Dark Lady's Chosen (3 page)

The shaman carefully put away his things, murmuring prayers or incantations as each item was placed in his bag. He left the room, accompanied by several of the uninjured
vyrkin
.

Servants brought out food—platters of raw meat for the
vyrkin
and a plate of cheese and dried meat for Jonmarc, along with a glass of brandy.

When they had eaten, the shaman appeared in the doorway. He wore a long cape stitched with runes that seemed to shift and move as Jonmarc looked at them. Around his neck on a broad strap hung four disks of silver. The first was a waxing moon, and the second round disk was the full moon. The third was a waning moon, and the fourth was a ring, symbolizing the new moon.

Two streaks of dark red paint had been added to the markings on his face. At his appearance, the
vyrkin
stood and gathered up their dead, filing from the room in silence.

Gabriel touched Jonmarc’s shoulder, approaching so soundlessly that Jonmarc jumped.

Without a word, Gabriel indicated for Jonmarc to come with him.

They followed the silent procession down flights of stairs hewn into the rock of Wolvenskorn’s foundation. Through torch lit, narrow corridors, they moved steadily lower, and the air grew colder. After many turns, the passage opened on a huge room. Torches in sconces set the room in flickering light. Large smooth stones seemed to rise from the bedrock and disappear into the ceiling, and Jonmarc wondered if they were the same ancient pillars that ringed Wolvenskorn. On the walls of the cave, stories unfolded in detailed paintings made onto the rock itself. And in the center of the room a large slab had been pulled back to open a shared crypt. Laid out in front of the crypt were three shrouded bodies, each wearing a single silver disk on a thin leather strip around their necks. From their outlines, Jonmarc guessed that two of the bodies were male. And he was certain that the third, smaller body was Eiria.

The
vyrkin
ringed the crypt, while Gabriel and Jonmarc stood behind them. Jonmarc saw Yestin, black-clad like the others, standing near Eiria’s body. The shaman stood in the front, between two large torches. When the room was quiet, the shaman began to sing, and his voice echoed from the rocks in the yips, growls and clicks of the
vyrkin
language. He began a slow dance as he sang, and Jonmarc guessed that it was a story in movement, although he had no idea of what was being told. Even without full understanding, the ritual was moving, and Jonmarc fought to keep control, to keep his thoughts away from his last sight of Carina, lying still and pale back at Dark Haven.

The shaman ended his song, and three of the
vyrkin
men stepped forward, gently lifting the bodies into their arms. Yestin sagged to his knees and made a cry of complete desolation as the bodies were lowered into the crypt and the heavy stone lid ground into place. The two men standing next to Yestin helped him to his feet, although it seemed to Jonmarc that Yestin leaned heavily on them for support as the group filed soundlessly from the chamber and back up the stairs to Wolvenskorn. Once back within the lower level of the manor, the
vyrkin
headed away down a corridor, and Gabriel laid a hand on Jonmarc’s arm, shaking his head to keep him from following.

When the
vyrkin
were gone, Jonmarc turned to Gabriel. “Now what?”

“We rest. When we rise, we’ll see if we can intercept Malesh at the next village.”

“What if we’re wrong?”

Gabriel looked solemn. “Malesh wants to be found. He intends to confront you. I suspect that he knows how fiercely we’ll protect you, and his goal is to reduce our numbers before he attacks you.”

Jonmarc wandered into an empty bedroom. Beyond the mullioned window, the first streaks of dawn lit the sky. “I thought you had to be at rest before dawn.”

Gabriel stepped up beside him. “Four hundred years allows me to see a glimpse of sunrise and sunset. I’ve missed them.” He paused. “As Laisren told you, our strength grows over lifetimes. For those of us who survive this long, a few moments in full sun will burn us, but not beyond what can be healed. Much as if you thrust your arm into a fire. At first, the damage is reversible. After a point, no healing can restore what’s been consumed. I don’t fear death, but I’m no fonder of pain than I was when I was alive. As you saw on the battlefield tonight, there are better ways to die.”

Jonmarc looked at the glow above the mountains in silence for a moment. “I expected Malesh to be at the battle. I thought we’d fight, and it would be over.”

Gabriel regarded him, as if guessing his thoughts. “Perhaps Riqua and the others will find a way to bring Carina back. It’s not impossible—it just hasn’t been done before. There’s still hope.”

Jonmarc did not turn. “Personally, I’ve never had much luck with hope.”

“That went well, don’t you think?” Malesh of Tremont stretched out on the divan. Although he’d observed the night’s battle from a distance, killing the Caliggan Crossroads villagers had more than sated his thirst.

“An excellent start,” Senan replied. “Any particular reason you watched from the forest while the rest of us did the fighting?”

“For the same reason generals don’t fight on the front lines. I wanted to see the way the forces aligned. See what Gabriel and Riqua could bring against us. And I wanted to see how Jonmarc Vahanian would handle true battle against
vayash moru
.”

“And?” Berenn asked. Senan and Berenn were two of Malesh’s inner circle, young nobles near his own age whom he had brought across to make existence within Uri’s brood more tolerable. Tonight, they took shelter together in one of Malesh’s safe places, the remnants of a family crypt beneath the ruins of an old manor house. It was one of the many such places Malesh had prepared for the night when battle would begin. Comfortably outfitted with chairs and beds, stocked with a supply of bottled goat’s blood and lanterns, this safe place and the others like it had room enough for Malesh and his coterie.

“Our strategy is sound. Send the volunteers from the other broods against the Old Ones defending Vahanian. Pick off his best defenders.”

“Vahanian killed three
vayash moru
himself,” Senan countered. “I’ve never seen a mortal fight like that.”

“Another reason to let the newer fledges find his weak points for us,” Malesh replied.

“Can we expect reinforcements? What of Rafe’s and Astasia’s broods?” Berenn asked.

Malesh smiled. “Neither Rafe nor Astasia want to take sides. By not opposing us, they support us. Their broods are free to decide for themselves—and some of them are joining our ranks.”

“This must end.”

Malesh and the others looked sharply toward the corridor. Uri stood in the doorway. For once, Uri was completely lacking the golden chains and jeweled rings that were his signature.

Gone, too, were his elaborate waistcoat and his frilled shirt. Dressed in black without ornamentation, Uri looked more like a mourner than a lord.

“End?” Malesh questioned, languorously swinging his legs down so that he sat up to face Uri. “We’re only getting started.” He fingered the talisman around his throat, the blood magic charm that shielded his thoughts from his maker. “What’s the matter, Uri? Hurt that we didn’t invite you to the party?”

Uri’s dark eyes glinted with anger. “Riqua and Gabriel are bloodsworn against us—not just your fledges, but against all of my house. Tresa and Calthian are dead—killed as a warning and left at Scothnaran’s doorstep. I’ve sent the rest into hiding.”

“Some may be hiding—but the rest came to me. If they didn’t want to fight before, seeing Tresa and Calthian murdered made them ready to see my point of view.”

Uri stepped into the room. “You’ve destroyed two villages. How long until King Staden sends his troops against you? Even if you kill Vahanian—and it’s going to be harder than you think—Staden can’t let you succeed. Once the burnings start, the mortals won’t be worried about ‘good’
vayash moru
and ‘bad’
vayash moru
. They’ll burn us all.”

Malesh looked away, pointedly toying with the gold chain at his wrist. “Then we will unite against a common enemy and take what is rightfully ours. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it, Uri? Burning?” He stood and faced Uri. “Do you know what I fear? I fear an eternity pretending to be less than I am. Playing the servant when I’m born to be the master. We deserve to rule over the mortals. You said so yourself. We deserve to rule with the Goddess because we are gods ourselves.”

Uri’s move toward Malesh was blocked by half a dozen
vayash moru
. “This isn’t the way to do it. Mortals outnumber us. We can’t make fledges as quickly as they breed. Even if they die by the hundreds, by the thousands, there are more of them left to hunt us.” Uri looked around the impassive faces of Malesh’s circle. “I remember being hunted in Trevath.” He swept aside a crystal pitcher with his arm; it shattered on the floor, spraying blood across the room.

“You think you’re safe in your hiding places. The mortals can track you if they want to badly enough. There are Hunters out there; Trevath and Nargi have never stopped using them.

There are mortals just looking for provocation to send out the Hunters, and you’re giving them exactly what they need to turn others against us.”

“All these years you’ve protested the Truce—it was just empty bluster,” Malesh goaded.

“We rule best from the shadows, behind the throne.”

“That didn’t work too well for Arontala.”

“He pushed too hard—and he was a traitor to our kind. Many mortals want what we have—

eternal life, eternal youth, beauty. They’re willing puppets to gain us what we want—a say in how the kingdoms are run, power over our own destiny.”

“I don’t care to rule from the shadows,” Malesh said disdainfully. “War’s coming—a war that will sweep up the mortals of the Winter Kingdoms. When it comes, we’ll feast on blood, and we’ll be the only ones strong enough to rebuild from the wreckage. The mortals will turn to us to save them.”

“This is madness. You have to end it—now.”

“No.” Malesh swept his arm to indicate the room and the half-dozen
vayash moru
in it. “Your time is past. We rule now.”

Uri moved before Malesh could stop him, crushing Senan’s throat and tossing him aside.

Berenn rushed toward Uri, and Uri dodged him, faster on his feet than Malesh expected, swinging around to strike again. Berenn maneuvered Uri into position with his back toward Malesh as Malesh withdrew a shiv from under his sleeve. As the
vayash moru
circled Uri, Malesh dove, sinking the shiv through the back of Uri’s coat and into his heart. Uri sputtered blood and dropped to the ground, immobilized.

Malesh smiled. “I had it on good authority that the Old Ones don’t die from a strike through the heart—at least, without other, magical weapons. My blood charms may not let me destroy you, but I can keep you from getting in my way. We’re creating what you’ve always wanted—a world where the strongest rules.” His smile faded. “My sources were a bit unclear as to how long I can keep you like this. The guesses ranged from a few days to…

forever.” He signaled to his group to move toward the door. “Enjoy your rest while we fight your battle—the battle you never had the balls to start.”

“She’s moving. Let’s see if she comes around.”

The voices were distant, dream-like. The darkness was so complete it seemed to have mass, a smothering dark liquid instead of nothingness. She fought her way through it with a desperation close to panic. The darkness impeded her, making every motion an act of will.

She focused her waning energy for a final push, and burst through the barrier that kept her in darkness.

Lady Carina Vahanian opened her eyes. The room around her was dark, its heavy curtains pulled tightly shut. Candles glowed dimly, enough for Carina to make out the forms of people standing around her bedside, and the luminous form of Raen, the ghost girl, in the shadows. One of the forms moved closer.

“Welcome back,” Sister Taru said with a tired smile.

Another feeling washed over Carina, a new sensation of ravening hunger. She felt as if she had been climbing mountains for days, pushed beyond endurance.

“Drink this.” It was Riqua who spoke, holding out a glass of liquid. Carina was too famished to question, and gulped the liquid down before she finally registered the strange taste as she drained the glass. It tasted, she thought with revulsion, of milk and blood.

“Have I been brought across?” Carina’s voice was scratchy and faint.

“Not exactly.” Royster the Librarian moved up beside her on the left and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s the problem.”

Lisette, Carina’s
vayash moru
lady in waiting, stepped closer to help Carina sit, supported by pillows. Carina could see the worry in Lisette’s face, and saw echoes of that same concern in the dimly lit faces of the others.

“What do you remember?” Taru asked gently.

Carina closed her eyes and grimaced. “I went to Westormere,” Carina said quietly. “To heal the people with fever.” Her eyes darkened. “We were attacked by
vayash moru
. They killed… everyone. I fought, but Malesh was stronger.” Her right hand rose to her throat, finding the two fresh punctures that were not yet healed. “He forced me to let him drink…

and then he made me

take his blood. He meant to bring me across.”

Taru’s eyes were sad as she took Carina’s hand. “Malesh is young in the Dark Gift. He didn’t know that a healer can’t be brought across—not with the healing powers intact, anyhow. The healing magic wars with the Dark Gift.”

“Right now, you’re stuck between,” Riqua finished. “You’re not living, but you’re not
vayash
moru
, and you’re certainly not dead.”

Carina closed her eyes, sensing her healer’s magic within her own body. After a moment, she looked at Taru. “I can’t stay this way. I can feel the strain. What now?”

“Now, we try to find a way to heal you—or bring you across fully,” Royster answered. Carina turned to look at the elderly scholar. Royster’s white hair was even wilder than usual, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He and Taru looked tired and rumpled, and she wondered how long they had been keeping their vigil and whether they had slept. Even Riqua looked worried.