Traitor to the Blood

by J. C.

  He could see Emêl's thoughts racing, waiting for the catch.

  "You're also the first to know I've decided to marry," Darmouth said, looking down upon his grandfathers tomb. "Someday I'll rest here myself I need a strong son to hold this land and continue my plan to unify the Warlands under one rule. I choose you to stand as my second and sword-bearer in the marriage rite."

  He paused. Emêl must be flattered to hear his lord's private thoughts, and honored to be the one to stand with him on the wedding day.

  "I need a legitimate heir," Darmouth continued. "It's late in life for such things, but I've been occupied with holding the province together. Now my duty is to sire a son with the same strength."

  Emêl took one step closer, now smiling with thin lips. "Good news, my lord. Who is the lady you have chosen?"

  "Hedí Progae, most certainly."

  Blank confusion passed across Emêl's features.

  "She's unwed and from noble blood that I titled," Darmouth went on. "Though small, she's strong and healthy, and young enough to bear me sons."

  Emêl faltered. "No offense intended, my lord, but she is the daughter of a traitor."

  "The years since Progae's death have made her respectful and accepting of her place," Darmouth replied.

  He liked her black wavy hair and hoped his son—or sons—would inherit it. All the better to sire more than one to see which emerged the strongest. This too was best for his people, his province… the nation he would forge in this region that outlanders named the Warlands.

  "But… my lord," Emêl stammered. "She has been with me for years and produced no child. If you seek an heir, perhaps another might be a better choice."

  Darmouth's voice hardened. "It's you, my friend, who've produced no heir. Not with your wife, nor any of your mistresses."

  Emêl went silent, his expression unreadable, but Darmouth knew him well.

  "Of course, my lord," Emêl finally agreed.

  "You can give her this good news," Darmouth said. "The marriage rite takes place before the winter feast, once Tarovli is put down. We'll celebrate the traitor's end and the future of my lineage for the sake of the country I'll make here. You're dismissed."

  Emêl's green eyes dropped from Darmouth's face to the twin tombs. He bowed and backed out of the crypt.

  Darmouth turned away into the depths of the room. Though his own bloodline, past and future, was still in his thoughts, another unwelcome threat surfaced to plague him. Faris's news at dinner was disturbing, more so for coming now, of all times. He wondered if this were another ploy of Lukina to the east or Dusan to the north. Perhaps even one of the more distant provinces had sent this long-absent traitor back to Venjetz?

  Darmouth lifted a brazier from its pillar mount and placed it on the floor before the rear wall. Its light rose up to illuminate the tops of numerous cubbyholes.

  Within each was a skull, boiled or burned clean of its forgotten flesh. They rested here like enslaved guardians of Darmouth's forefathers. At the wall's center were the most noteworthy of traitors. Here was the reason for the name of this place—the Hall of Traitors—and why some of the bodies hung headless from the keep walls.

  Darmouth reached out to take one skull in his large hand. The bone was smooth and glistening, the lower jaw bound shut with steel pins.

  "How does it feel, old friend, to know you still serve me through your daughter?"

  He ran his thumb over the cheekbone and, with a smile, pressed it into the hollow eye socket of Andrey Progae's skull. When he placed it back in the wall, his gaze caught on a double-wide cubby to the right.

  There were two skulls set as a pair. The only ones placed together, and Darmouth's smile faded.

  One was round and large, that of a human male, but the second was an oddity, and differed from all the others present. It was slightly smaller, marking it as female, its eye sockets large and the facial structure narrowing to the chin. In life, her face was triangular in shape, the eyes large and slanted below arching eyebrows. She would be… was unnatural but deeply alluring compared to any human woman.

  This pair—human male and elf female—had been in Darmouth's mind as Faris had whispered in his ear.

  A man with white hair, dark skin, and yellow-brown… no, amber eyes.

  Darmouth snatched the skull directly below the pair and tossed it aside, reserving a place for the new occupant soon to come.

  Chapter Five

  Wynn sat on the bed in Leesil and Magiere's room while Tomato and Potato wrestled in her lap, tiny paws and jaws struggling for a better grip. Tomato was winning, which was no surprise, though her pudgy brother outweighed her.

  Wynn felt overfull of Byrd's turnip stew and warm cinnamon milk. The lingering taste brought memories of communal meals among the sages in the guild barracks at Bela. Perhaps that was why she had eaten too much.

  The bed was soft and fitted with a sheepskin cover over a thick wool blanket. The mattress smelled a bit of stale hay. Heat from the common room hearth and kitchen rose up to warm the floorboards. She could not remember the last time she felt this content in her surroundings.

  Byrd had given his guests two rooms upstairs for as long as needed and refused any payment. This bothered Magiere, which was no surprise to Wynn. On one hand an incredible skinflint—Leesil's way of putting it—Magiere was habitually averse to being obliged to anyone.

  Leesil scooped up a lanky tabby from the room's little side table and carried it toward the door while scooting a stocky gray along with his boot. When Chap got up to assist, Wynn silently pointed a finger at him. He slumped back to the floor with a grumble.

  "These two can stay," she said, stroking Tomato's ears. "Chap will not mind."

  Chap cocked his head with a whine, then belly-crawled to her pack, where the talking hide was stored.

  Wynn ignored him as she scratched Potato's stomach. "We will talk later."

  Chap growled and dropped his head on his paws.

  "You're right about Byrd," Magiere said where she sat on the floor. "A character for certain, but you didn't mention he could cook.

  "Don't let him fool you," Leesil warned. "He's skilled in putting people at ease, as was my father."

  "And you," Wynn added.

  Leesil glanced at her. He had many faces, and Wynn had not forgotten his blood-streaked hair and empty eyes when he came in from killing at the Stravinan border.

  One of Wynn's tasks for the Guild of Sagecraft was recording all she learned of Magiere, the only dhampir known outside of folklore. Wynn had done so faithfully, including what was uncovered of Magiere's bloody heritage at the keep above Chemestúk, deep in Droevinka. She had gone so far as to steal bones from the corpses of the five Uirishg found there. These she included in her last package to Domin Tilswith, as proof that the other three races, besides the dwarves and elves, were more than myth. Somehow one of each had been found and sacrificed to make Magiere's birth possible. What this meant, Wynn could not guess, and Magiere knew nothing of Wynn's careful records. Wynn had no intention of telling her.

  But Leesil? Wynn watched him settle on the floor beside Magiere and place one hand on her thigh.

  Leesil had been a friend on this long journey. In the nights following Chane's death, he had brought Wynn tea, covered her with blankets, and assured her the world would seem brighter again, someday. Wynn would not forget these small acts—even for what she had seen at the border stream.

  He was the only half-elf she had ever heard of. In her own land, the elves were known to mate only among their own kind. Secretive and shamed by his own life, Leesil had told her of himself and his parents in confidence. There were moments she considered recording details of him as well as Magiere, but she did not. It felt too much like betrayal.

  Magiere never willingly told Wynn anything and reluctantly allowed her to follow on this journey.

  "Do you have thoughts on our first step tomorrow?" Wynn asked.

  "What about Byrd's comment?" Magiere replied first, and
hesitated as she looked to Leesil. "Why would your parents run for the keep?"

  Leesil shook his head, rubbing one temple with a finger.

  "They weren't fools and must have had a strong reason, but it makes no sense." He glanced at Chap before raising his eyes to Wynn. "Translate for Chap. He lived with me and my parents long enough that he might know something."

  Wynn plopped Tomato and Potato on the bed, pulled out the talking hide, and dropped down to the floor to unroll it.

  "You know what I'm after," Leesil said to Chap.

  Chap stood and began pawing out words upon the hide.

  "Noticed how he's changed since Droevinka?" Magiere said, lifting her chin toward Chap. "He practically threw himself in front of the wagon to stop us from finding my past."

  Leesil nodded but made no other reply.

  Wynn scowled but kept her attention fixed on Chap's touches upon the elvish symbols. He finished, and Wynn pursed her lips for a moment.

  "He does not know why your parents went to the keep, but he remembers the word 'down' that—"

  "Yes," Leesil interrupted. "They were seen heading down below the main floor."

  "Chap suggests they might have known of something in the lower levels to help them escape." Wynn tried not to sound reluctant. "So, we search another keep?"

  Leesil raised his eyes to Wynn with a disapproving glare. "I don't think so! There's no bolt-hole to sneak through, and we'd be dead before we crossed the bridge. Even if it were possible, none of you are going near Darmouth."

  "What about Byrd?" Magiere suggested. "Couldn't he seek an audience, then look about the keep as much as is safe?"

  "People like Byrd don't speak directly with Darmouth," Leesil answered. "Byrd is one set of eyes among many. Neither he nor Darmouth wants that known to anyone without reason. Besides, whatever informants Byrd has couldn't tell him much, so there's little he'd gain by nosing about himself."

  "If he told us all he heard," Magiere added.

  "Yes," Leesil agreed. "There is that."

  This time Wynn grudgingly acknowledged Magiere's habitual suspicion. "Then we start with any city records we can gain access to. Perhaps military logs of death warrants or…' She bit her lip as Leesil winced. "I did not mean… we must at least look, verify that your parents were not legally executed before we go further."

  "Warlords don't care about records," Leesil said, and got up. "Some pretense of protocol exists, simply for justification—or it used to. Byrd might be able to help with that, but I'm too tired. We'll leave it until morning."

  This was Wynn's hint to leave. It had been a long day for Leesil and not a hopeful one in the least.

  She rolled up the hide, shouldered her pack, and was about to call Chap when she noticed how tangled his fur had become. He was a mess. She had not groomed him since the night before the border skirmish. When she looked at him, she could still hear the buzz of a leaf-wing in memory and saw the image of his blood-covered face as he crouched beneath the table in the Stravinan barracks.

  "Come, Chap," she said weakly, then scooped up Tomato and Potato. "They can sleep with us."

  Chap groaned as he followed her out.

  Wynn set down the kittens in the hallway. Potato dropped on his haunches, staring up at her in wide-eyed confusion. Tomato trotted after her, much to Chap's rumbling distaste, and Potato finally waddled along behind.

  As Wynn opened her room's door and the kittens scurried in, she heard voices drift up the stairs from below. One was Byrd's deep baritone, and the other's strange cadence was oddly familiar.

  The accent was not right for the Belaskian tongue spoken most places in the north of this continent. The speaker clipped his words and syllables with strange pauses, his speech lyrical and guttural all at once.

  Eavesdropping was impolite, but when they had all retired, no one else had come to the inn. Who would come by so late for a chat?

  Wynn closed the door, keeping Tomato and Potato in her room, and crept to the top of the stairs. She crouched there to peek through the banister's railings. Chap shoved his head in under her arm, startling her.

  Byrd stood by the bar, but unlike his relaxed demeanor at dinner, his shoulders were straight and square. He was tensely poised at the visitor's presence.

  His visitor was tall, with a cowled head that nearly brushed the low rafters of the common-room ceiling. Solid in build, he wore a long gray-green cloak that hid his form and features. Only his hands were visible, and they were dark-skinned and narrow-boned.

  Again the visitor's lyrical accent drifted up to Wynn's ears.

  "My source tells me the lady wishes urgently to see you. Await her behind the Bronze Bell Inn. She will come soon, so do not delay."

  Wynn swallowed hard.

  The strange accent was one she had heard in her faraway homeland of Malourne.

  Byrd's night visitor was an elf.

  * * * *

  Chap tensed at the sight of an elf below in the common room. And not just an elf.

  He had seen the forest-gray cloak and cowl more than once. The last time was in Bela. An elf called Sgailsheilleache—Sgaile—invaded the sages' barracks, intent upon killing Leesil. Below in the common room was another of their kind.

  Anmaglâhk. An elven assassin had come to the very inn where Leesil stayed.

  "She wants to meet outside at night?" Byrd asked of his visitor. "Alone?"

  "One of mine watches over her," the tall elf replied, "though she does not know this."

  A flash of surprise crossed Byrd's ruddy features. "You have orders to watch over her?"

  At the mention of "orders" a face appeared in the elf's mind. Chap focused on the memory and examined what he saw there.

  Aoishenis-Ahare.

  Chap knew this was less an elvish name than a title. In his brief time among the elven people, he had seen this face, heard these words—in the memories of others. "Most Aged Father" would be as close as Wynn might have translated it. The face in the visitor's memory was aged and withered, with sunken cheeks that sharpened its triangular shape and made the cheekbones jut outward. Yet the skin was light for an elf, as if not touched by the sun in decades. The whites around the cloudy amber irises were faintly yellowed. His long hair was so white it seemed translucent.

  Most Aged Father was patriarch to the elves of this continent, as well as the leader of the Anmaglâhk. Along with this face, Chap sensed troubled dissent in the elf standing before Byrd. Even fear. This one was hiding something from Aoishenis-Ahare, his superior.

  "Brot'an, really," Byrd said when his visitor remained silent. "This isn't at all how I do things."

  The elf's name seemed familiar, though Chap could not recall where or when he might have heard it. Byrd's voice pulled Chap's gaze, and he caught a flickering memory of a younger Leesil from years past that surfaced in Byrd's mind.

  Byrd turned his head with a puzzled frown, eyes lifting toward the stairs.

  Wynn quickly shoved Chap back and ducked low.

  All memory images vanished as Chap lost sight of both men. He heard a rustle of fabric and quick footsteps. By the time he ventured to peer below, as did Wynn, the inn's front door swung shut. Byrd and his companion were gone.

  The presence of an anmaglâhk in Venjetz was a complication with unknown consequences. That this first sighting was within earshot of Leesil left Chap deeply disturbed.

  Since being given to Leesil as a pup, Chap had met few elves in his life. Most such encounters ranged from uncertain to dangerous. Nein'a, Leesil's mother, had been secretive and guarded, though on a few occasions Chap had seen Most Aged Father's face in her memories—and felt the same discontent in her that he had sensed in this Brot'an here tonight.

  Whatever Byrd's reasons for involvement with elves, Leesil should be kept far from them. Difficult at best, since he might have to be told of their presence—but not yet. There was some small hope of brief peace for him, alone with only Magiere for this night.

  Wynn scrambled over the top s
tair and ran down the hall. She reached Magiere and Leesil's door before Chap realized her intent.

  He raced after her and squirmed around her legs, trying to block her way. Before he could shove Wynn back with his head and paws, she reached out and pushed the door wide.

  "Get up! We must search this place—now!"

  Wynn's eyes widened, and Chap groaned in frustration as he looked into the dark room.

  What little light filled the space from a single candle exposed shoulders and a back of pale, flawless skin over smooth muscles. Magiere sat naked in Leesil's lap upon the bed, her legs and arms wrapped about him. She turned her head enough to glare toward the open door with one dark eye.

  Chap backed up with a hard swallow, and Wynn spun away, eyes clamped shut as she cringed against the hallway wall.

  "Damn you, Wynn," Magiere growled. "Not again!"

  * * * *

  Chane climbed from the bathtub and used a dressing gown left by the maid to dry himself. Welstiel had procured rooms at the Bronze Bell, reputed to be the finest inn Venjetz offered. The accommodations were decent. Nothing close to the standards of Bela, but the bed was covered in a green comforter and the aged furniture was well kept. His room contained two porcelain oil lamps and a small table and chair.

  When Welstiel requested they both have a bath, servants carried tin tubs into each of their rooms, filling them with buckets of hot water. Later, the tubs would be laboriously emptied and removed.

  Chane remembered the rooms Welstiel had rented in Keonsk, the luxury of sleeping in a bed, and the fat candles by which he wrote all through the long night. Looking about at his current surroundings, he should have recaptured some pleasure in the finer things, but he felt nothing at all.

  He combed his red-brown hair back behind his ears and dressed himself in a pair of spare breeches and a tan shirt. The rest of his clothing had been taken by a maid for laundering. He had not given up his cloak and brushed this out himself. He strapped on his longsword, donned the cloak, and stepped across the hallway to knock at Welstiel's door.