Sister of the Dead

by J. C.

  Wynn stiffened.

  She pushed away such an unsettling notion. Loneliness was getting the better of her. Self-pity was as pointless as pining for a past moment lost forever.

  Weighing more heavily upon her was a growing sensation of betrayal, now that she had spent so many days in the company of Magiere. She had not exactly lied about her reasons for making this journey, but she had omitted the fact that Domin Tilswith placed upon her the task of observing Magiere. This had been his reason in sending Wynn, since she had already established a connection with Magiere. He wanted specific accounting of every aspect of the "dhampir" badly enough to send his apprentice off with two hunters of the undead—three, counting Chap.

  At first, this unique task was the promise of adventure, and her domin's confidence filled Wynn with pride. She had been raised by the sages, who cared for her health and happiness, and could provide the guild with something no one else could. But the reality of secretly studying a traveling companion and then documenting her findings made Wynn feel like a spy. Once she had almost told Magiere the whole truth but thought better of it at the last moment. She could never predict how Magiere might react to anything, and Wynn feared being sent back on the first available barge headed downriver.

  Wynn reached inside her pack and pulled out a squat cold lamp. She lifted its tin lid and glass cylinder and removed the small crystal it held in place of a wick. She rolled the crystal between her fingertips. There was little to note regarding Magiere, as yet, but they had been in Droevinka for some time. At least she might document the climate and land so far. Standing, she tried to smile at Magiere.

  "I think I will scribe some notes for a while. "

  Magiere nodded. "Then get some sleep. And try to stay close to the fire. The nights here will keep getting colder. "

  Wynn retrieved her materials and, with the cold lamp and crystal in hand, stepped a short ways off to sit upon a downed tree. She gently rubbed the crystal between her palms and returned it to its holder in the lamp. Its light burst out to push back the dark and illuminate the tools of her trade resting upon her lap.

  Unstrapping a flat, folded leather bundle, she shuffled the loose parchment sheets within to expose a blank one and carefully uncorked her ink vial to dip a quill. She set to documenting the vegetation they'd encountered, noting where along their path the changes occurred so they could later be referenced upon maps of the territories. It seemed she had written only a few lines when Leesil's voice broke the silence.

  "Forgetful gods, Wynn!" he called. "That lamp is brighter than the fire. Put it out so we all get some sleep. "

  Her writing hand flinched, fouling several characters in spattered ink.

  She glanced over to see mat Leesil and Magiere had settled for sleep in their bedroll and then looked down at the mess upon her notes. They had rushed all day, and now she was to be rushed through her few useful moments of the evening.

  "Sorry, " she called back.

  Gathering her things, she closed the lamp's shutter to smother its light.

  Wynn settled into her bedroll as two tears slid unbidden down the bridge of her nose. Something bumped against her feet, and she peered over the blanket's edge.

  Chap panted lightly at her feet, silver coat tinged red gold in the firelight. He stared at her, translucent blue eyes full of sympathy. His tail switched once across the ground, scattering clods of tree needles and wilted leaves.

  Wynn held up the blanket's edge, and Chap belly-crawled in beside her. He snuggled against her with his head pressed into the crook of her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, fingers clutching his long fur. At least Chap was constant.

  * * * *

  Since his rise from death to a Noble Dead, Chane had never experienced true hunger. He had never before gone for two weeks without feeding. He was starving for blood, for life to fill him up once again, as he crouched in the brambles a stone's throw from a small cluster of huts.

  Upon waking to Welstiel rolling on the floor, whispering to himself again, Chane knew he had to get out and hunt. He could not ride all night again with this emptiness inside him. So, he slipped away while his companion lay dormant.

  He could smell living flesh... and blood... with all his senses opened wide. It was close within those timber and thatch hovels. The scent clotted his mind with memories of split skin in his teeth and salty, warm fluid spilling through his mouth and down his throat. Then followed the sound of a heartbeat that slowed and dimmed in concert to the life energy that rose inside him.

  Should he wait for someone to come out, perhaps for firewood or to check one last time on the pen of geese around back? What if no one emerged?

  A cottage door opened, and a portly man reached out to grab a few logs from a firewood stack. Chane tensed, but the man never stepped completely out before a woman's shrill voice stopped him.

  "Close the door, Evan! You're letting in the cold. "

  The door closed.

  Chane had not developed the mental abilities his master, Toret, had displayed, but he did have a gift for locating the "presence" of others if he concentrated. He focused upon the hut and felt the separate lives of five mortals. There were too many in one place, so he turned his attention to the next domicile and sensed only two.

  He walked to the door and knocked. A wrinkled old woman with a long gray braid peeked out. Chane folded his arms around his chest as though chilled.

  "Forgive me, old mother, " he said, "but my horse threw me half a league back on my way to the next town. I could not find an inn before nightfall. I asked across the way, and Evan told me to see you about a late supper and a spot by the fire. "

  Her brown eyes were sharp, but he was clearly no brigand in his long tailored cloak and well-made boots. He hoped she would take him for a young merchant.

  "No inn here abouts, " she said with courtesy more than sympathy. "Evan sent you? That's just like him. The lazy lout barely cares for his own. "

  "Who is it, Grandma?" came a voice from inside, young and feminine, and Chane's jaw twitched.

  "A young man who's lost his horse, " the old woman said, chuckling; then she opened the door wide. "Best come in. We'll feed you, but Evan and Olga must put you up for the night. My granddaughter's not married, and we don't need to give idle folks any more fodder for gossip. "

  So many new sensations surprised Chane of late. True hunger was something he had never experienced while serving Toret, and now he felt genuine relief at being invited inside.

  The interior was shabby, as expected, but the stone fire pit in the back wall was a comfort, as was the iron teapot hanging above the flames on an iron swing arm. For a brief instant he thought of fresh mint leaves, and then all such thoughts dissolved as he saw the hut's other occupant.

  About fifteen years old, plump and curvy, with a smattering of freckles and wild curls of red hair, she returned his stare with curious eyes.

  "Should I fetch Evan?" she asked her grandmother.

  "Soon enough, Adena, dear. We'll reheat that stew first. "

  The old woman walked with effort, as if her bones and joints ached. Chane waited until she reached the fire pit and the girl joined her. The girl picked up a folded rag and lifted the teapot. When the two were close together, Chane stepped up behind the old woman and snapped her neck with one quick jerk.

  Her body crumpled to the floor.

  The girl dropped the teapot, and water splashed across her dead grandmother. Chane had his hand over Adena's mouth before she could inhale to scream.

  She clawed wildly to remove his grip as he leaned close. Her hair smelled of musk and straw, until the fear leaking from her pores overpowered all other scents. He wanted to let her struggle a bit longer until that smell made his head swim with bliss, but he had been too long without the taste of blood and lost control of himself.

  He shoved her against the wall and bit into her throat. One outward rip of teeth opened the wound, and he bit down on her throat again. The rush of warm blood flowed i
nto his mouth, down his throat, filling him with life.

  At first she struggled, her choked screams muffled beneath his palm. She soon grew silent and stopped moving. Normally, Chane lost himself in euphoria and did not truly taste the blood itself. This time, its flavor engulfed his tongue and gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.

  He applied more pressure and fed until her heart stopped. When she died, life no longer filled him with each swallow, and he dropped the girl's corpse.

  Chane paused to steady himself against the wall. His body was having trouble absorbing life so quickly. No matter what happened with Welstiel, he would not deny himself again for so long.

  In this moment, his entire existence seemed one long path of obedience. First his father, then Toret, and now Welstiel. Even filled with warmth and strength from the girl's blood, he shuddered at the thought of his father, Viscount Andraso.

  The man was a master of masks. Everyone outside his family and close retinue found him charming, all smiles and good humor. Behind closed doors, he wore another face. His only pleasure derived from domination and cruelty. Chane's mother was a small, bird-boned woman who loved books and music, and she was Andraso's favorite victim. Chane loved her, but every year he watched her disappear further inside herself. He feared his father so much that he never defended his mother. This failure still weighed upon him. But on the day he came into his inheritance, he fled to Bela to find a new life, never realizing what new existence would find him instead. He later learned that his mother had died by her own hand. He did not return home for the burial.

  Standing in the hut, feeling stronger than he had in weeks, Chane resolved never to become Welstiel's puppet. They would use each other, and that was acceptable, but the choice to obey or not would be his.

  He left grandmother and granddaughter where they lay and walked out into the dense forest. With luck, Welstiel would still be rolling on the floor, mumbling to himself. Chane wondered exactly what sort of creature Welstiel might be. Noble Dead had to feed four or five times in a moon to retain full strength, and to the best of his knowledge, they did not dream.

  Chane detested the constant mist and dampness of this somber forest. Who would ever choose to reside here? He started back for the shrine when a figure stepped though the foliage directly in front of him.

  "Where have you been?" Welstiel asked.

  Chane had not even sensed Welstiel nearby. His traveling companion was not in his usual meticulous state, and his uncombed hair hung in tufts down his forehead. His gaze dropped to Chane's chest with an expression of disgust.

  Chane looked down to see that his shirt was soaked.

  "I had to feed, " he said, "or I would have been no use to you by morning. "

  Westiel stared at the blood a moment longer and then straightened himself. "Did you at least get rid of the body?"

  "No, I let them lay. No one saw me, and we'll be far gone by morning. "

  "Them?" Welstiel's jaw tightened visibly as he glared through the dark toward the village. "Which hut?"

  Chane heard the creak of leather as Welstiel clenched his gloved hands.

  "The second one... on the right, " he answered.

  Welstiel pushed through the brush toward the hut as Chane followed. He opened the door, glancing at Chane as if he were a revolting animal.

  "I will take the old woman, " Welstiel said. "You carry the girl, since your shirt is already ruined. "

  This seemed pointless to Chane, but he did not argue. He picked up the girl's body and returned to the forest with Welstiel. They discarded both bodies halfway to the shrine in a growth of dense brash, covering them with mulch from the forest floor.

  "Scavengers may finish this, and perhaps no one will know what happened, " Welstiel said.

  Chane suppressed disdain. He was free and masterless, with strength flowing through him that brought clarity. "Have you discerned which way the dhampir has gone?" he asked.

  "Yes, " Welstiel answered, not looking at him.

  "Then I should change my shirt... while you saddle the horses. "

  Welstiel did not reply as he led the way toward the shrine.

  Chapter 3

  Leesil reined in his pony at the cluster of dingy huts ahead. In the damp weather, the pounding of villagers' feet and scant livestock had turned the center path to a muddy passage between squat structures with shake or thatched roofs. Lean strands of smoke arose from rough clay chimneys or simple smoke holes. The log post walls were streaked gray where rainfall had washed away the wood's natural color. Beneath the forest scent were the smells of cow dung, soot, and dank hay. Bleakness lingered like a fungal stench in the clearing that held the village captive.

  This was Chemestuk.

  "We are here?" Wynn asked Magiere. "This is your home?"

  "It was, " came the answer.

  Magiere dismounted, as did Leesil, and Wynn followed their example. Daylight was fading.

  "We walk from here, " Magiere instructed. "Unexpected visitors need to be noticed well before they enter a village. "

  Leesil clutched the leather reins and pulled his pony forward. The knot in his stomach tightened as they passed between the outermost huts, and his mind held but one thought.

  This is where my Magiere grew up.

  She kept no secrets from him. Whatever he asked, she answered, but he'd never inquired, "What was your home like?" or "Who were your people?" Perhaps because he didn't care to think about his own past, and if he had asked her...

  A way with words wasn't among Magiere's notable skills, and even so, it wouldn't have been enough for what Leesil saw.

  Braids of garlic and henbane hung beside doorways with other herbs and dried plants he couldn't name. Strange symbols were carved into the outer walls and doors of most dwellings. Some were faded, while others appeared more recently gouged.

  To the south was another clearing, smaller than the village space, where weathered planks, erect stones, and debarked wood shafts sprouted from the ground. Some bore garlands of wilted flowers. Leesil noticed a glitter of light through the tree branches, where a lantern hung from a tall pole.

  When one of their own died, these backwoods peasants bought oil before food. They starved to keep lanterns burning for as many nights as possible, in fear of unseen things the recently deceased might attract.

  It was all far too familiar, and a shudder of revulsion and shame assaulted Leesil. Around him was the living inspiration for the game that he and Magiere had used to prey upon villages for so many years.

  Hunter of the dead.

  He'd never imagined Magiere as one of those they'd swindled and cheated. When he glanced at her walking beside him, studying her pale and smooth profile, she looked out of place. It seemed impossible that she'd grown up in this murky world soiled with damp and ignorance. Muddied below the ankle, her boots were sturdy for wear and soundly cobbled. Her black breeches and wool cloak were travel-marred but a far cry from the threadbare clothing of the villagers. She'd pushed back her cloak, sheathed falchion in plain sight for all—perhaps as a subtle warning.

  Eyes peered from doorways and windows. A few people in the open stared warily at this trio of trespassers.

  Up the road out of the village's west end loomed a squat keep upon a rise lifting out of the surrounding forest. Even at a distance, its dark profile looked worn and ill-kept, like the village. Its upper rim was uneven, perhaps with broken stones, leaving gaps like missing teeth. Leesil felt the chill air sink into his bones as two more thoughts settled upon him.

  Magiere's mother had died in mat place.

  And Magiere had grown up beneath its shadow.

  A crack of wood made Leesil jump. He spun halfway around, his hands slipping up opposing sleeves ready to draw his stilettos.

  A bearded man in a soiled cap stopped splitting wood and cradled his ax as the strangers passed by. Whispers and mutters grew as more peasants returned from the fields they worked nearby in forest clearings or stepped from cottage do
ors. Some seemed frightened, while others were openly cold to the point of anger. Half of them carried hoes and spades.

  "Night spawn!" an old woman hissed in Droevinkan, and then spat on the ground. in Magiere's path.

  Chap growled back at the woman, fur rising on his neck as his step quickened. Leesil brushed his fingertips across the dog's head, and Chap slowed to stay behind him.

  Magiere wasn't a stranger here, and was even less welcome than they were.

  Leesil forced all somber thoughts from his mind. His punching blades were packed on the mule, and stilettos wouldn't do well against this many opponents. To protect Magiere, he'd have to be fast—and vicious enough to make fear his better weapon.

  "Magiere, what is wrong?" asked Wynn. "What did that woman say, and why are they looking at you this way?"

  "Stay close, " Magiere answered, then whispered to Leesil. "None of your charm. It won't work this time. "

  Obviously, he thought. Two men approached, and before Magiere could argue, Leesil stepped in front of her.

  He assumed the one in front was a village leader. Perhaps sixty or so years but still muscular, he had disheveled gray hair, and a few days' growth of beard. The wrinkled bags beneath his eyes made Leesil think of fungus lumps on a gnarled tree. Little distinguished him from the rest of those present, but his companion's face trapped Leesil's gaze.

  He was in his late forties, unwashed hair hanging around his angular features and stubbled jaw—but only half stub-bled. One side of his face was a mass of scars up to his eye, as if a torch head had been pressed to his cheek and jaw. The injury made one side of his mouth twist into a permanent grimace, and a wisp of madness flickered in his hazel eyes.

  Leesil slipped his hands behind his back, out of sight, and opened one wrist sheath's strap to let a stiletto drop into his palm.

  Chap's growl returned, and the closest of the mob pulled back.

  "Greetings, Yoan, " Magiere said to the elder, and then gave the scarred man a nod. "And Adryan... I've come to see my aunt. "

  Her flat tone puzzled Leesil but not enough to distract him from studying the positions of all around them and any avenues through the crowd. Before Yoan answered, the one called Adryan stepped closer.