Sister of the Dead Page 3

  Magiere stiffened and spoke so quietly that Leesil was immediately on his guard.

  "Is this what we can look forward to? That mutt gets to use her for his endless whining and begging?"

  Chap wrinkled his muzzle; then he licked his nose at Magiere. Leesil hoped it wasn't some kind of gesture, or at least that Magiere wouldn't think so.

  "I'm sure it will prove more useful than that, " he said.

  Despite her outward anger, Magiere rummaged in the back of their wagon until she procured some dried meat and a water flask.

  "At least we can question him more easily, " she said, and set out strips of jerky and a tin mug of water for Chap.

  Leesil wasn't so confident, as Chap hadn't been forthcoming so far. He kept this to himself as he helped Wynn haul her belongings to the wagon. The sage dug in her leather pack to bring out a waxed parchment. When she unfolded it, Leesil smelled the mint before he saw the wad of tiny leaves within.

  "I thought we were leaving, not setting up house, " he chided.

  "I left in a hurry to catch you this morning, " she said. "I assume none of us have had breakfast. "

  Magiere shook her head. "We'll get something in the city while we gather supplies. "

  "No, " Wynn argued, digging out yet another parchment pouch. "I need my tea. We can ask the innkeeper to send hot water to your room. A proper start for the day. "

  Leesil rolled his eyes and headed back to the inn to see if the old proprietress was about.

  "Please ask for three clean mugs, " Wynn called out, "so we need not unpack any of yours. "

  Leesil bit on his lower lip as he shoved the inn's front door open. So much for Wynn needing no coddling—and she'd been with them barely since dawn.

  IThat night, as the sun dropped below the horizon, Chane opened his eyes. His internal awareness was unusually precise, even for a Noble Dead. He fell dormant at sunrise and woke at sunset, but for the first time in memory, he felt a moment's uncertainty of his surroundings. Then he remembered. He was in a country barn that his new companion, Welstiel Massing, had led them to the previous night. An iron pitchfork, shovel, and hoe leaned against the weathered wall near the double doors, and the place smelled of stale hay, rust, and dried dung. In place of livestock, all he sensed were small lives, perhaps mice, and his own rat curled inside his cloak pocket. Sitting up in the loose pile of old hay, he watched a fat spider above him crawl across a web glistening with evening dew. The egg sac it approached seemed ready to burst with a hundred new lives.

  Chane had never awoken in such a place or such a state. He had plotted the death of his own master and creator to achieve freedom. Now he grew nostalgic for his clean cellar room in the lavish home back in Bela, regardless of the servitude and enslavement that had come with it. He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, though he felt no cold. Freedom had its price, so it seemed.

  "Welstiel?" he said, voice cracking the silence of the decaying barn.

  "Here, " a cultured voice answered.

  Chane started at the movement in the stall across from him. A figure stirred, arose, and stepped from those deeper shadows and into the open space between the stalls.

  As always, Chane sensed nothing of his new companion. Both of them were Noble Dead, both adept in their arcane arts. Welstiel could be seen, heard, and touched, but even to Chane's heightened awareness, nothing of his life force, or rather its lack, could be sensed. Chane did not know how this was so, and that unnerved him further.

  Welstiel brushed the straw from his black wool cloak. Of medium height and build, he appeared to be in his early to mid-forties by human standards. He wore his dark brown hair combed back, revealing his most distinguishing feature of two sliver-white patches at each temple. He wasn't wearing his gloves, and Chane's eyes strayed down to the man's one tiny oddity—the missing half of the little finger on Welstiel's left hand.

  Chane was taller, in his mid-twenties by appearance, with pale skin and red-brown hair halfway to his shoulders, which he tucked behind his ears. They had spoken sparingly the night before upon their first direct encounter following all that had happened in Bela. Now Chane was uncertain what to say or what came next in their newfound association. He reached for his sword nearby, pulled his cloak back as he got up, and strapped on the blade.

  "Where to now?" he asked.

  'To the inn where Magiere and Leesil slept, " Welstiel answered. "We will pick up her trail from there. "

  Chane hesitated before asking, "Why are we following her?"

  Welstiel studied him closely, as he had done on the night before. He stepped closer.

  "Why are you here? Why join me?"

  His dispassionate tone betrayed only mild interest, but Chane knew his answer must be convincing. He had lived in Bela with his "master, " Toret, a lowborn little vampire who had managed to turn a noble like Chane for protection and moderate wealth. Forced to obey this creature that had raised him from death, Chane's first goal had been to find a way to destroy Toret. When the dhampir and her half-blood arrived to hunt Bela's undead, Chane had finally arranged for Toret to lose his head. Yet nothing afterward had occurred as expected.

  "I was imprudent, " Chane answered. "I sought to be free of Toret, but I had not anticipated losing my home, my inheritance, and—"

  "Your welcome at the Guild of Sagecraft?" Welstiel offered.

  The halting conversation of the previous night had given Chane a handful of wary moments. Welstiel's awareness of all in Toret's household was unnerving, particularly how much he seemed to know of Chane.

  Chane nodded.

  "Is that where you sought to spend your time, once free of Toret?" Welstiel asked. "With the old domin... Tilswith, I believe, and bis little apprentice, Wynn?"

  Chane repressed a flinch and remained stoic.

  He had counted on retaining the house, retrieving his inheritance, and keeping his undead nature a secret through long years in calming company at the sages' guild. Magiere had exposed him, and though he had escaped slavery, all had been lost—including his welcome in Wynn's company.

  He had nowhere else to go.

  Welstiel had a purpose in seeking the dhampir, and all that Chane had left was the longing for revenge for what Magiere had cost him. He would bide his time with whatever reasons might satisfy Welstiel.

  "I am here now, " Chane said. "And you are tracking the dhampir. Why?"

  "She is unique and critical to my objectives, " Welstiel replied. "But you are young in this existence. Your mortal family must still be alive. Why not go home? If they wish to be rid of you, they could replace part of your inheritance. "

  Chane shook his head. "I cannot go crawling home for coins. If my father learned how I lost... I cannot. "

  Welstiel scanned their surroundings until his gaze returned to the small brass urn hanging upon a chain around Chane's neck. He pointed first to Chane's sword, then to the urn.

  "You are skilled and resourceful, so you may be useful to me. I offer you a bargain. I will pay you enough to travel west across the ocean, to Calm Seatt in Malourne or from there to the Suman Empire and the capital of Samau'a Gaulb. Both cities have longstanding branches of the Guild of Sagecraft. They are like nothing you can imagine compared with the meager offerings in Bela. I will prepare letters of introduction for you to certain connections I have. You have time on your side. In thirty years, few here will even remember your name, and you can return, if you wish. Time is the one true advantage that our... kind has. "

  The last words were spoken bitterly, and this gave Chane pause. Did Welstiel despise his own existence? He pushed the question aside.

  "And in exchange?"

  "Assist me and be rewarded, " Welstiel replied, and then his voice lowered. "And put aside any foolish notion of revenge. "

  Welstiel's offer still smacked vaguely of servitude, but some of the fog clouding the future lifted from Chane's mind. He longed to speak with Wynn even once more, but this was impossible now that she knew what he was. The prospect
of finding a place in another sage's guild was at least a second-best enticement. It filled him with anticipation akin to warm blood flowing from a fear-filled victim. And if Welstiel should forget this arrangement, there remained the smaller pleasure of revenge upon the dhampir, and thereby against Welstiel himself for any deceit.

  Chane nodded his acceptance.

  Welstiel pulled on his black leather gloves and started for the barn's doors. Chane picked up the sack and leather-strapped chest that held his remaining possessions and followed. They did not speak again while walking.

  The woods were not dense between the farmland fields, but Welstiel kept to the trees and off the road until they were almost upon the small inn. It rested amid its scant neighboring buildings beside the main road out of Bela. Ill-kempt, weathered, and with a side stable that leaned severely into its eastern timber wall, the inn had the look of a place rarely visited. Few incoming travelers would stop here so close to a city where better options waited. And once leaving the capital, likely at daybreak, fewer still would pause for the night after traveling such a short distance.

  Welstiel knocked at the front door. When no one answered, he knocked again. The door eventually cracked open, and a squat woman with graying hair peered out. She took in Welstiel's wool cloak and opened the entry a little farther.

  "Didn't expect no one after dark tonight, " she said in a muffled voice, and she frowned at the fine patrons upon her doorstep. "Got a room, but it ain't been cleaned. "

  Chane stepped closer. It was unlikely a room should remain uncleaned all day in an establishment this small. He caught the scent of cheap liquor beneath stale sweat on the woman's skin. Not expecting further business, she'd probably taken her payment from Magiere, purchased a jug for herself, and spent the afternoon drinking. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  "We are not seeking lodging, " Welstiel said politely. "We arranged to meet friends here but were delayed and have become separated. She is a tall, young woman with black hair traveling with a blond-haired man and a dog. Did they stay here?"

  The innkeeper's brow creased over bloodshot eyes, and Chane realized she wasn't as witless or drunk as she first appeared. Her faded brown dress was stained but not dirty, and while wisps of graying hair escaped her braid, it was still reasonably well bound. She glanced at Chane.

  "You gentlemen are friends of that rough woman—and mat half-blood? He didn't fool me none with the scarf. I saw his eyes. "

  Welstiel's calm expression never faltered as he held out a silver shil, far more than a night's lodging would cost in a place like this.

  "Could we see the room? Perhaps they left a hint as to where they were going. "

  The woman's eyes widened for an instant. She grunted, taking the coin, and reached back inside for a lantern. "This way. "

  She led them along a narrow side hall. Chane followed behind, wondering what Welstiel expected to learn from an unmade bed or a full chamber pot. The old woman opened a lone side door in the hall. The bed indeed was unmade, and the room was bare from what Chane could see as Welstiel and the old woman stepped in ahead of him. Chane heard the pulse beating beneath the innkeeper's flesh in the dim room.

  In Bela, he'd often hunted in the poor sectors for concealment. If sustenance was all that time allowed, he was not choosy about slovenly or inebriated prey. He stepped through the doorway and closer, as the old woman followed Welstiel, and he reached for the sagging scruff of her neck.

  Welstiel turned, surveying the room by the woman's lantern light, and his gaze stopped on Chane. He slowly shook his head once.

  Chane willed his hand down to his side. A flash of anger passed through him, growing upon the smoldering hunger. The innkeeper, as if suddenly aware she was alone with two strange men, turned to look at him.

  "Where were they going?" Welstiel asked.

  "How should I know?" she retorted. "I ain't no eavesdropper or peeper!"

  "Of course not, " Welstiel said apologetically and opened his purse again. "Perhaps you heard something in passing that might be helpful?"

  Again she grunted. "The half-blood said something about resupplying in Bela, and the woman talked of the inland road around the gulf. That's all I remember. "

  Welstiel gave her another silver shil and put his hand on her shoulder. He steered her toward the door as Chane stepped out of her way.

  "You have been most helpful, madam, " Welstiel said. "If you could leave us, we will be on our way momentarily. "

  Two coins in hand, the innkeeper glanced at him once and did not argue. "Good night, sir, " she said, as if remembering her manners.

  "Good night, " Welstiel answered, and closed the door behind her.

  When the woman's footsteps faded down the hall, Chane turned on Welstiel.

  "There is no one else here to sound an alarm. Who knows when we'll have a chance to feed again?"

  Welstiel leaned threateningly toward Chane. "You will not leave a trail of torn bodies like some rabid animal. Control your urges or be gone. "

  Chane did not relish servitude to a new master now that he was free of Toret, but he remained silent. Hunger's heat faded too slowly for comfort, leaving his senses fully open to cast about the small room. The scent of life thinned in the old woman's absence, and something more subtle took its place.

  Sweet, almost refreshing, it brought him the memory of quiet moments, ancient texts and scrolls, and a cold lamp gleaming brightly from a tabletop. He pictured Wynn sitting beside him and could almost smell the herbal aroma that followed her everywhere. But the fragrance was not hers.

  "So, what now?" he asked, looking about the room at the disarrayed bed, the small stool, the bedside table with its half-melted candle and three mugs.

  "We go into Bela and purchase horses, " Welstiel replied. "Magiere is beginning a journey. I suspected but was uncertain until now. Purchasing supplies in a large city likely took until noon. They cannot be more than half a day ahead of us, and we might close the distance before sunrise. We must hurry to find a stable still open now that night has come. "

  Chane barely heard Welstiel's words as he fixated upon the three pottery mugs. He stepped closer to the bedside table, and the strange scent of memory surrounded him. Dread crept into him as he picked up one mug.

  At its bottom was a single mint leaf among scant tea grounds.

  It had been an evening at the guild barracks, filled with quiet company and the curiosity of a scroll from The Forgotten, the lost history, when Wynn had last offered him such a cup. Sage and scholar, she did not waste her precious existence in the drudgery of the masses, the cattle of the humanity. She was unique, a living treasure.

  Wynn had come to Magiere and Leesil.

  Had she joined them? It would be a delicate matter to play along until he could decide to take revenge upon Magiere or continue to serve Welstiel's vague agenda. What if Wynn were there, caught amidst all of it and unable to fend for herself?

  His hand shook as he set down the mug, and he felt Welstiel's attention upon him.

  "What is it?" Welstiel asked.

  "Nothing. "

  The number of mugs was not lost on his companion, and Welstiel stepped closer to pick up the same one Chane had examined. Welstiel turned it slowly, studying the remains in its bottom.

  "I doubt they shared tea with the dog. Who was the third person?"

  Chane held up his open hands as if he had nothing to offer.

  Welstiel returned the mug to its companions upon the table. "Shall we go?"

  Chane's attention hung one moment longer upon the mug, with the scent of mint still filling his head.

  IThe city of Bela had faded from sight, and Chap darted through the roadside brush in the dark chill air. Nightfall had passed, but Magiere still pressed them onward, as if half a day in the city had delayed their journey too long, and they needed to make up ground. Chap heard the wagon rolling along the road behind him. His companions had purchased heavy winter cloaks, a few extra shirts, and ample supplies, though per
haps not enough of the smoked mutton that Chap had found in an open market. They were well stocked and back on the open road once again. It should have been a joyful change. He could not stop this journey, nor would he wish to if it would lead them to the answers they sought. But seeking Magiere's past was another matter.

  Chap ran, feeling his body's strength and speed as wild grass pulled at his silver fur. He slowed to circle into a sparse grove, paws treading across the mulch floor of the small clearing therein.

  A breeze lashed his coat, striking downward from the sky instead of through the trees. The answering hushed chatter of branches did not follow immediately. He heard the forest's whisper all around him.

  Chap spun about with a low rumble in his throat.

  The clearing was loosely walled with scattered spruce and beech trees grown tall from roots sunk deep into the earth. Branches reached out to one another, like interlacing a circle of sentinels holding hands. He peered between them into the dark woods beyond, searching, but there was nothing out of place. Yet the wall of trees thickened in places where he had looked away too long and back again. Movement within their branches made the limbs sway ever so slightly.

  Fool... miscreant... betrayer!

  Whispers lashed into his thoughts from all around, and Chap snarled, kicking up needles and leaves from the forest floor as he spun about.

  Eyes glittered at him from dark shadows beneath the branches, like stars pulled from the sky and held captive amid the foliage. A flutter of wings passed overhead, and Chap ducked instinctively. Claws skittered on bark as some small creature raced up the trunk of the largest of the trees now ringing him in.

  Chap turned toward the ancient sentinel with its gnarled bark and full spread of crooked limbs, not yet cowering under the shame rising inside him. The movement of unseen living creatures made the dark spaces between its branches open and close like mouths taking in breath to denounce him with every exhalation.

  Fallen is our kin in his flesh. So distracted from purpose.

  Chap shrank back with his eyes upon his accuser. He felt its sentiment echoed by unseen others all around him.