by JANRAE FRANK
"May I?" Cordwainer looked as if his fingers were itching when he brushed them across the spines. At a nod from Isranon, he chose a random book and opened it. "It looks genuine. If so, it's the find of the ages."
"It is."
"Can I borrow this one? I will return it tomorrow. I want to share it with Teague Merishin. She's an expert on Abelard and should be able to confirm its authenticity."
The thought of parting with the book, even for a short time, wrenched at Isranon, but he needed the goodwill of the three master mages. "Have her return it tomorrow when she comes for our meeting."
"I will do that," Cordwainer pledged.
When Cordwainer had bowed himself out, Isranon turned to Nevin. "I'm very hungry. Bring me two or three nibari and make certain I don't take too much from them."
Nevin departed and Isranon sat alone. Tears crept into his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. Persuading the people of the light to follow him always brought pain to his heart. Since last summer, his appetites had begun to go out of control. During a battle with imps, Isranon had lost control of himself and eaten several of them. His stomach soured every time he thought of it. He had violated everything he believed in and been unable to stop himself. His appetite for blood had grown until it was nearly insatiable. Amiri and others had offered many theories about it, but none of them seemed convincing to him.
Nevin returned with three nibari. One of them, a female, knelt between Isranon's legs, crossed her wrists behind her and tilted her head back to expose her throat. Isranon allowed his fangs to descend, licked her neck to find a proper spot, and sank his fangs into her. She sighed in pleasure as his necromantic gifts triggered her endorphins.
* * * *
Stygean haunted the hallways of the manor, drifting past the door to Isranon's suite and trying not to stare at it. After three days, the novelty of being left to his own devices had worn off. A wizen old mon in sky blue robes, banded in black, with sun symbols embroidered along the edges, stopped in front of him.
"Which liege-god do you serve?"
"Kalirion."
That brought a smile from the mon. "I am Father Telamon, priest to Kalirion. You're one of the apprentices?"
Stygean's interest perked up. He had wanted for months to meet a priest of his liege-god, and here one was. He regarded Father Telamon with a sudden keen interest. "Lord Isranon's apprentice."
"I see. So you are sa'necari-born?"
"Yes." A tremor of nervousness set Stygean on edge. The last thing he wanted to do was to offend the very type of priest he had been looking for since his conversion. Don't reject me. Don't, don't, don't reject me. I want to be accepted by Kalirion. I want a godmark like Isranon. I'll wear it proudly.
"I do believe it would be safe to assume that your religious training has been neglected. Come along." The priest scuttled off down the hallway, and Stygean could not think of what else to do but follow him.
"Have you ever wondered what happens to a sa'necari who has his gifts torn from him? Or his Shaukras burned out?"
Stygean shivered and shook his head at the sudden ominous turn in the subject matter, uncertain of why the priest would bring it up.
"They die. When they rise, they are a mindless thing of their appetites. The research was fascinating."
"That's like what Anksha did to my father ... only he could not rise. Her feeding sears the shaukras." Realization hit him between the eyes. "You experimented on people like myself?"
"I didn't. Teague Merishin did. And they were scarcely like yourself. They were steeped-in-death sa'necari. The worst kind. You're still pure, boy. And I would like to see you stay that way."
The memory of his father withering away and dying from Anksha's appetites brought tears to the corners of Stygean's eyes.
Telamon softened. "Forgive me, boy. My fascination overcame my sense. You lost your father to her."
"And my mother." Stygean choked up. "My mother, Chinisi, tried to stop her from taking my father. Anksha destroyed her mind. The last time I saw her, she was sitting on the floor with a dirty rag doll in her arms, singing to it. She never knew I was there."
"So do you hate Lady Anksha?"
"I'm afraid of her."
"Hate and fear often go together, boy." Telamon paused at the door to the shrine chamber, and then inexplicably turned aside.
"Where are we going?"
"As one of the three resident priests here, I have a little office down the way."
Stygean followed him into a cozy chamber with a desk at the far end. Sofas, chairs and low tables filled the near side, interspersed with bookcases and a small personal shrine to Telamon's liege-god, Kalirion. Telamon indicated that Stygean should sit down, so the boy settled into a plush overstuffed chair.
"I'm not a Reader, my son. However, sometimes my liege-god whispers to me." He dug into a drawer of the desk, coming out with a basin and filling it with several bottles and jars. Telamon placed them on the low table in front of Stygean and then rang for a servant, who appeared promptly.
"Your holiness?"
"Tea. My special one. And wine." Telamon turned to Stygean. "Your master does allow you wine?"
"Yes."
The servant departed.
The priest set the bottles and jars around the basin, which he then filled with water from a ewer.
"You're going to scry?" Stygean tilted his head curiously.
"In a manner of speaking. We're going to peek at the future, if my liege-god is willing. Or rather you are."
"I don't have that gift."
"The gift is not needed. Faith is. You worship Kalirion?"
"Yes."
"With your full heart?"
"Yes."
"Then that is all that is required. Kalirion is the lord of prophecy, healing and sunlight."
The servant returned with a silver tray that contained a teapot in a cozy, two cups, a bottle of blood-red wine, as well as two blown glass goblets. Then he bowed and left them.
Telamon poured cups of tea and then glasses of wine. Into one glass of wine, he added drops from several tinctures and then handed it to Stygean. "Drink it all down and then gaze into the scrying bowl."
Stygean stared at the wine for several heartbeats, reassuring himself that Telamon was not trying to poison him. He reminded himself that Telamon was a priest of his liege-god and would therefore not harm him. The ways of the Light were strange, but he was determined to embrace them fully. So, he drank it. In less than a handful of breaths, all the colors heightened and sharpened around him. Father Telamon gently turned Stygean's attention to the scrying bowl, and he felt himself falling into it.
He stood upon the top of a ziggurat. The stars showed bright in the night sky. Screams and shouts of battle filled his ears, and his gaze was drawn to the banners of the armies clashing. The fluttering banners of Darr and Gormondi stood to one side, and the glittering battle flags of the Minnorian Empire showed like an emblem of the darkest hell. As the allies faltered before the might of Minnoras, horns sounded and the Sacred King of Rowanhart threw her armies into the fray.
Stygean gazed down from the edge and saw bodies hanging from poles, realizing with a sickening lurch that he stood not upon a ziggurat, but upon an altar of hecatomb. A cry of defiance sounded to his left and Stygean turned. Isranon battled against a figure out of hell, green skinned and winged. The creature shredded Isranon's shields and leaped upon him. His mentor struggled on, and then the creature carried him to the floor and sank its teeth into his throat.
Stygean cried out in anguish and tried to cross the edifice. His foot struck something and he stumbled. Rising, he saw that he had fallen across his own dead body. He flailed in horror and suddenly he was back in Telamon's chamber, weeping.
Telamon held him for a long time, coaxing Stygean to drink a cup of tea. "Get yourself calmed down, and then tell me what you saw. However, remember that prophecy is an inexact science. What you have seen is the strongest and most likely path – not the only path."
Stygean nodded and began to tell him.
CHAPTER SIX
TEAGUE MERISHIN
Veranoctem 10, 1077
Teague Merishin, the daughter of Battle Master Dynarien Fire-Heart, sat with her arms folded on the table and a look of raptors in her eyes. People tended to confuse her father with Dynarien Willodarusson, but she was always quick to point out the facts to them. There were four Dynariens in the arcane ranks, all equally famous, and all aggravated at sharing a name. Teague had enough yuwenghau blood in her ancestry to provide her with a long lifespan. She had dropped her first name, Rowena, in favor of her middle one, which had been her maternal grandfather's. It fitted her better, since there was nothing feminine about her. Her face was plain and harsh, square-jawed with a heavy nose.
She maneuvered a footstool over to the side of her chair with her foot. She wore a heavy, woolen robe hanging open over her shirt and trousers. Carpet slippers warmed her feet. Despite the innate ferocity of her manner, there was an undercurrent of gratitude to have arrived in a place to shed her armor, boots and spurs for a time.
She placed the book that Cordwainer had borrowed on the table. "It's genuine. I compared a sample of the handwriting to some letters that Abelard wrote his son. Koejelus has verified the age of the velum and ink."
Merick waited to be invited and settled into a chair cattie-corner from Teague at a gesture from Nans.
General Nans Gryphonheart watched her warily. The thought of having a battlemage of Teague's capabilities questioning Isranon made her uneasy. There was no doubt in Nans' mind that Isranon had more raw power, but he was still recovering his strength from the long journey. Teague had far more experience with her talents than Isranon did. If Teague decided to violate their neutral ground agreement, Nans figured that she would have to be the one to stop the mage.
"May I touch it?" Teague indicated the godmark on Isranon's brow, the sign of Kalirion's divine favor.
"Yes."
Nans' eyes narrowed as Teague pressed her fingers to the godmark.
A wry twist of the left corner of Teague's mouth passed for a smile as she withdrew her hand. "It's as genuine as that journal. One more thing and I will be satisfied that you are what you claim to be – and what Edvarde claims you are."
"What is that?" Isranon asked warily.
"A demonstration." Teague had the smug expression of a cat that had caught its first mouse. "I want to see you call down the Sunfire Lances. Do that and I will lead my units, mages, soldiers and all in your cause."
"And where do you propose to do this?" Nans looked skeptical.
"I have prepared some targets in the training yard. What do you say, Isranon?"
"Give me a moment to grab my cloak and we will go to the yard." Isranon rose from his chair and went into his bedroom.
"What's your game, Teague?" Nans propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. "You've rushed to be part of every major war for the last century."
"Since when did war become your business, freeranger? Couldn't find another dog to rescue from a tree?"
Nans swallowed back an urge to smack Teague. Her freeranger unit, Gryphonheart's Rowdies, had indeed rescued a huge wolfhound from a tall tree. She never figured out how it got up the tree to begin with, but it had become one of Teague's favorite jibes. The only good thing that Nans had ever been able to say about Teague was that she never brought the magic into play when involved in a simple punching match. Fifty years ago, when Nans had been more hot-headed, she and Teague had bloodied each other's faces over an altercation in Timbren. Lokynen and Meleajys broke the fight up before it could escalate to swords. "I'm the general of this army. If you are going to join us, you will follow orders."
Teague shrugged. "As long as you don't expect me to rescue dogs."
"This is my war, Teague. I intend to conduct it Euzadi style. Hit and run tactics. We're not big enough, even with your mercenary units, to stand toe to toe against what Gylorean is fielding. If we can hurt her forces, keep them guessing..." Nans paused, studying Teague's face for some reaction and failed to see any. "It's for the Sharani's Saer'Ajan and the Sacred King of Rowanhart to mop up. They have the kind of huge standing armies it will take to stop Gylorean."
"I understand that. Just answer one question?"
"What?"
"When did it become your war?"
"I was in Minnoras when it fell to her coup. Some of my closest friends died there. I barely got out alive. It's a godwar, Teague."
"So you really believe that she's a god?"
"I know she is. She's the one that we missed. Somehow she escaped after my father imprisoned her six thousand years ago."
"War is the ultimate test of power and skill, Nans. I intend to have my shot at her."
"So you already had your mind made up when you got here?"
"Not at all. I wanted to take the measure of your army first. I could just as easily have offered my services to your cousin, King William."
Merick had sat so quietly that they had failed to notice him. Now he shifted in his seat and cleared his throat to get their attention. "Isranon is a pan-elementalist. His power is a roaring furnace, Teague. Don't play games with him."
"Then what am I?" Teague stuck her arm out and nodded at it.
Merick grasped her wrist and Read her mage centers. He had done it before and already knew what his answer would be. However, he gave it an effort. "On the Abelardian scale, you're a ten, Teague. There's no question about that. However, Isranon is off the charts. They will need to be re-calculated to account for him."
"What the unholy hell are you talking about?" Teague scowled.
"If any lineage were going to produce a freak of power, it would be either that of Dawnhand or Josiah Abelard – his first incarnation that is. Lord Isranon Dawnreturning is the product of both lineages."
Teague started to reply, stopped and pointed at the door.
Isranon emerged, dressed for the cold weather.
He carried a plain staff that looked like a simple gnarled stick.
As he stepped into the hallway, Edvarde trotted up to them accompanied by Jeevys with a writing board, paper, and supplies. "Ready to show them?"
"I think so." Isranon glanced at the stuff that Jeevys carried. "What's all this?"
"I am going to take notes. Write about it for posterity." Edvarde looked very pleased with himself, sobered abruptly, and eyed the staff Isranon carried. "That's not the one I gave you for solstice."
"Yes, it is." Isranon dropped the cloaking spell just as Cordwainer and Koejelus showed up.
The mages stared at it stunned. Mage-sight allowed them to see the energy coiled in shimmering layers around its six feet of hard rock maple. Nine inches of diamond had been magically grown onto the butt and the shaft was incised with intricate Kalirioni runes amid vines and leaves in jeweled inlays. The upper body, head and wings of a pegasus topped it, so solidly done in heavy burnished kendaryl that it could be used to strike with.
"I have seen drawings of it," Koejelus breathed the words out in a hushed voice. "I never thought I would live to see it."
Teague's brows knit together. "That's Warrior, isn't it?"
"May I touch it?" Cordwainer extended a tentative hand toward the staff.
"You may." Isranon inclined the staff toward him.
Cordwainer's fingers brushed the pegasus, as he extended his powers to take its measure. His lips parted in surprise. "I would burn out trying to wield something like that. It is no wonder to me now that Kalirion chose you as his first mage-paladin in five hundred years."
Isranon followed Teague outside with a large entourage gathering behind them.
A section of the yard had been cleared of snow and several targets set up: a bale of hay, a group of strawmyn, six piles of snow-covered wood. A crowd had gathered along the far edges of the yard, which Teague had ordered roped off to keep the curious at bay.
"You want me to burn them?" Isranon asked, running his gaze across the ta
rgets.
"With the Sunfire Lances." Teague crossed her arms and settled onto a tree round.
A loud voice speaking in broken Engla drew everyone's eyes as a huge, gray-skinned form charged the rear of the crowd. People scurried to get out of Yggsil's path, fearful of being trampled by the stone troll. "Lady troll!"
Nans groaned.
"Lady troll?" Teague snickered. "You, Nans?"
"Shut up."
"I heard you had acquired a troll, but this is the first I've seen of him."
"Shut up."
"For Lady Troll, got present." Yggsil stopped in front of Nans, whipped a bloody trophy from behind his back and shoved it in Nans' face. "Got present. See? Bouquet?"
It took a second to register, but the troll was holding half a dozen snaky necks with large serpentine heads on them: hydras.
"Very nice, Yggsil." Nans pointed to a corner of the yard. "Go sit over there until we're finished."
"I love Lady Troll." Yggsil moved to sit where she had ordered him, not the least bit discouraged, and very certain that he would win her affections eventually.
Isranon gazed at the bails. Teague wanted a demonstration of sheer power, proof that he was what he claimed: the heir to the power of both Abelard and Dawnhand. "There is one greater than I coming. When the day of reckoning arrives, you will find him in Red Wolf."
Nevin, standing just behind Isranon beside Nans, looked startled. "Red Wolf?"
"The Sacred Child with both sides of the gift will be found in Red Wolf on the day of reckoning."
"So you're not claiming you're him?" Teague stepped closer to Isranon. "Yet you also claim to have both sides of the gift."
"I am not the child."
"We'll put that to the test. Now the Sunfire Lances, if you please."
Isranon nodded, raised his staff and called out to the heavens. If Teague had been expecting him to burn them one at a time, she was in for a surprise. The Sunfire Lances struck from the heavens at his call and all of the targets went up at once.