Part 8 (1/2)

”And aren't you hungry yet, for all this effort?” she asked. ”Do you need another urn of blood to help heal your hand? No, wait. You didn't even need the first one.... Did you?”

Chane straightened, his eyes widening this time. Any pain faded from his features-his pale, undead face.

”Don't lie to me,” she rushed on. ”The s.h.i.+rvsh at the temple found it still full in the room you had there.”

”The urn would not help me,” he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him. ”Blood is only a conduit for the life . . . that must come from a living ent.i.ty . . . for my need.”

Perhaps this was truth. Perhaps it wasn't just an excuse. Still clutching his seared hand, he twisted his head so far to the side she could no longer see his face at all. The sight brought her no sense of victory. She had hurt him, and some part of her now wished she could take the words back.

”I could not bring myself to tell you,” he whispered, ”that your efforts would not help.”

”What . . . what have you been feeding on?”

Chane hesitated far too long. By the time he answered, she wasn't sure she believed him.

”Your notion of livestock was not wrong, but the animal must be alive.”

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and the discomfort inside Wynn began growing again.

”You and Shade are all I have left,” she said, sidestepping around him to go back toward the gatehouse tunnel. ”But if you ever . . . ever feed on another sentient being, I will leave you behind. You will never enter my presence again. Do you understand? Never.”

Chane still hung his head and said nothing.

Wynn turned and strode off along the inner bailey. By the time she reached the gatehouse tunnel, she was running. She didn't stop until she'd shut the door to her room, collapsed against it, and slid to the floor. There were so few certain pieces left in her fragile world. Two had just shattered.

She could no longer deny that the wraith might still exist.

She could no longer trust Chane.

Wynn finally noticed that Shade now stood right before her. Shade looked to the door.

Her ears flattened as her rumble grew, and her jowls pulled back, exposing her teeth. No doubt Shade picked up everything from Wynn's memories of moments ago.

Wynn sobbed once and threw her arms around Shade's neck, burying her face in the dog's thick charcoal fur. The only one Wynn could count on now was an obstinate, adolescent majay-h.

On the rocky sh.o.r.e, south of Calm Seatt and high above the foaming waves of the bay, the night air s.h.i.+mmered. The outline of a tall shape slowly began taking form.

A dark figure garbed in a flowing robe and cloak s.h.i.+fted and swayed. Then it twitched and jerked, as if writhing in pain. No face was visible within the pitch-black pit of its sagging cowl. One arm rose, and its sleeve slipped down, exposing a forearm, hand, and fingers wrapped in black cloth strips.

Sau'ilahk came into consciousness amid the agony of Beloved's anger. And only then could he scream. Heard from afar, the sound would have been a sudden shriek of wind.

As he became aware of himself, startled that he had not ended in Beloved's embrace, he realized he had returned to the world of the living. Turning, he searched to see where he was. Calm Seatt spread before him with a mult.i.tude of night lamps illuminating the city. He did not know whether to feel rage or grat.i.tude.

The last he remembered was being trapped by the Stonewalkers as Wynn burned him to nothing. And yet he had returned to the edge of Beloved's dream. In the punishment for his failure, his disobedience, he wished he had perished instead.

But Beloved would not let him die.

Now fear and suspicion clouded his every guess.

Sau'ilahk had believed that he could control his own fate-that he could tease and twist the hints to his salvation from his G.o.d. A thousand or more years past, at end of the great war, Beloved's thirteen ”Children” had divided into five groups. Each group had been given one of the Anchors of Creation-the orbs, so called by the ignorant few who had now learned of them-and the Children had dispersed to the ends of the world, taking the orbs into hiding.

Sau'ilahk, highest of Beloved's Reverent Ones, its priests, knew only this much, and not where those five journeys had ended.

But as reward for his own service, he had asked for eternal life, for his beauty to never end. Beloved consented, and then cheated Sau'ilahk with a twist on that promise's words. Sau'ilahk's body decayed, but his spirit remained. He received his eternal life, but not eternal youth.

All Sau'ilahk wanted was the Anchor of Spirit. Through it, he could have flesh and beauty again. Yet his search had proven fruitless through the centuries, until one pitiful little sage uncovered words penned in ancient texts by three of the Children. Wynn Hygeorht was his one hope to force Beloved to fulfill what had been promised. Through her, he would learn the long-lost paths of the Children and the resting place of the orbs.

He had believed that he was manipulating Beloved into a.s.sisting him, but Beloved had raged over his recent failure, his destruction, in the underworld of Dhredze Seatt . . . and Beloved had punished him.

And yet now, here he was just outside of Calm Seatt, Wynn's home.

Follow the sage . . . to your desire. Serve, and she will lead you.

Sau'ilahk whimpered, a sound like breeze-ripped gra.s.s. He cowered down, feeling dormancy threatening to take him at the sound of his G.o.d's demand. Then his mind began to clear of terror.

Perhaps the texts were not the true answer? Perhaps Wynn Hygeorht's interpretation of them was the key? Was Beloved using him again, or did they share the same goal?

Sau'ilahk did not know. But if Beloved knew his desire for the orb, the Anchor of Spirit, then why else would his G.o.d return him to the world?

He floated on the cliffs south of the city, watching its lights. There was fear, doubt, suspicion, and one more emotion fought against these, almost as strong as the desire for flesh.

Revenge against the sage.

She had been the cause of his suffering, or at least of his continued failure. Once flesh was within Sau'ilahk's reach, once he satisfied his G.o.d, he would show Wynn Hygeorht a glimpse of the torment Beloved had given him.

CHAPTER 4.

The following night, Wynn waited on the docks, watching a wide, three-masted frigate anch.o.r.ed in the bay. Shade continued to glower at Chane, who stood a few paces behind them. The dog's jowls quivered, revealing her teeth.

Nothing about this night had been easy.

When Wynn had left her room that evening, Chane had been waiting for her in the keep's courtyard. Before she could do anything, Shade charged him, snarling, with hackles raised. She terrified two pa.s.sing apprentices as she backed Chane against the northern building.

Wynn had tried over and over through memory-speak to explain what Chane had done and why. Either Shade didn't understand or didn't care; she knew only that Chane had attacked Wynn.

Shade became even more enraged when Wynn made it clear that Chane was still coming with them. She had woven back and forth in the courtyard as if looking for a way to get at him. All Chane did was raise empty hands and wait. Wynn had to drop her belongings and grab for Shade. From that moment on, amid the rush to port, Wynn and Chane stayed focused on the task at hand. Neither of them spoke of what had happened the night before in the inner bailey.

Tonight, Chane was dressed the same, minus gla.s.ses and mask. The only noticeable difference was his old sword strapped on his other hip. He'd mentioned taking it to a blacksmith and having the broken end ground to a point, so it would be usable again. The old sheath's end was cut short for the blade and crudely closed with leather lacing.

Wynn wondered why he'd brought it at all, as the sword he'd gained from Ore-Locks was far superior. But she didn't ask. Chane had both of his packs-or, rather, his own and the one he'd taken from Welstiel-hooked over his shoulders. More than ever, Wynn didn't like that insidious vampire's toys being in Chane's possession, with the possible exception of the bra.s.s ring.

Wynn wore her old elven tunic and pants beneath a knee-length gray travel robe and a heavy winter cloak. She carried her staff, its long crystal sheathed, and her own pack stuffed with scholarly needs. She'd also belted on Magiere's old battle dagger. The last of their baggage was a medium-sized chest that sat at Chane's feet, loaded with supplies, clothing, and Wynn's journals.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Chane pointed outward. ”The skiff is coming.”