Dark Haven (4 page)

Jonmarc knew he would have bruises as he struggled to free himself and join the fight. “Leave this to us,” Kolin rasped near Jon‐marc’s ear. “This is our matter.” Jonmarc could sense Kolin’s tension.

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Gabriel hurjed one of Uri’s men against the wall hard enough to have killed a mortal. The exchange of blows was faster than sight could follow. The wolf connected with Uri’s chest, knocking the vayash moru to the ground. Uri cuffed the wolf and sent it flying.

Once before, Jonmarc had seen Gabriel fight, although it had been against drunken mortals in a back alley. Now, though both Gabriel and Uri were vayash morru, Gabriel out‐maneuvered his opponent with ease, sidestepping Uri’s strikes.

As suddenly as it began, the fight was over. Three of Uri’s guards struggled to their feet, staggered but unhurt. The wolf was gone. Gabriel reached down and grabbed Uri by the collar.

“You will never enter my houses again,” Gabriel said. He shook Uri with distaste. “Jonmarc Vahanian rules Dark Haven at the favor of the Dark Lady. As Her servant, I am oath‐bound to protect him.”

Uri brushed himself off. “You see a pathetic shadow of the Lady. She made us like gods to rule with her as gods. The days of the mortals

are ending. The days of the truce—and the Council—are over.” He gave a curt signal and his guards joined him, even the darkly beautiful young man who had watched the fight from the sidelines. Something about those deathless blue eyes made Jonmarc shiver.

“You’re bleeding.” Gabriel’s voice broke the silence after the doors of Wolvenskorh slammed shut behind Uri and his brood. Only then did Jonmarc feel the warmth at his throat. He raised his hand to his neck; his fingers came away covered with blood.

Gabriel withdrew a kerchief and pressed it against the wound. “It’s not deep. He was hoping to frighten you.” He chuckled dryly. “I don’t think he expected the fight he got.”

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Jonmarc hoped that his hands were steadier than his knees. I’m the only mortal in a roomful of vayash moru. I’m bleeding. And they all saw that I can’t even fight them. Great. Just great.

Rafe and Tamaq stepped up beside Gabriel. Gabriel rounded on them with a suddenness that took Rafe aback. “Uri violated sanctuary, broke Council law, and moved against the Lord of Dark Haven. Yet you and Astasia did nothing.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “You and Riqua had things under control. Were you expecting an open brawl?”

“I expected a show of support.”

“Uri will calm down.”

Riqua pushed forward. “Will he? Uri just declared both the truce and the Council to be dissolute.

He’s gone rogue.”

Rafe shook his head. “Uri has the same temper that got him killed as a mortal. He’ll come around. I think he wanted to make a grand display and get everybody’s attention.”

“I hope you’re right,” Gabriel said. Jonmarc kept the kerchief pressed against his neck, unwilling to bare his blood in this company. Yestin stepped up beside Gabriel. The young man’s cheek bore a purpling bruise, and he was limping. Eiria moved toward him with concern, but Yestin waved her away.

“Thank you,” Jonmarc said to the small group that clustered around him. The rest of the vayash moru slipped out in twos and threes, clearly no longer in the mood for a social occasion.

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“It would hardly do to hold a party in your honor and take you home dead,” Yestin said with a cheeriness Jonmarc found difficult to emulate.

“Under the circumstances, I can’t let you leave tonight,” Gabriel said. “There are rooms upstairs where you’ll be comfortable. Once it’s light, I’ll have a mortal escort for you. Uri’s not strong enough to attack in daylight without destroying himself, and none of his brood is old enough to even think of moving about when the sun is up. You’ll be safe come daybreak.”

“It’s going to get dark again tomorrow, you know.”

Jonmarc thought Gabriel looked troubled. “I’ve put the oldest and strongest of my family at Dark Haven for that very reason. I don’t think you’ll have any problems—at least, not on the manor grounds.”

“Arontala got in.”

Gabriel looked away. “That was before my oath to the Lady.”

Rafe, Astasia and the other guests were gone. The members of Riqua’s and Gabriel’s families drifted out of earshot. Jonmarc sat on the edge of a table, wondering if he looked as pale as he felt. “If he’d been mortal, I’d have said Uri was drunk.”

Riqua grimaced with distaste. “In life, Uri had a taste for absinthe and dreamweed. As vayash moru, neither affect him. But if he drinks the blood of someone intoxicated with either, it creates a similar effect.” “One of Uri’s bodyguards didn’t join the fight.”

Riqua turned away. “Malesh. He’s the worst of the lot—and for Uri’s brood, that’s saying 33

something.”

“Malesh is old enough in the Dark Gift to be dangerous, and young enough that he doesn’t truly understand the power, or the limitations.” Gabriel moved to a cabinet on the far side of the room and returned with a goblet of brandy, which Jonmarc accepted gratefully. The strong liquor steadied him.

“What’s in it for him?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No one knows. Rafe hopes that Uri is all bluster. Uri may be— but I’m not so confident about Malesh. Uri is vain and arrogant. Malesh is hungry and clever. It’s a bad combination.”

“Astasia’s question, about Carina. Do you think Carina will be in danger if she comes to Dark Haven?”

Riqua and Gabriel exchanged glances. “I •don’t think that either you or Carina should leave the grounds of Dark Haven without a guard,” Gabriel said. “Astasia’s goal isn’t overthrowing you.

Bedding you, perhaps.”

“Not interested.”

“Don’t worry—Astasia’s hardly the type to pine. She enjoys the chase. Astasia may try to bait Carina—she’d enjoy giving the impression that there was something between the two of you.

But I don’t think she has any reason to do harm. She tends to pick the men who offer the least resistance.”

“I’ll talk with Rafe,” Riqua said. “He can be damnably hard‐headed, but he’s got to recognize that Uri’s pushing this too far. We didn’t get rid of Arontala just to raise a new threat inside the 34

Council itself.” She signaled to her brood that it was time to leave.

The great hall was empty now, except for Jonmarc, Yestin, Eiria, and Gabriel. “There may be some dried herbs in the cook house that could make a poultice for that,” Gabriel said with a nod toward Yestin’s bruised check.

Yestin shrugged. “It’ll heal. There’s something else that concerns me more. The Winter Kingdoms haven’t recovered from the fight to bring down Jared the Usurper. Had Martris Drayke not succeeded, it wouldn’t have been long before every kingdom was at war— against Margolan, or on. its side. Now, the Council and the Truce are wavering. And there’ll be more questions to come. I’ve heard that King Martris will have to go to war against Lord Curane before too long. There are vayash moru .in Margolan who intend to go with him. That will strain the truce or break it completely.”

“Even the Sisterhood isn’t what it once was,” Eiria added. “The Flow’s unstable, and getting worse. My people can feel it. It makes our shifting all the more difficult. When it’s out of balance, the Flow’s power favors blood magic, and light magic becomes harder to control. That bodes-badly for King Martris. Lord Curane is known to employ dark mages.” She paused. “There are some among the Sisterhood who aren’t ready to return to their citadels. When King Martris goes to fight Lord Curane, Sisterhood mages will go with him, whether the Sisterhood approves or not.” “I’m not following your point,” Jonmarc said, sipping his brandy.

Yestin turned his violet eyes on Jonmarc. “The point is that the old ways are in flux. Old bonds are being broken. The alliances that kept an imperfect peace for hundreds of years are fracturing. These are dangerous times. My people know something about shifting. One is never more vulnerable than when one is between what was and what will be. The war isn’t over yet.

It’s just changed form.”

“Then the Lady help us all,” Jonmarc said, feeling a sudden chill despite the brandy. “Because we’ll need it.”

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CHAPTER THREE

Deep in the forest, the hunter stalked his prey. The trail was clear. The smell of fear and sweat was heavy in the cold night air. Broken branches and fresh footprints left a path easy to follow.

This night’s quarry had given him a good run. The prey had been resourceful, at first. Now, panic overtook reason. The hunter smiled. His kill was near.

Malesh did not need to signal the other two uayash moru who hunted with him. This was their sport, and they were masters of the craft. Gradually, the circle would tighten. The prey would realize he was being herded. Malesh smiled. Soon, very soon, it would be over.

He could hear their prey stumbling ahead of him. The man sounded like a wounded bull. Malesh had watched this one for some time. Big and overconfident, stupid and cruel, no one would miss the man. There were already rumors in his village that he had something to do with the children that had disappeared, that he’d been responsible for his wife’s bruises and black eyes. Malesh ran his tongue across his lips in anticipation.

Malesh spotted his fellow hunters in the forest shadows. The end was near. Even from a distance, Malesh could sense the big man’s disorientation. The fear would make his blood all the sweeter. The truce with mortals had always given vayash moru free reign to kill human criminals of the worst sort. Some villages staked their murderers and their child‐stealers beyond the outskirts as an offering to the vayash moru. But the Blood ‘Council’s truce mandated that the kill be quick, painless. Tasteless. Malesh’s tongue flicked over his sharp eye teeth. Terror brought an edge to the blood that was lacking in a quick kill. Exertion gave the blood a headiness like champagne. Bullies and sadists were the sweetest. Perhaps they knew that they deserved no 36

mercy, having granted none to their victims. Or perhaps their true fear was of the Crone or the Formless One, to whom their sullied souls would certainly go for judgment. Whatever the reason, by the time Malesh was done with’ them, their victims would have been avenged a hundredfold. Though vengeance was hardly Malesh’s goal.

The three vayash moru closed their circle, and their prey caught sight of them. At first, he brandished his weapon, but the vayash moru to Malesh’s right disarmed the man, breaking his wrist in the process.

“Whatever you want, take it!” the man cried, falling to his knees.

“We will,” Malesh replied. Even in the cold air, the man’s hair was wet with sweat. None of the vayash moru showed any sign of exertion.

“Mercy, please!” the man begged.

Berenn, one of Malesh’s fledglings, reached down and lifted the pudgy man by his doughy throat. “What would you know of mercy?” the young man asked coldly. Held in his unbreakable grip, the man gasped for air, his feet dangling inches off the ground. “Did you show mercy to any of the children you’ve buried in the woods? Any mercy to that wretch of a wife you beat?”

“I’ll change, I swear it. I can do better.”

Berenn’s smile was remorseless. “You don’t seem to understand. There are no second chances.”

He threw the man across the clearing, and Malesh heard bones snap with the force of the man’s fall. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but his shoes slipped on the wet leaves and he fell flat on his face. He gasped and mewled, and the scent of urine made it clear he had soiled himself.

Senan, the other vayash moru, lifted the man by the scruff of his neck, laughing as their victim 37

once again clawed at the air and struggled to get free. “I have gold hidden under the stone hearth. Take it—take all of it!”

Senan let the man fall into the wet loam and kicked him hard, turning him over. “We don’t need your gold. There’s only one thing of yours we want. Your blood.” Senan drew his lips back and the pudgy man let out a whimper, shrinking back against the ground.

By agreement, the three let Senan draw first i blood. Senan reached down, moving slowly to heighten the terror in the. doomed man’s eyes. “The Crone is waiting for you,” Senan whispered as he drew the big man close to him. “Please, no: No, no—” Senan’s teeth pierced the man’s fleshy neck just to the left of his throat. The man stiffened but made no noise. After a moment, Senan drew back and threw the still living man to Berenn, who made a fresh puncture to the right of the man’s throat and drank deeply.

The last draughts, the sweetest, the ones filled with mortal dread, were reserved for Malesh.

The doughy man was quite pale when Berenn handed his limp body to Malesh, but Malesh could still sense the pounding heartbeat and the shallow breath. Malesh seized the man roughly, who groaned as his spine snapped, sending a last jolt of sweetness into the blood. Malesh went for the spot just below the man’s ear, where the blood would run its final course before breath stopped, snapping the man’s neck in the process. The broken body twitched in Malesh’s grip as he gulped down the blood, letting the man’s final terror fill him with intoxicating headiness. When there was nothing left but a bloodless husk, Malesh dropped the body. Not one speck of blood marred his frilled white shirt.

“Good hunt.” Senan reached down and picked up the corpse by its collar and dragged it over to a large tree. “How shall we leave him?”

“He’s had a hard run,” said Berenn. “Let him catch a few winks.”

Senan posed the corpse beneath the tree, its head down on its breast, while Berenn retrieved the dead man’s hat from the clearing and put it on his head, pushing down the brim to shade his 38

eyes. Senan clasped the man’s hands over his ample belly and put one foot sole down, knee raised, while the other leg extended straight. They stood back to examine their handiwork.

Unless someone looked closely under the dead man’s collar, he might appear to be sleeping, taking a nap in the forest shade.

“One of your better pieces, if I do say so!” Malesh complimented Senan. He slapped him on the back, and the three began their trek back to Uri’s manor.

Scothnaran Manor was big, rambling, and vulgar. Just like its owner, Malesh thought, feeling his mood sour. Scothnaran lacked both pedigree and history, two more things it had in common with Uri. No one who saw the huge, garish structure would doubt that it was built to impress any who saw it with the owner’s wealth and position. Pity that Uri never did figure out real wealth had no need for show. Malesh had lost his life, his blood, and his freedom to Uri a hundred years before in a duel over a card game that had gone badly. And Malesh, whose bloodlines could be traced to Principality’s ruling nobility, had been made courtier to a fool and bumbler, a two-skrivven card sharp whose greatest break came when he was brought across as punishment for a bad debt.