Blood Lies (Dark Brothers of the Light #9) (8 page)

"They did not fight back at all. Their
philosophy was iron-clad. Violence is the law of the beast. Peace
is the law of the soul. This was their creed:

"The Darkness hunts us and the Light does not want
us. Better to step willingly into the fires than to live undead.
Better to die with honor than to take a life in the rites. Let each
mon go to his own path, but these are ours. And these will always
be ours, for this is what we were born to. This is the path the
gods have given us, for we are the Dark Brothers of the Light. We
are the walking dead who live, for our lives were forfeit with our
birth. Forfeit twice over for our choice to live as myn, not
monsters, though we are forced to dwell among the monsters. Set
yourself apart in your words, in your deeds, in your silence
–always in your silence, for silence is your castle. Be as still as
the deer in the forest, and if you are fortunate the predators will
not notice you. For when they notice you, they will eat you."

Koejelus remained silent for several minutes
after Isranon finished, considering the implications. "I don't see
how they survived as long as they did."

"The lycans are how. They owed my ancestor,
Dawnhand, a debt. He rescued them from Waejonan, helped them escape
into the mountains. That was the last straw for Waejonan. So it
cost Dawnhand his life, and that of his wife and three daughters."
The color faded from Isranon's face with a sharp intake of breath.
He doubled over, clutching at his mid-section as pain shot through
his body.

Merick darted from his chair and caught
Isranon, cradling him. He grasped the mage's wrist, extending his
Reader's gift through Isranon's body.

"Medicine..." A groan climbed up Isranon's
throat and escaped between his lips.

"Where?"

Isranon pointed at a cabinet. "Bottom
drawer."

Koejelus leaned forward and pulled the
drawer open, taking out a bottle. "This?"

"Sanguine Rose. Yes."

"How much?" Koejelus spied a dosing glass in
the drawer, snatched it out, and studied the label on the
bottle.

"Four marks."

Koejelus filled the glass to the proper
measure, passing it to Merick who held it to Isranon's lips.
"Edvarde said you were ill. I've never heard of one of your kind
being sick before. You're hard to kill. I've seen sa'necari cut to
ribbons and keep fighting."

Merick moved Isranon to the sofa and placed
several throw-pillows to his back.

"Tell him what you found, Merick?" Isranon
suggested.

The Reader nodded. "The illness is not a
natural one. Spells lodged within old wounds. Divinator."

Koejelus blanched.

Isranon averted his gaze from the pity he
saw in Merick's eyes. "You're perceptive."

"It's a requirement for survival in our
homeland. Isn't it, Isranon?" Merick placed the glass on the
table.

"Yes, it is."

Koejelus looked from face to face. "There's
a cure, isn't there? Must be if it's arcane."

"Mortgiefan. I refuse to live at that
price." Color crept back into Isranon's cheeks as he began to feel
the drug. "I would rather die than take a life in the rites."

"Edvarde is right. You're like no sa'necari
I have ever encountered before. I will speak to the others on your
behalf." Koejelus rose from his chair and walked to the door,
turning back a moment before leaving. "Forgive my skepticism."

Then Koejelus left. Merick hesitated before
following his master out.

* * * *

A ballroom on the third floor had been
turned into a common room for the soldiers on one side and officers
on the other. A long, shaggy runner served as the demarcation
between them. Mismatched tables and chairs abounded, looking as if
Jeevys had pulled out everything he could find in storage. Three
long trestle tables took up the center of the soldiers’ side,
flanked by tables: some round and others square.

Food was free to everyone, with the
exception of the special pastries and the soldiers' liquor: three
pence for beer and nine for whiskey. The officers drank free.
Isranon's aide-de-camp, Tenly, was in charge. He had put their
nibari to work in the secondary kitchen on that floor, baking
pastries and other delights that were offered three for a
penny.

There were also some makeshift shelves
behind the bar with trinkets and other interesting bits he had
salvaged from the abandoned towns along their route and now offered
for sale. It was not as good as being allowed to go into Ildyrsetts
proper, but there was talk of giving out passes eventually.

The officers' section was far more
comfortable, with little faux alcoves created by tables and
overstuffed wing chairs. Despite Isranon's attempts to encourage
racial mixing, very little actually occurred off duty; Lycans
tended to drink with lycans and humans with humans.

Nevin spied the farthest corner in the
officer's section and strode toward it with Gordain beside him. He
took the chair in the very corner, where he could have his back to
the wall and see everything that went on. Gordain started to sit
and Nevin shook his head.

"Check on the lad. I've a hunch that
something's amiss with him. He's at loose ends since Isranon has
had no time for him. And there's something else I can't put my
finger on."

"If you ask me, odds are it's Jingen.
Matters haven't been right between them since Stygean's father
died."

"You've noticed it too?"

"Hard not to."

"Go on then."

Gordain bent and kissed Nevin's mouth before
departing.

A pretty, blonde nibari came to Nevin's
table to take his order. She was part of the herd that Isranon had
confiscated from Stygean's late father: Liuthan Loosestrife had
bred them for physical beauty and Farris was no exception.

She had a red "do not touch" badge pinned to
her shoulder, which meant she was either in season or pregnant.
Rumor claimed it was the latter. Nibari had a ninety day cycle with
a five to seven day fertility period, which meant that whoever had
gotten her up the stick must have snuck in and mounted her outside
the allowed period and without permission.

"Luck told me you're not working the scarlet
tent any longer."

Farris' cheeks lit. "No, Master Nevin. I
must have been too close to season last time I worked it. Now, I've
one in the belly."

"Luck must be disappointed. You were his
favorite."

"I wouldn't know, Master Nevin. What can I
get you?"

"A tankard of red ale."

Nevin watched her go to the bar. A twist of
humiliation stained a sense of triumph for him, thinking about
pregnant females. He had never had any desire to mate with one of
them until the night the lycan mother-god, Tala, summoned all of
the wolves in Imralon to contest for the right to mount her; as
part of the ritual for choosing a chieftain for a new battle clan.
A paroxysm of lust had overwhelmed Nevin. He had fought his way
through a sea of younger wolves, only to find that Gordain had
reached her first. Nevin yanked Gordain off Tala before they could
consummate and entered her himself. Now he had a half-divine son
coming.

He barely noted Farris setting the tankard
in front of him and absently took a swallow of ale. His mind kept
roving over everything. The sound of chair legs scraping the floor
dragged Nevin from his thoughts. He glanced up with a sharp word on
the tip of his tongue and then left it unsaid. Captains Luck
Settlesby and Travis Potshard had joined him at the table.
Darianna, Travis' lover, stood behind him, kissed his check and
then took the last chair. Nevin's eyes narrowed at the darker end
of his ambivalence regarding the liaison between the attractive
lycan bitch and a human.

Travis’ cornflower eyes had an awkward
schoolboy look, which made Nevin suspect that coming to his table
had been Darianna's idea. Brown-haired, square-jawed and unimposing
despite his six foot height, Travis wore the runes of a Willodarian
ranger. His tanned and weathered skin had the texture of smooth
saddle leather. His hands were broad and heavy, calloused and hard,
but his touch was gentle. His brown hair was the only thing about
him that did not look a bit disheveled, because Darianna had
insisted upon brushing his coarse locks back and tying them in a
tail.

Ducking his head, Travis mumbled, "Sorry
about your cousin."

Nineteen-year-old Darianna ran her fingers
through her silver hair, which had a bright orange streak down the
middle. She shoved her chair back, leaned across the table and
hugged Nevin. "I always liked Nikko. He was a sweet young dog."

"So that's what this is about? Nikko?" Nevin
turned his face away, his mouth tight. "I'd rather not talk about
him. If I do, I'll probably start keening and what will the humans
think?"

"That you've lost your mind, probably," said
Luck, scratching idly at his winter beard, which he grew each year
to keep his face warm. "Most can't deal with emotional displays –
especially like you folks do it. No offense meant."

"None taken." Nevin shook his head in tiny,
restless movements, returning his attention to his tankard. He
drank it down by a third before he spoke again. "It's a poor trade
if we save all these humans we've never met only to lose those we
love most back home."

"Have you spoken to Isranon about it?" Luck
asked.

"Several times." Nevin shook his head again
before returning his gaze to his tankard as if he could see the
reflections of his memories in the golden liquor. "He used to do
whatever I told him to. Now it seems like he never even
listens."

"He's no longer the boy who used to follow
you around all the time, Nevin." Darianna patted his arm. "He's all
grown up."

"Isranon is unwilling to make time for
Stygean. Every time the boy goes to Isranon asking when the lessons
will resume or what he ought to do, he gets sent away," Nevin
growled bitterly. "I see so much hurt in the lad's eyes..."

"Maybe we ought to spend more time with
him," Darianna suggested.

"Don't look at me. Boys with fangs aren't my
cup of tea," muttered Travis, which earned him an exasperated
glance from Darianna.

Luck ran his gaze across them as if
assessing the possibilities. "I'm in favor of it. The boy has no
one left. And I think he's trying to behave. If Isranon can't or
won't make time for him – as you've said, Nevin – then we ought to
step in."

"It won't be the same, but we're better than
nothing." Nevin downed the last of his ale and gestured at a
passing nibari for more. "So we're agreed?"

Travis opened his mouth and Darianna poked
him in the ribs, bringing a reluctant nod from him.

Veranoctem 9, 1077

For the past decade, Geoffry Cordwainer had
been archmage of Ildyrsetts, serving King Jurgen VI in every way
demanded of him. Like most of the native Ildyrsetti, he was a lanky
mon; the kind that would turn gaunt as he aged, and his hair was as
red as the element he had mastered. Where Koejelus had insisted
upon a surprise visit, Cordwainer asked for preparations to be
made, customs to be observed, and he came alone. Nans had finally
permitted Isranon to move about his suite freely, and so they met
in the parlor. Shielded by formality, Cordwainer framed his words
with care.

"Edvarde offered us very little information
about you, other than the fact that you rescued King William
Gryphonheart of Gormondi, have renounced your dark ways and hold
the possibility of stopping the Minnorian Empress from penetrating
further into Gormondi and Darr."

Isranon listened to the long-winded
sentences and struggled with some of Cordwainer's words. He spoke
Engla – sometimes referred to as the common tongue – and Isranon
had only begun to learn it four years ago. He had gotten a lot of
practice by reading the spellbooks and journals that Josiah had
given him. That, and the fact that many languages of the region
were actually dialects of Engla, ensured that Isranon's fluency was
rapidly improving, but he still had a ways to go.

"Edvarde says that you call yourself a
'majios sa'necari'. I want you to explain what that means."

Nevin, sitting at the end of the table where
he could look at both of them, raised a hairy eyebrow. "So the
interrogation of my spiritbrother continues."

"They need to know." Isranon reached over
and squeezed Nevin's arm reassuringly. "Most sa'necari are born
with a mage gift in addition to the natural necromantic talents.
However, it fades in the course of adolescence. I believe that the
rites of mortgiefan strengthen the necromancy and destroy the other
gifts. The Dark Brothers left all of their arcane talents
undeveloped, believing that their use would lead to the darkness of
the rites. So I have nothing to go on other than my own experiences
and theories."

"You're a conundrum, Isranon. It is hard to
credit the rumors and Edvarde's insistence that the most powerful
mage since Josiah Abelard is a sa'necari renunciate."

"A conun– A what?" Isranon glanced at Nevin
for an explanation. "Is that bad?"

Nevin translated the word into lycan,
bringing a smile to Isranon's face.

"I suppose I am."

"Suppose?" Cordwainer sounded bemused,
wondering if Isranon was being disingenuous. "You're
sa'necari-born. We brought only veterans, Isranon. There isn't a
master or journeymon among us who hasn't accounted for at least
half a dozen of your kind."

"And the apprentices? You brought some of
them also." Isranon smiled gently so that his words would not be
taken as criticism.

"I stand corrected. Yes, we brought some of
our apprentices and novices."

"The red-haired girl is your daughter?"
Nevin leaned closer.

"My niece. You've met her?"