The Queen of Wolves (7 page)

“How will we bring you food, my friend?” I asked. “For we are blood-drinkers, but have no supplies for you.”

He brought his frail hand up to my face and brushed his fingers along my features as if it would allow him to see me more clearly. “Yes, you are the demon and the dragon and the bird that brings shadow. But you are the deep light in the dark, as well.”

He reached across for his small pitcher and took barely a drop from it. He savored this a moment, his eyes closing with the momentary pleasure, his parched lips smacking slightly as if a flagon of sweet wine existed within a single drop of water.

He opened his eyes and set the pitcher down beside him. “We have two sister ships, also in the quiet water. Abandoned. We heard the shouts of the men leaving them on small boats to find a shore. Many of our own men left on the boats—many hundreds of them, and did not leave any boats for those who remained. The
Illuyanka
did not have so many boats after the storm tossed us here. Many of us could not leave. Many died within the first days after our storehouse emptied. But the other ships remained in the mist with few men aboard.

“Yet those who left their ships—many days ago—would not live long upon the waters, for it is too far to the nearest land. Nor did any return, and it has been too long to hope for their success. Thousands set out from those ships, our companions. There will be food there, and freshwater, where ours dwindled over the months. In my dream, you flew several miles to one of the ships and returned with these supplies.” He said this all as if he had known of the will of the universe well before my arrival, and I had fit in perfectly with it. “There is a nettle’s leaf, ground to fine powder, stored in small red boxes I would like, also.” He pointed to a shelf by his head, and there was a horn-shaped pipe with a round blue bowl at its tip. “It is good to burn it in the bowl and breathe it into the throat. Old men enjoy such things.”

I glanced at the men who squatted near us on the floor, listening intently. Each looked at me with a dreaded curiosity, as if expecting me to shoot fire from my mouth and bolts of lightning from my eyes.

I returned my attentions to Illuyanket. “Your dream included bringing you a burning leaf for your bowl?”

“My dreams are very particular,” he said, a wan smile upon his face.

“You are a wise man,” I said, chuckling a bit at his ingenuity. “Perhaps your dreams may be true.”

“Always,” he said. “They are. Since the demon touched my brow when I was a child. Now, please let an old man rest for the night. When I see you again, I would like a bit of salted pork and a larger bowl for drinking water. Do not forget the small red box with the turtle engraved upon it—it is the size of your hand, no larger.”

I told him I would bring what I could find from the nearest ship. “Tell me, how far is it to land?”

“To the east, too far. To the west, too far,” he said. “You fly like a bird, but even a bird must rest. You must wait, for when the storms come, we will find our way homeward, far to the west of this unhappy spot, just as the storms flung us across the ocean. Within no more than two nights, you will fly from us and seek your landfall. As you fly to the west, the night will stay with you many hours. Beneath you, islands large and small will welcome you and your lady. This is my dream.”

“In your dreams, you have seen these storms come again?”

He nodded. “Demons are the bringers of storms, my friend. When the demons come, the sisters of the sea grow angry. The brothers of the wind chase them. You will see, my friend. You will see.”

His eyes shifted slightly as he glanced at the other men, crouching nearby. “Do not fear them. They will do as I say, though I could not keep them from devouring their own kind. But they fear you more than you need fear them. After you have brought us good meat and drink, I will show where you and the lady demon may sleep in comfort and not fear these ruffians. They believe you have the power to watch them while you sleep. I know the secret of your kind, my friend. I know that in the day, you...”—he then spoke in the barest of whispers—”...are vulnerable...”—then resumed his soft but audible tone—”but you are a demon of terror and blood. You will kill us if we do not do as you say. We will protect you while you rest during the brief hours of sun that burns beyond the mist. You shall fear nothing from us, so long as you do not murder any more of our men. Do you understand?”

I nearly grinned. “What a bargain this is, for if I do as you say, I become your servant. If I disobey you...”

“While you sleep, it would be terrible for a blade to reach your heart,” he whispered. “For even an old man might stick a small knife into the flesh of the dead.”

I wished then that such men could live as long as vampyres, for the world needed more of them. “You seem a thousand years in wisdom, not a mere hundred,” I said. “Will you dream of what destiny awaits me?”

He closed his eyes and was silent—so quiet that I grew afraid he had died. But after several moments, he let out a snuffling snore as if coming up from the depths of sleep. He opened his eyes, and said, “Your fate is beyond my understanding. All I can see of it is a magnificent fire and a terrible place—vast and intricate—beneath the earth. But this does not mean you will meet with misfortune, my friend. It is only a brief sip of the future dredged up within the wells of dreams. The water of what-is-to-come too often is muddy and deep. But do not fear your nights ahead, for I see in you more than demon. I see a noble falcon whose prey is the wolf. Do not let any emperor or warlord dissuade you from your path, though it would lead you to the end of your nights. It is yours and yours alone and must be taken, this path, even if it burns as you walk it. Now, please, my friend, hunger gnaws at me, and I have not much more than appetite left. The red box—do not forget!” He made a stabbing sign with his fist, as if to threaten me, grinning the whole time.

4

I rose and turned to the gathering rabble. “Did you hear that? I will bring meat and drink from the distant ship. I will kill no more of you. I will tell the lady also that this is the law of the ship. You will give us sleeping quarters where we may rest at dawn undisturbed. Further, you will protect and honor this Storm Dreamer as if he were your emperor—no—your god. For if, as he says, the storm comes soon, and your ill habits are replaced by salted pork, you owe him much. May I have your oath?”

“If we have yours, Sir Demon, that you will not murder us in our sleep. And that you will but drink a little from us that you may live, but not enough for our deaths, as well,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the sailor I had drunk from earlier.

“You have it,” I said. “Is it agreed?”

As I spoke these words, grumbling and arguments broke out, but the old man raised his arm up to silence them. When they had quieted, he spoke with that melding of softness and firmness, and it seemed as if his voice projected far beyond his small mouth.

“You have eaten of the dead and dying,” he said, admonishing them with a well-pointed finger. “Do not begrudge the demons your blood, for they will suck out the poison of your deeds. Those whom you have fed upon will forgive you. The ancestors you have dishonored will pray for you to the spirits. Many demons are omens of ill fortune, but these demons that come to us are from the blood of my own ancestor, called Illuyan the Fierce, who waged war against the enemies of our people in the kingdoms before memory. These bring us good fortune—this demon called Falconer, and the one who is called Pythia.”

I felt a vague clutching at my throat.
Pythia.
I closed my eyes for a moment to feel for her in the stream. Her movements were overpowering. I felt her abovedeck as a mouse might feel an ox lumbering atop its nest.

I rushed out of the bunk area and wandered the corridors to emerge in the fresh salt air.

5

I found her moments later. She had murdered two men who remained abovedeck. She had drunk too deeply from them. Their corpses lay beside each other, and she had just pushed herself off the most recent of her kills.

“You fool!” I shouted. “I have just this moment bargained with those men on board to keep us safe in daylight but took an oath not to kill them.”

“I have never taken such an oath,” she said haughtily. “Nor would I allow mortals to govern me as you do.”

The gold mask of her face turned black-red from the life force she had drunk, her hair stained, her breasts shiny and soaked, I remembered how she had taken me in a tower once. How she had loved the slowness of death in mortal man.

She was everything I hated in myself, in the world, and among vampyres. Even as I had these thoughts, I remembered her naked, her breasts high and heavy, and the slight swell of her belly as emerald and ruby snakes swarmed about her in Nezahual’s kingdom.

I could not erase this from my mind. I could not keep from wanting her, yet she was promiscuous and devilish. She could not be trusted, and yet she had saved me. She had made me feel love the way that my companion Ewen had with his goodness, and Alienora had once—all too briefly—with her purity before the dark had descended.

Wiping her chin as she approached me, Pythia gave a guttural laugh, and said, “Do not feel for him. He was a cannibal. No better than the worst of all men. Do you know what they called me? Demoness. Like a princess of Hell. They prayed for their speedy deaths. I blessed them as they went to sleep. They think they are headed for Heaven because of me, so do not lecture me. I need more blood than you. I drink for two.”

Reading my thoughts, she leaned into me and pressed her lips to mine. I tasted the warmth of mortal life there, with the tinge of blood on her tongue. She drew back, laughing. Was she mocking me? Did she feel the same bond with me that I felt with her? For surely, we were bound together in some way as if we’d been chained to each other.

“Throw the bodies to the sea,” I said. “For the men below do not need to see the evidence of your cruelty.”

“Throw them yourself.”

Not wishing to argue the point, I dragged the corpses to the side of the boat and let them drop. The splashes were loud, and echoed. I could only imagine what the men aboard would think of such noise.

Pythia came up behind me as I looked out across the curtain of mist. She pressed her body against my back, wrapping her arms about me. “Death truly is a blessing for them,” she said. “They will die of terrible hunger here. You know that.”

I turned toward her, holding her at arm’s length. “There are fewer than twenty men here. They need to live in order to guide the ship—for us. There is a storm on its way, and it is too distant to the nearest land to attempt flight across the sea.”

“How do you know such things?”

“A seer,” I said. “A vampyre had brought second sight to him when he was a boy. He is a descendant of vampyre and mortal, though many generations removed. Our child may be like him: mortal, but with the inner dark of our tribe.” A cloud seemed to cross her golden face, and I guessed that she was thinking about the child. Did she care deeply for it? I felt she did, but this lady was as volatile as the mask itself. I could not read her from expression or words. I had the sense that she always spoke from two understandings—the one that was evident in her words, and a hidden meaning far beyond my own mind’s grasp. “Illuyanket is his name.”

She nodded as if understanding. “It is a name from the old worlds,” she said. “It must have been passed to him from his ancient ancestor, for it was a name of a vampyre whom mortals considered their god.”

“The ship is named for him—
Illuyanket
—for this elder gained fame in his country for his storm dreams and prophecies. He is nearly a century old, and predicted our coming—and the storm, as well. I believe him.”

The sneer within her voice returned. “Mortal prophecy. As good as mortal promises.”

“You are mortal, Pythia. Our child may be mortal, as well. You were once a seer among mortals,” I said. “Was there truth to your visions? Is there truth to mine? I have met this man, and I believe him. You will do this—if not for me, then for that child you claim to care so much for. You are in more danger than I am—for they could kill you now with sword and arrow. Do not forget this. You are more like them than like me. If you do not kill them, they will allow us to drink from them as long as necessary. We do not know if we will have to remain here one night or three. I promised them this.”

“I promise them pleasure followed by peace.” She smiled, exuberant with the mortal blood inside her, bringing a glow of strength and vitality with it.

I did not even wish to argue with her. “I need to find the other ships nearby,” I said. “There may be more men, and food for these who will protect us in daylight. Do not kill again here. Do you understand?”

“I do not take orders, even from the Maz-Sherah,” she said. “If we drain them of their blood, what do we need protectors for?”

I controlled my fury. “We are in the middle of a vast sea. You cannot tell me where land lies. We do not know how many nights we will be here. We cannot take flight in the dark if we do not know that there is an island or a continent before sunrise. These sailors can head toward their lands when the wind picks up, to the west—our destination. We murder them; we meet a watery grave. Which oblivion would you prefer? Death at the bottom of the sea, rotting, or deep in this ship until its boards give way and it is torn by a gale? These men may save us, if we promise them life.”

“You care too much for these mortals. Their deaths are sweet to them.”

“Sweet?” I asked. “Will yours be so sweet? For as you kill them, remember what you will face when your own death comes.” I regretted these words as soon as they left my tongue, for I saw the stricken look in her eyes, and the slight flinch of her body as if I had slapped her. Then, weary of the argument, I said, “If you wish it, fly now. I do not need to go with you. Save your skin—fly away, little bird.”

Her eyes seemed to burn with fury. “Do not test me, nor tempt me, Falconer. I made you. I brought you from the tomb of Ixtar. Do not forget this. You belong to me. In me your seed grows, and in my death, it dies.”