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A savage, unearthly vitality sang within my veins, a gift of the gepar's sacrifice. To this day, I do not remember the journey down the mountain; all reason was driven away the moment that the blood magic violated the beast's body, pulling forth its essence. My skin drank in the beast's blood, plunging me into a whirling gyre of rushing noise and purpleblack light. My heart throbbed in my chest, racing, as if I had run for miles, making my pulse sing and my head spin.

  Ice and snow covered me, transforming my pale hair into an icy crown. I should have died high above, but with the gepar's vitality in my veins, I did not even shiver. I did not know if something in the beast's venomous blood caused me to black out, or if my lapse had been the result of my extreme sickness, but it seemed as if, for the moment, the worst of the danger was behind me.

  All I cared about was that, right now, the deadly cough and pressure that had squatted in my chest for weeks was gone. I did not know if I was destined to lose fingers and toes to frostbite, but at least I would not die. Not today.

  I saw a sign, a rude image of a horse that I guessed marked an ale house or tavern, and lurched off down the village's single street. Halfway there, I slipped to one knee on the frozen ground, got to my feet, and then stumbled a second time, this time landing heavily on my side. I lay there, groaning, for some minutes, cursing the timid villagers under my breath. The vitality I had stolen was fading rapidly.

  The crunch of footsteps approached from behind, and a moment later a bulky shadow fell across me. “Well now, isn't this a sight?” a deep, masculine voice asked. I flopped onto my back, craned my head to see who had spoken.

  He was old, his long, iron-gray hair pulled back in a tail, but moved with the fluid grace of a younger man. His thick beard was crusted with ice. Sunburned skin surrounded pale, gray eyes the color of winter storm clouds. When he smiled down at me, deep lines spread out from those eyes.

  His was a face carved deep by laughter, and I found myself, despite the cold and the terrible throbbing in my head, smiling back.

  "You'll catch your death, lying in the snow. You know that, yes?” He laughed, a sound that, somehow, was not mocking or cruel, and my smile widened. Dressed in his bulky woolens and furs, with his beard streaming across his barrel chest, he looked like a bear walking on its hind legs.

  "Well, then, perhaps you can help me up, since you're so wise and strong?” I managed to reply, struggling to sit up. His large, red-knuckled hands wrapped themselves around my arms, then lifted me, as if I were no heavier than a child.

  Perhaps I wasn't. Months of wandering, followed by weeks of sickness, had left me not so much thin as gaunt. Setting me on my feet, his smile faltered just a bit.

  "Lass, for truth, are you ill?” he asked, peering at me.

  I shook my head. “I'm ... just very tired. I walked down from the mountains—” I stopped, as his eyes filled with doubt.

  "Walked? Dressed like that?” he asked, shaking his head at my tattered woolens. Then a moment later, he turned, addressing the villagers still milling curiously about. “Does anyone know this girl, or her family?” he asked. They shook their heads, averting their eyes. One, a pretty mother, her babe cradled inside her thick, woolen coat, sketched a warding sign at me.

  "I do not lie, ser,” I said, dropping into the stilted tones I had learned from my mother. “For truth, I have walked far today. I am merely weary, not mad, but I thank you for your kind assistance."

  He put up his hands, the smile returning to his eyes. “Oho, ‘ser’ am I now? I think not. No gentleman am I, lass. I apologize for doubting you, but I can't see how a slip of a thing such as yourself managed the trick of walking so far without so much as a coat...” He trailed off, awaiting my explanation.

  "I wish I could explain it,” I lied, dropping my eyes. “I was very sick, and was sheltering in a cave. I remember wanting to get down the mountain, for my food was gone and I was so very cold. I must have stumbled out into the snow."

  Very prettily lied, my sister said venomously. Shall you tell him you are a virgin, next? The oaf seems to think you're just a girl. Perhaps his tastes run in that direction, and you can seduce away his furs.

  He looked at me for a long while, as if puzzled. Then he shook his head. “Well, however you got here, it's a miracle that you didn't freeze, thanks be to Shanira. The passes are treacherous this time of year, and even the boldest of heart fear to venture too high in such weather."

  I nodded, realizing that my bow and knife must still be in the cave. How would I ever find them again? While I stood and fretted, lost in my thoughts, the man spoke again, rousing me.

  "Cry your pardon?” I said, snapping back to the moment.

  "Hoo, you're an odd bird, I'll grant you that, girl,” he laughed, slapping his knee. “I asked if you'd care to be my guest over at the Stallion over yonder.” He pointed at the alehouse I had seen before, and I nodded, eager to be out of the cold.

  Over a meal of roast mutton and highland greens eaten next to the tavern's roaring fire, Rory, for that was his name, told me his story. While he spoke, I slowly and quite painfully forced the cold from my half-frozen body. At first I was too chilled to even shiver, but soon enough great tremors shook my limbs. I still felt wretched, more dead than alive, but the sensation of food in my belly and the fire's radiant heat convinced me that I would survive.

  Rory told me that he was a widower, and had been for almost as long as I had been alive. He, like I, had never been blessed with a child. After the passing of his wife, he had left the house they had built together and simply wandered.

  He made a living for a while as a trapper, a profitable vocation for one with his skills, but eventually sickened of the killing of animals simply for their hides. While roaming the highland passes one day, he came across an army patrol, lost in the maze-like channels of a glacier, and led them down to safety. The good fortune was his as well.

  "I became their scout,” he said past a mouthful of meat. “Their captain trusted me, y'see, and feared to be lost worse than he hated spending his gold, so it all worked out well. When he finally retired from the field, he recommended me to some of his junior officers. I've worked every campaign season since. It's been a good life."

  He stared into the fire, sipping from a deep cup of ale, musing over years gone by, or so I assumed. I flexed my tingling fingers in the delicious warmth, holding them, outspread, towards the fire. The same energy that had cured my growing pneumonia must have also spared my flesh from frostbite. Hearing him speak, an idea came to me.

  "Can you follow tracks through weather like this?” I asked, gesturing to the shuttered windows. Outside, the wind moaned across the eaves. He nodded.

  "Aye. For a time, anyway. But, once the snow starts falling, the tracks will be gone. Why, lass?"

  "I left my bow in the cave, along with a knife that's most dear to me,” I said.

  "You know how to shoot?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He eyed my corded arms, and I nodded.

  "Show me,” he commanded, all business now. He rose and lifted his longbow and quiver from the pile of possessions next to the table.

  I did not want to go back outside, but I could tell that this was important to him. As I rose, my head resumed its throbbing. I pushed aside the discomfort. As we walked through the door, he draped his cloak across my shoulders. It trailed behind me as we walked around to the back of the tavern.

  Rory scribed a rude target on the wall of a barn with a bit of charcoal while I, thirty paces away, strung his bow. It was massive, heavier than even Marcus', but I knew that it was not beyond me. I reached back and drew forth an arrow, fitting it smoothly to the string.

  Why are you doing this? To impress him? my sister asked, scorn threaded between each word. I ignored her, focusing only on the small, black circle.

  My first shot struck wide of the mark by several inches. My second hit the circle's perimeter. After that, it was child's play to put each shaft into the chest-wide circle.

  "Oho, lass, you weren't lyi
ng! Well done,” Rory said, clapping. He pried the arrows from the wood and walked to me, throwing a heavy arm across my shoulders. “Come. Let's go back inside, where it's warm. We need to retrieve your bow, after all."

  "Why?"

  "Because, lass, I think you might be able to help me with a most important, and potentially profitable, task."

  Arm in arm, we walked back into the tavern's smoky warmth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lia and I follow Hollern's trail for the rest of the day, pausing only to quench our thirst and eat a handful of wild berries. As we crouch beside the first stream, I realize that I have left my pack, and my bow, back at the farm. I curse myself for my haste; I feel half-dressed without the weapon across my back. All the rest of that day, my hand often reaches back for it, probing, like a man with a missing tooth will unconsciously tongue the empty socket.

  At least I have my knife, I tell myself, trying not to listen to my sister's laughter at the idea of facing Hollern armed with only a foot of sharpened steel. He must obey me, when I can stand before him and look into his eyes. He must. Light is still in the sky, reflecting from the clouds in shades of rose and gold, when I finally call a halt. I can still make out Hollern's trail, but I know that this far inside the woods darkness falls rapidly. I want the chance to build a proper fire while I can still count on Lia's help. I am well used to sleeping on the bare ground and eating whatever sustenance comes to hand, but Lia is not like me.

  If Hollern comes, when he comes, I want Lia well-rested and alert. My flint is in the pouch at my hip, along with some snares, and soon the fire is crackling in a ring of stones. Lia adds more and more wood, until the blaze is uncomfortably intense, but I do not stop her. True, the light may alert the Mor, but it might also catch Hollern's eye and draw him to us.

  As I am showing Lia how to make a bed of evergreen boughs, she turns to me and asks, “Kirin, what shall we do when we catch up to him?"

  I pause, considering my answer. Before today, I would have said that all I need do was command the spirit inhabiting my swee—my follower's body to begone, and expect obedience, but Hollern is obviously different from the others. None have ever disobeyed me, let alone slain one of their brothers.

  I thought you said that they were no longer your children, my sister hisses self-righteously, Did you really think that they would tolerate you orphaning them? What did you think would happen?

  Guilt ripples through me, but I push it aside a heartbeat later. Things are so very different now. I cannot allow a thing like Hollern to walk about a moment longer. I cannot summon them ever again. Some things are more important.

  "Kirin?” Lia asks, and I realize that I, lost in thought, have not given her an answer. She deserves one. But I do not want to lie. What shall we do, if he will not obey?

  "Honestly, I don't know,” I finally admit. “This has never happened before."

  "But, surely, your master taught you how to deal with such an eventuality? What did he do in such a circumstance?"

  "She, actually,” I correct her, “and, as far as I know, this would have been beyond her as well. When she would call forth the spirits of the dead, her servants were ... not like my sweetlings. They were slow, and stupid, barely able to draw and carry water, let alone slay an ox. My servants ... they are different. Faster. Much, much deadlier. Why, I do not know."

  Lia frowns at this, and I resist the urge to explain further. I could not hope to justify a tenth of my crimes, so I remain silent. Let her judge me if she will.

  Finally, she nods. “We shall meet Hollern together, then. You and I.” Her simple acceptance brings an unexpected tear to my eye. I wipe it away, cursing my weakness. Why must motherhood, even in its early phases, fill women with such useless emotion?

  Expect it to grow more difficult as your time grows closer, my sister says, not unkindly. It's what makes women different from men. The creation of life changes us. Makes us grow. You've never felt that—truly felt that—and will need time to grow accustomed to the sensation.

  I am surprised to hear such wisdom from my sister's lips. Just when I think I have experienced the limits of her cruelty and scorn, she still has the capacity for compassion.

  "Kirin!” Lia barks, drawing me out of my reverie. I do not know how long she has been speaking.

  "Cry your pardon. I was wool-gathering. What is it you said?"

  "Do you take me for a complete fool?” Lia asks, her words dripping with anger. Faint traceries of lightning illuminate her eyes, flickering for the barest moment in the firelight. “You have done this before."

  "Do what?” I ask, sudden fear lancing through me.

  "Pause, as if listening to a far-off voice. Do not deny it; I can see the signs as plain as day. There is something more to you than appears to the eye, and I think that, after all we have been through, I deserve to know what it is."

  Do not reveal me! The priest has doubtless filled her pretty little head with all manner of tales of demon possession. Gods only know what she will do if she learns that I live within you!

  "I trust her,” I say aloud, and Lia's eyes grow wide. “She deserves to know the truth."

  I wince as my sister howls, a sound of pure frustration and fear, then cover my ears in a vain attempt to spare myself as the scream intensifies. The sound fills me to overflowing, and I flop back, writhing. Gods, when did she grow so strong?

  I see Lia mouthing my name, her eyes filled with panic. Her fear deepens, touching off the lightning slumbering behind her eyes.

  "Stop! Stop, Kirin, or she will call the storm!” I scream, momentarily causing Lia to flinch back. She retreats until her back rests against the bole of the fallen tree we have chosen for our shelter, but the flickering blue light does not diminish. My sister's cacophony subsides. Maybe she has heard me. Or maybe the light, or the rising wind, has finally penetrated her fear. Regardless, I do not mean to waste the opportunity.

  "My sister...” I pant. “My sister, she was killed. When we were younger. She was my twin, you see. I could not ... I could not live without her."

  Kirin remains silent, thank the gods, and I hurry on, before she can try to stop me again. “My mistress had a ritual. I found it in her books. A summoning for the dead. To call back their shade, and make it live inside the summoner. Forever together. Forever one. I used it one night, beside her grave. I followed all the steps, and her shade came to me."

  Lia's eyes are filled with horror, as she comprehends what I have done. I hurry on, wanting her—needing her—to understand.

  "She is not in pain,” I assure her. I feel a trickle beneath my nose and wipe it absently, noticing that blood slicks my fist.

  "True, we do not always get along,” I continue with a wry grin. “But, even when we quarrel, I still love her, and cannot live without her. She deserved better than the death she got, you must understand that."

  Oh you fool! Look at her. She thinks she knows the limits of right and wrong, simply because she is educated. The young see the world in pure shades of black and white, which they mistake for morality. But she is not your better. Not our better. You must not let her do this thing!

  "I trust her,” I repeat, ignoring the tickle of fear that the lightning in Lia's eyes evokes. I open my arms, a mute appeal. “I told you that the things I do are not evil. That my powers are natural. Now ... now I am not so sure."

  "Because of the child,” she says. I nod.

  "I must make this right. Must find Hollern, and make sure that he does not hurt anyone. He must be sent on. His time came days ago."

  Lia nods, the lightning fading. “And what of your sister?” she asks. “What about her?"

  "I do not know how to send her on,” I admit. “All I cared about was having her back. I only learned how to summon her, not release her."

  Nor shall you. My work here is not yet done, sweet, sweet

  sister. Not done. The need is still unfulfilled, and until it is,

  you will bear the cost of your actions.


  "What is she ... what is she saying?” Lia asks. I must have gone away again for a moment.

  "She speaks of her work, as if she has a reason to be here. Some purpose to attend to. But I don't—"

  The sound of snapping branches comes from the black woods, and I stop, holding my hand aloft. My warning is not necessary; Lia has heard it too. She, too, looks about, her slender body tightening like a bow string. For once, I find myself welcoming the pale fire flickering in Lia's sapphire eyes.

  "Kirin,” she whispers, “has he found us?"

  I do not know, so remain silent and alert.

  Even so, the ferocity of his attack is terrifying. One moment there is stillness, an almost palpable tension in the still air, and then there comes a silent rush of red, red limbs and pale, torn skin. An explosion of leaves as Hollern bursts from the covering bushes. I never would have known that my dark progeny could be so quiet.

  But there is no time for thought, or for recriminations, for a second later he is in our camp, leaping over the fire, the light glistening on his exposed muscles, from his burnished claws and terrible teeth. His eyes are like wet, black river stones, filled with bottomless hate.

  He rushes past, faster than I have ever seen. Lia screams and crumples, a crimson flower blossoming on her brow as Hollern's claw sweeps across her face.

  "No!” I shriek, leaping forward to catch Lia while trying to keep Hollern in sight. He disappears behind a tree even before Lia has finished falling. Then I am kneeling beside her, pulling her into my lap and cradling her, holding her as she held me at Fort Azure.

  The blow has taken her in the left temple, the claw laying open her pale skin as cleanly as a scalpel. Yellow bone winks out from beneath the blood which gushes forth in a steady, pulsing stream. For once, the sight of the crimson liquid fills me not with hunger but with sickening dread.

  Hollern knows her power. He must. Did he not almost perish the last time she called down the lightning? He knows how dangerous she can be.

  But I am not helpless. I have my own ways of dealing with him.