Traitor to the Blood

by J. C.

  "Chap," she began. "At the border, before you ran for the field to save the refugees, what were you doing at the city gate? Something happened that we did not see."

  Chap wrinkled his snout briefly. He quickly sniffed at her as if checking for something, then barked twice for "no." It was low and breathy, like a whisper, and too quick and dismissive.

  Perhaps it was that Wynn knew him well, for all the time they had spent together. Or that Chap was not a good liar when confronted.

  "I saw you," she said, "and I heard… felt something. It made me sick and dizzy, like back in Droevinka, when you licked away my mantic sight. I heard whispers while I watched you. What were you doing?"

  She hoped he would understand—trust enough to help her to understand.

  Chap stood on all fours, dipped his head, and then leaned forward to lift his muzzle at her. His eyes locked on hers and a low rumble came up his throat. One of Chap's jowls rose slightly to expose teeth, and his crystal-blue eyes narrowed.

  Wynn stiffened and leaned away.

  He remained there so long in watchful silence that Wynn's shoulders and back began to ache from clenched muscles. She did not believe Chap would hurt her, but the questions had upset him more than she anticipated.

  Chap swung his head down to the hide, his gaze leaving her only at the last instant. He pawed the symbols, and Wynn translated his words in her mind.

  What did you hear?

  She slowly sat upright. "Not words… and not in my ears, as no one else appeared to hear it. It was like leaves in a swirling wind and a flight of insects buzzing inside my head all at once."

  Chap made no response by expression or movement.

  "When they fell silent," she added, "a single leaf-wing answered back… What were you doing?"

  Chap dropped on his haunches. He cocked his head again, and it remained there at that odd angle, his narrow eyes studying her.

  Wynn felt naked under his scrutiny. Was she being judged?

  Chap let out a rolling exhale, like a growl without voice. To Wynn, it sounded like a weary resignation. He pawed again, hesitating over the symbols he chose upon the hide. Some part of what he told her now was difficult for words.

  Spiord… arœn… cheang'a.

  "Spirit… one-as-one, or collective… speech—no, communication?" Wynn whispered.

  Beyond their differing dialects of Elvish, there was the more frustrating challenge that Chap did not think like mortals. At least not from what Wynn had reasoned out. Sometimes he grew frustrated in trying to express himself, while other times he was just reticent.

  Elvish was a language of "root" words to be transformed into nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs, as well as other elements of language. Chap now used pure "root" words, and perhaps transforming them could not render his full meaning.

  "Spirit… as one of the five elements?" she asked.

  Chap huffed twice for "no."

  "Then spirit, as in spiritual… as opposed to physical or mental aspects of existence?"

  He huffed once for "yes," then quickly added two more. Three total meant "maybe."

  "Spirit… collective… communication…" Wynn rolled the terms together in her mind and drew a breath. "Commune? You were communing with the Fay?"

  It was the closest meaning she could find. Instead of barking once, Chap nodded, but then pawed two specific Elvish words on the hide— "yes" and "no."

  Wynn's translation was close enough but not completely what he meant or what she had "overheard" in her mind. And more realization came to Wynn.

  To banish her mantic sight in the Droevinkan forest, Chap had touched her after all the flowing blue-white trails of mist had joined in his flesh. He had touched her while joined with his kin in some way that was even deeper than his communion at the Stravinan border. Something more had happened in that instant that even Chap could not account for.

  His expression went flat, and he backed away.

  "The mantic sight… it is still with me as well," she whispered. "I saw you a moment ago as I did that night in Droevinka."

  Chap did not answer, but his crystalline eyes looked at her with a hint of sadness. Wynn realized that what was happening to her was a mistake that worried him. Still, a weight had lifted from her. She knew what she had heard at the border, and she held out her arms to him.

  "I did not mean to… did not know, If you wish, I will not tell anyone of this. I promise."

  Chap moved closer. Leaning in, he sniffed again as if testing her scent.

  His tongue flicked out across her cheek, and Wynn closed her arms around him.

  Chapter Six

  Magiere reached the inn's room she shared with Leesil and slammed the door behind her. Chap and Wynn were safely tucked away in their own room. Frustrated, she just stood in the dark.

  "I know what I'm doing," she muttered, repeating Leesil's last words to her. "Yes, and it's nothing to do with sinking into your past… you witless mule!"

  Each thing Magiere learned of Byrd raised more questions, more suspicions, and fewer answers. All of it kept coming back to Leesil, his parents, and Darmouth's keep. All of it centered on Byrd. Now Leesil sat, alone, waiting in the common room for someone he hardly knew.

  She went to the small side table, struck the sulfur stick across its underside, and lit the candle lantern resting there. Placing the lantern's glass down around the flame, she settled on the bed.

  Taking Leesil head-on was her first instinct, and it was a mistake. She didn't want to be one more weight upon him, shoving him over the edge of good sense.

  Magiere unsheathed her falchion and rested it across her knees. She reached over the bed's end into the travel trunk and pulled out a scrap of soft hide permeated with oil. Within its folds was a smooth basalt stone, and she began cleaning and sharpening the blade.

  She fingered the steel, from its wide curved tip to its cross-guard, and her gaze slipped down the hand-and-a-half hilt to the strange glyph engraved in the pommel. She still didn't know what it meant, but the blade's power against the undead suggested much.

  Magiere paused in her work and lifted the weapon in her grip.

  Made by her half brother, Welstiel Massing, it had been wielded by three women of the same blood. First her mother, Magelia, had tried to defend herself against Magiere's father, Bryen Massing. Aunt Bieja had used it to defend an infant Magiere against a village elder trying to cast the misbegotten child into the wild. And lastly, Magiere herself carried it for her own defense… and for those she chose to defend.

  It wasn't much of a heritage, tainted with bloodshed and suffering, but it was hers. As she stared at the blade, it gained new meaning. More than some arcane device made for a destiny she neither wanted nor understood.

  Her own "parent," bad-tempered Aunt Bieja, had tried to keep her safe with this weapon.

  Magiere settled the falchion on her knees.

  There'd been no way for Leesil and his parents to flee together. She wondered if Nein'a and Gavril had even considered it. Leesil had been raised in his mother's ways. To Magiere, this seemed worse than what she'd endured as a child, and it begged a question.

  Why had Nein'a done this to her own son?

  An elf among humans, Nein'a had married one. That in itself was bizarre, from what Magiere had learned of this reclusive and dangerous people. Nein'a kept Leesil ignorant of her kind and her caste, and even her native language. It made no sense. It was a puzzle Magiere never heard Leesil mention himself.

  Gazing at the steel wielded by three women, Magiere couldn't imagine why any mother would do that to her child. But for all Leesil now faced, she wouldn't put it in his mind.

  Not yet. Not until they found Nein'a. If Leesil lived that long.

  Magiere sat still and silent, and looked to the room's door as she listened intently. Not a sound reached her ears from anywhere in the quiet inn. Below in a dimly lit common room, Leesil waited blindly for a piece of his past to come for him.

  She slipped the falchi
on into its sheath, stepped to the window, and shoved the heavy curtains and shutters open. The drop to the alley behind the inn wasn't difficult. Magiere would not let Leesil out of her sight, whether he knew it or not.

  * * * *

  Hedí turned the corner at the back of the Bronze Bell and spotted a hefty man in the alley leaning back on an empty ale barrel. Even in the dark, she made out the yellow kerchief around his head and knew it was Byrd. His brow was wrinkled in concern, though he wore a half smile on his pleasant ruddy face. In a world of false smiles, Byrd's meant little to her.

  "My lady," he said with his usual wry twist of the title. "An alley at night is no place for you… or me, if I'm seen."

  Three years had passed since Hedí was first visited by one of Byrd's less savory confidants. Not long after that she began spying for the Vonkayshi, would-be rebels of which Byrd was her main contact. She dreamed of Darmouth's death long before then and found she was not alone in that desire. She'd seen many attempts on Darmouth's life. Those involved tried, failed, and died as traitors. Byrd was not to be trusted with anyone's safety or agenda besides his own. His heart was made of ice, but he was the first one to make Hedí believe Darmouth could be dealt with.

  To assist him, Hedí took mental notes or quick diagrams on scraps of paper, if she had time, whenever she went with Emêl into Darmouth's stronghold. She fed Byrd these details, bit by bit and drop by drop, as she gathered them like a small scavenger in the shadows. She knew she placed herself—and Emêl—in great danger, but if Darmouth died, the risk was worthy.

  "Shhhhh, and listen," she said. "Tonight Faris interrupted Darmouth's little dinner party with an urgent message. Darmouth immediately ordered the guards on the keep and city walls to be doubled… and for any man with light hair and dark skin to be arrested or killed on sight."

  Byrd lost all semblance of pleasantry and lurched upright, but he remained composed as he spoke. "Why? What did you overhear from Faris?"

  "Only scant pieces," Hedí returned with a shake of her head. "There was a skirmish at the Stravinan border. The man they seek crossed the stream and attacked Darmouth's troops running down deserters and their families." Panic crept into her voice. "If the soldiers are to arrest anyone who resembles an elf, we are ruined! What was your fool of an associate doing out there?"

  A hint of confusion passed across Byrd's face, and then quickly vanished in some sudden realization. He shook his head. "Where is Baron Milea?"

  "Asleep inside," she said.

  She did not like Byrd asking questions about Emêl and had not risked herself for this meeting only to have her own questions avoided. She stared at him, silently waiting.

  His gaze was steady. "Do you remember a married couple in Darmouth's service from before your father died? The woman was elven."

  Another absurd change of topic. Was he being deliberately evasive or did he not realize the magnitude of Darmouth's new orders? She remembered the woman, for who could forget an elf living among humans, let alone in this accursed place?

  "Yes. I only saw them a few times."

  "They had a son."

  She did not recall this, but her family had lived outside Venjetz and seldom attended events except the winter feast. "I don't remember him. Now please, what about the—"

  Byrd held his hand up. "It was their son at the border, not one of my associates."

  "Then he is responsible for fouling our plans?"

  "In a sense. He is staying with me at the inn." Byrd dropped his gaze in reflection. "But I've wondered if anyone could scale the keep without being seen. My elven associates were the only possibility we had… until now."

  "I do not understand," Hedí said. "What has changed?"

  "This elven woman and her husband were forced to flee years ago, but they ran inside the keep instead of trying to slip out the city gates or over the wall. I don't know why, and it's a riddle I've never answered or put aside. Now their wayward son wants that answer, and if he finds it…"

  "So you still think our efforts might—"

  "I'll wait and see. The plan may be altered, but it's far from ruined.

  Be patient. We'll get one of the elves inside those walls. Darmouth will be dead before the winter feast."

  A slight relief, but Hedí's satisfaction was incomplete. Byrd wore many faces, and he would sacrifice anyone—including her—to meet his end goal. Her own determination for assurance made her bold.

  "Why are the elves helping us?" Hedí asked. "What are they getting from this?"

  "I don't know, and they're not saying," Byrd answered, and glanced warily about the alley. "As troubling as that is, we've no one else for the task. And don't call me this way again. I'll contact you when I know more."

  Hedí nodded and whispered, "For our people."

  "For our people," Byrd repeated, and disappeared out the alley's end.

  Hedí pulled her cloak tight against the cold night. The inn's rear door was within reach, but it was better to reenter from the front and attract less attention from the staff. She headed for the corner and the side way to the inn's front.

  A tall figure stepped from the shadows to block her way.

  * * * *

  Welstiel sat on the floor of his room after Chane left, continuing his task of locating Magiere. He had fashioned one of the amulets she wore from the bone of his own little finger. He set the knife down, focused his will to heal the cut on the stub of his finger, and watched the drop of his own fluids on the center of the brass plate's dome. The droplet quivered and spread slightly south.

  She was here in the city.

  He wiped the plate and tucked it away in his pack. When he stood up, he paused at his own reflection in the narrow oval mirror beside the room's door. His recent doubts about his ability to manipulate Magiere subsided.

  Bathed and groomed, in freshly brushed clothing, he was himself again. He would stay in control so long as he kept Magiere from following Leesil into the elven territory. He must convince them that Leesil's parents were dead or block them from their course.

  The city's south side was mostly mercantile and not large. For now

  Welstiel would find Magiere and keep track of her. Hopefully Chane would be sensible while hunting. After Welstiel's last warning, he had shown some attention to concealment.

  Before leaving the room, Welstiel opened a small jade box and removed a brass ring with tiny symbols etched around its inside. He rarely took it off these days except when bathing, as he had done this evening. He slipped it on the first finger of his right hand.

  The room wavered briefly in his sight like the horizon across a desert plain at noon. Then it settled again.

  Though he could be seen and heard, his nature and essence would be masked from all extraordinary means of detection or observation, as if nothing existed where he stood. Not Magiere or the topaz amulet that Welstiel had created for her, or even her dog, would sense his presence as that of Noble Dead.

  He stepped quietly into the hallway, closing the door behind himself, and headed downstairs. The evening had grown late, there was no one below, and he slipped out the front door unnoticed.

  A woman's cry filled the night.

  Welstiel glanced both ways along the street, senses widening, but he detected nothing. He heard a heavy thump against wood and he turned about, staring first at the inn and then saw the side passage around it. He stepped along the street and peered between the inn and the next building. A nagging alarm grew in Welstiel.

  Chane would not… not so close to where they stayed?

  He hurried down the passage to peer into the back alley. There was Chane with a small, well-dressed lady pressed against the inn's rear wall. He had her wrists pulled up and pinned with one hand while smothering her mouth with the other. He pushed her head back to stretch out her pale throat.

  Welstiel's anger grew. Was Chane so far into madness that he would kill right outside their inn? And a noblewoman at that?

  Chane opened his mouth with a sava
ge snarl, exposing elongated teeth, but he did not bite down yet. He appeared to be absorbing her fear for the moment. He put his face directly in front of hers and drew his lips farther back. The woman's eyes widened, and her scream was stifled by

  Chane's palm. Chane looked lost and dissatisfied rather than triumphant, as he sank his teeth into her throat.

  Welstiel froze in uncertainty. Perhaps he could cloud her mind enough, if Chane left the inn and never let this one woman see him again. He took one step, ready to clutch Chane by the hair like a dog.

  A gray shadow dropped from above and enveloped Chane.

  Welstiel lurched back against the inn's wall, glancing to the roof's edge as the shadow drove Chane to the ground. The noblewoman was dragged down the wall in his grip. Chane lost his hold on her, and she scrambled away toward the inn's rear door. He pitched his attacker off and rolled to his feet, drawing his longsword.

  "Help!" the woman shouted with no hysteria in her voice. "Guards! Help!"

  Before Chane raised his blade, two metallic flickers shot at him through the air. He swatted the first one aside, but the second struck the center of his chest. He stared down at the stiletto hilt protruding from his torso.

  In the alley stood a slender man, slightly taller than Chane. His breeches, shirt, and tunic were all monotone deep grays or perhaps greens. The calf-high soft boots and hooded cloak were darker still. The cloak's corners were pulled up and tied across his waist, holding the cloak to his back and out of his way. A scarf wrap hid his features within the deep shadow of his hood.

  Welstiel's sight opened to the fullest, and he saw a hint of yellow-orange glint from the man's large eyes. His slender hands were deeply tanned.

  Neither the woman nor the mysterious guardian noticed Welstiel's presence. She had already called for guards, which meant some retinue was within earshot. Welstiel retreated to the side passage, preferring not to be dragged down in Chane's lunacy.

  Chane's lithe opponent reached back inside his tied-up cloak. The woman fumbled with the back door, but it would not open.