Blood Red (9781101637890) (24 page)

But the ones that shift using blood magic—I know they can be bigger as wolves and half-wolves than they are as humans. There must be something special about the power that comes from killing that gives them extra strength and extra size.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, after a moment of silence.

He thought about that for a moment. “Well, that is . . . complicated. Have you ever seen a contortionist? One of those performers that can twist his body into impossible positions.”

She nodded. “Once.”

“Well, they are born with incredibly flexibility, but they have to train and keep training to keep that flexible, and to keep it from hurting when they take those positions. As long as they do that, it is difficult, and takes effort, but it doesn't hurt, or at least, not enough to keep them from wanting to perform. Shifting is like that. If you do it often enough, it doesn't hurt. If you don't shift for years, then suddenly need to, it does. Quite a lot.” He leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Truth to tell, I like being a wolf. Sometimes I like it better than being a man. Things are simpler as a wolf.”

“In what way?” she asked, even more curious now.

“In every possible way.” He chuckled. “As my dear cousin pointed out, as a wolf, I don't need a house or even a bed to be comfortable. A nice den dug into the ground suits me fine. I obviously don't need clothing. I don't care who the Emperor is, I don't care about politics. You can't collect taxes from a wolf.”

She had to laugh at that one.

“It's easy hunting, with a wolf's instincts and a man's brain, and obviously, once I catch my dinner, I eat it right there with no fuss. But it goes deeper than that.” He licked his lips, and glanced at her, as if wondering how she was going to take his next words. “Wolves don't have any—moral questions. Everything is simple, and even if I have a man's mind, I tend to look at everything through the eyes of the wolf. If someone attacks you, you run from him, or you have to kill him, and if you have to kill him, well, that is that. You don't wonder if he has a family waiting for him somewhere . . . if he could be a good man if you just gave him a second chance.”

But she did understand, actually, because she had spent years and years studying and coming to understand how her Earth allies thought and acted, so that she could predict what they would do, and steer their behavior.

“Elementals are like that. Exactly like that. Well, you saw what happened when the revenant of Durendal was taken by the nix. All they cared about was that he had attacked and murdered one of theirs, and the moment they could take revenge, they did.” She'd had her share of regrets in the night over that one. Wondering if Durendal's sister had been coerced after all, or if she had known what she was getting in for when she “invited” him. Wondering if she'd had second thoughts after he took over. Wondering if she could have been freed, ever.
I don't know how to banish a revenant. The only way I know to be rid of one is to kill the vessel.
“Sometimes I'm relieved when they take things into their own hands like that.” But she could hear it in her own voice, when she said it—the doubt. Wondering if she should have interfered. Wondering if she
could
have interfered. Water Elementals didn't answer to her.

But maybe I could have gotten an Earth Elemental to save her. . . .

He opened his eyes and looked at her for a moment. “You are having second thoughts about how Durendal died. Don't.”

“Why not?” she asked. “It wasn't Durendal whose body died. I have no second thoughts about ending
his
life, but what about the girl whose body he claimed?”

“To begin with, nix are often murderous, and what he did to the other Water Elementals probably drove them right out of his control. In the end, they were merely the judges and executioners for someone who had murdered one of their own kind. Durendal was
evil
and I think he got what he deserved.”

“But . . . it wasn't
just
Durendal,” she objected. “There was the girl—his sister, I think. What if she did not deserve to die?”

He folded his arms over his chest and thought for a moment. “To be possessed by a revenant, one must consent. Yes?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But—”

“Oh it is possible that Durendal somehow persuaded her, or had her under his thumb. But I think that unlikely. And I will tell you why. I have a theory. My feeling is that she and he were two of a kind, struggling for ascendancy while pretending to be allies, and perhaps—the shoe, as they say, was on the other foot.” He raised an eyebrow. “I actually believe that she invited him to inhabit her, even
called
to him when she felt him die, thinking she could subsume him and hold
him
captive while enjoying his power.”

Rosa held his gaze, not hiding her surprise. “Really? What makes you think that?”

“Just a feeling.” He shrugged a little. “I am not much of an Earth Magician, but the wolf in me . . . senses emotions quickly. That is what the wolf thinks. And to be honest, there is absolutely nothing to indicate which of the two of them, Durendal or the sister, was truly in control.”

Well, that was true. She had
assumed
Durendal, based on the few moments when she had looked into the Air Master's eyes. But she didn't know the sister at all. That cold, angry persona that had stared out of the girl's eyes—it might have been Durendal. But if the twins had been like-minded—it might have been the girl herself. Or some unholy mating of the two.

He smiled wryly at her. “You forget, this country not only spawned Vlad Dracul, it also spawned Countess Bathory. Both utterly ruthless. Both willing to use blood magic to get what they wanted. Both Earth Masters, did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“In the wolf pack the most dominant is the primary male, but the
second
most dominant is his primary female, and the wolf in me never forgets that a female can be just as strong, as deadly, and as clever as a male. In the shifter packs, when the eldest is a wise, cunning, and experienced female, it is she who is the prime, since strength and endurance are the least of the things that makes a prime shifter.” He tipped a little salute to her. “My cousin sometimes forgets that. My cousin was not brought up in a pack, a pack where it is my grandmother who leads.”

She grinned a little at him. “I knew there was a good reason why I liked you, Markos.”

“You would very much like my
Bunica
, I think. I know she would like you. When this mystery is solved, I would like you to meet the pack.” He stretched a little; he seemed more at ease with her now than he had been before.

She had to smile at that. Whatever else he was, Markos was a typical male, and didn't think about “implications.” “It would be better if I asked Gunther to invite you to visit the Schwarzwald and you persuaded her to come,” she suggested. “Otherwise it will look as if you are bringing home a potential bride for examination.”

At his startled look she smiled a little more. Clearly, the thought had never occurred to him. But she knew “grandmothers” as a breed very well indeed. Her home village was full of matchmaking grandmothers, and even the Bruderschaft had a share of them. Mothers, too, were prone to matchmaking but in her experience, it was grandmothers that were truly obsessed with it.

Now he was flushing. “You are right. That is exactly what she would do, and I was a fool not to think of it.”

She had to laugh at that. “Not a fool, a man,” she corrected. “You poor fellows are unaware of the machinations of grandmothers until it is too late.”

“Perhaps I should ask you to enlighten me!” He joined in her laughter—and that is how Dominik found them, and the more quizzical he looked, the more they laughed, and were unable to properly explain to him just what was so funny.

T
HE
hotel in Sibiu was possibly the best of the entire trip, so far as Rosa was concerned. Not because it was grand, or the rooms were grand—although it
was,
as Dominik had promised, the best hotel in the town. But because it was exactly the proper mix of everything to make her feel comforted and at home, and still feel a bit pampered.

The room was not large, perhaps a trifle larger than her room at the Bruderschaft Lodge. The bed was beautiful, all of wood, with a wooden canopy overhead, and the most wonderful featherbed! There was a gorgeous Turkish carpet on the floor, a fine fire in the fireplace. And silence! Which was exactly what she needed to call on the Elementals and ask for a
haus-alvar,
one of the little domestic Earth Elementals that enjoyed living alongside humans, bringing them luck and domestic peace.

For this, she needed only what she had brought up in her portmanteau, along with some sweet cakes she had bought from a vendor at the railway station. Not just
any
sweet cakes, of course; the heavenly aroma had lured her to the old woman's cart, and she had bought and tasted one before she purchased more. Markos called them
kurtoskalacs,
“chimney cakes,” he said. They had been made by wrapping the dough around a wooden dowel and baking them that way, with a sugar crust. He and Dominik had eaten half a dozen between them; she had barely been able to save two for her spell.

She sat down on the Turkish rug in front of the hearth and traced a circle around herself. Then she opened her portmanteau and took out a flat, dished stone—her room was on the third floor, and she needed a more direct connection to Earth than was possible this far off the ground. She set the chimney cakes on it, and drew four symbols on the rug in between her and the stone—symbols representing the sort of
alvar
she was requesting, and specifying a feast in return for a favor.

Then she closed her eyes, and drew up the power from the Earth, through the stone, sending outward to create her shields—set to prevent only inimical things from coming to her. Helpful creatures, like
haus-alvar,
would be welcomed—and protected from things that might want to prey on
them.

She opened her eyes when she felt a little tug at her sleeve, and looked down into the big button-black eyes of an
alvar.
But it was not like any she had ever seen before. This little creature had the head and spindly arms of a skinny little man, but the body of a chicken, and a red cap in the form of a comb.

But nothing with evil intentions could pass her shields, so as odd as the creature looked, she smiled at it, and it tentatively smiled back.

“I need to learn the way people speak here,” she said, slowly and carefully. “While I sleep, will you give me all the languages, and all the accents and differences, for all the people between here and Casolt if I give you these two cakes? You must put all this into my mind so that it will be as if I was born in these parts.” She nodded at the chimney cakes and the little creature's eyes bulged with greed and delight. It nodded quickly, and she erased one of the four symbols protecting the cakes from little thieving
alvar.
Just in case. Because
alvar
were as mischievous as they were helpful, more often than not.

The funny little fellow leapt on the cakes and began breaking pieces off, stuffing them into his mouth as fast as he could. When he was done, his stomach bulged, and his odd little face bore a blissful expression before he vanished.

Rosa banished her shields, put the stone back in her portmanteau, and got out her nightdress. That feather bed looked absolutely heavenly, and this last leg of the trip had been on a train that swayed and rattled for most of the journey—traversing some amazing scenery, but also taking a toll on most of the passengers. She could not wait to take the bed warmer out and tuck herself in.

She blew out all the candles in the room, and changed by the light of the fire. The bed
was
heavenly, and beautifully warm. And the last thing she saw as she closed her eyes was the chicken-bodied
alvar
, sitting solemnly on the footboard of the bed, braiding Earth Magic. . . .

There was a moment of confusion as Rosa awoke with words swirling in her head. But a moment later they sorted themselves out, as they always did when she got a new language magically, and she smiled into the sunshine pouring into her room. Strange that little house-spirit might have been, but he kept his bargain.

She washed herself in the warm water from the pitcher left on the hearth, dressed quickly, packed her portmanteau and hurried down to the dining room. Markos was there already, devouring eggs, pork sausage and a sweet bread.

“Good morning, that looks fantastic,” she said in Romanian. Markos raised an eyebrow.

“Your accent has improved out of all recognition. I take it you had good luck last night,” he replied in a slightly different dialect.

“Very much so. The chimney cakes were greatly relished. Where is Dominik?” she asked in the same dialect.

“Getting the wagon; he's already had breakfast. The concierge of the hotel is putting our good things into storage in the attics. Dominik picked the perfect hotel.” Markos paused for a few more bites. “This one gets all manner of summer visitors, some who come here every year and simply leave their things over the winter. The request didn't even raise an eyebrow.”

“Your cousin is a valuable fellow to have around.” A waiter arrived at that same moment, and Rosa turned to him. “What my brother is having, please,” she told him.

The waiter bowed slightly, with a smile for her, paused only long enough to pour her a glass of milk, and went off. Rosa reached for it; she would miss her coffee, but she did like milk in the morning, and evidently that was the custom in these parts.

Dominik returned just as they were both finishing.

“Ready, you two?” he said in German.

Rosa laughed and stood up. “More than ready,” she told him in Romanian, making his eyes widen with amusement. “Let's go see to the wagon before someone stores something too heavy to move on
my
trunk.”

The porters were just bringing out the luggage that had been stored overnight. With a little input from her, everything was soon stowed away.

This was an enclosed wagon, a little like a delivery van, not much like a gypsy wagon, for it was a very utilitarian brown and had no carvings or bright paint. Inside it was just as utilitarian; the trunks were stowed along the walls with just enough room to walk from the front to the back, narrow bunk beds could be lowered down on chains for sleeping, there was a tiny metal stove at one end, and no windows. It would certainly be much more comfortable to sleep in than camping when the weather turned bad, but it was small and light enough to be pulled by a single horse, although a second was tied to the tail of the wagon.

Markos was right; the horses didn't care for him much. They didn't rear or try to run, but they rolled their eyes at him and sweated when he was too near. He kept away as much as he could, helping to arrange things inside the wagon.

With the help of the porters, things were ever so much easier; within the hour, Rosa was driving the fully loaded wagon out of the stable yard, waving a cheerful goodbye to their satisfied and well-paid helpers.

Rosa was driving, because it became clear that while Markos knew how to drive, the horse would not tolerate him on the other end of the reins, and Dominik had never driven outside of a city in his life.

She, on the other hand, had over a decade's worth of experience taking the Bruderschaft supply wagon to and from the village market in all weathers and all conditions. So before the two of them could get into an argument, she simply hopped into the driver's box and solved the problem. She elected to get used to the horse in the traces now, where it would be easier to control him than out on the open road. By the time they got out of Sibiu, she should have the measure of him, and might even consider turning the reins over to Dominik.

It was, after all, not going to be a problem to get to their first destination, the village of Casolt. Just travel straight east, or as “east” as the road would let them.

She let the horse amble along at the same pace as the rest of the traffic on the main road, which was leisurely; letting the horse get used to her hands on the reins, and taking the sense of the animal she was driving. He was neither a good, nor a bad horse; he had no bad habits that she could tell, but he didn't seem particularly bright, either. Rather like the cart horse the Bruderschaft owned. It would take a horse-mad little girl to be in love with a stolid beast like this one, but on the other hand, that meant he should get used to Markos fairly quickly, and shouldn't give them any problems. Well, other than the usual. She had no doubt that he'd wander or even run off if he wasn't hobbled and tethered, and that, given the option, he'd eat himself to foundering. Best to make sure the grain stayed well out of his reach.

All the buildings here were quite close together, and most of them were the same light stone or brick, some with whitewashed walls. All seemed to have red-tiled roofs. It made for a cheerful aspect, but was very different from the white walls and black beams of the buildings in the Schwarzwald villages, or the dark wooden Lodges deep in the forest itself.

She heard a half a dozen languages being spoken in the streets, with Romanian, Hungarian and German predominating. Half the signs said this was “Hermannstadt” rather than Sibiu. A very handsome church dominated the skyline with three towering spires, the middle one taller by far than the other two.
Gothic?
she wondered. She was only vaguely familiar with church architecture.

Dominik opened the little door into the wagon and joined her in the driver's box. “Handsome town,” he said.

“I agree,” she nodded.

“It will probably seem very familiar to you—the language, anyway. There are a lot of Germans and Austrians living here, and in fact, it was originally built by Germans.” He glanced sideways at her. “Not too many problems since 1867 and the
Ausgleich.
It also was once the capital of Transylvania. Which would be why the Turks burned it to the ground.”

That must have been a very long time ago, since all the buildings seemed centuries old.
The time of Vlad Dracul, I suppose,
she thought.

“Fagaras Mountains
there—
”
he pointed with his chin. “Cibin Mountains
there,
and Lotrului Mountains
there.
” The mountains, which towered over the roofs in the distance, had snow on them. She hoped they weren't going to have to travel too high into them, although she had brought all her warmest things.

“I've often thought about living here,” he continued, as the horse made his way down the cobbled street, which was certainly less crowded than she had expected. “It's tolerable for an Earth Master, there are a great many cultural events here, plays, concerts, even operas.”

“It would not be tolerable for me, except for a few days at a time,” she replied, for already she could feel the faint unease she always had in cities, no matter how green they were. “Too much dead stone, not enough green and growing things. But at least, it's not
poisoned.
If all that dead stone and brick doesn't bother you, you should be all right.”

“Maybe I'm not as sensitive as you are,” he said, sounding faintly disappointed.

“Sensitive in a different way, I expect.” The horse had decided to go from an amble to a slow walk; she popped the reins on his back and chirped to him to remind him that she wasn't asleep on the box. Reluctantly, he sped back up to match the traffic. “Healers don't seem to be as bothered by dead stone as my sort. Maybe because we need to see different things.”

“That's as good a theory as any.” He coughed a little. “At any rate, we should be out of the city soon, and on our way straight to Casolt. It's just a village. From there, we try to get ourselves into trouble.”

“That's a nice way to put it.” She glanced at him. “What are we supposed to be, anyway?”

“Oh, don't worry, Markos and I picked out something very logical, and I promise, this won't be any trouble for you. We're folklorists, like the Grimm Brothers.” He grinned. “That way it's our
job
to listen to peoples' stories. I hope you can take notes quickly.”

“I'll manage.” It was a brilliant idea, actually. She liked it. People
would
talk to them; folklorists were proud of their role in preserving culture, and it was a point of pride for many to help with that. “Besides, we of all people should know those tales have a lot of truth in them. The more we can get written down about Transylvania, the better it will be for other Masters who might have to come in from outside.”

He laughed. “Just like I said, as wise as you are pretty.”