Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [30]
"Yes, my lady." Khaemil's voice was hoarse as he regained his footing. He staggered slightly as his pulse slowly fell into step with his actions. "I will watch him."
"No, Khaemil. He already knows you are not fond of him. I will keep an eye on dear Talmen. He is blind enough to accept my presence without question." She stared into the flame of a nearby candle, her mind racing to put all in order. "We have no more need of the Hoarite. His job is done here-make sure he crusades elsewhere."
Her voice softened and grew more detached as the flame transfixed her gaze.
"I will do as you command, Lady Morgynn, as always, but there is another matter of the forest. A ring of pale trees, a short distance beyond the edge of the woods-a strange scent lingers there, a feeling of defiance and power but also fear."
Morgynn did not answer right away, lost in thought. She tilted her head, her eyes nearly closing in the embrace of her own magic, her blood excited and dancing within her.
"My lady?"
"Yes," she pulled herself away for a moment, "yes, the pale trees. I will deal with them later. I must prepare-I have work to do soon. Leave me now."
She did not hear or see him leave, only felt the absence of his pulse in the room, a void where his warmth had once stood. In the candle's flame, she saw other flames, old fires in her memory. The divine inferno of Lathander burned in her past along with the face of her mother, twisted in righteous anger as the Well of Goorgian had been surrounded by the Sedras.
Beyond all desire for power, beyond blood and magic and vile spell, the ambition of a blood magus is not born in the study of ancient secrets and dusty tomes. The blood magus, a child of death, must appease that fickle parent-the grave-above all other concerns. Only in death, whether chosen or delivered, does the power first stir in the cold, still heart. And the memory of that death lasts forever.
The candle flickered in a strong gust from the window and guttered out. Morgynn blinked, watching the trailing smoke of the blackened wick disperse before her eyes. Immeasurable moments passed before she finally looked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elisandrya was taller than her older sister, taking after their father's strong Shaaryan blood. She was long of limb and lithe, her skin an exotic blend of the yellowish Shaaryan and her mother's dark Arkaiun tones. Both sisters bore the thick auburn hair of their mother, long and curled in natural ringlets, but while Dreslya's was contained and pulled back, Elisandrya's was free and flowing, at the mercy of the wind.
As they approached one another on the crowded field of hunters, each reflected on their long separation from one another. Dreslya fairly ran to meet her sister. Elisandrya stood in place, half-smiling and even happy, but nervous. She had always felt the irony between the two of them more, that Dreslya was an oracle and saw far less than her hunter sister. Elisandrya had fallen far from the scared and skittish little girl she'd been before joining the hunters and seeing much of the harsh world beyond Brookhollow's well-ordered lanes.
Her eyes had become older than the face that framed them, like those of the hunters who had trained her in their ways. Those eyes were at peace with the world they viewed, but they understood that only the sword and bow procured that peace. Life and freedom on the edge of the Qurth, more often than not, was bought with death. Being called to Brookhollow in the midst of such storms and spreading plague brought that martial knowledge to the forefront of her thoughts. The mere idea of a gathering, tendays before the traditional Feast of the Moon, set her on edge, and she found she could focus on