better to reject it than to be disappointed. Better not to ask for
something than to reach out and be denied.Damn you, Bodramet, damn you.

"Isranon," Amiri said patiently. "Back at the shrine, Dynanna told you not to
refuse a staff if it were offered you, that it might be Warrior."

"That isn't Warrior," Isranon said morosely. The near-constant pain in his
body left him exhausted and depressed. He knew that his suffering tended to
cloud his thinking at times, yet he refused to unbend and acknowledge that
Amiri could be right. He didn't want her to be right, not now, not when he
could barely manage anything for himself. It was too late for Warrior to come
into his life.

Amiri would have none of that and persisted. "Are you certain? Do you clearly
remember the staff from your dreams?"

Isranon shook his head. "No. I told you before, Amiri, I was not able to hold
onto that. Amiri, even if this were Warrior … I haven't the strength left to
lift it, much less wield it."

"Isranon, just touch it."

"No."

Isranon huddled into his chair, drawing Edvarde's buffalo robe more tightly
around him. Life seemed hopeless and empty. He could not even manage more than
a spark of anger at Bodramet and the others for doing this to him; for hurting
him this terribly. "I need the Rose, and there isn't any."

"I'll talk to Nans. Now that we're camped for the winter, perhaps we can hold
a hunt soon. For the moment, perhaps your flute?" Amiri suggested kindly. "You
haven't played it in a long time."

Isranon shook his head. "It doesn't comfort me any longer."There is no
comfort for me. His hand slipped inside his robes to touch the godmark on his
shoulder.Dynanna, where are you? I need you.

CHAPTER TEN. The staff of dawnhand

Volo carried the breakfast tray up, pausing just outside the door to stroke
the glass of holadil and amphereon, sketching the spell along it in invisible
lines. Then he entered. Randilyn and Willa were both there. He extended the
tray to Randilyn who took it from him. Volo bowed, and then followed them into

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the bedroom. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sweet ladies?"

Willa laughed and Randilyn giggled.

"That is all for now, Grey," Willa said.

Randilyn settled the tray on the bedside table and brought Isranon the
medicine.

Isranon grinned at them. "Give me lessons, Grey. They don't do that for me."

"Whenever you're ready." Volo watched him drink the medicine and began to
count silently, bowing himself out. He continued to count, smiling and nodding
to each person he passed, reached the first landing on the stairs down, and
paused.

* * * *

Isranon rested against the pile of pillows as Randilyn continued to put small
bites of meat and vegetables into his mouth. A strange feeling came over him,
dizziness followed by a sudden rush of cramping pain. He hunched forward,
doubling over, head between his knees, his hands curled into claws. His breath
came in struggling gasps, his lungs grabbing at the air in desperate pulls.
Spasming, he bumped the bowl in Randilyn's hand. It fell to the floor,
shattering and spilling its contents.

Randilyn screamed, springing back from the hot stinging broth.

All of his muscles began to jerk and twitch, his eyes rolled up in his head.
Then, with a twist, his convulsing body fell to the floor, dragging the
blankets with him–which was all that prevented his being severely cut by
fragments of the broken bowl. Blood streaked his hands and arms.

Willa appeared in the bedroom with her book of poetry in one hand, drawn more
by the sound of Isranon's bowl splintering than by Randilyn's screams–everyone
knew about Randilyn's screams. Randi was always screaming; it was a flinch
reaction with her, which she could not control and people maliciously liked to
set it off–Nans had had to severely threaten the entire company to put a stop
to that nonsense.

She laid the book on a shelf, ran across to Randilyn, and smacked her cheeks
to bring her out of it. Then Willa started shouting for help.

Isranon continued to jerk and spasm for several moments and then went still.

The door opened and Nevin burst into the room.

* * * *

Walking along the corridor from the salle with Olin, Nevin looked up at the
sound of Randilyn's scream. "That one…." Nevin growled disparagingly. "She's
doing it again."

Olin laughed. "A mouse probably. Some little thing."

Then they heard Willa, and Nevin broke into a run. He reached the door first
as more people started coming up the stairs and emerging from rooms along the
corridor. Nevin shoved the door open, entered the sitting room, and focused on
the bedroom, which was where the screams were coming from. "Isranon."

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Nevin burst into the bedroom and saw Willa trying to reach Isranon's still
form and lift it free of the broken glass. He shoved her out of the way,
changing into his transitional form and got Isranon clear. The lycan settled
on the floor holding him gathered into his arms, pressed against his chest,
the top of the mage's head touching the hollow of the lycan's throat.

Blood spread across Isranon's chest and along his sides as the wounds
re-created themselves in his flesh. Nevin heard other people arriving, but did
not look to see whom.

Zulaika touched his shoulder and Nevin's lips drew back in a snarl. "Dawwn't.
Dawwn't." His northern lycan brogue had thickened with his tightening voice;
his eyes were full and moist, his cheeks damp.

"Nevin, I need to check him," Zulaika persisted.

"I cawn't feel … him. I think he's gone…" Each word was an effort to speak,
as if it was torn out of his heart. Anksha crept to his side, followed by some
of the other lycans, who filed slowly into the room. In his deepening
distress, Nevin–who had been so valiantly stoic for so long–was shifting
further and further into his transitional form, his snout lengthening, fur
sprouting over his face and spreading across the backs of his hands.

Anksha shoved Zulaika away motioning her toward the far side of the room.
Olin slipped to Nevin's side on his belly, bumping his elbow persistently with
his big wet nose until he had it pressed under his arm and against Isranon's
ribs to sniff him. Willa sat on the floor, hugging Randilyn tightly. The
younger nibari had subsided from hysterics to quiet sobbing.

* * * *

Nans found people gathered thickly around Isranon's door. She shoved her way
inside, pushing through the crowded sitting room and into the bedroom with
Edvarde at her side. The room teemed with lycans.

Edvarde saw the blood on Isranon's robes and a small trickle on the corners
of his mouth. "Is he dead?"

"I won't know until I've touched him," Nans answered. "The embedded spells
have recreated the wounds."

Edvarde shuddered. "That's how he looked when they cut him up?"

"Yes."

Edvarde turned sick. Nothing he had written down came close to it. None of
his stories came close to it. After a lifetime spent collecting tales of death
and grief and pain, he felt unprepared for what he saw.

Nans made her way through a sea of wolves to Isranon's side and gave Nevin a
reassuring stroke along the side of his face and muzzle. Then she touched
Isranon, closing her eyes and extending her awareness through his body. When
she spoke, without opening her eyes or ceasing her search, her voice came as
from a great distance. "He is alive. Terribly weakened. Nothing I'm doing is
giving him any strength."

"He needs troll's blood," Zulaika said, from where she stood beyond the lycan
sea. "It's the regenerative qualities. Your blood isn't the same. He's been
steadily weakening without it."

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Edvarde's eyes saucered. "That's your arcane methods, Nans, you've been
feeding him?"

Nans gave him a spirit-weary look, pushing up her sleeve to expose the
healing wounds in her arm. With her yuwenghau blood, eventually there would
not be so much as a tiny mark. "I didn't see any other choice, Edvarde. We
haven't had any troll's blood for the Sanguine Rose in over two months. I had
thought it best to try and make Treth as quickly as possible. I realize now
that we should have stopped to hunt. But I did not want to risk encountering
the Sacred King coming up theWest Bank Road . She might have killed him
without giving us a chance to argue or explain. He is godmarked–by my
sister–but that might not have counted for shit with her."

"You should have told me," Edvarde said.

"There's no reason I should tell you everything just because you've got the
curiosity of a damned cat!" Nans snapped.

"Yes, well," Edvarde said, shifting uncomfortably, still a bit stung by her
previous lecture. "This I could have helped with. I know every nest in the
woods and wilds, every haunted ruin and dark hole within a week's riding of
Ildyrsetts. I've mapped them."

"You would," Nans grinned abruptly. She lifted Isranon into bed and then
turned him over to Nevin and the others to get him settled.

"Then tomorrow we'll plan a hunt?" Edvarde asked.

"No, tonight we'll plan a hunt. I want to be underway by dawn. He hasn't much
time … a matter of days."

Volo stepped quietly from the doorway smiling, and made his way through the
watching crowd.

* * * *

In the ante-chamber of Nans' suite, Edvarde watched her mixing the drugs and
herbal infusions together for Isranon, noticing a distinctive purple one.
"Pollendine? It's that bad?"

"He's gone too long without the troll's blood and it's my fault. I
miscalculated. I thought my blood would be strong enough. Hubris. It isn't a
matter of strength. The properties aren't the same. He's hurting real bad."

"You meant well, Nans."

"Meaning well doesn't get the job done." Nans put the mixture down and turned
to face him, glaring. "It doesn't keep the mon alive. He trusts me, Edvarde.
Damn it!"

"Trust is what it is all about, isn't it Nans? Here we have a mon that
conventional wisdom says cannot be trusted and yet he has proven faithful in
every way. He has every reason not to trust us, and yet he has placed his life
in our hands with the complete and utter faith of a child. So we dare not let
him down."

Nans swallowed, her throat tightening. "Come on, I need to take this to him."

* * * *

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Volo stepped into the sitting room with an armload of wood. He heard voices
in the bedroom as he bent over the log basket near the fireplace, setting a
few logs on top of the already full pile. Then he straightened, with a glance
at the door in case someone was coming. He saw no one and proceeded to the
bedroom with the wood. He saw Willa sitting alone with Isranon.

She glanced at him. "Hello, Grey."

Volo gave her a small nod, gesturing with the wood. "I thought you might need
more. I am sorry about your friend. I hope he gets better."

"Thank you, Grey," Willa said and then turned away from him.

So, there would be no more pleasantries out of her? Well, no doubt she was
concerned about Mephistis' filthy little heretic, Isranon. The people of the
light were soft. They deserved no better than they got. Volo heard footsteps
in the outer room and hurried to the basket. He knelt and started filling it
methodically, slowly, wanting to draw it out as long as he could.

Nans and Edvarde came in. The ranger captain carried a bottle in her hands.
She poured a measure into the glass, showed it to Willa with her finger at the
top edge of the liquid. "Just this much." When Willa nodded, she helped get
Isranon up and he drank before they settled him again.

Volo watched from the corner of his eyes. He straightened when they left to
join the others in the main hall to check the maps and charts. "Is there
anything else I can bring up, Willa?" he asked.

"No. Not right now, Grey. After dinner, perhaps? Bring me something up?"

"Certainly."

* * * *

Volo watched the Rowdies mounting up with Edvarde–the aging lord insisted on
going–and a handful of his myn to act as guides for the expedition. They were
going after the trolls in strength since the creatures were such dangerous
vermin: trolls ate travelers. He saw the slender she-creature they called
Anksha among them, riding at the front with the scouts and wondered what she
was. Volo had never seen anything like her before. He searched Grey's
memories, which he had only then begun to sort through with any thoroughness,
and came up with only that she was the battle-mage's familiar. Rumor claimed
she was that strange pet of Hoon's, but then what was she doing with the mage?
Grey's thoughts where it came to Isranon became doubtful and confused.
Everyone here believed that Isranon was the mage, and Volo knew for a fact
that could not possibly be true: Dark Brothers were not battle-mages. He had
killed enough of them to know. So the mage was hiding himself for some reason,
allowing everyone to think that Isranon was he. Strange.

Volo walked into the stables, where he found two hostlers. He had placed
sealing wards on the mansion, but not upon the barns. He needed to fix that
before putting his plans into action that morning.

"I would have thought you'd want to be inside, Grey," Benjy, the older of the
myn, said to him.

Volo gave him an indolent smile. "Yes, well, I have business to prepare … so
I will not be interrupted."

"Like what?"

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"Like this." Volo placed a casual hand on Benjy's shoulder, drew his
bane-blade and shoved it in, angling it up under the hostler's breast bone,
drew it out a few inches and shoved again, spinning it through the old mon's
flesh to make certain he had torn Benjy's heart. The mon crumpled.

"What the hell! Are you mad, Grey? You've killed him." Leimar tried to back
away from Volo.

"Yes, I have." Volo moved slowly toward Leimar. The mon drew a belt knife and
lunged at the sa'necari. Volo caught his arm and broke his wrist. Leimar
kicked at him, but Volo evaded it by twisting the mon's arm and forcing him
into the straw on his face. Volo stomped Leimar between the legs and laughed
as he sobbed in pain. Then Volo put his blade between Leimar's ribs and
stopped the game. Finally he went looking for the two young stable boys. He
did not want any one to witness or interfere with his plans. It had been all
that he could do to prevent their finding the bleeding table he had prepared
for Isranon and hidden in the barn.

He found the boys hiding in one of the far stalls, huddling together like
terrified puppies. Volo licked his lips and grinned widely so they could see
his fangs. Children were his favorite meal.

* * * *

Willa watched from the window seat as the Rowdies rode out. Randilyn had
begged for a little time by the solstice tree to 'steal' some of the candies.
It was a joke between them because Dynanna, who was a patron of petty thieves,
had marked Randi. Randi claimed that she would try and get upstairs with an
entire jar of Lord Edvarde's favorites, the crunchy strawberry ones with the
liquid honey centers. Willa suspected that candy would be what Randi would
miss most when she transitioned–Tinkerer forbid that anything should ever
happen to Amiri and force it upon her.

"I wish I were going," she told Volo as he added more wood to the box.

"Surely not? Chasing dangerous beasts?" He moved closer to her, inhaling the
fragrance of her warm rich blood and the scent of lotus and jasmine she wore.

"There's nothing to fear with Anksha along. She's a demon-eater. Truly,
Grey." She protested at his grinning, teasing disbelief. "Brandrahoon's
terrible demon-eater."

Volo sobered. He had never dreamed he could be in that much danger here. It
was not the renegade he needed to fear, but the creature–perhaps it had been
Anksha who'd killed the others who came after Mephistis Waejonan's catamite
and not the mon at all. Best get this done quickly before they came back. "A
fearsome thing for one so small, Willa. Do you want me to help you with him?"

Willa brightened. "Yes. Everyone here is so thoughtful and helpful, Grey.
Especially you."

Volo went to the table. "I see you've marked the glass." He poured it,
blocking her view with his body as he added something of his own and gave it a
quick stir with his finger. He turned. "Have I done it right?"

"Yes." Willa sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Isranon's face lightly to
wake him. "Isranon, you need to take your medicine. They've gone after the
trolls. You'll have the right blood soon. But for now you need to take some of
this."

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Volo brought the glass as Isranon was stirring. "Do you want me to help you
get him up?"

"Please."

Volo placed the glass in her hands and slipped his arm beneath Isranon's
shoulders. The mage looked at him strangely in a half dream of pain and
confusion as if on the verge of knowing what he was. Volo tensed. The moment
passed as Willa distracted him with the glass. Isranon drank, and then settled
back into the blankets.

Willa tucked him in better. Volo walked to the door, followed by Willa.

"In some ways, he's better, actually, than he was months ago when Anksha
first found him. That's the yuwenghau blood, I suspect."

Yuwenghau?Volo faltered half a step. "I'm sure you're right. Shall I bring
your lunch up again or will Randilyn be relieving you?"

"Randilyn will be coming up. Thank you, Grey."

Volo smiled with a small bow and left, walking through the building to
reconnoiter. It was time to begin. He sealed all the outer doors and windows
with a snap, having set the last of the charms the night before. Most of the
nibari, being social creatures, accustomed to gathering in Timon's great hall
to await the masters' pleasures, were seated in Edvarde's main hall visiting
in a like manner. Volo locked them in. He continued to seal up each little
cluster of servants and guardsmyn until he was satisfied that there were none
to oppose him and headed back to collect his drugged prize and a delicious
Ymraude nibari. It had all proved so incredibly easy. Perhaps when this was
finished he should try for the yuwenghau too, if he could figure out which one
he or she was.

Shouting filled the mansion as people realized they were trapped in various
rooms and then louder as they discovered, to their growing horror, that all of
them were sealed in. Volo smiled serenely, entering Isranon's room. Willa
glanced up at him, holding a poker tightly clenched in her hands, standing by
Isranon's bed.

"Grey, what is happening? I tried to wake him when the shouting started, but
he doesn't wake."

"He will not wake, Willa," Volo said, watching the fear growing on her face.

Her eyes are like a frightened deer, Volo thought. He crossed to her, caught
the poker, and twisted it easily from her hands, bending her over with the
force of his action. Willa cried out, a very small sound of pain and terror.
Volo shoved her aside to lift Isranon to his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Willa shrieked.

Volo turned, letting her finally see him as he really was, amaranthine eyes,
no whites, iris, or pupil–and she went for him with her nails, scratching for
those terrible eyes. Volo laughed, captured her wrists, pinioning them. He
opened the window with a word and sailed out, dragging her behind him.

* * * *

Volo threw Willa tumbling across the length of the stalls as he dumped

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Isranon by an object crudely covered in hay. He ignored her, brushing the hay
away and settling Isranon into the proper belly-down position for mortgiefan.
Willa ran to the end of the barn and started jerking at the doors, but he had
sealed them with a spell. He heard her scream of frustration at being trapped.
He slashed Isranon's pants open, fingering between his buttocks hungrily. Then
he heard her rattling among the equipment, looking for a weapon. This one
would give him a fight, so he would have to eat her first.

He stalked toward her. "Nibari, surrender to me your blood and your body. If
I like the taste of it I may decide to keep you. I have always speculated
about these jealously guarded Ymraude nibari. Rumor has it they will kill a
mon for so much as brushing against you. Much less stealing a taste."

Willa snarled, glancing about for a weapon. "You will not taste my living
flesh, abomination. I am nibari of the Ymraude, the Proud Six Hundred. I can
be slain, but not raised by you. My soul is beyond your reach."

Volo laughed. "I shall put it to the test."

Josiah coalesced out of dancing motes of pale silver and white in the shadows
of the barn near Isranon. "Wake up! Wake up, he's going to kill her."

Willa darted into a stall after a hayfork, and screamed. Benjy, Leimar, and
the two young boys' bodies lay there. The children were nude, blood on their
buttocks betraying sexual violation amidst their numerous other wounds: Volo
had rited them. She started to run and then a grim expression came on her
face. Willa snatched the hayfork down as the sa'necari reached her, and she
faced him in a crouch.

Volo laughed, striking at her mind with a lance of power only to find it
blocked. He blinked in surprise and she shoved the hayfork into his gut. Volo
stared a moment at the thing protruding from him, his face twisting at first
in pain and then rage. He caught the handle as she started to pull it free to
strike again. Volo yanked it from his body and her hands in the same move. He
struck her with the heavy wooden handle. She fell, landing on her butt,
scrambling backwards on hands and feet as he hit her repeatedly. Willa
screamed, covering her face and head with her arms as she retreated. Her
shoulders hit a wall and she could go no further. Bones cracked under his
blows and her arms fell useless to her sides. Blows continued to rain on her
head, her ribs, and any place Volo could reach in his fury. Willa slipped into
the straw and no longer moved. Volo opened her garments, filling his hands
with her large, sweet breasts, now battered. He licked the blood off, finding
it delicious, and then tore the dress all the way down and stared. Willa was
male.

Volo shrank back, uncertain what this meant, the infantile, almost cherubic
quality of the organ between her legs, the ample breasts, so decidedly female.
On the one hand he had been cheated, this was some freakish creature and on
the other hand it stank of strange magics–and what did that make the Ymraudes?
It stank of the Tinkerer. This was one glass he would not drink from.

He drew his blade and cut her throat.

The sa'necari returned to Isranon. He lifted Isranon's limp body to brush
aside all the remaining straw, fully exposing the crude bleeding table he had
constructed. Settling Isranon on the table, Volo adjusted his limbs into the
proper position, sliced his pants open to the waist, and pushed them down
around his knees. He ran his hands appreciatively over the firm flesh of
Isranon's buttocks before poising the basins to catch the blood that would
soon pour into them. The sa'necari opened his own pants and lifted himself out

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so that he could bump his flesh against Isranon's while he finished the last
of his preparations.

The discovery of Willa's nature had cost him his excited tumescence, and his
member had softened. He took spellcords from his pocket. It paid to be very
careful with someone of Isranon's recently reputed ability – something no Dark
Brother had ever had in his experience. Volo gripped Isranon's wrist, wrapping
the first cord around it, rubbing his body against Isranon's as he worked to
get his erection going. He did not need to put a seal upon it, for the Dark
Brother would never get loose from them anyway.

* * * *

Josiah screamed when he saw Volo tie the cord and reach for the next. He had
not been able to wake his friend; he did not dare allow Volo to tie that cord;
yet his only course of action was a total violation of Isranon's body.
Possession was not a thing he enjoyed … but he had no choice. The ghost slid
into Isranon's unconscious body, rolled onto his back, and hit Volo in the
face hard. The sa'necari lost his hold on the cord. Josiah tore the cord
loose, tossing it away. He always considered the circumstances under which he
fought, what lay around him. Call fire and lightning in the barn and he might
set something burning that would get out of hand, what with the straw and kegs
of oil. That was the difference between a veteran and a green mage.

The pain in Isranon's damaged body slowed him a bit, but he had been used to
pain those last years of his life and he got past it, summoning swords of ice
and fire. This was as it had been in his first life when his powers had been
whole. He gloried in it.

Volo staggered to his feet, retreating, his fingers desperately forming a
death net to entangle his opponent as the two blades came for him in a deadly
pattern.

"What the hell are you, sa'necari who fights like a battle-mage?"

"I am a battle-mage," Josiah responded.

The shock of Josiah's entry into his body and the calling of his magic by the
ghost awoke Isranon. He found himself sitting on the edge of a bleeding table,
confronted by a sa'necari who was already reaching for his spells. Then he saw
Willa's battered body and a scream of rage tore from his throat. "Bastard!"

Isranon shoved Josiah's consciousness aside, taking full control of his body
from the ghost. Josiah became an undulating pattern of light and flame around
Isranon.

Volo staggered back two steps at the arcane transformation that defied his
understanding. "What the hell are you?"

A sudden rush of knowledge and comprehension arose from deep inside Isranon,
provoked by Josiah's whispers. "I am a battle-mage. I am majios sa'necari."

Volo threw his net of dark energies at Isranon.

Isranon cut through it with the sword of fire. Blades of magic in his hands
restored the old confidence he had once known in his blades of steel and
kenda'ryl, the first given to him by Nevin and the second by his lost prince
Mephistis. Anger burned through the weakness of his body with a flood of
adrenaline greater than he had ever experienced before.

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Volo side-stepped, trying for a better angle to attack from with his spells.
He sent a lance of death at Isranon's chest.

Isranon twisted and whirled the blade of flame, creating an oval shield of
fire that turned Volo's spell.

The sa'necari bounty-hunter staggered when the power was driven back into
him. Volo screamed. "Heretic, you're meat."

Isranon barked a grim laugh. "Cockwhore." He shoved the blade of ice into
Volo's belly before the sa'necari could call another spell or shield himself.

Volo's eyes bulged and his gaze dropped to the blade in his guts, its magic
turning his entrails and organs as brittle as ice. He grabbed at his stomach,
falling to his knees, as Isranon yanked the blade out.

Isranon dismissed the blade of ice, seized Volo by his collar and threw him
belly-down on the bleeding table as if for the rites.

The bounty-hunter collapsed across the table, his head hanging down, his arms
draping the sides, half his chest over the edge. "Please," Volo begged, amidst
animal noises of pain and suffering. "Please, not the rites."

Rage still burning hot within him, Isranon picked up Volo's baneblade from
where it had fallen when Josiah tore the spellcords free, and he sliced Volo's
pants open as if he intended to rite him. Isranon stood between Volo's legs,
dismissed the fiery sword, and stood holding the bane blade. He remembered
being Nighthand in his dream vision, remembered how it had felt to commit
mortgiefan, and a hunger to sheath himself inside Volo's body roared up within
him. Volo deserved to die. He deserved the worst kind of death that Isranon
could give him. And mortgiefan would heal Isranon.

"Oh gods … to be well again … to be rid of the constant pain … To be strong
again. To walk unaided."

He remembered what it had been like to hunt with the lycans, to run freely
through the forest, tireless and proud. Images flooded his mind. The days when
he fought with his blades and won, the sound of his bowstring in his ear when
he brought down stags and boars. Isranon recalled the way it had felt to
gallop his horse across the fields with the wind whipping in his face. To have
it all back would be so marvelous. He wanted it so desperately. All it would
take was to shove his rod up Volo's ass and his blade in the sa'necari's chest
at the moment of sexual climax. He could do it. He could have it all back and
more. He would have Volo's power, and all the strength of those souls inside
himself. He would be more powerful than Bodramet.

Isranon moved close, his member hardening. He pressed his crotch against
Volo's buttocks, starting to press himself inside the sa'necari.

A long cry of despair burst from Volo's lips.

The sound made Isranon's stomach clench. He tasted Volo's desolation, his
terror, and his suffering. Suddenly, he thought of the things he would lose.
His father would be ashamed of him–but his father was dead. Nans and the other
peoples of the Light would turn their backs on him. Anksha would still love
him, he had no doubt of that; and yet how could he look her in the eyes once
he had committed the rites? The taste of Volo's death would echo in his mind
forever, the way that Risha's had in Nighthand's. It was wrong. It was wrong,
wrong, wrong. He would never be able to live with the guilt. Isranon stepped
away from Volo, unable to commit the monstrous act.

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Then a strange thing happened–a new magic awoke within Isranon, and reached
out for the sa'necari. The power touched Volo, stealing his life. Volo's head
fell limp, his eyes stared unseeing at the ground, and his lips parted. A
billowing white vapor came forth from his lips as all the souls and death the
sa'necari had taken escaped from him. This only occurred when sa'necari were
killed by the arts of the life-mages, the spirit-workers, or the touch of the
sword called Spiritdancer. Isranon had seen it in that pool of melted snow in
whose surface he had watched the Sacred King, Aejys Rowan, kill Mephistis
Coleth de Waejonan with Spiritdancer. It affected Isranon strangely, filling
him with joy and elation that those broken ghosts, those lost souls, were now
healed and free; and yet he was puzzled and frightened, because he should not
have been able to do this. His rage melted like the snows before the first
touch of spring.

"You cast his soul to the winds," Josiah murmured in amazement.

"I don't know how I did it…."

"You'll learn."

Blood spread across Isranon's tunic as the embedded spells reacted to his use
of the magic. Exhaustion came on him, weighting his body with iron. He
shivered with cold, wanting desperately to curl up in the hay and sleep, but
if he slept here he would die. He sank to his knees in the bloody straw.

The hunger came, shrieking in his gut and veins, twisting in his throat,
itching along his tongue. He gazed at the sa'necari's body. The blood was
already frosting along the edges of the tears the tines had left in Volo's
stomach. Isranon's tongue ran along the edges of his teeth and lips, feeling
his fangs appear in response to his need.

"Do what you have to do, Isranon. You are not a monster. You are simply in
need."

The mon looked delicious lying there, like venison on a silver platter.
Isranon remembered the solstice dinner Edvarde had served ... or rather, his
nose remembered. Isranon could have sworn he smelled it again as he dragged
himself toward the sa'necari. The sa'necari smelled good, as good as the
venison. Better at that moment. Was it the hunger? Was it the need? Was it the
drugs in his system, deluding his senses? Isranon reached Volo and touched the
flesh that had chilled completely in the cold air. He regarded him
dispassionately, seeing not what had once been a living mon, but only
food–food that he desperately needed–blood. Isranon nuzzled his throat. Part
of him still wanted to reject this. Then he thought he heard a flute played
far off, a sweetly haunting refrain. "I am not a monster."

Isranon picked up Volo's fallen blade and slit his throat so that the blood
would drain, then fastened to the dead mon. The cold kept his blood viable a
long time. Isranon drank his fill, his body warming. Volo had been strong, yet
he had slain him easily. Knotting the back of his torn pants to hold them up
and using the hayfork as a staff, Isranon staggered to his feet, pulled down a
horse blanket, and covered Willa before finding another to wrap himself in.

Noises came from the house and he realized that the seals had faded. His
pride roused. Too many times they had had to carry him from the field. No
more. No matter how bad it hurt. No matter how weak he felt, he would walk,
and he would walk proud. Each time he tottered and fell, Isranon hauled
himself up again with the hayfork. Limping heavily, half-stumbling, Isranon
went to meet them.

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The handful of guardsmyn that Edvarde had left behind walked with their
blades out and ready, ahead of household staff. The staff bristled with
cudgels and staves, kitchen knives and other implements, large cast iron
frying pans. They walked behind the guards. Seeing Isranon, they hurried
forward. On searching the house, they had discovered his open window and
feared the worst.

Isranon drew himself fully upright with an effort and stood swaying. "Willa
is dead. Grey was sa'necari. I killed him."

Randilyn burst into tears. Joseth lowered her frying pan and wrapped her arms
around Randilyn.

Isranon felt a sharp pang at her grief. "But for her sacrifice, I would be
dead." Then his strength gave and he crumpled in the snow. Instantly two
guardsmyn lifted him between them, walking him back to the manor.

"We're putting you straight to bed," Joseth said, taking charge.

Isranon's head got that proud obstinate tilt and he squared his shoulders.
"No. I want to sit in the big chair by the fire. I want to be around people."

One of the guardsmyn supporting him made an appreciative noise and Isranon
managed a smile.

So they made him comfortable in the big sitting room in his favorite chair by
the fire, with his feet propped up and a glass of mulled wine, wrapped in
blankets and the buffalo robe.

A servant came down stairs with the staff that Edvarde had given him for
solstice. Isranon stared at the splendid staff. He knew it would take strength
to carry it, much less wield it–a strength he no longer had. He could lean
upon it. The servant, a strong mon, had trouble with it as he brought it to
Isranon's side, resting it against the chair. Isranon could feel the power
rising from it, heat curling and shimmering, like the sun's intensity baking
the plains at the height of summer; the way it twisted vision and made solid
objects seem to dance. Isranon wanted it with the same desperate hunger he had
felt in the barn for the blood of the sa'necari. Until then he had refused to
touch it, saying, "This cannot be for me. I am sa'necari." As he looked at the
staff this time, something changed. His words came back to him–the words
Josiah had spoken with Isranon's lips before he destroyed the sa'necari, words
which Isranon had heard as from a great distance.

"I am a battle-mage. This staff is mine by right." So he reached for the
staff that he was too weak to lift, saying too softly for anyone to hear save
himself, "I am a mage. I am majios sa'necari."

Isranon twisted round, the blankets and furs sliding open, his hand closing
on the staff. The fires that swept through him were beyond joy, beyond love,
beyond ecstasy. It began in his quickening loins, his eyes closing as his mind
filled with thoughts and images of Timon.Timon … you're alive. Could your
father be also?

Timon was in a large strange room of many wooden pillars, Isranon had seen
nothing like this. There was a strange mon with a horned hound the size of a
small horse sitting beside him, listening. And–and four yuwenghau. Isranon
could sense the power rising from them. One of them was female. All around
them were myn in long robes, their heads wrapped. Then he saw others in
buckskin with tribal markings. Timon seemed at ease as he spoke to them,

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rising from his chair to point out things on a map. There was another figure
that drew Isranon's gaze, a mon wearing a lionskin jerkin and carrying a
Sharani longsword at his back. The yuwenghau gathered closer, nodding and
listening. Isranon sensed no danger here. Somehow, almost beyond belief; Timon
had made common cause with these people.

The vision faded, replaced by another.

A nude, desiccated body lay spread-eagled upon a dungeon floor, wrists
manacled and spell-corded. The once black hair looked like gray straw spread
in tangled masses around the fleshless skull. Too long without blood, Hoon's
skin had taken on the appearance of parchment with small tears through which
his bones showed. The aura of unlife still clung to him.

Isranon shuddered free of that vision, and turned his back on it.

He hefted the staff and found that it was not weighty at all; it was
comfortable, perfectly balanced and easily handled as if by some magic it
accommodated itself to his hands and needs.

"Does it have a name, Isranon?" asked Randilyn, who had finally emerged
red-eyed from her room to be with him.

"Warrior," Isranon told her, deciding to name it after the lost staff of his
ancestor. The staff warmed in his hands as if in approval. Then with a shock
he realized that he had not named the staff at all, but only recognized it.
This was Warrior, the staff of Isranon Dawnhand, his ancestor. He had the
staff. He had had the staff since solstice and been afraid to touch it.
"Warrior, you are mine by right. Dawnhand, make me worthy of your legacy."

* * * *

The front door opened and Nans and Travis strode in leading the Rowdies
prepared for battle. They all had their weapons pulled and their expressions
were hard. Anksha had her lips curled back, looking ready to chew her way
through a horde of demons. Lord Edvarde brought up the rear with a pair of his
guardsmyn.

"Is everyone all right? What happened?" Nans demanded sharply, looking about.
"Zulaika sensed Willa's death."

Everyone was talking at once then, except for Isranon.

Anksha saw Isranon, gave a cry of relief, and rushed to him, squirming onto
his lap and kissing him.

"Isranon killed the sa'necari," said Randilyn.

"We have the trolls," Nans said. She sheathed her blade and squatted beside
Isranon, Reading his injuries and sensing more changes in him. There was now
white banded with the gold and flame around the black. And the purity of his
soul had grown. She pressed a bottle of straight trolls' blood into his hands.

Isranon began to drink and color crept back into his face.

"Has anyone made certain that bastard won't rise?" Travis asked.

The looks that passed around sent Nans and Edvarde, along with half the
Rowdies racing for the barn.

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The corpse was gray and desiccated, the bones showing through. Even had
Isranon drained him completely, it would not have been like this. Volo's
remains looked months old. Moss had spread over him as if it were springtime.
Nans knelt and touched him, frowning. "It's like a spiritworker cast his soul
to the winds or a life-mage struck him down. His body is already returning to
the earth. He won't rise."

"Isranon did this?" Edvarde asked.

"He must have."

"We must talk, Nans. Privately."

"There is no need to move the body, the ground will have been cleansed by
morning," Nans gestured for the others to leave. As soon as they were alone,
Nans rounded on Edvarde. "Well say it."

"Abelard."

Epilogue

Isranon felt like a mon too long impoverished who, although he had food, did
not have much choice of it. Poor and cold and dressed in the rags of his
dreams, eating gruel and remembering what it felt like to be younger and full
of hope, believing that he could only go forward to better things. Remembering
meat on the table and fruit. He dreamed of things he had had that had slipped
out of his fingers despite his best efforts. He was too young to feel these
things; yet that did not change the fact that he felt them, that his life had
been that hard.

He kept waiting for disapproval of his nature to show in someone's eyes, yet
it did not. Still he could not stop himself expecting it. The dark ones would
not leave him alone, would not stop pursuing him. They had found the murdered
stablemyn and boys, which only compounded a pervading sense of personal guilt
in Isranon. The sa'necari and others would come after him again. They would
not stop until he was dead, and yet he could not entirely trust those of the
light either … at least those who did not know him well enough to recognize
that he was not a monster.

He frequently took refuge in the fact he had Warrior. With Warrior he could
fight them off. He could survive long enough to find healing, and perhaps even
protect those who rode with him. He kept the staff with him every waking
moment and left it leaning against his bed while he slept so that he could
slide his hands from beneath the blankets to touch it in the night.

That night Isranon could still taste the Sanguine Rose on his lips and
tongue. Anksha slept beside him. Dear, faithful Anksha; great roaring noise in
his head; his master and now his friend; she had not awakened the dominance
link in months except when forced to make his weakened body feed; and she fed
upon him gently at regular intervals to keep down the discomfort level that
could sometimes still build up in her psychic presence and maintain clarity
between them. She, who had been so brutal with her other slaves, was the very
epitome of kindness to him. He doubted that anyone understood the nature of
their relationship and he felt that it was better not to enlighten them. Nevin
and Olin were the only members of his company who were privy to all his
secrets concerning Anksha, other than Amiri who was his teacher. They told
Nans that she was his familiar spirit and let it go at that. The outlanders
knew very little of the sa'necari really beyond the results of their rites and

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depredations. His hand slid along her sleek body to the curl of her tail.

She aimed a half-hearted slap at his hand. "My tail is my own," she growled
sleepily.

"Anksha, pet. You must stop hovering about me. You must start stalking about,
sniffing for sa'necari. You must start hunting again, little one. Had you done
that, you would have found that sa'necari before he could do harm and taken
him."

"Uhmmn, you are right. I need to hunt." She nestled closer. "Now, let me
sleep. Else I'll ride you. I've not ridden in months."

"No? Why not?"

"There's no one here I could ride without taking."

"What about Haig?"

Anksha sat up. "The only vampire I've ever enjoyed riding is Hoon. We did it
standing up." When she said his name tears welled. "Hoon and Timon are dead."

Isranon caught the edge of the bed and used it to help himself sit. He
gathered her into his arms. He had kept his visions secret lest they endanger
Timon. "Anksha, Timon isn't dead. It's Ephry. And I suspect that Hoon is
alive."

Anksha stared at him. She listened to his story and then said, "You must tell
Nans. If anyone knows how to stop the sa'nekaryiane it would be Hoon."

"The sa'nekaryiane?"

Anksha pulled her thoughts together to a degree she hadn't in a long time,
shaking herself free from the instinct-driven side of her awareness. "She will
not cease pursuit until you are dead, my Isranon."

* * * *

They sat around a small table in a private parlor, just Nans, Edvarde,
Isranon, and Anksha. Jeevys had set out wine and cakes before withdrawing. The
house was in mourning for all the murdered myn. Edvarde's household had always
been close knit.

"I know very little of Brandrahoon, really," Isranon admitted. "Beyond his
legend."

"Hoon is an honorable mon, but tricky and very harsh at times," Anksha said.
She felt as if she was betraying him a bit. She felt torn between Hoon and
Isranon. Hoon did dark things, terrible things. When he gave his word he kept
it, yet if he gave himself a way to twist his word he twisted it–and he
frequently left himself an opening to do so. "He would know how to stop the
sa'nekaryiane. Hoon was a mage before he became a Lemyari. If he lives, she
will have corded him so he cannot change shape and escape."

Nans grinned. "So that is how he keeps slipping through people's fingers!"

Anksha sighed, nodding reluctantly. There she went, betraying him again.
"Will you help him?"

Edvarde turned to Nans, "I think it is worth the risk. I'd rather face Hoon

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than this sa'nekaryiane."

"I agree," Nans said. "Anksha, prepare one of those carry orbs of yours with
Sanguine Rose and whatever else Hoon might need. Then I'll see that he gets
it, assuming he's alive as Isranon says."

THE END

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