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

A loud guffaw exploded out of Nevin. "She
keeps trying to pet us. If she wasn't so cute about it, one of us
would have given her a tongue-lashing. We're lycans, not dogs."

"She's never been around lycans before."

"I gathered that."

"And, well, Chinisi is a bit peculiar. I
will tell her to stop."

Isranon's head came up with a sharp glance
at Cordwainer.
Chinisi? What will Stygean do when he learns her
name is that of his dead mother?
"I doubt that she's more
peculiar than my wife, and the lycans get along well with her."

"I would never call Lady Anksha peculiar."
Cordwainer's bemusement faded into discomfort.

"Then you have not been listening to her."
Isranon laughed. He had watched her earlier pulling all of the
stitches out of her knitting and growling at it before she rushed
off for another of her daily lessons.

Geoffry Cordwainer's lips twitched and he
yielded into a chuckle. His wall of formality melted like an early
frost on a warm morning. "Koejelus and Merick have satisfied me as
to your benign nature. I am more interested in your arcane
training. How, precisely, are sa'necari taught their arts?"

"I wouldn't know. My powers never passed
beyond the level of an adolescent. The turning point is with the
rites. Sa'necari power cannot mature without them. The Dark
Brothers never practiced the Arts Arcane: neither those of the
Light nor those of the Darkness. All that I know of them I learned
through observation and instinct."

"Observation and instinct will not teach you
to call down the Sunfire Lances. Not even I can do that."

"Josiah Abelard Stormbird taught me."
Isranon raked his eyes across the ceiling, lost for a moment in his
memories of Josiah.

"The one they say was Abelard himself
returned?" Cordwainer's eyes narrowed, doubt and suspicion arriving
at mention of the Mage Master.

"That one. And he was Abelard returned to
his own lineage." Isranon studied Cordwainer's face, wondering what
proof he could offer the mon. "He gave me the Mage Master's
spellbooks and journals."

The stunned incredulity in Cordwainer's eyes
told Isranon that he had struck a nerve, even before the firemage
spoke. "Can I see them?"

Isranon nodded and gestured to his
spiritbrother. Nevin rose and returned with a small chest, which he
placed upon the table. Isranon opened the mage-locked chest with a
word of command, lifted out a stack of books and placed them in
front of him. "This is only a small number of them. The rest are
stored."

"May I?" Cordwainer looked as if his fingers
were itching when he brushed them across the spines. At a nod from
Isranon, he chose a random book and opened it. "It looks genuine.
If so, it's the find of the ages."

"It is."

"Can I borrow this one? I will return it
tomorrow. I want to share it with Teague Merishin. She's an expert
on Abelard and should be able to confirm its authenticity."

The thought of parting with the book, even
for a short time, wrenched at Isranon, but he needed the goodwill
of the three master mages. "Have her return it tomorrow when she
comes for our meeting."

"I will do that," Cordwainer pledged.

When Cordwainer had bowed himself out,
Isranon turned to Nevin. "I'm very hungry. Bring me two or three
nibari and make certain I don't take too much from them."

Nevin departed and Isranon sat alone. Tears
crept into his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. Persuading the
people of the light to follow him always brought pain to his heart.
Since last summer, his appetites had begun to go out of control.
During a battle with imps, Isranon had lost control of himself and
eaten several of them. His stomach soured every time he thought of
it. He had violated everything he believed in and been unable to
stop himself. His appetite for blood had grown until it was nearly
insatiable. Amiri and others had offered many theories about it,
but none of them seemed convincing to him.

Nevin returned with three nibari. One of
them, a female, knelt between Isranon's legs, crossed her wrists
behind her and tilted her head back to expose her throat. Isranon
allowed his fangs to descend, licked her neck to find a proper
spot, and sank his fangs into her. She sighed in pleasure as his
necromantic gifts triggered her endorphins.

* * * *

Stygean haunted the hallways of the manor,
drifting past the door to Isranon's suite and trying not to stare
at it. After three days, the novelty of being left to his own
devices had worn off. A wizen old mon in sky blue robes, banded in
black, with sun symbols embroidered along the edges, stopped in
front of him.

"Which liege-god do you serve?"

"Kalirion."

That brought a smile from the mon. "I am
Father Telamon, priest to Kalirion. You're one of the
apprentices?"

Stygean's interest perked up. He had wanted
for months to meet a priest of his liege-god, and here one was. He
regarded Father Telamon with a sudden keen interest. "Lord
Isranon's apprentice."

"I see. So you are sa'necari-born?"

"Yes." A tremor of nervousness set Stygean
on edge. The last thing he wanted to do was to offend the very type
of priest he had been looking for since his conversion.
Don't
reject me. Don't, don't, don't reject me. I want to be accepted by
Kalirion. I want a godmark like Isranon. I'll wear it
proudly.

"I do believe it would be safe to assume
that your religious training has been neglected. Come along." The
priest scuttled off down the hallway, and Stygean could not think
of what else to do but follow him.

"Have you ever wondered what happens to a
sa'necari who has his gifts torn from him? Or his Shaukras burned
out?"

Stygean shivered and shook his head at the
sudden ominous turn in the subject matter, uncertain of why the
priest would bring it up.

"They die. When they rise, they are a
mindless thing of their appetites. The research was
fascinating."

"That's like what Anksha did to my father
... only he could not rise. Her feeding sears the shaukras."
Realization hit him between the eyes. "You experimented on people
like myself?"

"I didn't. Teague Merishin did. And they
were scarcely like yourself. They were steeped-in-death sa'necari.
The worst kind. You're still pure, boy. And I would like to see you
stay that way."

The memory of his father withering away and
dying from Anksha's appetites brought tears to the corners of
Stygean's eyes.

Telamon softened. "Forgive me, boy. My
fascination overcame my sense. You lost your father to her."

"And my mother." Stygean choked up. "My
mother, Chinisi, tried to stop her from taking my father. Anksha
destroyed her mind. The last time I saw her, she was sitting on the
floor with a dirty rag doll in her arms, singing to it. She never
knew I was there."

"So do you hate Lady Anksha?"

"I'm afraid of her."

"Hate and fear often go together, boy."
Telamon paused at the door to the shrine chamber, and then
inexplicably turned aside.

"Where are we going?"

"As one of the three resident priests here,
I have a little office down the way."

Stygean followed him into a cozy chamber
with a desk at the far end. Sofas, chairs and low tables filled the
near side, interspersed with bookcases and a small personal shrine
to Telamon's liege-god, Kalirion. Telamon indicated that Stygean
should sit down, so the boy settled into a plush overstuffed
chair.

"I'm not a Reader, my son. However,
sometimes my liege-god whispers to me." He dug into a drawer of the
desk, coming out with a basin and filling it with several bottles
and jars. Telamon placed them on the low table in front of Stygean
and then rang for a servant, who appeared promptly.

"Your holiness?"

"Tea. My special one. And wine." Telamon
turned to Stygean. "Your master does allow you wine?"

"Yes."

The servant departed.

The priest set the bottles and jars around
the basin, which he then filled with water from a ewer.

"You're going to scry?" Stygean tilted his
head curiously.

"In a manner of speaking. We're going to
peek at the future, if my liege-god is willing. Or rather you
are."

"I don't have that gift."

"The gift is not needed. Faith is. You
worship Kalirion?"

"Yes."

"With your full heart?"

"Yes."

"Then that is all that is required. Kalirion
is the lord of prophecy, healing and sunlight."

The servant returned with a silver tray that
contained a teapot in a cozy, two cups, a bottle of blood-red wine,
as well as two blown glass goblets. Then he bowed and left
them.

Telamon poured cups of tea and then glasses
of wine. Into one glass of wine, he added drops from several
tinctures and then handed it to Stygean. "Drink it all down and
then gaze into the scrying bowl."

Stygean stared at the wine for several
heartbeats, reassuring himself that Telamon was not trying to
poison him. He reminded himself that Telamon was a priest of his
liege-god and would therefore not harm him. The ways of the Light
were strange, but he was determined to embrace them fully. So, he
drank it. In less than a handful of breaths, all the colors
heightened and sharpened around him. Father Telamon gently turned
Stygean's attention to the scrying bowl, and he felt himself
falling into it.

He stood upon the top of a ziggurat. The
stars showed bright in the night sky. Screams and shouts of battle
filled his ears, and his gaze was drawn to the banners of the
armies clashing. The fluttering banners of Darr and Gormondi stood
to one side, and the glittering battle flags of the Minnorian
Empire showed like an emblem of the darkest hell. As the allies
faltered before the might of Minnoras, horns sounded and the Sacred
King of Rowanhart threw her armies into the fray.

Stygean gazed down from the edge and saw
bodies hanging from poles, realizing with a sickening lurch that he
stood not upon a ziggurat, but upon an altar of hecatomb. A cry of
defiance sounded to his left and Stygean turned. Isranon battled
against a figure out of hell, green skinned and winged. The
creature shredded Isranon's shields and leaped upon him. His mentor
struggled on, and then the creature carried him to the floor and
sank its teeth into his throat.

Stygean cried out in anguish and tried to
cross the edifice. His foot struck something and he stumbled.
Rising, he saw that he had fallen across his own dead body. He
flailed in horror and suddenly he was back in Telamon's chamber,
weeping.

Telamon held him for a long time, coaxing
Stygean to drink a cup of tea. "Get yourself calmed down, and then
tell me what you saw. However, remember that prophecy is an inexact
science. What you have seen is the strongest and most likely path –
not the only path."

Stygean nodded and began to tell him.

Veranoctem 10, 1077

Teague Merishin, the daughter of Battle
Master Dynarien Fire-Heart, sat with her arms folded on the table
and a look of raptors in her eyes. People tended to confuse her
father with Dynarien Willodarusson, but she was always quick to
point out the facts to them. There were four Dynariens in the
arcane ranks, all equally famous, and all aggravated at sharing a
name. Teague had enough yuwenghau blood in her ancestry to provide
her with a long lifespan. She had dropped her first name, Rowena,
in favor of her middle one, which had been her maternal
grandfather's. It fitted her better, since there was nothing
feminine about her. Her face was plain and harsh, square-jawed with
a heavy nose.

She maneuvered a footstool over to the side
of her chair with her foot. She wore a heavy, woolen robe hanging
open over her shirt and trousers. Carpet slippers warmed her feet.
Despite the innate ferocity of her manner, there was an
undercurrent of gratitude to have arrived in a place to shed her
armor, boots and spurs for a time.

She placed the book that Cordwainer had
borrowed on the table. "It's genuine. I compared a sample of the
handwriting to some letters that Abelard wrote his son. Koejelus
has verified the age of the velum and ink."

Merick waited to be invited and settled into
a chair cattie-corner from Teague at a gesture from Nans.

General Nans Gryphonheart watched her
warily. The thought of having a battlemage of Teague's capabilities
questioning Isranon made her uneasy. There was no doubt in Nans'
mind that Isranon had more raw power, but he was still recovering
his strength from the long journey. Teague had far more experience
with her talents than Isranon did. If Teague decided to violate
their neutral ground agreement, Nans figured that she would have to
be the one to stop the mage.

"May I touch it?" Teague indicated the
godmark on Isranon's brow, the sign of Kalirion's divine favor.

"Yes."

Nans' eyes narrowed as Teague pressed her
fingers to the godmark.

A wry twist of the left corner of Teague's
mouth passed for a smile as she withdrew her hand. "It's as genuine
as that journal. One more thing and I will be satisfied that you
are what you claim to be – and what Edvarde claims you are."

"What is that?" Isranon asked warily.

"A demonstration." Teague had the smug
expression of a cat that had caught its first mouse. "I want to see
you call down the Sunfire Lances. Do that and I will lead my units,
mages, soldiers and all in your cause."

"And where do you propose to do this?" Nans
looked skeptical.

"I have prepared some targets in the
training yard. What do you say, Isranon?"

"Give me a moment to grab my cloak and we
will go to the yard." Isranon rose from his chair and went into his
bedroom.