Sister of the Dead

Chapter 13

T he patron in Welstiel's dreams sensed that he had fed, knew he was stronger, and whispered to him throughout his dormant hours.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Welstiel was roused by Chane's soft knock on the door. He awoke disoriented, as he always did when communing with the roiling serpent coils. He looked about before remembering they had procured rooms at a decent inn. His door was locked, and he climbed from the bed to let Chane in.

His companion was already dressed in a white shirt and midnight-blue tunic. His height filled the doorway. He took in Welstiel's disheveled appearance and stepped back. "Forgive me. I assumed you were up."

"Come in," Welstiel said. "I will scry for the dhampir. It is possible she has not given up yet, stubborn as she is, but I prefer to keep track of her presence. You will not mind a few more nights here?"

"This isn't Bela, but any city is a pleasant change nonetheless."

Welstiel retrieved the brass dish and his knife, and sat at the table. Replenished as he was, all recent scars from cuts had faded, leaving the stub of his left little finger smooth. He cut it again and allowed a drop to strike the center of dish's dome as he chanted.

The droplet shivered. It slid and stopped a thumbnail's distance down the dome toward the east.

"No," Welstiel whispered, staring at the tiny trail. "Why would she head farther east?"

The direction was more disturbing than the fact that Magiere had slipped away again. Welstiel knew of nothing east of Keonsk connected to her past. Only he had a history back in that accursed place.

There was no way she could have found a lead to take her there-to him-even if that withered madman was still there after so many decades.

Chane walked over. "What has happened?"

"She is going to Apudalsat, the village of Water Downs," Welstiel said, only vaguely aware of his companion's question.

Magiere was headed into the Sclaven province. In Welstiel's youth, it was the first noble house his father had served upon arriving in this country, this continent. At the keep near Apudalsat, on the edge of the vast swamps of the Everfen, Bryen had come home one night with a withered old Suman in shimmering charcoal robes and an eyeless mask.

Magiere was headed straight for Ubad.

"What are you talking about?" Chane asked.

"Quiet and let me think," he snapped.

Welstiel stared at the droplet's trail. How could Magiere have learned of Ubad?

Chane crouched down by his chair, following his gaze. "Should I try to slow her down again? Do you need to reach this place first?"

Welstiel pondered this. No, it would do no good to race her to this destination. Such frantic activity would only alert Ubad, and Welstiel had no intention of giving his own presence away.

"No, that will not help this time," he answered. "Nothing will dissuade her, but we need to catch her and stay close. Magiere heads for a danger she has no way to deal with."

He looked at Chane.

"From within the shadows, we must protect her," Welstiel added, "as you protected your little sage."

At this pointed mention of Wynn, Welstiel thought he saw a flicker of pain on Chane's face. If so, it quickly passed.

"Of course," Chane answered, and headed for the door. "I will pack the horses."

Welstiel knew his companion's prime concern was the young sage. The mere suggestion that Wynn was in peril was enough to secure Chane's compliance. But only Magiere mattered, and she was determined to seek her answers to a ruinous end. However, Welstiel knew Magiere, and Ubad did not. She was not easily manipulated. All Welstiel could do now was to be there in the shadows and shield her from Ubad as best he could.

Chane's preparations would take a short while, and Welstiel sank down on bed, his mind drifting back to a night at the keep above Chemestuk. He looked at the orb of three flittering lights upon on the desk. It had been with him from the beginning of this existence. He remembered fear from long ago… fear of his own father.

Several nights after he'd watched his father and Ubad cut the dwarf's throat and drain his blood into the vat, Welstiel sat in his upper-floor room of the keep, trying to study.

Ubad repulsed him, but over the many years, Welstiel played the game of master and disciple with his father's lackey, increasing his skill in conjury through artificing. Spells, though versatile, were of such limited nature. Ritual, though powerful, was not as lasting as the making of an object. On his desk sat his most recent creation, a frosted glass globe resting in an iron pedestal. Within it flittered three sparks bright enough to illuminate the room in a dim glow. It required no oil or flame but instead imprisoned conjured elements of the simplest nature. Not Fay but lesser bonded elemental of Fire and Air, subdued to the command of the orb's possessor. If one Fay were the sun, these pricks of light were but winking distant stars in the night sky.

Still, he was pleased with it.

Leaning against his four-poster bed was one of his first creations, a falchion, its blade imbued with an essence deadly to the undead. Given his father's blind trust of the necromancer, Welstiel felt the need for protection. He had learned in private to depend upon himself alone.

Focusing on his notes was difficult with images of the crates' bloodied contents slipping into his thoughts. Magelia was locked in one of the smaller cellar rooms below and would have heard the struggles and wails from her chamber. Before retiring, Welstiel made certain the servants brought her water and food, but he did not stay to see her himself.

He avoided the cellar, as his father had conscripted a stone mason and three workers from a neighboring town to wall off the passage's end and the seventh room. When the workers finished, they would not return home.

A knock sounded on his door, but he did not wish to see anyone. "Who is it?"

"I need to speak with you," came Lord Bryen Massing's voice from out in the hallway.

Welstiel reluctantly arose and opened his chamber door.

His father looked worn and wild, hair disheveled around his pale face. His white shirt was soiled and untucked, hanging loose over his breeches, and he wore no tunic or sword.

"Are you all right?" Welstiel asked, though it was now difficult to even fake concern.

His father had not come to this room since they arrived at the keep, and his presence was unsettling for some reason. Bryen stepped in, and Welstiel backed out of his way before closing the door.

Bryen approached the desk and perused its contents, though he touched none of it. He stood in silence so long that Welstiel wondered what troubled a… man… who could commit the kind of butchery done below the keep.

"It's time, my son," Bryen said, his back still turned. 'Time for you to join me."

"Join you? It's rather late to be going out."

Welstiel saw him nod distractedly, still staring at the desk.

"Yes, late," Bryen agreed, and reached out to brush the globe of lights with his fingertips. "Late for what should have been done long ago. But you were always so connected to the things of your world. Now, I need you to join me in mine."

Welstiel's disquiet grew, and he stepped toward his bed.

"Do not try to draw that falchion," his father said without turning around. "I understand why you made it, but leave it now. My gift for you makes it unnecessary."

"I do not want your gift. " Welstiel shook his head. "I have no intention of becoming like you."

"I… Our patron needs you. He whispers his plans, and you play such a part, my son. You are so honored."

In less than a breath, Bryen suddenly stood between Welstiel and the bed… the falchion. His irises were clear and crystalline, and disquiet turned to fear in Welstiel. He bolted for the door. One step was all he took before a strong hand gripped the back of his neck.

Welstiel twisted and swung, and his knuckles collided with cold flesh and bone that did not flinch. "No!" he shouted, swinging again. "Father… no!"

Bryen clamped a hand around Welstiel's arm like a manacle, pinning it down. Air rushed out of Welstiel's chest as he was slammed to the floor.

He remembered yelling for the guards, clawing out for the falchion, kicking wildly to throw his father's weight off. The chamber door open again, and Master Ubad slid in to stand above him.

"Remember, Bryen," Ubad rasped out. "Forget the old superstitions. You need only drain him so quickly that his essence is trapped as his body dies. That is all. Your close presence as he dies will pull him beyond death and-if his will and spirit are strong enough-he will rise by next nightfall."

Lord Massing's face was savage and cruel. Welstiel saw extending fangs and thickening teeth press his father's jaws apart. They slipped from sight as Bryen leaned down and bit into Welstiel's throat. Welstiel bucked again, still trying to throw his father off.

"Don't!" was the last word he managed to speak.

"Our patron has great plans for you," Ubad said to him. "A bride and a daughter."

Pain smothered awareness until it, too, numbed in a growing chill that filled Welstiel's body more quickly than darkness filled his sight.

When his eyes opened again, he was lying on the floor of his room in his own feces and urine, stinking like an unwashed peasant after his dying body released its waste. It took moments for him to realize he no longer breathed, and panic made him suck in a mouthful of air.

Breath brought no calm-or any effect at all. His body felt cold and distant as the stone walls of his room.

Heightened anxiety widened his senses. He heard the thrum of a spider as it worked its web in the ceiling corner. He sat up, clothing sticking to him with filth, and he saw his father and Ubad by the door, watching him. At their feet was a grimy peasant girl, bound and gagged, eyes wild with fear. How long had he lain in this room?

Welstiel felt the girl's body heat.

The sight of her… the scent of her warmed flesh made him feel… starved.

"Come, my son," Bryen said. "Instinct will guide you. Put aside thought of last night. There will be time enough for that. Now, you must feed."

Welstiel could not remember his father ever speaking to him with this mild taint of compassion. The night before, he would have given much for a kind word. Now he did not care for anything…

… only the warm flesh beneath the girl's jaw where it flexed with the soft rhythm of her pulse.

He crawled at first, forgetting the stench of his own flesh, and then scrambled like an animal on all fours, rushing across the room. The girl squirmed in her bonds. She tried to scream through the gag as he fell on her, sinking his teeth into her throat until blood flowed into his clumsy mouth.

Strength and comfort filled him, and then a peace that was wholly unsettling. He stopped gulping and slowly swallowed the pleasure on his tongue.

When Welstiel could take in no more, he raised his head to look down at the body clenched in his arms.

The girl's eyes were open. Her jaw slacked around the gag. Her throat was a torn and mangled mess, and blood had run across her face and soaked into her loose dress. Her heart beat twice and stopped.

Welstiel looked down at himself. His shirt was soaked with blood. His heightened sense of smell took in its coppery scent amid the stench of his own wastes. He dropped the corpse and rolled away to huddle on the floor by the bed.

"What have you done to me?" he cried.

But Welstiel knew the answer. There would be no return to light and life. Nothing in his arcane arts could ever rectify this.

"How could you?" he whispered.

Ubad glided to Welstiel's desk and poured fresh water into a basin. He picked up clean towels and came to Welstiel.

"Remove those clothes and clean yourself. Your father needs you."

"Get away from me. Both of you."

"Do as he says," Bryen ordered. "Your bride is waiting."