Sister of the Dead

Chapter 2

O ver a half moon later, Magiere reined in her shaggy pony with a sigh as she waited for a sullen Leesil to catch up.

"Half-mad bag of bones," he muttered once again to his mount.

From Bela, they'd traveled inland down the Belaskian peninsula and south of the Inward Bay, then eastward along the Gulf of Belaski's lower coast. When they reached the head of the Vudrask River, Magiere had decided to sell the wagon and horses to buy passage upriver on a barge. Wynn was indifferent with fatigue, but Leesil quickly agreed. As much as he despised sea travel, rivers didn't roll endlessly, making his food rise in his throat. The barge's smooth glide was also preferable to jostling along upon a wagon bench. Even against the mild current, at most times the barge was as quick as traveling by road. The riverside paths were clear and close, and teams of mules were set ashore to pull the barge as they headed southeast upon the Vudrask toward Magiere's past.

The quiet voyage brought Magiere tranquillity as she huddled beneath a blanket with Leesil. Wynn and Chap stayed close together, as well. Their trek inland seemed a blur of lost memory rather than recent events, and Magiere pulled close to Leesil that first day on the barge.

"We haven't had much time to ourselves," she said to him. "One night. That's all."

Leesil smiled at her. "There'll be time enough in this life. I'm in no hurry on that journey."

She remembered the night he'd first kissed her, taking her by surprise as they'd argued in the sage's barracks following the end of their hunt in Bela. The words he'd spoken just before the touch of his mouth still lingered in her thoughts.

"I've lived three lives," he'd said. "As a child in the War-lands, knowing only deceit and death. Then roaming the countryside alone but for Chap. Finally, the game with you, from the night we met… with Chap's meddling. I'm looking at a fourth life now. Any life begins by stepping forward to live it. And I say again-I won't die on you."

So little time had passed since they'd curled together the following night in the first inn on the road out of Bela. This new closeness was awkward and strange, but she clung to it. For his sake more than her own, she wished this fourth life to be his last and longest.

Leesil's hand rested upon her thigh beneath the blanket as the barge slipped along the river. She put her hand on top of his, thumb wrapping around his wrist. She felt the scars there from her own teeth-from the long lost night in Miiska when he'd saved her life with his own blood. Those marks made fear crawl through her, but she refused to pull her hand away.

Magiere watched the autumn-gilded world glide by, saw its changes not only in season but in the land itself as they passed through the far reaches of Belaski on the south shore and Stravina to the north side. After seven more days, they passed beyond the well-kept ways of Belaski and into another world, where the river became a border between Stravina and Droevinka. Neither country had Belaski's wealth or organized government to oversee even the main land routes along the Vudrask. As the river narrowed and its current increased slightly, the bargemen switched their own mules for ox teams chartered from local fanners eager for income during the fallow time. Passage became difficult and slow. After spending one day to cover four leagues, they stopped at a large village.

Magiere intended for them to ride the barge a bit farther, but her home village, Chemestuk, was a three-day ride away. This stop would be the last place to purchase mounts. When she suggested this to Leesil, he threw a fit.

"Horses? Trust my neck to some flea-bitten bag of muscle lunging around on four stick legs, and lurching at every windblown leaf? I'd rather puke my way up the coast on a cargo schooner!"

The following quarrel made the barge crew cease their dockside duties and stare-not to mention villagers close enough to overhear. In the end, Magiere purchased three sturdy ponies and a pack mule, then bullied Leesil into the saddle, while Wynn finished repacking their supplies.

That had been three days ago, and Magiere now waited upon her pony for Leesil to catch up. He'd barely spoken all day except to mumble colorful curses at his shaggy mount, which ignored most of his demands.

Magiere surveyed her dank homeland. Old trees were dotted with moss that dangled in scant beards from the branches. The ground was perpetually moist in the chill air, and beneath the aroma of loam and wild foliage was an ever-present scent of decay. The thickened forest nearly blotted out the cloud-coated sky, with only a brief respite whenever the puddled road swerved closer to the open riverbank. Droevinka was held in perpetual dusk by its shadowed and twining trees. Even when rain didn't fall, the murky canopy dripped upon them.

Magiere looked back for her companions. Wynn followed last with the tethered pack mule, Chap trotting along beside her mount. Leesil's charcoal-gray scarf, now spotted with drizzle, sat askew on his head, exposing a tangle of white-blond hair and one slightly pointed ear.

"Of all the idiotic ways to cross land," he grumbled. "My backside will never be the same."

"We're close," Magiere half whispered, "but we'll stop for the night."

He quieted in surprise and looked up at a patch of gray sky between the treetops. Magiere knew it was unusual to halt this early, and Leesil studied her, all traces of irritation gone.

"There's still a bit of light left," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Yes…" she started. "Only… I've stayed away from this place for so long."

He reached out and grasped her wrist, slender hand warm against her skin.

"It's a little late to ask, with a long road behind us," he said. "But are you sure you want this? We can turn back, head north through Stravina and into the Warlands."

The urge to follow him away from this place made Magiere tense at the suggestion. The desire to flee her past as she'd done years ago-this time with Leesil beside her- was so strong. But there were questions to answer.

What am I?… Why am I here?

Why was I made… by an undead to hunt its own kind?

Wynn pulled her pony to a stop behind them and slumped in the saddle. Magiere still regretted allowing the sage to accompany them. The damp chill was taking its toll on Wynn, though she never complained.

"We'll stop," Magiere said, pulling her wrist from Leesil's comforting grip. "Wynn, pick a spot and rest. Leesil will start the fire while I tend the ponies."

Wynn lifted her head, brown braid darkened by the misty air. "I will be fine… once I prepare some tea."

They busied themselves with their tasks. Chap followed Wynn about as she as unpacked bedrolls and filled the tin teapot. Leesil took out an oilcloth sack of dry kindling and sparked a small fire that sputtered and smoked from the damp wood he fed it. He scrounged small twigs to dry by the flames so he could replenish his kindling. Magiere tethered the ponies to a stout spruce near a patch of grass and brought them oats and water. The road they'd traveled was little more than a mud path, and the going hadn't been smooth.

"A king should pay more attention to the kingdom's roads," Leesil muttered, pulling biscuits and apples from a burlap sack.

"Droevinka has no king," Wynn said.

Leesil handed her an apple. "What?"

"There is no hereditary monarchy, only a grand prince."

Leesil snorted. "What's the difference? A king by any other title… is most often still a tyrant-or at best, oblivious."

Magiere knew the distinction in her homeland well enough, though she'd never cared to comprehend rulers and their ways. It would have changed little in her early life.

"I've read some of the Belaskian histories," Wynn said, sitting and gathering a blanket around her legs. "There is a considerable difference. Droevinka is divided among houses, each one headed by its own prince in a bloodline claimed to be noble. Most are descended from the peoples who migrated here or invaded this territory in the far past. Many of the houses are named for their original people, and they all serve the grand prince. A new grand prince is chosen every nine years by the gathered nobles. For over a hundred years, no one has claimed the title of king."

"A few have tried," Magiere said, too preoccupied to feel bitter. "Their constant plots and schemes leave little attention for anything more than each house keeping a throttlehold on its province. Villagers pay taxes and pray their lords don't become ambitious. Better to scrape out a living as a serf than to die and rot as a conscripted soldier in their prince's bid for a king's crown."

Chap whined, and Wynn reached into her pack for the large hide parchment with its elvish symbols.

"So who rules the land we're on now?" Leesil asked.

"The Antes," Magiere answered.

"They hold most of the land closest to the river," Wynn added. "One of the oldest houses. Magiere would know more."

Leesil raised a blond eyebrow at Magiere.

"They would be your heartless tyrants," she whispered. "That's all you need know."

Leesil frowned as he checked his kindling drying beside the fire.

Wynn turned to Chap. "Ag' us a' wiajhis tu oijhchenis?"

After so many nights, Magiere knew this one phrase, though there wasn't really a need for Elvish to ask the dog what he wanted to eat. He'd eat most anything dangled in front of his nose, and the choices were limited anyway. Chap scooted close to the sage and reached out a paw to touch a few symbols on the talking hide.

"Dried fish," Wynn interpreted, following the thumps of the dog's paw. "A skinned apple. Leesil, I need a knife."

Leesil's frown deepened. He rolled his shoulders as if the shirt beneath his wool cloak itched. Magiere tried to ignore his reaction.

Such exchanges with Chap still bothered Leesil. In all honesty, now that the dog's nature was partially revealed, Magiere had begun to appreciate how well Wynn communicated with Chap. Rather than begging or carrying on in his usual dramatics, Chap pawed at Wynn until she brought out the hide. Yet beyond this simple chatter, he revealed little more concerning his nature as a majay-hi or his reasons for meddling in Leesil's life to bring him into Magiere's company years ago. He ignored the talking hide whenever Wynn raised such issues. Chap's longstanding deception still grated on Leesil's nerves, and troubled Magiere. Sooner or later, Chap would have to answer for this.

Leesil pursed his lips, handed over his knife, and then

pulled out some smoke-dried fish. Wynn went to work peel

ing an apple."

Staring into the fire, Magiere's hand settled absently on her falchion's hilt, middle fingertip tracing the small glyph in its pommel. The blade injured a Noble Dead like no other weapon. This, her studded hauberk, and two amulets had been left to her by a father she'd never known upon the death of a mother she'd never met. During the battle in Bela, she'd given Leesil the topaz amulet that glowed yellow when an undead was near. She no longer needed it; her dhampir senses were enough to warn her, and the amulet might well warn Leesil of danger if she couldn't.

The other trinket remained a mystery, in part, but she wore it in plain view- A small half-oval tin backing held a chip of bone with mysterious fine writing carved into its surface. It had been used only once, and she'd been unaware of that until too late. Welstiel had told Leesil that a dhampir could absorb life from blood only if the bone touched her skin while she fed. Leesil had recklessly done just that, feeding her from his own wrist when she'd been wounded during their first hunt for Miiska's undead. She touched the amulet now and wondered how dependable Welstiel's words might be. The bone amulet felt warm, perhaps from the fire, and she scooted back to sit against a tree trunk.

All traces of daylight disappeared, and darkness closed around the camp. Leesil picked up a wool blanket and came to settle beside her. As he covered both their legs, Magiere reached around him and pulled him close until he leaned into her arms. His warmth against her burrowed deeper than the heat of the flames, smothering her chill. Leesil leaned his head back on her shoulder, watching Wynn feed Chap slices of a peeled apple.

"She's spoiling him," he whispered.

Magiere almost smiled. Tomorrow, they reached Chemestuk, her… home? No, not anymore. Her home was far away, at the Sea Lion tavern in the port town of Miiska, where she lived a peaceful life with Leesil. How long would it be until she was truly home again?

For this moment, she held on to Leesil's warmth and the sight of a large wolfish dog sloppily chomping pieces of apple.

Welstiel rolled in his dormancy, the sleep of the undead, trying to hide his dream-world eyes from the black-scaled coils swirling on all sides of him. Like dunes of obsidian sand in a windstorm, they undulated with no beginning or end. In this dream place he returned to so often, his eyes would never close, and watching the coils for too long made him tremble with nausea.

He had thought his dream patron would be angry, but he felt no ire or irritation surrounding him. He felt nothing but alone-and watched.

"Please… give me your counsel," he whispered.

The answer echoed into his thoughts from far away.

Continue… follow.

Welstiel rolled again in dormancy. His patron's black coils faded to the monotone darkness of sleep. He thrashed over on his side and out of slumber, fully conscious.

He sat up on the floor of an abandoned shrine on a forgotten trail off a back road in Droevinka. Stone walls were stained by age and grime, and the pillared archway had lost its door to rot in years past. He and Chane had taken refuge here before dawn as they tracked Magiere inland. The altar behind him was devoid of statuary or emblems, any such likely stolen long ago after devotees had abandoned this place's spiritual patron. Leaves, blown soil, and debris had thickened in the corners and crevices, and spindly weeds sprouted here and there.

He stood up, still shaken from communing with his dream patron, and looked about. "Chane?"

His companion was gone. How long had the sun been down? Lately, when rousing from his vivid communions, Welstiel's internal awareness of the sun became less and less acute. This disturbed him as he stepped outside.

The thick forest was quiet except for the infrequent call of a bird and the patter of drizzle. There wasn't even a breeze to rustle brush and branches. He remembered they had passed a tiny village-barely a collection of huts-shortly before dawn. Chane had been restless. Had the fool gone to feed?

Welstiel stepped back inside to gather his things and don his cloak, preparing to search for Chane, and then he stopped. He was alone, and while traveling with a companion, such moments would be rare.

He had not quite realized how difficult it would be to track Magiere, as she could move freely during the day while he had to take shelter. After the past few nights' journey, he had an unpleasant idea of where she might be going.

She headed southeast at first, which had confused him. He expected her to leave the Vudrask River and turn north into Stravina. He almost lost track of her on the night after she abandoned the barge, and he sent Chane on an errand in order to gain a few moments' privacy to scry for Magiere's whereabouts.

He couldn't waste another moment alone.

Kneeling in the shrine, Welstiel removed a brass dish from his pack and placed it on the mulch-strewn floor with its domed back facing up. Murmuring guttural words, he drew his dagger and sliced a shallow cut in what remained of the little finger of his left hand. He watched his own black fluids drip once, twice, three times to collect in a tiny bulge at the center of the plate's back. The stub of bone in his little finger felt warm. It took a moment's focus of his will to close the tiny wound.

The dark droplet upon the brass plate's back began to move. It ran slow in a short line away from the center, heading east by southeast.

Welstiel cleaned the plate and dagger, tucked them away, and stepped back outside, prepared to hunt for his errant companion, Chane.

There was no longer any doubt. Magiere headed toward Chemestuk.

Wynn watched Magiere and Leesil across the fire as they whispered to each beneath their blanket. Foolish though it was, this familiar sight made her lonelier with each passing day. She did not wish to invade their newfound closeness, but it made her feel like an outsider.

Nothing on this journey was as she had imagined.

It never occurred to Wynn what life might be like without the constant presence of her mentors and fellow sages. Orphaned as a child, she had been taken in by the Guild of Sagecraft in the kingdom of Malourne across the ocean. In the excitement of the journey's start, Magiere's smoldering demeanor and Leesil's constant humor were an enticing change from all she had known. But after so many days of travel, she missed Domin Tilswith and the comforts of the sages' barracks. At least Chap was constant as her main companion. She ran her fingers through the fur on the dog's neck and heard his rumble of content in return.

She had envisioned herself as the useful scribe and translator for Magiere and Leesil, not unlike the journeyman sages assigned to some noble's house and fief back in her homeland. She would record the details of these foreign lands for the guild's records, expanding upon the vast knowledge the sages swore to safeguard for civilization. But Magiere and Leesil spoke the language of Belaski and had not needed her skills, and now to her frustration, they were in Droevinka. Magiere was the only one fluent in the local language, but even Leesil spoke it well enough to get by.

Wynn, who spoke seven languages, did not speak Droevinkan. Not yet.

Leesil tried to tutor her, but she was at a loss every time they had passed through one of the local villages. Worse, Magiere pressed them onward at a tiring pace. There had been little time to record anything of note-of what little there was to note. The weather was cold and wet, and she did not think she could choke down one more dried biscuit for breakfast. She longed for intelligent conversation and a bowl of warm lentil stew with tomatoes and rosemary. And watching Magiere and Leesil, she wondered what it would be like to nestle beneath a blanket, exchanging whispers of forgotten histories and faraway civilizations… with Chane.

Wynn stiffened.

She pushed away such an unsettling notion. Loneliness was getting the better of her. Self-pity was as pointless as pining for a past moment lost forever.

Weighing more heavily upon her was a growing sensation of betrayal, now that she had spent so many days in the company of Magiere. She had not exactly lied about her reasons for making this journey, but she had omitted the fact that Domin Tilswith placed upon her the task of observing Magiere. This had been his reason in sending Wynn, since she had already established a connection with Magiere. He wanted specific accounting of every aspect of the "dhampir" badly enough to send his apprentice off with two hunters of the undead-three, counting Chap.

At first, this unique task was the promise of adventure, and her domin's confidence filled Wynn with pride. She had been raised by the sages, who cared for her health and happiness, and could provide the guild with something no one else could. But the reality of secretly studying a traveling companion and then documenting her findings made Wynn feel like a spy. Once she had almost told Magiere the whole truth but thought better of it at the last moment. She could never predict how Magiere might react to anything, and Wynn feared being sent back on the first available barge headed downriver.

Wynn reached inside her pack and pulled out a squat cold lamp. She lifted its tin lid and glass cylinder and removed the small crystal it held in place of a wick. She rolled the crystal between her fingertips. There was little to note regarding Magiere, as yet, but they had been in Droevinka for some time. At least she might document the climate and land so far. Standing, she tried to smile at Magiere.

"I think I will scribe some notes for a while."

Magiere nodded. "Then get some sleep. And try to stay close to the fire. The nights here will keep getting colder."

Wynn retrieved her materials and, with the cold lamp and crystal in hand, stepped a short ways off to sit upon a downed tree. She gently rubbed the crystal between her palms and returned it to its holder in the lamp. Its light burst out to push back the dark and illuminate the tools of her trade resting upon her lap.

Unstrapping a flat, folded leather bundle, she shuffled the loose parchment sheets within to expose a blank one and carefully uncorked her ink vial to dip a quill. She set to documenting the vegetation they'd encountered, noting where along their path the changes occurred so they could later be referenced upon maps of the territories. It seemed she had written only a few lines when Leesil's voice broke the silence.

"Forgetful gods, Wynn!" he called. "That lamp is brighter than the fire. Put it out so we all get some sleep."

Her writing hand flinched, fouling several characters in spattered ink.

She glanced over to see mat Leesil and Magiere had settled for sleep in their bedroll and then looked down at the mess upon her notes. They had rushed all day, and now she was to be rushed through her few useful moments of the evening.

"Sorry," she called back.

Gathering her things, she closed the lamp's shutter to smother its light.

Wynn settled into her bedroll as two tears slid unbidden down the bridge of her nose. Something bumped against her feet, and she peered over the blanket's edge.

Chap panted lightly at her feet, silver coat tinged red gold in the firelight. He stared at her, translucent blue eyes full of sympathy. His tail switched once across the ground, scattering clods of tree needles and wilted leaves.

Wynn held up the blanket's edge, and Chap belly-crawled in beside her. He snuggled against her with his head pressed into the crook of her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, fingers clutching his long fur. At least Chap was constant.

Since his rise from death to a Noble Dead, Chane had never experienced true hunger. He had never before gone for two weeks without feeding. He was starving for blood, for life to fill him up once again, as he crouched in the brambles a stone's throw from a small cluster of huts.

Upon waking to Welstiel rolling on the floor, whispering to himself again, Chane knew he had to get out and hunt. He could not ride all night again with this emptiness inside him. So, he slipped away while his companion lay dormant.

He could smell living flesh… and blood… with all his senses opened wide. It was close within those timber and thatch hovels. The scent clotted his mind with memories of split skin in his teeth and salty, warm fluid spilling through his mouth and down his throat. Then followed the sound of a heartbeat that slowed and dimmed in concert to the life energy that rose inside him.

Should he wait for someone to come out, perhaps for firewood or to check one last time on the pen of geese around back? What if no one emerged?

A cottage door opened, and a portly man reached out to grab a few logs from a firewood stack. Chane tensed, but the man never stepped completely out before a woman's shrill voice stopped him.

"Close the door, Evan! You're letting in the cold."

The door closed.

Chane had not developed the mental abilities his master, Toret, had displayed, but he did have a gift for locating the "presence" of others if he concentrated. He focused upon the hut and felt the separate lives of five mortals. There were too many in one place, so he turned his attention to the next domicile and sensed only two.

He walked to the door and knocked. A wrinkled old woman with a long gray braid peeked out. Chane folded his arms around his chest as though chilled.

"Forgive me, old mother," he said, "but my horse threw me half a league back on my way to the next town. I could not find an inn before nightfall. I asked across the way, and Evan told me to see you about a late supper and a spot by the fire."

Her brown eyes were sharp, but he was clearly no brigand in his long tailored cloak and well-made boots. He hoped she would take him for a young merchant.

"No inn here abouts," she said with courtesy more than sympathy. "Evan sent you? That's just like him. The lazy lout barely cares for his own."

"Who is it, Grandma?" came a voice from inside, young and feminine, and Chane's jaw twitched.

"A young man who's lost his horse," the old woman said, chuckling; then she opened the door wide. "Best come in. We'll feed you, but Evan and Olga must put you up for the night. My granddaughter's not married, and we don't need to give idle folks any more fodder for gossip."

So many new sensations surprised Chane of late. True hunger was something he had never experienced while serving Toret, and now he felt genuine relief at being invited inside.

The interior was shabby, as expected, but the stone fire pit in the back wall was a comfort, as was the iron teapot hanging above the flames on an iron swing arm. For a brief instant he thought of fresh mint leaves, and then all such thoughts dissolved as he saw the hut's other occupant.

About fifteen years old, plump and curvy, with a smattering of freckles and wild curls of red hair, she returned his stare with curious eyes.

"Should I fetch Evan?" she asked her grandmother.

"Soon enough, Adena, dear. We'll reheat that stew first."

The old woman walked with effort, as if her bones and joints ached. Chane waited until she reached the fire pit and the girl joined her. The girl picked up a folded rag and lifted the teapot. When the two were close together, Chane stepped up behind the old woman and snapped her neck with one quick jerk.

Her body crumpled to the floor.

The girl dropped the teapot, and water splashed across her dead grandmother. Chane had his hand over Adena's mouth before she could inhale to scream.

She clawed wildly to remove his grip as he leaned close. Her hair smelled of musk and straw, until the fear leaking from her pores overpowered all other scents. He wanted to let her struggle a bit longer until that smell made his head swim with bliss, but he had been too long without the taste of blood and lost control of himself.

He shoved her against the wall and bit into her throat. One outward rip of teeth opened the wound, and he bit down on her throat again. The rush of warm blood flowed into his mouth, down his throat, filling him with life.

At first she struggled, her choked screams muffled beneath his palm. She soon grew silent and stopped moving. Normally, Chane lost himself in euphoria and did not truly taste the blood itself. This time, its flavor engulfed his tongue and gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.

He applied more pressure and fed until her heart stopped. When she died, life no longer filled him with each swallow, and he dropped the girl's corpse.

Chane paused to steady himself against the wall. His body was having trouble absorbing life so quickly. No matter what happened with Welstiel, he would not deny himself again for so long.

In this moment, his entire existence seemed one long path of obedience. First his father, then Toret, and now Welstiel. Even filled with warmth and strength from the girl's blood, he shuddered at the thought of his father, Viscount Andraso.

The man was a master of masks. Everyone outside his family and close retinue found him charming, all smiles and good humor. Behind closed doors, he wore another face. His only pleasure derived from domination and cruelty. Chane's mother was a small, bird-boned woman who loved books and music, and she was Andraso's favorite victim. Chane loved her, but every year he watched her disappear further inside herself. He feared his father so much that he never defended his mother. This failure still weighed upon him. But on the day he came into his inheritance, he fled to Bela to find a new life, never realizing what new existence would find him instead. He later learned that his mother had died by her own hand. He did not return home for the burial.

Standing in the hut, feeling stronger than he had in weeks, Chane resolved never to become Welstiel's puppet. They would use each other, and that was acceptable, but the choice to obey or not would be his.

He left grandmother and granddaughter where they lay and walked out into the dense forest. With luck, Welstiel would still be rolling on the floor, mumbling to himself. Chane wondered exactly what sort of creature Welstiel might be. Noble Dead had to feed four or five times in a moon to retain full strength, and to the best of his knowledge, they did not dream.

Chane detested the constant mist and dampness of this somber forest. Who would ever choose to reside here? He started back for the shrine when a figure stepped though the foliage directly in front of him.

"Where have you been?" Welstiel asked.

Chane had not even sensed Welstiel nearby. His traveling companion was not in his usual meticulous state, and his uncombed hair hung in tufts down his forehead. His gaze dropped to Chane's chest with an expression of disgust.

Chane looked down to see that his shirt was soaked.

"I had to feed," he said, "or I would have been no use to you by morning."

Westiel stared at the blood a moment longer and then straightened himself. "Did you at least get rid of the body?"

"No, I let them lay. No one saw me, and we'll be far gone by morning."

"Them?" Welstiel's jaw tightened visibly as he glared through the dark toward the village. "Which hut?"

Chane heard the creak of leather as Welstiel clenched his gloved hands.

"The second one… on the right," he answered.

Welstiel pushed through the brush toward the hut as Chane followed. He opened the door, glancing at Chane as if he were a revolting animal.

"I will take the old woman," Welstiel said. "You carry the girl, since your shirt is already ruined."

This seemed pointless to Chane, but he did not argue. He picked up the girl's body and returned to the forest with Welstiel. They discarded both bodies halfway to the shrine in a growth of dense brash, covering them with mulch from the forest floor.

"Scavengers may finish this, and perhaps no one will know what happened," Welstiel said.

Chane suppressed disdain. He was free and masterless, with strength flowing through him that brought clarity. "Have you discerned which way the dhampir has gone?" he asked.

"Yes," Welstiel answered, not looking at him.

"Then I should change my shirt… while you saddle the horses."

Welstiel did not reply as he led the way toward the shrine.