JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II

by JANRAE FRANK

  He noticed Isranon's eyes regarding him. Nevin grasped his hand, "What is it?"

  "I ...I did the right thing?"

  "Yes, Isranon, you did the right thing. The honorable thing."

  "Honor ... honor is a harsh master."

  "Do you regret it because you hurt?"

  "Look at my scars... I do not regret them."

  Nevin nodded, his grip tightening again on Isranon's hand. In all cultures boys as young as fourteen were expected to take up arms and fight. Nevin perceived the troubled mix of maturity and innocence, of trust and honor, and conflicting beliefs in Isranon that he had helped create. Perhaps Nevin should not have taught him, but left him to his father's teachings. No. To stand and fight was this one's only hope. "I know you don't regret them. I am proud of you. This day I am no longer your guurmondru, but your brother of heart, fur, and spirit. I have declared this before witnesses when I bore you home that night."

  Isranon looked suddenly vulnerable and grateful. "Truly?"

  Nevin squeezed his shoulder. "Yes, truly. You are not a boy any longer. You are a man."

  "One day, Nevin ... one day I will walk in the Light." His voice faltered as he fought sleep from the drug even as he slid into it. "A ghost, Nevin ... a ghost promised I ... I would have the staff. I have always ... wondered who stole it ... where it is." Then he slid back into sleep.

  "Yes, you will have it. You will." Nevin brushed his lips across Isranon's forehead. "I love you, Isranon."

  They battled the fever for three days with herbs, which reduced it, but it came back full force each time the herbs began to wear off. Throughout it all, Nevin listened, with growing horror and anger, to Isranon's fevered ramblings, conversations with people who were present only in his nightmares and memories. He learned many details of the terror under which Isranon had lived for four years while with Mephistis. What Nevin did not learn, he guessed at, based on his accumulated knowledge of sa'necari ways. The fact that Isranon had not broken under it seemed nothing short of miraculous, but Isranon's gentle ways and his refusal to fight under most circumstances belied the rod of iron in the young male's spine, the stubborn strength that Nevin found admirable.

  On the fourth day, the fever finally sweated itself out of Isranon.

  * * * *

  Pain remained an issue. Isranon was healing in such tiny increments that the household worried over him. By the end of a week, Isranon had begun to be awake for short intervals and Claw decided to question him about what had happened. He came up and chased the nibari out with a curt jerk of his thumb. Isranon lay curled on his side, hurting. Claw settled astride a chair he drew up to the bed.

  "My bitch says you need the strongest blood we got if you're going to heal right. So I've come to offer mine, partly as an apology for things I've said."

  "You don't owe me, Claw."

  Claw nodded, took out his pipe, and lit it. He did not like that detached, distant quality in the young mon's voice, speaking of such worlds of hurt and none of it physical. "You lit out after them expecting to die, didn't you?" When Isranon dished him out his usual silence, the crusty, old lycan chieftain upped his tone a notch. "Answer me, youngster! Didn't you?"

  "Yes. I've never fought one as powerful as Troyes before."

  "So you've killed other sa'necari?"

  "Yes. I've shattered the blades. Freed the souls. But I never – I never came so close to–"

  Claw could see the pain glaze deepening in his eyes, he needed to either feed him or give him the fire poppy on the table before the pain worsened into agony. Merissa and Isranon were holding something back and so far coaxing had not panned out. Isranon was a proud mon. But Claw was clan chief and his curiosity had served him well. He had to know it all in case some of it impacted on the clan. "Came so close to what?"

  "Dying in the rite. I was dying in the rite when Merissa broke his back."

  Shame flooded Claw. He owed him an apology and the ultimate gesture of gratitude for intervening to save Merissa. Claw rose quickly. He moved to the side of the bed, lifting Isranon. He brought the glass of fire poppy to Isranon's lips first, helping him drink. Then he cradled the sa'necari like a lover, pressing Isranon's face to his throat. Drugged, weak, and in pain, Isranon was scarcely aware when he began to feed from the lycan chieftain.

  "You are clan friend, Dark Brother."

  * * * *

  Merissa came stealing into Isranon's room a week following her father's visit, while the household slept. Isranon had begun to get up a little bit on his own, but still tired easily. She sat and watched him sleep for a time, then rose and brushed her lips across his. Isranon's eyes opened and he looked surprised and questioning at her.

  "I know about Rose," she said. "I'm sorry."

  His hand closed on hers. "Don't be. Her murderer is dead now. I only wish it could give her peace. But I don't know. He shattered her soul in the rite."

  Merissa pressed his hand to her face. "I love you, Isranon. I always have."

  "Merissa, I'm fond of you." He felt his body reacting to her closeness. "But I don't love you. Eventually I'm going to leave and I will not take you with me."

  Merissa's breath caught in her throat with a sigh. "I know."

  "I'm lonely, but it would not be love."

  She opened her dressing robe, revealing that she wore nothing beneath it. "Couple with me then, like the wild cousins. And comfort me."

  "Merissa... I..." He started to protest and then gave in, drawing her close to him and kissing her. He still hurt as he moved, but felt certain he could manage this much as he helped her slide beneath the blankets with him.

  * * * *

  Nevin watched Isranon packing his belongings. Three large packs had already been carried down and lashed onto Troyes' horse. It had become Isranon's by right of conquest under the laws of lycan dueling between unmarried males in which the personal possessions of the defeated were considered forfeit. Only the two saddlebags, which Isranon carried, remained unsecured on the horses.

  "My brother, I do not believe this is the right way to handle this."

  "I already know what you think, Nevin. And I respect it. However, I cannot live beneath this roof any longer."

  "Claw took back everything he said to you. He fed you from his own throat."

  Isranon sighed. Isranon had trouble getting stiff-necked and arrogant only with Nevin. Their student and teacher days were too ingrained upon the young male's heart and psyche. "He believed then. Even if he changed his mind. For most of those who saw Troyes' body, it will always be a question in their minds of when I will cross that line. Not if."

  "Then I am coming with you."

  Isranon's hand paused in buckling the straps closed. "You can't. You're the lawgiver."

  "I can. There are others who can serve. My cousin Nikko is fully trained, even if he's a bit young. I can become an advocate instead. I am not letting you run away without me." Nevin grinned, his heavy mouth making his ugly face an evil mask.

  "I – I–"

  "Olin and I will simply sit outside your little cave and howl at the moon until you let us in."

  "So be it." Isranon focused on his saddlebags for a short, intense second and then gave in the rest of the way. "I'll like having you there. I didn't really want to be completely alone again."

  * * * *

  Claw stopped Isranon as he walked out to the barns with his packs and saddlebags. "Where are you going, Isranon? You can't take off. There's no place for you out there. You don't know where Mephistis is. Without him, the sa'necari will eat you."

  Isranon looked at him a long moment before answering him. "The cave in the hills. I'm going to live in the cave."

  "Isranon, don't be a fool. We're all sorry we doubted you."

  Isranon shook his head. "It can never be the same between us. The fact that you would think my honor such a weak thing. I killed Troyes, but I did not take him. I did not cross the line. I am not a monster." Isranon finished tying down his belongings and fastened the lead
rope of the pack animal to the saddle of his mount. Then he swung into the saddle.

  "I will send the nibari to you to see that your need for blood is satisfied. We will take care of you, Isranon. We are still friends. You are clan friend. Nevin and Olin have named themselves your spirit-brothers and they intend to live with you." Stubborn pig-headed youngster got his damned feelings hurt. I'm not going to let him cut his damned nose off to spite his damned face.

  "So be it. I will be glad of their company."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARGREN

  Bodramet waited for Margren to start past him in the nearly empty corridor. He caught her arm, whirling her about to press her hard against the wall and kiss her hungrily. "He's dead. I felt it when Troyes began the rite upon him. We had arranged a link months ago to signal."

  Margren wrapped her arms tightly around him, rubbing his crotch with her thigh. "They are expecting us at dinner. I will reward you afterward. Body and blood."

  "I only wish it could have been me who did it."

  Margren stiffened, offended. "Everyone wanted Isranon."

  "No. I wanted his soul, his terror, to feast upon... As you do upon your sister."

  Margren relaxed again in his arms, purring softly against his ear. "I can understand that. To me, the most important thing was Isranon's death. He stole Mephistis' affection from me."

  "No one will ever steal mine from you." Bodramet bent and pricked her neck with his fangs. Blood welled. Margren stayed very well fed here and her blood was rich.

  She slapped at him. "We must not be late. Nor can we arrive together."

  Bodramet stepped back, making a sweeping gesture for her to precede him and watched her go. When she was fully out of sight, he started on. He had long wondered whether one who was not of that lineage could steal the Legacy of Waejonan through mortgiefan. If luck was with him, Margren might provide him with an opportunity to test it upon Mephistis' body. Bodramet had never forgiven Mephistis for interfering with his attempt to rite Isranon himself. So he would rite Mephistis instead. Waejonan blood, especially enhanced by the Legacy, must be very rich and powerful. He would make himself the greatest sa'necari in existence, perhaps the greatest of all time.

  * * * *

  The castle staff set out a lavish meal on a series of trestle tables that went along the walls on two sides beyond the high table – a heavy scrollwork monstrosity at the head of the room. Food was cooked for the lycans and sa'necari, served raw and bloody for the necari, and just wine and blood in ruby glass goblets for the vampires. The chairs had only a single padded arm, so that nibari could kneel beside their masters and lay their heads across their laps. Other nibari, those who were serving or simply strolling the tables in a provocative manner could offer their wrists instead for a quick drink. The more favored nibari, the loveliest and handsomest ones, actually actively socialized with the masters as they presented their bodies for nibbling.

  Margren enjoyed those meals. She had learned to slide into their minds, giving them intense pleasure as she fed from them, careful not to take too much or do them any lasting damage. She spied Juqwanch sitting in a corner of the far wall – there was no chair strong or large enough to hold him – with a raw boar haunch on his lap. He grinned when he realized she was staring at him. Margren's heart caught at the thought of tasting him and possibly testing him in bed. Juqwanch regularly offered himself, his body and blood regenerating more quickly than the shifters.

  She rose from the table, feeling a trifle giddy and approached him. "May I?"

  The longer they were in Hoon's castle, the wilder Margren felt and behaved. Bodramet's news about Isranon's death had filled her with the heady liquor of joy, wine and blood had done the rest.

  Juqwanch settled his food between his knees and lifted her up to his shoulders, which were broader than a long bench. "I have been wanting you."

  Margren wrapped herself around his stout neck and nuzzled for a moment. His skin was rough as rawhide, and the veins were harder to find than in others.

  "Go up," he told her. "Up behind my ear."

  Margren found it and bit. The troll blood was beyond anything she had ever tasted and she quickly became intoxicated. Juqwanch moaned, his member tenting his pants. Her face glowed at his reaction as well as the taste of his blood. This was the one true fount of ecstasy. Her spirit soared with it and then suddenly snapped. Blackness roared in and she fainted.

  Mephistis saw her slump and dashed from his chair to see what had happened. Hoon followed. "What did you do?" Mephistis demanded.

  Hoon patted the prince's shoulder. "It is the troll blood. She is not used to it. Your lady will sleep it off and awaken feeling as if she never died. It is a peculiar blood and must be taken slowly in small quantities until one becomes accustomed to its strength."

  "I apologize, masters," Juqwanch said. "If I had known she was uninitiated, I would not have allowed her to drink so freely." He lifted Margren from his shoulders and handed her to Mephistis.

  "It is not your fault, Juqwanch," Hoon told him. "Come let us take her upstairs."

  * * * *

  Margren got even more attention in Hoon's castle than she had in Mephistis' citadel, in part because of the diversity and richness of the place. The citadel had simply been a gathering place for the army with which Mephistis intended to take Rowanslea from her mother. Juqwanch had propositioned her and she was still considering it, wondering what it would feel like to have something as large as that creature between her legs. For the first time in her existence she fit in, felt loved and wanted. She flirted and danced and slept with a variety of males, always males: she had completely lost her taste for women. And she flaunted her conquests in Mephistis' face. All except Bodramet. She caught Hoon smiling at her antics several times. That spurred her on to greater wildness, wanting to dazzle him. Hoon was the one she wanted, the one with the true power here.

  Frequently, when there was less to distract her, she brooded as she did this evening stretched out on the floor by the scrying bowl in Hoon's study. She listened to Becca and Omer talking about Aejys in concerned tones; but if Skree were to appear Margren would cover the bowl. The triton had begun to sense her obsessive scrying. He was slowly closing her out, warding each and every room. Both she and Aejys had crossed the threshold of death and returned, but Aejys had come back as a living mon, while Margren was undead. That filled her with anger and resentment.

  "Why does everyone love you? Why? Can't they see what you are? A treacherous, manipulative, misbegotten bitch?"

  "Perhaps, my lady, you should stop scrying if it upsets you so." Hoon knelt beside her.

  Margren looked up startled, for she had not heard him come in.

  Hoon slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. "I want you, Margren. Would you come to my bed? You have lain with many others in my castle. Would you deny me?"

  Joy swept over Margren as she turned her face to his. "You are the one I want most, Lord Hoon." Margren moved the bowl to a nearby table without rising, and then stretched herself perfectly across the pentagram. "Take what you wish."

  Hoon, staring down at Margren's unblemished body, found himself slipping into reverie. Margren did not notice this as he stroked her in a dreamy fashion. His thoughts had turned to Aejys. He had only seen her once, but that had been enough to impress her image on his mind. He wanted her. Margren was, by all accounts and his own observation, but a pale shadow of her paladin sister. When the Sharani and their allies pushed back the Waejontori invasion, turning it into one of their own, he had ridden out with his army of living and dead to try and cut their supply lines. Aejys split her forces. He thought it a foolish move until he realized what they were doing. She bracketed his army, blocked his retreat, and sent in her heavy cavalry to cut his units to pieces. That was when he saw her, mounted on her big wynderjyn, her gleaming armor splashed with blood, and cutting down everything in her path. For a single moment their eyes met. Then Hoon broke away, shape shifted and fled
.

  Hoon shook himself free, bent his face to Margren's, twining their necks and sank his fangs into her as hers entered him. As they exchanged blood, the surface of their minds danced together in an ecstatic whirl of pleasure. He slipped his cock into her and their bodies moved in rhythm to the dance of their minds and power. When they had spent themselves, they lay together in each other's arms. And that was how Mephistis found them.

  The sa'necari prince swept into the room and paused, looking down on them with his head cocked and an amused expression on his face: in life Margren had been ferociously monogamous, but since rising as necari she had gone after all the pleasures she could find in whatever form they presented themselves. He wasn't sure yet of what that meant.

  "What? You did not invite me?" He feigned indignation, amusement dancing in his eyes, at the edges of his full lips.

  Hoon raised his head from Margren. "By all means, join us, my prince. Perhaps at dinner I should declare an orgy. With many full-meals and nibari in attendance."

  "Yes," Margren hissed. The thought excited her.

  Mephistis smiled at her as he joined them on the floor. "Yes, Hoon. That would be very fine." He reached down, caressing Hoon's balls and the base of his cock, which still lingered inside Margren. His touch quickened it to hardness again. "Continue."

  He watched for a while, and then moved to Margren's neck, nuzzling, sinking his fangs into her throat. She moaned, twisted her head, and sank hers into Mephistis. Hoon, pumping inside her, leaned forward and began licking Mephistis' back.

  * * * *

  The dancers drifted across the floor in rhythm to a haunting tune in a minor chord, masters dancing with masters and masters dancing with their nibari slaves. Margren watched as some would drift away to the couches, those with nibari partners, and begin to feed upon their partner. It made her throat itch with longing and her loins grow damp. There were no screams, no sounds of terror, but the delicious smell of fear was laced with resignation among some of the nibari. Others gave off psychic emanations of lust for the touch of the fangs in their throats. Margren shivered. She narrowed her focus and realized there were depnane in the room also, dancing with sa'necari. She looked about for one of those. They were the source of the terror smells. Ahh, but one of them would taste fine.