JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING III

by JANRAE FRANK

  "Should you be out here alone?" Lord Westli asked, offering her his arm, which she accepted, slipping hers through his.

  "Are you offering to squire me around?" Westli belonged to her father and Galee: he was forbidden meat. Lord Westli had handled the revelations at her father's dinner party well, though it had been staged so as to conceal the fact that she and her two younger sisters were vampires like Belyla. It had appeared as if they had merely been too appalled by the show to eat. Westli was large and strong. Philomea was hungry. She remembered how Belyla had Danced Yahni and wondered what it would be like to Dance Lord Westli.

  "If you wish it, yes."

  "I do, Lord Westli. Especially with you. I wish to see the Cloverleaf. I want to purchase a particularly fine bottle of wine."

  "Then let us go."

  They made a day of it, shopping and sipping wine at the cafes. When evening came, Westli started to walk her home and she stopped him with a kiss.

  "Let us go to your apartments," she suggested.

  Westli's eyes brightened at his luck. "I have wanted you for years, Philomea."

  She gave him a sensuous smile, pressing herself against him. "Then let's go where you can have me."

  Westli sucked in a sharp breath and pressed his hand into the juncture of her legs.

  Philomea's expression turned languid and feline. "You know what I want in there..."

  "Yes, I think I do."

  "Then let's go to you apartments."

  He had the main apartments in the guardsmyn's wing, the only star room there. Philomea had never been here before. The main room was very plain, like the mon himself, no paintings or wall hangings, sturdy furniture. Westli immediately went into the pantry after glasses and a bottle of wine he had chilling while Philomea made herself comfortable.

  "Does anyone live here with you?" she called out to him. "Servants?"

  "No," he replied.

  "Good." Philomea unfastened the hooks on her bodice, folding it down to the waist and then shed her breastband. Naked to the waist, she settled on the divan with her arms stretched along it.

  Westli stopped in the doorway, and stared with the bottle in one hand and the glasses in the other. "Philomea..." He hurriedly sat the bottle and the glasses down on an end table. Then he knelt in front of her, breathing hard with eagerness, and cupped her breasts, kissing them.

  "You are a fine woman," Westli said, pausing to look into her eyes. "It is far past time you married." He nuzzled her breasts, stroking the inside of her thighs while she unfastened his clothing.

  "I would accept your suit. So would my father." Philomea kissed along the exposed back of his neck and began to lick him, while wiggling free of her skirts.

  "Then I will talk to him." He shrugged out of his tunic and opened his pants, then knelt again and ran his hands up and down her fine young body.

  Philomea almost laughed, clearly Westli could not believe his good fortune: A fifty four year old mon was about to find himself inside a twenty four year old woman.

  "Should we do this in the bed?" he asked suddenly.

  "Yes."

  She had already ascertained where the bedroom was and left a trail of garments in her wake. Lord Westli followed her, his eyes bright with anticipation, as she walked into his bedroom. The bed was as large and sturdy as the old soldier himself, with deep green, old-fashioned heavy bed curtains. Philomea lay down, showing her young body to perfection to him, posing, and displaying herself.

  Westli was as large and hard as her father got. He settled his bulk between her legs and covered her with his body. She arched her back to press against him.

  Philomea's nostrils flared. She could smell his arousal, taste his eagerness. Warm. Warm. He was so warm. So full of delicious blood. She wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeply inside her. She caught his hair, pulling his face to hers to kiss him. Then she licked his neck again in long strokes of her tongue. "Do it hard. Be fierce," she murmured. Philomea had learned to like it that way from her coupling with her father.

  He did so and she moaned, liking the pain.

  "It makes this Passion-Dance so fine," she whispered.

  "What?" He paused in his thrusts.

  She bit him.

  * * * *

  Talons forced herself to leave the bedroom. Dynarien had brought her more freshly cut orchids from Imralon. Vases of them filled the room to overflowing: on the end tables, the long low table before the couch, and centered on the small dining table. She liked the deep purple ones best, but also the white ones with purple spots and the dark burgundy red. Dynarien tried hard to make her smile each day, but he never so much as tried to kiss her. Talons missed his little games, which surprised her. He had been such an annoyance at first, hiding under her blankets and the mound of pillows to steal a kiss. She would spot him immediately and soundly kick him. But he had been good-natured about her rejections. And then one day she discovered that she wanted him.

  She sat down at the little table with Alora and another of the knights, a youth named Sirikit. Alora beamed when she saw Talons up. It had been over a week since the heir had found the energy to join them there.

  Talons resented her steadily worsening weakness, the constant aching, and dizziness. They were all working hard to protect her from the vampire, to provide for her needs, and generally be there for her in what was beginning to look like a serious illness and not just a pregnancy. Yet, she resented having to depend on them. She had always been independent, making her own rules and living by them. She made her first kill at eleven, a pedophile who was raping and murdering little girls. She had been a full agent of Hadjys at fourteen, the youngest ever. She had traveled the Merezian continent on her red gryphon, Little Bit, carrying out the Grand Master's orders. Yet now she was trapped and confined to these few rooms. She had never been sick before. She felt lost and helpless – new feelings, which she hated and resisted. As her health failed, her emotions became harder to control, more on the surface, and some days there were fits of uncontrollable weeping. Talons seemed less and less like herself, as if she were becoming someone she did not know, someone she did not like, someone she could not respect.

  Talons reached for the tray of pastries, her hands shaking so badly she had to use both of them just to snag one and get it to her mouth. She bit into it, forcing herself to chew and swallow. The maple pastry was one of her favorites, yet she could not taste it. Her mouth seemed to have lost its ability to discern what she put into it. The effort of just eating soon had her breathing hard. She got halfway done and threw it across the room, angry tears sliding down her face.

  Alora came, wrapping her arms around Talons and holding her.

  "What's happening to me?" Talons whispered. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

  "I don't know. Even Dynarien is mystified." The young knight tried to school the worry from her voice.

  "I'm going back to bed."

  Alora helped her rise. Talons leaned heavily upon her. Alora got her settled again, covering her with the light blanket. Soon she slept.

  It was late that night that Talons first heard the voice. Normally she kept several pillows between her head and the wall, but that night they had shifted and her ear ended up pressed against the wall so that the sound vibrated up through the stone.

  "Yahhhhnnniiii! Ohhhh, gohhhddsss! Yahhhhhniiii!" Then a long, long sobbing. Talons bolted upright, grabbing at Edouina.

  Edouina came instantly awake with a blade in her hands. "What is it?"

  "Someone screaming Yahni."

  "So you've heard it too now." Edouina sheathed the blade on her forearm. Her voice flat and emotionless.

  "Who is it?"

  "They say it's the ghost of Belyla Wrathscar. Bryndel's sister. I asked him not to tell you since you've been so ill. She and Yahni Kjarten were lovers. She disappeared the same day he died. There are rumors she helped him escape, but they caught her. Two free-rover catkins saw her pulled off a horse. She had Yahni in her arms. Yahni staggered into
a tavern with three myn following him. Those catkins had not been watching for Yahni so they did not mark the myn's colors and could not identify them afterward. The information trickled in weeks later."

  "Poor Bryndel. I knew Yahni a little. He was a quiet sort."

  "Belyla was the only sister Bryndel was close to. He hasn't been the same since. I don't know if you've noticed it. But I have."

  "All the sadder."

  "Shall I give you a back rub or get you something to help you sleep?"

  "Tea. Maybe some leftovers?"

  "Lady hears a ghost and it makes her hungry?" Edouina teased, deliberately using the most diminutive form of the title she could remember.

  "Babies are making me hungry."

  * * * *

  Lord Wrathscar and Galee sat in the large chairs in the back of Wrathscar's study while Bryndel paced in front of them. Philomea lurked unnoticed in her usual spot near the top of the stairs crouching hidden by the balustrade.

  "I don't understand why you sent for me," Bryndel fumed. Galee's continued harassment had begun to take a toll of him. His rumpled clothes looked slept in. He no longer shaved his face or combed his hair. Dark, purple shadows lay beneath his haunted eyes. His studied grace had become a heavy plod.

  "I hear that you're not spending as much time in her rooms as you were," Galee purred. "Does that mean she's not getting her medicine?"

  "She isn't well. This is turning into a very difficult pregnancy. Possibly because of what you spiked the medicine with, Galee," he growled. Images of Belyla and Yahni darted through his thoughts, making it hard to think, making him suspicious and desperate to stand his ground.

  "Oh, is that what they're saying? Poor, little thing, she can't stand to have Bryndel touch her anymore because she's pregnant?" Galee taunted him. "Can't you see? She never wanted you in the first place. She just let you swell her belly to insure the alliance. She has you by the short hairs and you know it."

  "It's not that way, Galee. She really loves me." Bryndel averted his eyes, frightened that Galee would reach for his mind, and tried to sound certain, rather than peevishly defiant. And failed. Belyla. Belyla. Galee, please don't hurt Talons. His head began to ache and throb.

  "I don't think so. I think Talons and Edouina have you wrapped around their little fingers. You'll believe anything they tell you. They're probably planning on killing you as soon as the children are born."

  "They wouldn't do that, Galee!"

  "Don't be a fool, Bryndel!" Lord Wrathscar snapped. "That is exactly what they are planning. You've got to take them in hand."

  "And," Galee added, "you must start slipping her the medicine again. I know for a fact that you've stopped doing so."

  "It's hurting her."

  "That's what it's supposed to do."

  Bryndel stared. "You mean you really are poisoning her? But I thought–" He saw Belyla worrying Yahni on the floor... Yahni's dead face lying in his casket in the temple.

  "It isn't poison," Galee said. "It's just to keep her so weak she won't survive the childbirth."

  "No. I won't do it." He felt cold and frightened. He did not want to lose Talons. This was not fair. They had not told him they planned to kill her. Yahni's face again ... only now it changed and it was Talons' face. His stomach heaved, but nothing came out.

  "Yes," Galee rose from the chair. "Talons will die. The Grand Master will waste away from grief. Then you will sit upon the throne as regent for the children." Galee slipped her arm around Bryndel, looking deeply into his eyes. She snared his mind. "Now, go and make certain Talons gets the medicine. While you are there, you must also make certain they understand that you rule. Not them. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Galee, I'll take care of it." Bryndel left.

  * * * *

  As soon as the door closed behind Bryndel, Galee turned to Lord Wrathscar. "Edouina's power is strong. I have to fight her hard for control of your son. It's getting more and more difficult for me to get the drugs into Talons without Bryndel's assistance. We need to make some alternate plans that Bryndel doesn't know about."

  "Does he ever remember when you tell him what you are doing to her?"

  "No. He genuinely cares for her. He would try to break free. He already does. He cannot succeed. I am in too deeply. When he suspects what I am doing, his mind shies away from it. When this deed is done, his own shame will keep him silent. He will have her blood on his hands."

  "I need to feed."

  "I'd like to feed on that damned interfering yuwenghau," she snarled, remembering Dynarien. Yes. He stank of divinity; and, although she was uncertain of his lineage, there was something familiar about him, as if they had met before. He was passing himself off as a mere mage – how interesting. No wonder he had beaten and humiliated Ambrose last spring. That all made sense now. The only thing that remained was to decide how to kill him.

  * * * *

  Philomea suspected more and more with each passing day that her appetites were like her father's, that she was too much like her father and she feared the rogue state – seeing it in him was too much like seeing madness. She would feed, and within hours of smelling all this warm humanity she would be hungry again. Fear of what she was becoming crept along the pathways of her mind, but especially fear of what Galee might do if she caught the slightest suggestion that Philomea might be a rogue.

  Maya walked past her on Derryl's arm. Philomea could smell her blood, which was so deliciously similar to Yahni's it made her throat ache with desire for it. She wanted to Dance Maya the way Belyla had Danced Yahni. Philomea wanted to kiss her, hold her, and taste her; feel Maya's warm flesh writhing beneath her as her fangs split the soft skin. Maya was as beautiful as Yahni. She was already Dancing Westli, but his blood was stale beer to what Yahni's had been, what Maya's must be. Oh, sweet, beloved wine of life, you are the one I want.

  Philomea began to discreetly follow them, keeping to the side and back with several people between them.

  * * * *

  Derryl brushed his lips through Maya's hair with a small laugh and whispered softly, "When I finish telling you this, you are to laugh as if at a joke, then I am going to grab your hand and we will run for the garden with all speed."

  Maya flashed him a bright smile. "My lord."

  "We are being followed."

  "By who?"

  "Philomea Wrathscar. And she's trying to prevent us noticing it. Let's go."

  Maya laughed loudly, and then grabbed Derryl's hand herself, dragging him toward the gardens. "Come on you silly thing! We can't keep them all waiting!"

  Then they ran, leaving Philomea in the Great Central Hall.

  When they got outside, Derryl's myn saw them and rose from the benches to join them, but Derryl shook his head and moved a little farther while still remaining in their sight. He sank to a bench with Maya in his arms and it was then she began to cry. "Why won't they leave me alone?" She sobbed. "Why? Why won't they leave me alone?"

  "I don't know, darling. I don't know."

  "Haven't they done enough to me?"

  * * * *

  Ceejorn Osterbridge sat upon a bench in the temple gardens, working his fingers along a string of prayer beads one of the priests had given him the day after Terrys and Jajinga's bodies had been discovered. His closest friends were all dead. He had attended their funerals in a growing daze. He felt alone, desolate, and haunted by the feelings of abandonment that only death created – they were all gone and they had left him behind. Osterbridge finished the first sequence of prayers and lifted the runes to kiss them before continuing to the next set. They had left him behind to live, and he was not certain that he wished to. People were kind to him. The Kjartens had insisted that he feel free to visit them, since he had been Yahni's friend. So had Lord Derryl Tormuth. All of Yahni and Jajinga's friends, acquaintances to Osterbridge, had said the same. Osterbridge had no family, he was an orphan. The Guild took in a lot of those. Yahni, Jajinga, and Terrys had been the closest thing to family he had and he
had bonded with them very strongly – strongly enough that Queiggy had put him on bereavement leave for two weeks to deal with their loss, give him some time to grieve.

  The priests had become accustomed to finding him in the gardens or the small private chapels of prayer within the temple itself. At first they had tried to comfort him and, finally seeing that he wanted to be left alone with his memories, they began to let him be.

  A small black cat curled up under the bench; Osterbridge had not noticed him yet. Evening and a waxing moon painted the gardens in the colors of twilight, shadow, and shade. Everything had the visual sharpness of color that came before a storm or at certain times of shifting light. A soft hum of noise made Osterbridge look up and he saw a group of young people, Guild students most likely, enter the gardens with some priests. There were over a dozen of them. A girl broke off from the others, heading in his direction. She was a rawhide whip of a youth, a dark brunette who moved with an easy grace that came of long hours spent at the training fields.

  "Alora! Come on," said a heavy-set youth.

  "No, go on if you can't wait, Tulik. I see Twizzle, and I'm going to bring him along for luck." She came toward Osterbridge's bench and a young mon carrying a bolas on his belt followed her.

  Tulik shrugged, and continued on into the temple. Alora knelt beside Osterbridge and reached around his feet. Osterbridge shifted his feet away, bending forward to see what she was after.

  "Excuse me," Alora told him. "But I'm trying to get the cat."

  Osterbridge scooped Twizzle up and placed him in Alora's arms. He tweaked Twizzle's tail. "It looks like it's been broken at least once," Osterbridge observed, touching the odd kinks in the half-length of tail.

  "It has. You'd think with such a short tail it would not get stepped on by clumsy humans. But it has."

  "Poor little guy."

  "Are you a Guildsmon?" She nodded at his clothing; he was out of uniform, but still wore black.

  "Yes. I'm on leave. Bereavement leave."

  "Ahhh. I'm sorry. We need a Guildsmon." She turned to the youth behind her. "Don't we, Jimi?"

  "Eshraf says we do," Jimi agreed.