Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [40]
Dres would not understand, she thought. I barely understand myself.
Rhaeme and the others had their own reasons, but all of them had agreed, soon after the gathering, that something was wrong. Lord Hunter Baertah was too trustful of the inconstant Sameska and would never violate her word, especially if it threatened to involve getting dirty.
They all watched the forest on their left warily, wondering what new horror lay within its tangles and thorns. None of them doubted Sameska's claim of encroaching evil, but these were warriors of action, unable to sit still.
Several moments passed in which Elisandrya had almost stopped to turn back, still unsure of her own instinct and fearful for Dres. She never pulled the reigns, however, never acted on fear or insecurity. She sought the guidance of Savras many times but did not truly expect an answer. His answer had already come-plague and evil and mysterious warriors from the north. All that was left for her in that answer was nothing, to do nothing.
No, she thought, I'll do what I can, prophecy or not, Savras forgive me.
She would seek the Hoarite, the ghostwalker.
New rain lashed her face as she rode. She felt a little freer, a little more in control of her own life as the ground rushed by beneath churning hooves, carrying her farther and farther from Brookhollow. Temple life would never be hers, not now and maybe never. She left those concerns to Dres and the oracles.
Her sister's green eyes came to mind, Dres's faith and fears, her words of caution in every endeavor. She loved her sister and respected her decisions, but quietly, under her breath and drowned by the noise around her, she said apologetically to the image in her mind, "I'm not like you."
The storm grumbled overhead, churning as she rode against its winds.
* * * * *
Khaemil sat on a section of the fallen wall of Jhareat, proudly reflecting on his successful meeting in the forest while licking the blood of the offered fawn from his lips and teeth. The last he'd seen of the Order's new ally had been their yellow eyes, tiny pinpoints of light disappearing into the folds of twisted and cracked trees.
He raised his head and gargled as rain filled his open mouth, feeling wild and blooded on fresh kill. It had been many years since he'd conversed with a kindred spirit, even a half-breed, and he longed a little bit for the hunting in Avernus. The tracking and killing of lost souls, howling at a burning sky and playing assassin for devilish lords, were sports he would always remember. Perhaps one day to which he might return.
Much of the malice he saw in those long ago devils he also saw in Morgynn from time to time. He knew she was well versed in the Gargauthan dogma, but her heart never really invested in what might pass her lips to quell Talmen's doubts. Power was her thrall, though what use she intended to make of such dominion he was not sure. True evil did not seem to rest in her nature-it was simply an afterthought, the place where she could comfortably work toward her own ends.
The tower in the center of the wasted clearing had ceased its crimson dance. Khaemil knew Morgynn rested within or lay enraptured by her own blood and magic. He wondered if she actually slept this time.
He decided to wait a bit longer, to enjoy the view and his full stomach.
If Morgynn slumbered, it would be folly to wake her. Morgynn's nightmares rarely stayed in her own head, and her blood saw little difference between friend and foe.
CHAPTER NINE
Morgynn descended the spiraling stairway in a daze, feeling the tingle of magic across her skin and the heat of its passing in her veins. She cast as she skipped down the steps, twirling the words of her spell gracefully past her lips. The warmth of the magic flared on her bare throat, humming on her vocal cords. Her body trembled, flesh rippling as the power took shape. The tips of her fingers blackened, becoming shadowy and transparent. The transformation crawled up her arms, leaving an ephemeral darkness in its wake.
She smiled and gasped as the change reached