Sister of the Dead

by Barb Hendee

  "Is that all?" Buscan appeared relieved. "Oh, but I fear I can't help you in this. There are no records. "

  Welstiel folded his hands behind his back and beneath his cloak. The baron's answer was obviously insufficient, as he stared into Buscan's eyes.

  "Any records are fewer than fifteen winters old, " Buscan explained. "We tried to create a central archive to secure all documents. There was an insurrection by the Maghyar when Prince Demitri of the Serboe completed his term. A fourth of the city was razed, along with the judiciary building, and all the records inside were lost in a fire. "

  Chane couldn't tell if Welstiel was pleased or troubled by this news. Osceline wandered away to the polished round table below the painting.

  "You are certain there is nothing left?" Welstiel asked.

  The baron shook his head. "If that is all you came for, your journey has been for nothing. "

  Chane heard a hissing whisper, and turned his head toward the sound. Osceline was chanting, eyes fixed upon Welstiel and Buscan.

  Before Chane could call out a warning, Welstiel's hand lashed out from behind his back at Buscan's chest. His hand jerked sideways, missing the baron entirely. There was a short dagger in his grip.

  Buscan's teeth clenched, and his brow furrowed in anger.

  He lunged for the hearth's mantel, and Chane saw a long war knife resting there in its sheath.

  Chane swung out, catching a thick candle upon its stand, and slapped it toward Osceline. The wick snuffed, and the thick wax cylinder struck the side of her face. Her chanting ceased as she toppled against the wall and slid to the floor.

  "Now!" Chane yelled at Welstiel.

  Welstiel drove his blade through Buscan's back with enough force that the man's head struck the mantel's edge. When Welstiel jerked the blade out, Buscan stumbled back to crumple into the chair Osceline had been using. Welstiel closed on him, but the baron's eyes rolled toward his consort.

  "Don't!" he cried out. "Not her... please. "

  Chane was already focused upon the floor beneath Osceline, and he began drawing the lines and figures in his mind to overlay what he saw. As her eyes met Buscan's gaze, she cringed in pain. Anguish marred her creamy features for an instant before they creased with hatred as she glared at Welstiel.

  "No!" she shouted, and then her attention fixed on the low thrum of Chane's chant.

  Through the encircled triangle Chane envisioned, he saw Osceline's eyes snap closed and her clenched fist raise before her face. She called out a single word Chane didn't catch, and her hand opened, fingers splayed wide.

  Light exploded in Chane's vision, as if every candle in the room flared suddenly. Everything turned white, and the pain came too quickly for Chane to suppress. It shattered his focus and the rhythm of his incantation.

  He rubbed his eyes, and slowly the dim swirling colors faded from his flash-blinded sight. Welstiel was in a similar state, but Buscan sat limp in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to breathe.

  Osceline was gone.

  Welstiel shoved his blade through Buscan's chest.

  The baron buckled under the blow, expelling a groan as air was forced from his lungs. Before his head dropped forward, Welstiel hurried to where Osceline had been. He thumped systematically on the wall's wooden planks. At a hollow sound, he stepped back and kicked out hard.

  One plank snapped inward under his boot to reveal a space beyond it. He did not bother to look for a catch to open the hidden panel, and instead tore out the adjoining planks with his hands.

  "Go after her, " Welstiel said. "She must not speak to anyone!"

  "And you?" Chane asked.

  "I will deal with the old soldier. Kill her quickly, and join me in the courtyard. "

  Chane slipped into the passage. Envisioning Osceline's throat was enticing. She was aggressive and sensual. He hoped she would fight.

  He stood upon the narrow landing of a dark staircase and opened his senses to smell for blood, life. There were quick footfalls coming from below. Osceline was running, and that made Chane smile. A chase was always a welcome prelude.

  The passage steps emerged well below in what appeared to be a prison beneath the castle. Chane stepped out into a passage of iron cell doors. At the passage's end was another hall running left and right. He no longer smelled Osceline and stopped to listen again. All was silent, and then a metal door grated softly.

  Chane ran after the echo of metal against stone as he turned left at the connecting passage. At the end of this new path was a door left ajar. He jerked it open to find a chamber with a table and chairs, perhaps a guards' room. Across it, Osceline pulled one last time upon a locked door, trying desperately to open it. She gave up and turned to face him.

  Chane was surprised by her countenance. She appeared small and mundane, no longer dangerous and desirable. And tired, as if her spell had taken much from her. Chane felt a twinge of disappointment.

  "You don't need to kill me, " she said. "I would only do myself harm by speaking a word about who murdered Cezar. My master will be displeased enough as it is. "

  Chane did not break stride as he stepped toward her, and Osceline held up her hand, palm outward.

  A sharp pain sliced through Chane's temples and behind his eyes. His vision swirled to black for an instant. Disoriented, he blinked. The room returned to his sight, but it was hazy. Osceline stood before the door but shimmered in waves like summer heat upon an open field.

  Irrational rage rose in Chane to smother all calculated thought. He wanted her dead and no longer cared how. He lunged and grabbed her by the throat.

  At first he felt nothing, as if his fingers had closed on air. Then his grip tightened on warm and pliant flesh. Chane blinked.

  Osceline's throat was in his hands, her swollen tongue pressing out between paled lips and green eyes frozen wide and vacant. He felt cracked vertebrae under her skin and muscle.

  Chane blinked again, and she lay dead on the floor at his feet. He stepped back, a mix of satisfaction and fury clouding his awareness.

  He vaguely remembered rushing Osceline as she raised a hand toward him. He snatched her throat, bore her down, and crushed the life out of her. Yes, that was what had happened. She was dead, and he could leave. He returned to the passage doorway but stopped and looked back.

  Osceline still lay near the locked side door, and Chane looked down at his own hands.

  He remembered the feel of her neck breaking, but he had not bothered to taste her life as it vanished, and he couldn't understand why. Perhaps in his anger and panic to reach her before she could flash-blind him again, his instinct had taken more expedient action.

  Not wishing to wander the castle in retreat, Chane backtracked to the wood-paneled room and down through the passages the old soldier had guided them along. As he emerged in the main hall to head for the front entrance, Welstiel stepped from a side corridor.

  "Did you find the old guard?" Chane asked.

  "Yes... and the woman?"

  Chane remembered that he had clearly seen Osceline's body. "Dead... I snapped her neck... and left her below in the keep's prison. "

  "Good. " Welstiel nodded approval. "We will take the horses and walk them back out. I have seen no other servants up and about. No one will find Buscan until midmorning, as it appears he stays up late into the nights. "

  He reached out a hand to propel Chane toward the front entrance. Chane found this odd, as Welstiel rarely touched him.

  "There is nothing more for us to do here, " Welstiel said. "We wait for the dhampir to arrive. When she finds no records and no one to help her further, she will have no choice but to turn back. "

  A sudden connection occurred to Chane. Welstiel had come to hide records of his family, and Magiere searched for records of her own father.

  "No records regarding the Massings, " Chane said. "And none regarding her... How did that the captain put it, 'her family'?"

  He turned and found Welstiel returning his steady gaze.

/>   "Do not forget your place, " Welstiel said in a voice stripped of all emotion. "You are here to serve the bargain we made, and that is all. "

  Chane's discovery would have to be handled carefully or he risked giving Welstiel further cause for conflict. He nodded calmly.

  "We deserve some comfort, " Welstiel said in a more sociable tone. "Let us find out if Keonsk boasts a decent inn. A bath and laundered clothing are in order, as well as comfortable beds for a change. "

  Welstiel's quick shift to placation left Chane wary as he followed his companion out to the horses. Again he pictured Osceline's body by the locked door with the smooth flesh of her throat still intact.

  His own change of habit disturbed him.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  T he wagon rolled up to the gates of Keonsk at midday. Leesil dug through his pack and pulled out an orange paisley scarf. He pulled his hair back behind his ears and tied the cloth around his head. It was so large that the ends hung down to his shoulders.

  Magiere wrinkled her nose as if she'd bitten into a rancid pear. "Where did you get that?"

  "I traded with one of the Mondyalitko for some apples. "

  "You paid for that with our apples?" she asked. "Where's your gray scarf?"

  "I lost it in the forest the night we fought Vordana. "

  "The color doesn't work. "

  "Of course it does. My shirt is brown. "

  "You look like someone lit your head on fire. You'll stand out like a fever blister. Take it off, and find something else. "

  "I don't have anything else. "

  "I think it's rather striking, " Wynn put in.

  "You would, " Magiere muttered.

  Port and Imp pulled to a stop as a guard at the gate stepped out and held up his hand. His expression was serious. Nine others stood inside the entrance in varied armor and red surcoats.

  "Your business?" the guard asked.

  'To the market... for supplies, " Magiere said. "And one of our horses injured his leg. We need someone who knows horses to have a look at it. "

  The guard lost some of his harsh manner. "The township of Nesmelorash is a half-day south. It would be best if you could make it there. "

  Leesil saw genuine concern in the guard's wary expression, but he knew Magiere wasn't going to turn aside.

  "We're heading east, " he explained. "Is something wrong?"

  "Pardon, " the guard said. "Your business is welcome at market. But the grand prince is not in residence, and there is contention over who should take charge until he returns. "

  Leesil's nerves began to tingle. This guard wore good quality mail, and the scabbard of his sword bore a family crest. He was at least a captain, if not a minor noble, and likely educated, as most guards didn't use phrases like "in residence. " Why was he on guard duty at the city gate?

  "What contention?" Leesil asked. "Why isn't someone in charge while the grand prince is away?"

  The guard looked each of them over. Though he gave Leesil a serious inspection, he paused longest upon Wynn huddled in the wagon's back with Chap. The sight of her seemed to further soften the guard's manner.

  "Baron Buscan, the city's protector, was assassinated last night, " he answered. "Prince Rodek left an illegal contingent of his soldiers in the city, and other houses are using this and the lack of authority here to raise charges against the Antes. It's not safe. "

  The mention of assassination brought Leesil immediate thoughts of Sgaile, the elven anmaglahk sent after him in Bela. He was about to ask if any elves had been sighted in the city and then thought better of it. It was unlikely anyone would see a member of this caste of assassins, as silent and undetected as Sgaile had been.

  "Thank you, but we can take care of ourselves, " Magiere replied.

  With a troubled nod, the guard stepped back and let them in.

  On impulse, Leesil called out, "Sir, what is your name?"

  "Captain Marjus of the Varanj. "

  Port and Imp pulled the wagon into the market area. Most booths were closed, but a few people were visible among those tables and carts conducting business. There were also soldiers in red surcoats, like the captain's, patrolling the fringe of the area. Leesil spotted men in light yellow surcoats, as well, who kept their distance from Marjus's cohorts.

  "Now what?" he asked. "This is bad luck. An audience at the castle is next to impossible, since mere's no one there to hold one. "

  Magiere watched the soldiers and didn't answer.

  "We are most likely going to be here a day or two, " Wynn said. "We should find a respectable inn, a stable for the horses, and something warm to eat while we consider what to do. "

  Leesil smiled. "A capital plan. Magiere?"

  "Yes. I see a stable ahead on south side of the market. "

  It took little time to find a nearby inn, a place called Jendu Stezhar, the "Acorn Oak, " which looked clean and respectable. They soon settled to spooning in mouthfuls of milky potato soup in its common room. The innkeeper was a good-natured gray-haired man who wasn't offended when Leesil requested an extra bowl for Chap.

  Since the vision of his dead mother, each time Leesil ate warm food or succumbed to the smallest comfort, he wondered if she had suffered... was suffering. Then he looked at Magiere's pale face. He couldn't force her to turn away until she knew what she was and how she had come to exist, or she had exhausted all hope of finding these answers.

  He spooned another mouthful of soup, ready to discuss matters at hand, when he gave more notice to a tall middle-aged soldier in a yellow surcoat sitting near them. The soldier had short-cropped brown hair and a thick scar down his left cheekbone, and he was on his third tankard of ale since their arrival.

  Leesil was uncertain how much should be said in close proximity to any of the Keonsk soldiers... of any house. He saw Magiere glance in the man's direction.

  Innocent Wynn blurted out the first question before Leesil could stop her. "So how do we acquire permission to search records at the castle?"

  The scarred soldier looked up from his ale. "Girl, the grounds have been locked down tighter than a cask of autumn wine. "

  He answered her in Belaskian, and his voice was sad rather than angry. Wynn turned sideways in her chair to see him better.

  "What do you mean 'locked down'?"

  Leesil tensed. "Wynn, let's not bother the—"

  "I mean the house of Varanj has locked the gates. Until my prince returns, no one but a redcoat gets anywhere near the castle. That swine Buscan is dead, may his spirit rot in the earth along with his corpse. "

  Wynn had spilled their intentions, and there was little they could do to wash their presence from this captain's awareness. It appeared factions within the houses were at odds, as well as the contentions between houses Marjus had mentioned at the city gate. This Antes captain gulping his ale didn't care for the grand prince's own counselor.

  Leesil held out his hand to the man. "I'm Leesil. These are my companions Magiere and Wynn. We've come looking for the names of nobles who held fiefs in west Droevinka long ago. Surely, the Varanj guards will not object to such a simple request. "

  The soldier laughed but without humor. When he saw Leesil's outstretched hand, he gripped it in greeting. "Apologies. I am Captain Simu of the Antes cavalry. I don't mean to interrupt your supper, but you may as well go home when you're done. "

  "We're not leaving, " Magiere said.

  Simu looked at her and sighed. "Do you understand that Baron Cezar Buscan was assassinated last night? The city's protector—curse him—is dead! Those Varanj mongrel watchdogs haven't the wit to see we're better off. "

  Magiere leaned closer. "A captain from a nearby fief told us that Buscan has been replacing Antes nobles as fief holders without giving any reason. Is this true?"

  Simu's ale-weary eyes cleared, and he pushed his tankard away.

  "Why else do you think he'd be judged a traitor by those. of us in the ranks? It is difficult enough to gain note in a noble house. What
good does it do when rewards are handed off to the undeserving, simply because they hold favor with the prime counselor?"

  The captain hung his head then glanced about the common room before continuing in a lowered voice.

  "I'd swear by my ancestors, that temptress with the red curls he took as consort bewitched him. Maybe she's the one who knifed him in the back. Either way, he's dead. Soon as Prince Rodek returns, I'm taking my men onto the royal grounds until a new protector is selected—and the Varanj be hanged!" Simu stood up and delivered them a curt bow of parting. "Perhaps then I can help you, but for now, no one but a redcoat gets inside the castle wall. Good night and safe passage to you. "

  As Simu walked out the inn's door, Leesil pondered his words, rubbing his chin with one hand.

  "What's in that head of yours?" Magiere asked.

  "It'll take a little while to prepare. You and Wynn stay here. Chap, come with me. " He dumped his pack out and slung its empty bulk over his shoulder. "Can you put my things in the chest for now?"

  "Stop right there, " Magiere said. "What are you up to?"

  'Trust me, " he answered, and started to get up.

  "Oh, no, " she said, and grabbed the bottom of his empty pack, jerking it hard. "Every time you say that, things end up in a mess. "

  Leesil pulled on his pack, but Magiere's grip held firm.

  "No, they don't—not every time, " he shot back. "Magiere, let go!"

  "We've enough people—and other things—coming at us in the dark. You're not going anywhere until you tell me. "

  "What you don't know, you can't get blamed for... if it doesn't work. Will you just let me handle this?"

  Leesil pulled on the pack again. Magiere held on, and they jerked back and forth, until empty soup bowls jostled precariously across the table. Wynn leaned forward and threw her arms over the empty pack, pinning it to the tabletop.

  "Could you two attract any more attention?" she whispered. "Leesil, tell us what—"

  A cavernous belch filled the common room.