Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

Caim pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and lay down in the snow. The homebrew had left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth. “Then die quietly so the rest of us can get some sleep.”

While the others settled down, tossing muffled insults back and forth, Aemon scuttled over to Caim. “What do you think happened to Egil?”

“I hope he was smart enough to get far away from here.”

Aemon glanced beyond the fire, out onto the frozen plains. “Yeah.”

Caim wanted to close his eyes, but a sense of unease had settled in his chest, and it refused to let him be. These Northmen looked like ordinary men, but something vicious lurked behind their eyes. Something inhuman.

Kit appeared on top of him. For a moment, Caim could have sworn he felt her weight pressing down on him in a surprising-and very enjoyable-way. But then the sensation was gone and she was floating over him, a small frown flattening her lips. “What are you going to do, Caim?”

Unsure what she meant, he didn't answer. Kit laid her head on his chest, sending electric tingles through his body. “Is it ever going to be just the two of us again?”

The urge to hold her close washed over Caim. His hands started to reach up, but then fell back by his sides. Through the ethereal halo of her hair he saw the stars twinkling. “I don't know,” he whispered into her hair.

He closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire. When he opened them again, she was gone.

Familiar scents greeted Balaam as he stepped from the portal-thistle and white oleander, lacquer and ebonwood, a faint remnant of her favorite incense. He was home.

He entered through the parlor where a fire crackled in the wide hearth. The warmth felt good after four days spent out in the wilds, sleeping under the open sky as he tracked his quarry. But there had been no sign of the scion since Liovard, and the failure ate at him.

Balaam stopped at his bedchamber, thinking to change into something clean, but the echo of dripping water drew him down the hallway. The bathing room was lit with candles, small and large, sitting on the shelves and the floor. Their wavering flames threw shadows across the amber tile. Sweet-smelling steam rose from the water, cut through by the acrid scent of burning lotus.

Dorcas sat in the bath. Her breasts, still firm and buoyant, pointed toward the ceiling as she reclined, eyes closed, in the arms of the servant girl who washed her with a bristled brush. Her face glowed like polished glass, framed in a tumble of silky black hair. Every time he saw her, it was like the first time again. Balaam watched from the doorway as his wife leaned over the burning brazier beside the tub and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Her eyes gleamed with a blue tinge as she looked up. “Balaam. How long have you been lurking there?”

The servant girl, Anora, looked over, but did not stop her ministrations. Balaam folded his arms and tried not to look at the narcotic gray haze spilling from the brazier. “I just arrived.”

Dorcas laughed. It was a smooth, throaty laugh. Once, it would have set his blood on fire. “Come join us. You look a fright.”

“I'm fine.”

“Anora, undress my husband.”

Small waves washed against the sides of the tub as the girl stood up. She was also nude, her pale skin glistening in the candlelight. Balaam held up a hand to halt her. His wife's eyes swam with amusement. He could feel her gaze following him as he walked back down the hallway.

Balaam was sitting in his favorite chair near the fire, holding a half-filled glass of Illmynish wine and enjoying the heat, when Dorcas entered. She had wrapped herself in an ivory silk robe. Her wet hair cascaded over her shoulders. She sat down on a low divan near his feet. “You look tired. When was the last time you fed?”

He waved the question away. He hadn't felt the urge to feed in more than a sennight. Not since leaving Liovard.

“Anora!” she called over her shoulder.

“Dorcas, that's not necessary.”

Her lips smiled, but it did not show in her unfocused eyes. “It's nothing. You must keep up your strength.”

The girl entered, now dressed in a simple white tunic, and came over to kneel beside them. Balaam looked away as Dorcas slit the girl's wrist with a fingernail.

She held the arm up to him. “Here.”

The blood ran down Anora's arm, more intoxicating than the finest wine, and all his fatigue and angst departed on a roiling red tide of euphoria. Instead of drinking directly from the vein, he leaned over and inhaled. Thin ribbons of energy rose from the blood, which turned black and formed a crust around the edges as the girl's essence flowed into him. They hadn't been forced to feed this way in the Shadowlands. There, surrounded by the Shadow's power, they had been constantly sustained. He'd hoped things would go back to the old ways when the Master scorched the sky, but that hope proved short-lived as the sun's wrath continued to plague them even in the gray gloom. And so they were forced to depend on livestock, human and animal, to exist.

Balaam sat back as feelings of satisfaction and shame dueled inside him. He remained in that state for a short eternity, riding the ecstasy of the blood. When he roused, the servant girl was leaning against his wife's shoulder. Dorcas watched them both with naked arousal, but she pushed the girl to her feet. “Well,” she said as the servant stumbled out of the room. “Did you find her?”

Balaam frowned, guarding his thoughts. “I found the place where she died. She had…” He cleared his throat. Why was this so difficult for him to talk about? “She had already crossed over.”

“How was the news received?”

Balaam tapped on the arm of the chair.

Dorcas inched forward, not quite touching his knee. “But the Master could not blame you for her fate. Balaam! You were nowhere near when it happened. The Master must know-”

“I do not need you to tell me what the Master must know.”

She moved back, just a handspan, but it was enough. “No. You never had a problem knowing his mind.”

Only yours. Right, my lovely?

“How long are you back for?” she asked.

“I must leave tonight. Soon. I just came to see you.”

“Here I am. The same as you left me.”

He winced inwardly, but kept his face still. “I have new orders.”

She called a shadow to her hand. “Another mission. Of course.”

“Dorcas, I…”

Perhaps she sensed it in his voice, because she looked at him. Really looked at him, her reddened eyes searching his face. He couldn't recall the last time she'd done that.

“What's wrong, Balaam? Did something happen?”

He looked to the flames in the fireplace. How to tell her about the antipathy he'd been suffering of late, the disloyal thoughts? They must be plain on his face. He turned, but she was gone.

He stood up. Part of him wanted to stay, but he could not. He might have failed as a husband, but he still had his duty.

He opened a portal and departed, jumping far to the south in search of a shadow.

Josey rubbed her temples as the tirades flew back and forth across the long plank table.

“Absolutely not! I would rather die and have my ashes scattered over a charnel pit!”

“That can be arranged!”

“Cur! Progeny of mongrels! I would cut out-”

Count Sarrow and Lord Therbold had been saying much the same for the last three days, until Josey stopped trying to quell the argument and let it play out in the hopes the two men would exhaust themselves. That didn't seem likely any time soon. Still, the past couple days hadn't been a complete waste of her time. She had gotten some much needed rest-in a real bed! — and the food was better than what was served in camp. The decor was more rustic than she was used to, with lots of natural wood and cast-iron accents, but charming nonetheless. And she had learned that the troubles between Therbold and Sarrow were deep and far-reaching. In fact, their grandfathers had started the feud more than fifty years ago. She had also discovered why both were so intent on possessing Hafsax. Water rights. The little hamlet controlled access to the river, which fed the most arable portions of both their lands, as well as being a vital trade route for the province. Whoever possessed Hafsax held the other in his power.