Gail Martin - Dark Haven

Jonmarc smiled. "Try to stop her. I suspect she'll come quite well prepared. Just don't bring her any bar fight injuries. She's touchy about those."

"Sounds like you have that on good authority"

"On more than one occasion."

Jonmarc entered through the iron-bound doors. He could smell roasting lamb, baking bread, and the aroma of simmering spiced wine. Dark Haven had a feast-day air about it. Although the vayash moru had no need of mortal food, the staff prepared for the Feast of the Departed-or Haunts as most called it- with gusto.

"It's going to be different celebrating Haunts here, that's for sure."

Neirin grinned. "There's nowhere else in the Winter Kingdoms you'll find the residents to be so friendly with the departed-except maybe in Margolan with a Summoner-king."

"As long as I'm still among the living, I'll count it a win," Jonmarc said, taking his leave of Neirin as he headed for his rooms.

Jonmarc had just closed the door behind him when the temperature in the room plummeted. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and knew that one of the manor's ghosts was close at hand. Turning, he caught just a glimpse of a spectral girl as the apparition glided across the far side of his room and disappeared, into the dark gray stone of the wall. He stared after her in silence. "Don't let our bonnie lass trouble you." Jonmarc turned to find Eifan, his valet, standing behind him. Eifan had the dark eyes and dusky looks of a Trevath native, although his mortal days were some two hundred years past. A quick, wiry man, he moved with the speed of a small bird of prey.

"I expect our lass is up and about early for Haunts," the vayash moru said, setting out the last of the bath items next to a steaming tub of water.

"I've seen her before. Did you know her? I mean, alive?"

Eifan shook his head. "Many of Dark Haven's ghosts are older even than I, m'lord. The lass is said to be the daughter of one of the Lords of Dark Haven, taken by a plague. They say she's looking for a healer who promised to

come to the manor and never arrived." He held out a towel. "You have a big evening ahead of you, m'lord. Your bath is ready and your clothes are laid out."

"Have you seen Gabriel?"

"No, m'lord. Lord Gabriel had business to attend with the Great Houses in preparation for tonight. I am sure he'll return shortly."

"Too soon, I'm sure."

Though the vayasb moru were generally taciturn by mortal standards, several months of solid vayash moru companionship had given him more insight than he could have ever imagined."Something on your mind, Eifan?"

"It's not my place, m'lord."

"I've never held much for 'place.'"

Eifan was silent for a moment. "I have served three masters of Dark Haven. None made so good a beginning as you. I would like to see you succeed. There are some, m'lord, who may not share that view. You'll be the only mortal at the Blood Council tonight. Some among my kind don't agree that a mortal should be our Lord."

"I've had mortals trying to kill me for most of my life. I'm used to rough company."

"Watch out for Uri and his brood, m'lord. He wants the title for himself. I don't think any would be so bold as to move against you with Gabriel nearby, but I would not walk alone tonight, m'lord, were I you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"It's said that the Lady chooses a mortal to rule Dark Haven to protect Those Who Walk the Night," Eifan said quietly. "Many believe that were Dark Haven to have a vayash mora lord, one who never ages and never dies, that we might grow too arrogant among our mortal neighbors."

"And I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen?"

"A mortal lord might better balance the needs of both vayash mom and mortal subjects."

"So why the concern? You need a mortal, I'm here, and Gabriel keeps telling me I'm the Lady's choice, although how he claims to know, I haven't a clue."

"It's the will of the Dark Lady. Mortals say that Istra is a demon, but we believe Istra is a she-wolf, protecting her pups. As Lord of Dark Haven, you are her champion." "Thank you."

Eifan made a small bow and left Jonmarc to his thoughts as he undressed and slipped into the waiting tub. Eifan's comment made Jonmarc think of a carving in Dark Haven's chapel. It showed Istra, a sad-eyed beauty with a regal presence turning back a torch-wielding mob and standing between them and a cringing group of vayash moru. Although he had no occasion to frequent shrines, he was as familiar as any in the Winter Kingdoms with the faces of the Lady. Chenne, the warrior. Athira, the lover/whore and goddess of luck, the Aspect to whom he was most likely to pray, if he prayed at all. The serene Mother and the preternatu-rally wise Childe. Sinha, the crone. The Formless One, who lacked even a name.

Until he came to Dark Haven, Jonmarc had never seen a depiction of Istra, though he had heard Her name. "Istra's Bargain" was a term common among soldiers and mercenaries, fighter's slang for a suicide pact that promised one's soul to the Lady in return for the life of one's enemy. He had seen soldiers make that pact, marking themselves with the sign of the Lady and making their vow. None had come back alive, but all achieved victory.

So it had been with curiosity that he explored Dark Haven's chapel. Though small, it was filled with carvings and artwork of supreme craftsmanship, illuminated by banks of candles. The chapel was tended around the clock by a vayash moru recluse who never spoke and seemed to exist only to serve the chapel. A large stained-glass image of the Lady, back-lit by torches, dominated the rear wall of the chapel.

Eifan was correct. Istra was no demon. One elaborate bas relief showed her, head bowed, lifting up the broken body of a fallen vayash moru. But it was the Lady of the stained glass that held Jonmarc's attention. Amber-eyed and darkly beautiful, her intricately-decorated cloak was wrapped around her huddled children and her lips parted to reveal the long eye teeth of the vayash moru. Istra was the goddess of the outcast, of Those Who Walked Alone in the Hour of the Wolf. And mortal though he was, something in those eyes connected with Jonmarc Vahanian's own outcast soul.

A candlemark later, he adjusted the collar of the black velvet doublet and tugged at his cuffs. He ran a hand back along his thick, brown hair, done up in a neat queue that fell shoulder length, and took a passing glance in the mirror to make sure all was well. He met his own dark eyes and paused.

By rights, I should be face down dead in a ditch somewhere with a shiv between my shoulders. Probably would be if Harrtuck hadn't conned me into smuggling Tris out of Margolan.

That adventure, which had begun for Jonmarc a few weeks after last year's Haunts, moved him from outlaw smuggler to a friend of kings and a landed noble. The bounty hunters and debts were paid off, the smuggling put aside permanently. Even so, he did not feel at ease.

Jonmarc picked up a small rigging of leather straps and green wood. Carefully, he buckled it onto his right forearm. The contraption held a single arrow and a tightly coiled spring. It was just slim enough to fit into the sleeve of his doublet. Jonmarc raised his arm level with his chest and flexed his wrist, tripping the release.

The arrow shot out, embedding itself into the wall. Where they were going tonight, Jonmarc had no illusions about being safe. His daily sparring with vayash moru partners made it clear that, should tonight go badly, his sword would be poor protection. The arrow was a weapon of last resort. He retrieved the arrow, refitted it, and slipped his coat on.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in."

Gabriel stood in the doorway. The slim, flaxen-haired vayash moru noble was dressed for court. His coat was midnight blue, elegantly tailored from fine brocade. If nothing else, Jonmarc thought, immortality was good for acquiring wealth.