"You wish to keep your son safe, do you not?" Rhiannon pressed.
"By the gods, I do!"
"And your own turned you away."
The disappointment of not being helped by the Oracle was a bitter thing in Christine’s heart. Yet she was afraid to make the final gesture that might possibly make matters worse.
"How can things be worse?" Rhiannon questioned, reading Christine’s thoughts. "A death warrant has been issued for your son’s betrothed. Agents have been sent out to capture him and bring him back to the de Viennes’ woman’s stronghold." The Windweaver spread her hands. "I ask again—how can things be worse?"
"You can take his soul!"
Rhiannon’s slow smile became eerie. As beautiful as she was with her long black hair and emerald green eyes, red lips and dark olive complexion, the smile made her seem inhuman and brought the hairs on Christine’s arms to attention.
"What need do I have of your son’s soul, Milady?" the Windweaver asked. "The women of your sect put entirely too much merit on the significance of souls."
"And your kind does not?"
"On occasion we make use of one we have stolen, but in this case, it is not Riain James Cree’s soul I want."
Christine stared at the Windweaver, afraid to ask what price she would demand for helping her son. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the witch to forget all this. She would leave, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Rhiannon Chastayne.
"Even now the demented one is making plans for your son."
"What kind of plans?"
"You have heard of Raphian? She is seeking out a priest from the Brotherhood of the Domination who will raise the demon for her."
Christine gasped. "No!"
"You speak of stealing souls, Milady. Know you not what that One would do with your son’s?"
As though prodded by a hot spear, Christine leapt to her feet and fished inside the pocket of her gown. She withdrew the packet she had brought from Binh Tae palace and thrust it toward the Windweaver. "Here! Do what you must to protect him!"
Rhiannon took the folded square of cambric and closed her eyes. She held the cambric as if feeling it, absorbing it, as if vibrations came to her. "Go to the cauldron and draw forth a ladle of the brew."
Without giving herself time to think of the consequences, wanting only to protect her most cherished of children, Christine plucked the ladle from the hearth wall and dipped it into the brew.
"Careful you do not burn yourself," Rhiannon cautioned as she laid the packet on the table beside the chair. Gingerly, she unfolded the square, her fingers trembling as each point came away from the center.
"What do I do with this?" Christine asked, feeling queasy from the rancid smell of the grayish liquid.
"Drink it!"
Christine’s stomach revolted at the thought. Bile surged up her throat. "I cannot!"
"You must," Rhiannon said in an offhand voice as she lifted a strand of Riain Cree’s hair from the center of the fabric square. "He has worn the shirt from which this cambric was taken?"
"Aye," Christine whimpered, trying to look away from the darker gray motes of the-gods-only-knew-what floating in the ladle.
"This is his?" Rhiannon asked as she plucked a nail clipping from the packet.
Christine could only nod, incapable of speech for fear she would vomit.
"And this is his blood?"
Unable to look at the scrap of cotton from which she’d clipped the stain after her son had cut himself shaving that morning, Christine groaned.
Rhiannon reverently placed the items one by one back on the cambric.
"M…must I d…drink this?" Christine whispered.
"Think of it as a sacrifice for your child. With such, a mother can do whatever needs doing."
Christine tore her attention from the noxious liquid. "Have you a child you feel this way about?"
Rhiannon smiled. "Not yet, but one day." Her gaze softened. "I will name him Logan, and after him will come Paegan and Kamerone and Syntian."
"I—"
The Windweaver’s angry shout cut her off. "Drink the gods-be-damned brew, else lose your son’s mortal soul to Raphian and His minions! Will you allow that to happen?"
Christine squeezed her eyes shut and brought the ladle to her lips. Before she could lose courage, she took a sip of the acrid brew and nearly gagged.
"Drink! All of it!"
The brew tasted like gall, and the chunks that slithered down Christine’s throat threatened to wiggle up again. Even as the last drop passed her lips, the light from the hearth and the meager supply of candles fled the room, pitching her into complete darkness. She sank to the floor, unconscious.
* * *
Rhiannon stared with unconcern at her visitor, then turned. She picked up the strands of hair and took them to the cauldron. Before she dropped them into the tumbling brew, she brought the black silk to her lips and kissed it.
"Heart of my heart, sword hand of my defense, make your way here no matter the expense."
She returned to the table for the cambric square, the nail clipping, and the stain of Riain Cree’s blood.
"Unable to deny whatever I need," she said as she dropped the nail paring into the cauldron, "you will come to me with utmost speed."
The cambric floated in the bubbling liquid, then sank beneath the waves.
"Your body will be mine whenever I call. Your heart to me I will enthrall."
Rhiannon held the tiny square of cotton containing the crimson stain in the palm of her hand and studied it. With her free hand, she lifted her skirt and drew the athamé from the sheath strapped to her thigh. With practiced motion, she drew the thin blade across her left palm and watched as her blood merged with Riain’s blood on the fabric.
"Blood of my blood, now we are one."
The Windweaver dropped the bloody scrap into the cauldron and stepped back.
Instantly, a flash of light came from within the wrought iron depths; smoke billowed up the chimney. The strong aroma of cinnamon filled the hut, while a pulsing blue light appeared in the corner.
Rhiannon turned to the entity within the light and smiled. Her next words brought a smile to the entity’s strange face—
"I, the vessel—you the seed for my son."
Part II
Chapter 1
* * *
Riain looked down at his shirt and cursed vividly. The young prince was not having a good day, and coming back to his room to find his favorite cambric shirt smoldering in the hearth made him howl in rage. When he did, Duncan Brell burst into the bedchamber—sword in hand and scowl in place.
"What?" Duncan shouted, looking about for whatever intruder had alarmed his charge.
Riain snatched what was left of his shirt from the maw of the fireplace and thrust it toward the Master-at-Arms. "Do you see what she did?"
Not finding a fighting target with whom to engage, Duncan lowered his serviceable blade and wiped his free hand across his craggy brow. "What are you babbling about, Ree?"
"My mother ruined my gods-be-damned shirt!"
Duncan turned a jaundiced eye to the smoking shirt and shrugged. "Doing some protection rune or another, I’d wager. That’s what mothers do, boy."
"My favorite shirt!" Riain threw the offending garment back into the fireplace. "What will she do next? Cut off a lock of my—" He turned toward his dressing table and narrowed his eyes. "Where the hell is my brush?"
Duncan rolled his eyes. "I do not keep track of your possessions."
"Mama!" Riain yelled, stomping out of the room.
"Throw a tantrum, why don’t you?" Duncan called after him.
* * *
The Master-of-Arms let out a sigh, then looked about the room once more. He walked to the windows to make sure they were locked. Opened the armoire and fumbled around, looking for a false panel. Did a complete circuit of the room to make sure it was secure before he sauntered into the hall. He nodded to the duo of Chrystallusian gua
rds who flanked the doorway, and at finding the two Chalean warriors gone from their post, knew they would have fallen in behind the young prince as he searched for his mother.
Duncan made his way downstairs to the library, where his Overlord and Emperor Keito were playing chess.
"What was all that commotion about?" King Aidan inquired.
"Your son’s shirt. He took exception to her mauling it, I believe."
"His mother?" the Emperor inquired politely.
"Aye, Your Grace," Duncan acknowledged.
"So she’s returned?" Aidan asked as he moved one of his pawns.
"I was told she had and is sleeping," the Empress answered for Duncan. "The journey she took was most strenuous."
"I worry about her when she disappears like this," Aidan complained.
"Your lady is well protected, Milord," Duncan assured him. He looked at the Empress and smiled.
"Aye," the Empress agreed. "She has her sentinel."
"I have heard that word before, have I not, Beloved?" the Emperor asked.
"You have."
"Do I know what it means?"
"Perhaps you have forgotten."
"Enlighten me, please," was his request.
"Would you explain for my husband what it means, Sir Duncan?"
Duncan inclined his head. "A sentinel, Your Imperial Majesty, is a warrior chosen by a Daughter of the Multitude as her secret protector. A guardian, if you will, and a messenger. He is someone the Daughter will train herself in the ways she needs him to perform for her, bestowing certain limited powers on him so he might champion her when the need arises."
Keito Shimota nodded thoughtfully. "And are you Her Grace’s sentinel?"
Duncan smiled, amused. "If I were, Your Imperial Majesty, I could not confess to it, now could I?"
"Rightfully so." The Emperor looked up at Aidan. "Checkmate, my friend!"
Aidan’s brows drew together. "Damn! I never saw that coming."
"As I did not see my daughter’s desertion," Keito sighed and slumped on his cushion.
"Still no word of her and the boy, eh?" Aidan asked.
The Emperor shook his head. "How hard can it be to find two youths traveling on one horse through the Serenian Alps?"
"Harder than we anticipated, my love," his wife said softly.
There was a discrete knock at the door. Duncan went to answer. He spoke briefly with the visitor, then closed the door. "Your lady-wife and youngest son have gone walking, Your Grace."
Aidan grinned. "His shouts more than likely awakened her. Our son will experience the sharp end of her temper for doing so."
Duncan chuckled. "I have no doubt of that, Milord."
* * *
"Your trip was successful?" Riain asked his mother as they strolled down to the seawall.
"As successful as dealing with any Windweaver can be," she replied grumpily.
He stopped dead in his tracks. "You went to a witch?"
She shrugged. "A woman does what she has to do to protect her child."
Riain whistled. Things had to be worse than he thought for his mother to seek out the help of a Windweaver. She had always warned him about dealing with such creatures, for the sorceresses were more often than not allied with the Dark Ones.
"What price did you have to pay for this?" he asked, worried about the pact she might have been forced to sign.
"You do not need to know."
Riain tried to read her thoughts, but had never been able to do so. He had thought that when he grew older he might pilfer her ruminations when she was distracted—as she seemed to be this morn—but her mind was a dark veil, effectively hiding her thoughts.
"Stop that," she snapped, catching him trying.
He shrugged. "You’re too quick for me, Mama."
"No. Your skills are lacking."
Riain glanced at the low-flying clouds. "It looks like we’ll be in for some nasty weather before the day is through." When his mother did not reply, he turned to her. She seemed more preoccupied than usual. "Has something happened? Has the girl been found?"
His mother looked behind them where six armed guards were milling about, trying not to look conspicuous. She frowned. "I hate not having any privacy," she said between clenched teeth.
Riain had to agree. He objected to being followed as well, though he understood the necessity of it. "We could easily elude them."
She smiled. "We could, couldn’t we?"
He grinned.
She threaded her arm through his. "Then let us do so and have some peace! Take the three on the right. I will take the three on the left."
Riain grunted his reply and set his mind to clouding the thoughts of the men. With every ounce of his budding psychic powers, he willed them to wonder why they were following the prince and his mother in the first place. He made one have an urgent need to relieve himself, another sick to his stomach, and the third remember something vitally important he needed to do.
"Very good!" his mother complimented as the three men she had targeted turned in unison and began walking back the way they had come.
"Nothing to it."
She giggled. "Let’s find some privacy before someone else comes looking for us!"
Holding hands, the two raced down the beach and disappeared into the forest.
* * *
The chamber was lit only by a trio of tall black tapers set in golden candlesticks; the stygian walls dripped with moisture and smelled of peat moss and decay. Upon the cold stone floor, a pentagram had been drawn in the blood of the victim, whose lifeless body lay gutted on the black marble altar. Blood dripped down the altar base and polled at the feet of Suzanna de Viennes.
"Bid Him come, Mistress," the high priest whispered in her ear.
Suzanna turned her curious gaze from the body of her servant. In her hand was the athamé that had ripped open the young woman’s belly and the coppery smell of the innocent one’s blood was like perfume to her.
"Call Him!" the high priest demanded.
Going to the podium where the Book of Shadows lay open to the page assigned to the Invocation of Raphian, Suzanna began to chant. She had studied the words, made sure the pronunciations were correct, for she wanted no margin for error in her dealings with Raphian, the Master of Demons, Bringer of Storms, Destroyer of Souls.
As the princess of the Northwinds chanted, the room began to grow cold. The stench of brimstone flooded the chamber and a brisk wind set the candle flames to dancing.
"He is coming," the high priest sighed.
The stench grew overpowering, making Suzanna’s eyes water. The brisk wind became a howling banshee skirling about the damp walls. When the sound began, not even the shrill cacophony of the wind could drown out the buzzing of a multitude of angry bees.
She did not fear the entity that formed at the ceiling above her. She simply looked into that evil visage and drank in the sulfurous stink of the glowing green demon’s breath. The long, eel-like neck fascinated her as it undulated beneath the sharp triangular head. The elliptical red eyes and multitude of sharp teeth caused her no concern. When It spoke to her, the hissing sound simply amused her.
"What do you seek of me?" the demon rasped.
"I want Riain Cree!"
"And in exchange for my help?"
Suzanna dropped the bloody knife and reached toward the creature.
"Be careful!" the high priest gasped.
Acid that could melt human flesh dripped from the creature’s maw. The wicked teeth could snap the arm from Suzanna’s body, had the creature been so inclined. But all It did was cock Its hideous head to one side, lower Its thick, scaly neck, and let her stroke Its glowing hide.
"I want his body," Suzanna cooed. "You can have his immortal soul."
A loud purr filled the room—a wet sound, like a feline with distemper. The room grew colder still and the stench was so rife with the corruption of the grave, it was hard to draw breath. The creature lowered Its gigantic head until It could rub Its jaw
along Suzanna’s. When she turned her head and planted a kiss on that putrescent flesh, the demon roared with delight.
"You are one of mine?" the demon sighed.
"I am Your handmaiden, Master," Suzanna whispered huskily. "Your will is mine!"
The demon’s maw opened wide in a grin. The triangular head soared on the eel-like neck until the top of it pressed against the ceiling. Raphian rubbed His oozing flesh against the stone like a cat scratching against his master’s leg.
"Raphian?" Suzanna whispered.
"Aye?"
"I love you."
The foundations of the keep shook with the laughter that boomed from the creature’s hideous maw. Acids droplets flew from the snapping jaws and landed on the stone floor to sizzle and pop. The godawful stench of rotting flesh washed over the chamber in a wave that staggered Suzanna de Viennes and nearly suffocated the retching high priest.
"Whatever you wish, I shall see will come to pass!" Raphian vowed.
"Bring him to me and make him mine for eternity. Make it so no rune can protect him from me!"
"And what will you give to me in exchange?"
"The life of the third daughter of the house of Shimota!"
"You have this female?"
"No, but I can tell you where she is, for my men are watching her." Suzanna gave him the hiding place of Miyoshi Shimota and her lover. "Take her worthless life, but bring the male traveling with her to me."
"For what purpose?"
Suzanna tittered. "He is a male. What purpose do you think, Oh Great One?"
The demon roared with laughter. "It shall be so!"
With a suddenness that seemed to draw every last waft of breathable air from the room, the demon fled, vanishing in a sulfurous blast of smoke.
Suzanna dropped to her knees, trying desperately to draw breath into her lungs. She barely felt the high priest lift and drag her from the Conjuring Room. He carried her into the corridor and fell with her against the cold stone wall.
"Do you realize what you have done?" the high priest hissed.
Suzanna could not answer, for she was trembling violently, her teeth clacking together. She vigorously rubbed her hand against her skirt, trying in vain to get the feel and stench of the demon from her flesh. When at last she was able to speak, her voice was a mere whisper.
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