Blood of Jackals

by Todd Marcelas Moreno

  “Melvy!” The woman cradled the unconscious child in her arms.

  “Finally,” Jordan sniffed with satisfaction. “Who is little Melvy anyway?”

  “A Morays whelp,” Lilth replied wearily. “Lena wants him to ‘bond’ to me.”

  “She wants you to bind him to you?” Jordan asked incredulously. “Well, it is simple enough to do, is it not? Just get a lock of his hair, light a candle and—”

  “I think she had something else in mind,” Lilth said, at a loss on how social fads were started. “But it is simple. In fact, I did it after breakfast this morning.”

  “So why do you tolerate the adorable little brat?”

  “I promised Lena,” Lilth sighed. “It is what sisters do, I am told. Technically, he is third in line for the Morays title. But he can be turned off, if too annoying.”

  “I suppose a companion child would just double the vermin problem,” Jordan reflected, before a small smile touched his lips. “Say, has Melvy met Muffy yet?”

  “Why no,” Lilth replied, her caring voice at odds with her cold smile. “And Muffy would probably like a new playmate.”

  “Problem solved,” Jordan said triumphantly.

  “If only the Sukain bitch was that easy.”

  “Muffy could take care of her too. We need some way to be rid of her.”

  “There have been enough assassinations recently however.”

  “A coup then. A regent could be named.”

  Lilth frowned at her brother. “We need Sukain to take the blame for Derrick’s death. Surely you would not want him to die under your governmental watch?”

  “No,” Jordan admitted reluctantly.

  “If you are to sit on Legan’s throne, Jordan, you will need to learn subtlety.”

  Jordan lifted an eyebrow at the source of this advice, but said nothing.

  “Get Sukain to ransom Curin,” Lilth commanded. “For if you make me go to the Palace to do it, be warned: I may do a few other things while I am there.”

  Jordan nodded. He had no idea what those things might be, but he knew his sister could be quite creative when she asserted herself.

  - - -

  “Soror Barell, please,” Ansel said, lowering his head. They were still within the Veiled Realm. “I know I am not allowed to enter—!”

  “You are not the first acolyte to venture into this realm, Ansel Crispirón,” the Soror said. “You will not be the last. But there are reasons for the prohibition against doing so, beyond that which you have just discovered.”

  “What was that thing, Soror? I have not come across its like before.”

  “Be grateful for it, and beware of such a creature, should you decide to return here. They are stronger and more cunning than you know.”

  “It knew why I came here.”

  “Yes. That does not surprise me.”

  “Can I truly find my sister here, Soror Barell?” Ansel’s words ran into one another in their speed to be voiced. “I need to know.”

  “This is not the Land of the Dead, Ansel,” Barell replied, “though, from fear or malice, some spirits do linger here. Have you not learned to summon your sister from within yourself?”

  “Yes. But it is not really her. It is just a trick.”

  “Your sister is no longer the little girl you knew, Ansel. Even if you could come within her presence again, she would be as a stranger to you. Only the Lost Ones are changeless.”

  “I promised her that I would try to...”

  “Was it for her that you became an acolyte, Ansel? To receive the Deeper Training, so that you might contact her?”

  Ansel nodded, unable to look the Soror in the eyes.

  “Are you nonetheless still bound by the oaths of your Order?”

  Ansel wiped the tears from his face. “Yes,” he answered.

  “And do you believe in the Great Purpose behind them?”

  “Yes,” Ansel said. “And I still serve for the good of humanity.”

  “Then I ask for your help, though what I ask will be dangerous for you.”

  “What can I do, Soror Barell?”

  “First, you must promise to tell no one of this. Not even Patér Linse.”

  “But I owe obedience to him.”

  “I am a truthseer, Ansel, and have seen beyond the Veil of Time. You must tell no one. Often the greatest challenge we can face is the need to do or say nothing. I would spare Patér Linse that trial. Indeed, despite his intentions, if he learns of things too soon, it will lead to tragedy. And he is not alone. There is a path before his grandson that must be allowed to unfold. I cannot see its end, but all other branches of the future are but roads to an early death.”

  “Do you know where Lord Derrick is?”

  “Do you promise to do exactly as I say, Ansel?”

  “But surely Patér Linse can—”

  “If Patér Linse were to know where Lord Derrick is now, or were the Patér Rector of Ferramond to know, or First Advisor Sukain, or anyone else you would care to name, their actions would lead directly to Lord Derrick’s end. Will you trust me in that?”

  “You have only to tell me what to do, Soror Barell,” Ansel said.

  - - -

  Lilth Morays was the last to enter the room housing the unconscious Lord of Legan. All the visitors already inside turned toward her with looks of concern.

  “This was not what we expected, Lady Voxny,” said Anios Tenatte. The Consortium representative nodded toward Derrick, who lied upon a simple bed, with only a sheet to cover his nakedness. Around Derrick’s head was a metal band that monitored his level of consciousness. Intravenous tubes were attached to his neck and arms that fed him a mild sedative. A backup mechanism sat poised to pump more powerful ones, if needed.

  “Nor us,” Lance Gardet added. “Are you sure you can handle him like this?”

  The Viscountess looked at them, noting that Vaid Ketrick said nothing as he eyed Allenford Biam across from him. She signaled Jordan to answer with a nod.

  “This machine can keep Derrick’s level of consciousness within a desired range indefinitely,” said Jordan. No one said a word. “Gentlemen,” Jordan said incredulously, “you act as if you have never seen this sort of set-up before. What is it that will satisfy you? Shall we put a few more machines in here?”

  “Machines can fail, Lord Jordan,” Biam explained. “And the longer you keep his body in this state, the longer his psychic awareness will have to work through his predicament.”

  “We shouldn’t have to explain the risk of keeping someone with the Training unconscious for too long,” Gardet snapped. “Derrick is not just some uninitiated peasant. His mind does not completely shut down just because you pump his body full of drugs.”

  “The point is that doing this with Derrick is dangerously unpredictable,” Biam continued. “Yes, he could allow his awareness to drift in flights of fancy for years. Or he could recognize his situation, and try to get back.”

  “You do not control him,” Ketrick charged. “You only babysit his body.”

  “Ah, but you are wrong,” Lilth said. “My sweet young cousiné is under my complete control. The drugs were for your benefit. To me, they are unnecessary. I could even wake him, and it would not matter. Would you like to talk to him?”

  The rustle of alarm passed through the group.

  “What have you done to him?” Tenatte asked.

  “You didn’t purge his mind, did you?” Gardet put a faint threat in his tone.

  Lilth Morays laughed. “Do you really think that my skills are so limited that I would stoop to so clumsy a solution? I am capable of some subtlety.”

  “Then what did you do, Your Ladyship?” Biam ventured, his expression suggesting that he already had guessed the answer.

  Lilth looked at Biam as she spoke, as if she answered only him. “I put a psychic Bar over his memory,” she explained, as Jordan took up station behind her. “After having duplicated portions of it so he would not be a complete moron, should he ever regain c
onsciousness.”

  “You went through a lot of trouble,” Ketrick said, determined not appear humbled by her earlier attack upon him.

  “Yes, well, going through his memories was quite informative,” Lilth replied. “Not that it took much time.”

  “And he can no longer use the Disciplines?” Gardet asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “His conscious-self has no memory of his training,” Lilth answered carefully. “Under stress, of course, his unconscious-self might assert temporary control.” She smiled. “Unless you want me to excise that part of his memory completely?”

  Her offer was met with unanimous rejection.

  “Bishop Wyren,” Gardet began, invoking the name of Legan’s ranking NDB, “wants to know what other implants you have in your poor helpless cousiné.”

  Lilth formulated her response, knowing that the NDB bishop might know the truth of her answer by simply examining Derrick himself. “After putting in the Bar, I thought about other possibilities,” said the Viscountess. “Do you have any particular suggestions?”

  “No,” Gardet replied.

  “Do you have anything in him besides the Bar?” Tenatte pressed.

  Lilth lifted her chin, looking at the Consortium boss through narrowed eyes. To her, his scarred white face, metallic eyes and unnatural set of teeth made him look like a poorly crafted android. “Nothing that he has not had since childhood,” she answered. From behind her, she felt her brother stiffen at the revelation. “As a special precaution against the influence of his bitch-of-a-mother,” Lilth lied, “I implanted a short Command.”

  Jordan looked at his sister from the side, having already guessed why she wasted her time babysitting sniveling brats. Getting a chance to be alone with Derrick when he was young and untrained however must have been difficult, given that his mother had always guarded him.

  “What sort of command?” Ketrick asked, smiling.

  “One making him drop his mental shields at a spoken word.”

  “Bishop Wyren will want that removed,” Gardet declared.

  “No,” said Lilth, to his surprise. “I have put too much effort in securing it. And, given the risks I am taking here, I deserve to keep my insurance policy.”

  “The Bishop will not agree,” Gardet reaffirmed.

  “Nor will the Consortium,” added Tenatte.

  “Well Boys,” Lilth laughed, “You should know that Derrick is not in my sole possession. There is another interested party, with its own terms and demands.”

  Immediately several hidden doors opened to admit eight women clad in black. No one had to be told that they were the other members of Lilth Morays’ coven of Dark Witches.

  “So, I suggest you tell your respective superiors,” Lilth concluded, enjoying the nervous looks she received. “Derrick is now under our complete control.”

  - - -

  “Let’s try that again from bar 1327,” the concertmaster said, lifting his hands as he signaled the accompanist to begin.

  Vialette closed her eyes, opening herself to the music filling the chapel. Specially trained, the singers imbued their voices with psychic impressions that touched her emotions. Heightening her own awareness, she could hear each member of the choir, and even feel them. Sensing their emotions through a psychic bond, she knew that they could sense her as well. It was not the same as sharing thoughts, but by this connection, both the performers and listeners reflected one another, and affected one another, creating a unique experience that could never be duplicated.

  “Lady Vialette,” said a man next to her, dispelling the music’s effect.

  “What?” Vialette cleared her thoughts, and was about to berate the man, until she saw his face. He was young, and dressed in the robes of an acolyte.

  The music stopped as the concertmaster signaled for break. “Second altos, your pitch is good, but I sense a muddiness in your section. Someone keeps losing focus, and causing a blur. We need concentration, ladies. Keep it pure and crisp.”

  “I am sorry to intrude, Lady Vialette,” the acolyte went on.

  Vialette saw a choirgirl point to the young man talking to her. The concertmaster continued speaking, still acting as if he was oblivious to any spectators sitting in on his practice.

  “It is all right,” Vialette replied smoothly, resisting the urge to stare at the acolyte’s large dark eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  “My Lady,” the acolyte’s voice lowered as the music started up again. “I have a message. It is about your cousiné. He needs your help, or he will die.”

  “What are you talking about. What can I—?”

  “My Lady, this is a delicate matter. A dangerous matter.”

  “Dangerous? Why talk to me? If you know something HOPIS does not—?”

  “I only know what I was told, my Lady, that only you can save him.”

  “Told by whom? Who told you to talk to me?”

  “Please, my Lady. I speak to you at great risk. There is someone who can tell you everything though. But you must go to her. She cannot come to you.”

  “Who are you? How dare you—?” The young man fell to his knees.

  “If they find out I have spoken to you, my Lady, they will kill me.”

  “Who will kill you?”

  “Those who hold your cousiné. And if we directly involve ourselves, or if they even learn that we know they have him, he will be killed.”

  “Who are They?”

  “Please, my Lady. Go to your aunt’s private chambers tonight at sunset.”

  “Private chambers? I have never been—”

  “Someone is there who can tell you everything. Please, Lady Vialette. It is your cousiné’s only chance.” The acolyte rose to his feet. “I must leave now.”

  “Wait,” called Vialette in a hushed tone, grabbing the youth’s hand. “Who are you?” The acolyte’s mouth fell open at her projection, but he did not resist.

  “No one important. Truly. Please let me go, my Lady.” Vialette held on to his hand. “I am begging you for my life, Lady Vialette.”

  Vialette released the acolyte. With a deep breath, he bowed and hurried out.

  “Good work everyone,” the concertmaster said, deactivating the holo-projector on his music stand. “Rest up. Tonight, it’s for real.”

  - - -

  It was not yet daybreak. Sukain finished the report on her viewer and dimmed the screen. The kidnappers were insisting on ransoming Curin first. Once the ransom was paid through the specified channels, he would be released, with the same procedure then being used for Derrick.

  Except it won’t be, Sukain said to herself. Did they think she was an idiot? Much to the dismay of the Viscountess Morays, a noble cousiné to the Possórs and Curin’s mother, Sukain had remained firm in her decision. The two would be ransomed together, or not at all.

  That was unless the abductors were willing to ransom Derrick first, First Advisor Sukain mused, knowing that they would not. Surely this was not just about money. Extinguishing her desk light, she was about to go to bed when a servant appeared through an open doorway.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Ma’am,” the man said, his posture rigid, “but a Patér Ashincor Linse wishes to speak with you.”

  “Ashincor Linse? Lord Derrick’s grandfather?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. He is the temporary replacement for Patér Orqué in the...ah, Information Services Division of the Palace Guard.”

  Sukain smiled grimly. The good patér was an interrogator. “Send the Inquisitor in,” she replied, wondering what new demands would be made upon her. And what the position of the Holy Miran Church on this might be.

  “Thank you for seeing me, First Advisor,” Ashincor said as he entered the office. He gave a slight bow, noting that even at this late hour, the First Advisor was perfectly coifed, her white-blond hair swept back, and falling to her shoulders in a flattering bouffant. He dared not notice anything else. Sukain nodded back.

  “It is no trouble, Patér,” she replied. “Do sit down.” S
he gestured to a chair in front of her desk. “I am anxious to hear your thoughts on our current dilemma.”

  Ashincor considered his words as he sat. “First Advisor, initially I should say that, as a grandfather, I find nothing wanting in your handling of this matter.”

  Sukain nodded appreciatively, but remained silent.

  “As a servant of the Possór government, and as a subject of the Crown, however, I am concerned about the present political situation.

  Sukain lifted an eyebrow. “Go on,” she prompted.

  “Surely you know of the more notable actions of Jordan Possór.”

  “And I am also aware of his more...questionable public statements, Patér. Does this have anything to do with the influx of NDB initiates into HOPIS?”

  “I do not care who finds my grandson, so long as he is brought back safely.”

  “And Curin Morays?”

  “I am no politician, Madam. Forgive me if my diplomatic skills are insufficient to hide the fact that Derrick is my sole concern.”

  “I understand, Patér. But what of Lord Jordan?”

  “He plays a dangerous game, and cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.”

  “He is a man who may one day be the Count-Grandee of Legan.”

  “He is not grandee now. And if he is permitted to spin his intrigues without impeachment, he could cause a lot of damage.”

  “I see. Lord Jordan’s current public priority is to ransom his nephew first, whose own claim to the throne is regarded as subordinate to his. This is on the grounds of breaking the impasse in our negotiations. The longer this drags on, it is argued, the lesser chance Derrick or his cousin have in surviving this ordeal.”

  “Of course,” Ashincor responded carefully, “if Jordan can establish himself as the most fitting heir to the throne, he will have you ousted and himself named regent. Your continued political viability would then be uncertain at best.”

  “A shrewd politician,” Sukain said blithely, “might then align with Jordan’s rise. If Derrick survives, no harm will be done. If not, no enemies will be made.”

  Ashincor sat up in his chair. “You know it is too late for that, First Advisor. Cross Jordan once, even trivially, and he is your enemy forever. If Derrick dies, you will be his sacrifice to the people of Legan.”