by JANRAE FRANK
* * * *
Aramyn could see the lines being drawn in the sands as the nobles and their entourages formed their islands of influence and alliances amidst the chairs and couches of the Great Central Hall. He had no doubt, as he headed for Mohanja's office on the lower floor of his apartments, that it would come to violence – it had to. And Galee would discover that much more was going on than she dreamed. She should never have sent her minions after Channadar. There were now twenty six full-blood Fae like Tiderider concealed in the Guild Wing, and they would be at the wedding – one of them wearing Channadar's likeness. It was said that you should not mess with vampires because they would eat you; Aramyn had a thought that the same could be said of the Fae, except that they would do it with style and throw in lots of sauce and seasoning.
The more matters came out in the open, the more dangerous the situation became. With Derryl having withdrawn to his estates and Channadar still too weak from his wounds to make an appearance, Galee and Wrathscar dominated most of the circles. Aramyn could see it only too well. Lord Taurlys Kjarten had tried, but he did not have their presence and influence, their turn of phrase and ability to play the games. True, some of the nobles, mostly those from the southeast were listening to Kjarten, especially since Tiderider had made a point of traveling with him in the palace to state Channadar's support.
"All we need are some witnesses," Aramyn muttered to himself. "Or some documents proving the bitch is behind it all."
Aramyn found himself passing close to Galee. He no longer wore Guild colors in the palace and had let his beard grow thick and heavy. With the wedding so near, the nobility and many chieftains had gathered into Havensword and Ishladrim palace compound with their entourages. The place was so thick and packed, that some were having to camp on the grounds themselves. Hence it was easy to pass himself off as merely another face among the many.
"But how can I protect anyone?" Galee protested. "Mohanja has practically stolen the Guild from me." She fluttered her long fingered hands over her breasts.
"Now, Galee," Lord Talkyn trapped a fluttering hand patting it in a smugly condescending rite of paternalistic manhood. "I'm sure you're over-reacting."
"Am I?" Her voice got small. "Ask Lord Wrathscar. Ask a dozen others who've seen what happens when I try to get my messages and requests sent."
"They won't even let you get messages out?" Talkyn sounded shocked.
Aramyn quickened his pace, putting Talkyn on his list. He let himself into the apartment after making certain the corridor was clear, knocked briefly on the office door and entered.
"Mohanja?"
"What is it?"
"They've loosed Belyla Wrathscar on the Kjarten estate. One of Queiggy's mysterious little spies just reported in."
"Get our secret soldiers mounted with Guild officers. Take some priests, one of Eshraf's battle units if he'll let you. Or some of Alysyn's people."
"You think it's going to take that much?"
"For a starving, blood-maddened Lemyari who could be hiding anywhere on the mansion grounds?"
"Yeah."
* * * *
Galee left the party early, and went down into the city to the warehouse to which she had ordered Derryl moved. Per her instructions, they had left him in the box. The basement let out on the sewers and the stench was overpowering. Hooks on heavy chains hung from the ceiling. She opened the box, and had her companions, led by Meilurk drag Derryl from it, hanging him up from one of the hooks by the irons on his wrists. He dangled like a side of meat. Ghouls and lesser bloods gamboled around them, licking their lips.
"This might have been far easier, Derryl, if you had not had a shielded mind like Yukiah's," she said. She nodded at her companions and they doused him with a pail of water, rousing him.
Derryl stared at her, groggy and disoriented.
"Tomorrow the wedding will take place. Then the game will be over and I will have won," Galee told him. "But I want payment from you and as many as I can catch." She gestured at one of the lesser bloods that came near. She cut the lesser bloods' wrist, filling a glass with its blood. Then she nodded at Meilurk.
Meilurk seized Derryl, shoved a tempered glass tube down his throat, and held it positioned for Galee. She poured the entire, large glass of lesser blood down his throat through the tube and directly into his stomach. Derryl writhed in horror and anguish. Galee laughed. "The only thing remaining is to kill you."
She stroked his face. He was more torn up than Yahni had been, because of the lash and the irons. In places where his ribs had been exposed by a taste of the lash, a yellow film formed over them with reddened edges. Galee caught him by the hair and fed for a time from his neck. Then she stood back, regarding him. She flexed her fingers, bringing forth her claws.
Derryl watched the venom beading on her nails, knowing what was coming. And, in a final flash of his old spirit, he spat in her face. Galee screamed. Two nails went into his thigh while she imprisoned it with her other hand, letting the entire quantity of her venom pump into him. Derryl convulsed and then sagged unconscious.
"Throw him in the trash," Galee ordered Meilurk. "It matters nothing to me where he rises."
The pair of lesser bloods complied, the animal expression so common among the rest was missing from their faces. They were old and beginning to regain their abilities to think as myn and not simply as animals. Which was why they ruled their kind. They threw Derryl onto the trash heap beside the swiftly running river, which moved through the sewers. His body settled into the discarded mess of feces, animal and human, discarded furniture, old clothing, rotted food, and animal bones. Derryl writhed into consciousness and cried out, "Hadjys! My Good Lord God, vengeance and justice send."
The lesser bloods watching him shrieked and began throwing dung and dead rats at him. Another toppled the side of the trash pile onto him. He was nearly covered, one foot and part of that leg showed, the fingers of one hand and a few shadowed patches of his chest.
* * * *
On the far side of the world it was early afternoon. Willodarus chose to hold this lunch in the east garden; the one whose name in Night-Elf meant Thought Sealed Within Contemplation and Lost Within the Idle Thread of Sleeping Memory. Chambers within chambers within chambers, all sealed by walls of trees and nothing wrought by the hand of man, save that one marble table and six delicate silver chairs shaped like birds and flowers in forms that could never exist save in dreams. These lay within a glade of banyan circled by baobab and guarded by an impenetrable wall of kapok. There Willodarus waited for them, looking, at first glance, like one more tree that had grown over the throne chair at the table's head. His green hair spread like leaves over his shoulders, and hung over the chair's back nearly to the ground. His long fingered, twiggy hands gripped the arms lightly. He wore a short baobab leaf-green robe and his limbs looked carved from mahogany, burnished and polished with great and loving care, every muscle defined.
The elder god rose and greeted them, his eyes straying to Talons' hugely swollen belly. He knew from Dynarien that she was six months along. She leaned heavily on his Twice-Born son as she walked. "So, you are the lovelies who finally caught my wandering son's heart."
"Father, allow me to present to you Talons Trollbane."
"I remember you," he said graciously, although had Dynarien not told him he never would have recognized her: her cheeks were sunken; there were deep purple – almost black patches beneath her eyes; she looked gaunt, as if whatever sustenance she took in went to the children and none to herself. He could tell by looking at her that she was dying, even had his son not told him. "We met at the gathering."
"Yes, Holy One," Talons smiled. Willodarus reached out and stroked her belly, feeling the children kick at his touch.
"You are the one who nearly broke his heart. Why couldn't you let him touch you?"
Talons' face burned. "I'm an un-trained bi-kyndi. I thought–"
"That you would hurt him?"
"Yes."
"I am grateful you found otherwise." He stroked her belly again, pressing his face into her hair, his own falling around her and veiling their conversation from the others. "My grandchildren, perhaps?"
"They're Dynarien's." Talons' face burned at the memory. She had forced the mating to be a cold one, wanting only to get the children and get it over with. And she had not let him touch her again, although she loved him.
Willodarus whispered in her ear, "You know. You want to know why. And how long?"
Talons lifted her eyes to him, feeling a weight taken from her. "Yes. Knowing would make it easier."
"Poison. Pretend I haven't said it. Dynarien has asked that I Read you." He extended his awareness through Talons down to the deepest levels. "Be strong. You will be fortunate if you last till you can bring the children to term. There is no antidote. Dynarien did not want me to tell you. But you deserve to know. Keep silent."
Talons' expression wavered, and then she forced herself to smile. Willodarus released her and straightened, turning to his son and Edouina.
"And this, father, is Edouina Hornbow. We have triaded after the Sharani fashion."
"Lovely." He kissed Edouina's hand.
"Talons, Edouina, this is my grandfather, Willodarus, lord of the woodlands and wild creatures, oldest of the elder gods."
"Now, before we dine," Willodarus said, "Let me give you both the sacred language of my Night-Elves."
* * * *
Maya drew rein with her escort before the gates of their mansion in Havensword, the one where she, Derryl, and Leslie had been so happy together, and what she saw left her chilled. There was no one there. The gates stood loosely closed, the latch not quite caught. She had feared for him and ridden hard for Havensword immediately upon hearing from Timjimikin.
"My lady," Gyrerd stepped between her and the gate, pushing her aside, trying to be gentle, yet causing her to half stagger. His deeply seamed face had gone haunted as he gestured two myn forward and into the yard. "Stay behind us." He knew her well enough that he did not order her to remain behind. All swords came out, including Maya's.
They could smell death as soon as they neared the mansion in the middle of the grounds and found the first of it in the entry hall: A Tormuth guardsmon, sprawled across the floor, the rotting body identifiable only by his livery.
"Old death," Gyrerd said, kneeling by the body. "This happened at least a month ago."
"Around the time, my lord arrived," Maya said, her throat tightening. She walked from room to room. Everything had been thrown about, broken.
"They were searching for something," Gyrerd said. He righted an overturned couch. "My lady, it would be best if you sat and let us search for him."
"He's dead, isn't he? They killed him?" First Yahni and now Derryl – it was almost more than she could bear.
"When we find him, I'll come for you. Tomas and Cerwyn will guard you until then."
Maya nodded, swallowing. She would be brave. She was Sharani and a daughter of the Guild. It was in her blood to be brave. She would not cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of her husband's myn. The book. This was because of the book. The damned book. Galee must have thought Derryl had come back for the book.
She waited; it seemed like forever, before Gyrerd returned. "Derryl?"
"He isn't here."
"Then they have taken him. I must reach the Patriarch." Her heart hammered, making it hard to breathe. "Quickly."
* * * *
The guards at the gates to the Kjarten grounds opened them wide the moment Aramyn unfurled his colors. They had marched under church colors, but arrived under Guild battle standards. Forty myn and priests rode in.
"Fetch Lord Oakwithe Kjarten out here immediately!" Aramyn barked. "Alert and arm the household. You may already be under attack by Lemyari."
One of the Kjarten guardsmyn dashed inside while the other began shouting orders to his companions. "What is going on exactly?"
"Belyla Wrathscar."
* * * *
Belyla looked human only in outline. Her skin had dried, as her flesh withered away for want of blood, to the look of cracking weather-battered leather. She laid her head on her shoulder in a sad, sidewise fashion as she dragged more wood into the little graveyard and crypts. Her mind no longer worked exactly right, so she did not know that these were only temporary in terms of the Kjartens themselves – the family's permanent crypts were in Mistdale near the border with Iradrim, the dwarven kingdom with which the mountains shared their name – yet she could sense Yahni's body down there. She had been building the pyre up steadily and already found a lamp burning along the walk where she could safely stick a branch into it to light.
"I'm awful hungry, Yahni. But I haven't killed."
It took her two tries to get the lamp open without touching it with her hands. She was too dried out, like the husk of a mummy too long beneath the desert sands, to risk touching it, knowing that she could easily catch fire. She could reason that much. Then she went back and lit her pyre. "Hadjys will give them the book, good as new. Not even the Master of Blood could make me kill, Yahni. Watch the flames, Yahni. It's nearly big enough. I'll sit down in the middle there and everything will be fine again. Like it was before."
Belyla stopped talking, her head straightened, and her eyes went distant for a moment, listening. She heard the jingle of harnesses, the uneasy noises of horses, and myn talking. They were coming up the slope toward her, drawn by the flames. Belyla rose and faced them, outlined by the pyre.
"Don't come any closer! I'm very hungry. I'm just going to be with Yahni. I haven't much control. Hadjys will make the book right if I don't hurt anyone."
"Belyla." Lord Oakwithe moved to the front of the crowd, but did not come near. "I will gather your ashes and bury you with him."
The withered undead thing smiled. "Thank you."
"Who turned you, Belyla?" Aramyn asked, trying to sound firm, yet not upset her.
"My father. With freedom near, I need not fear them. Gylorean Galee turned him." Then she stepped into the flames and sat down. Belyla was so desiccated the fire consumed her swiftly.
A gasp of rage and anger swept the assembled host and Aramyn had to shout to be heard. "Stop! No word of this goes out until I can consult with our leaders. Lord Oakwithe, I will need for you and those of your folk who witnessed Belyla's statement to accompany us as witnesses. I would also prefer that your family removed themselves to secure quarters in either the temple or the special wing the Guild has prepared for these exigencies while we confer. Before the night is out Galee will find herself on the wrong end of the Guild's wrath."
"We will come. All of us, bringing all our swords," Lord Oakwithe told him. "My son will finally have vengeance that his soul may rest."
"Good mon."
* * * *
"Well, father?" Dynarien asked. He had taken Talons and Edouina back to Creeya and then returned for his father's verdict concerning Talons' condition.
"Sit down, my son," Willodarus told him. "Your young lady is dying. They no longer need to keep giving her the drug you told me about. The damage is already done. She has, perhaps, two or three weeks left her. This is a very, very old drug. And subtle. In small, infrequent doses it merely produces a pleasant warmth, a mild relaxation and does no harm. In larger doses, taken frequently, it builds up in the body and it always kills. I thought no one knew how to make it any more. The ingredients are rare and nearly impossible to find. It pre-dates the Age of Renewal. Most Readers would never have even found it in her system."
Dynarien's mouth twisted and tears ran down his face as his last hope vanished and he finally gave way to despair. "It isn't fair."
"I know. But with the lifemages gone... There is no antidote. Even if there were, Fusaaki is right. She would survive, but never be well. I doubt she could live that way. There was too much life in her."
"What about the children?"
"They should survive, assuming she manages to carry them near enough to term. Which I d
oubt she can. It has not passed through to the children."
"Kalirion. Could you ask him to help?" Dynarien had not told his father about his binding by Kalirion. He would be forced to eventually, but not now.
Willodarus shook his head. "He would want your sister in exchange. He has barraged me for months with requests for her hand in marriage. I cannot give him Dynanna."
"I would not ask you to."
* * * *
Eshraf rose from his chair behind the great desk as Mikkal and Maya entered. The expression on her face sent a tremor of alarm and concern through him. The Patriarch held out his broad, strong hands to her. "Maya, whatever could be wrong? Why are you alone? Where is Derryl?"
"Galee has taken him." She collapsed against Eshraf, trembling, unable to say another word for a long time.
Eshraf held her for several minutes, letting her cry. "Mikkal, pour her a drink."
Slowly Maya's sobbing eased to the point where she could speak again. "She must have thought he came back for the book. Everyone in the manor was killed."
"He was not among the slain?"
"No, Gyrerd checked every one of the bodies."
"Tell me everything. Why did Derryl come back?"
"He thought you needed him."
"We did not send for him."
Maya looked stricken "Galee. The messages were to lure him into a trap."
"So it seems. Mikkal, take some guards and fetch Dynarien. If Derryl still lives, only he can find him."
Eshraf settled Maya in a chair near the fire. "Finish your drink. Galee has most likely decided that if I had the book I would already have moved against her. So she believes that Derryl still has it. She does not know the book was too damaged to read."
"Oh, Gods! Oh Sweet Gods All Nine." Then Maya began to cry again. Eshraf wrapped his comforting arms around her.