When she was finished with this strange ritual, she stood and looked at Qarakh.
“I am Deverra, high priestess of Telyavel, Protector of the Dead,” she said in unaccented Mongolian. Or perhaps that was merely how Qarakh heard her words.
He scowled and didn’t lower his saber. “You are a witch?”
She smiled. “I suppose your people might call me a shaman.”
Qarakh considered this for a moment, and then he nodded and lowered his sword, though he did not sheathe it. “I am called Qarakh, and this”—he gestured to his blood brother—”is Aajav.”
“You are both Cainites, yes?”
“I do not understand.”
“Those who do not breathe, who feed on the blood of the living and sleep during the day,” the priestess explained.
Qarakh nodded. “And you?”
“Yes, though I wager I am from a different clan.”
“We are of the tribe known as Gangrel. I am of Aajav’s blood, and he is of the hunter Oderic’s.”
The priestess nodded as if she’d expected as much. “What is wrong with your sire?”
“He is not merely my sire,” Qarakh said with some irritation. “He is my bonded brother. Our souls are linked now as they were in life. As to what malady has gripped him, I cannot say.”
After Qarakh had slaughtered the Anda hunting party, the clan elders had put a high blood price on his head. And though he was a strong and fearless warrior, he wasn’t a foolish one. He knew he could never hope to stand against all the Anda in Mongolia—not alone and certainly not while caring for the ailing Aajav. So they had left the steppes and ridden westward, searching for a place where they not only would be out of the Anda’s reach but also removed from civilization. They had made it as far as the forests and grassy plains of this land—whatever it was called—before Aajav could ride no longer, not even bound to his saddle.
Qarakh debated how much he should tell the priestess. “Five weeks past, he was struck by arrows coated with poison. He began to recover after a few days, but now…” He trailed off, as there was no need to explain further. Aajav’s still form was all the explanation necessary.
“May I examine him?” the priestess asked.
Qarakh hesitated before giving her permission. Even so, he kept his saber in hand as the priestess walked over and knelt next to Aajav. She gently pried open his eyelids, then opened his mouth and peered inside for a few moments. Afterward, she examined his fingernails and then removed his boots so she could get a look at his toenails. When she was done with that, she put his boots back on and lowered her face to his head and sniffed his hair.
She looked up. “I need to taste his blood. A drop or two should be sufficient.”
Qarakh didn’t like it, but he pressed the tip of his saber to the back of Aajav’s left hand and pushed slightly. The blade tip punctured the flesh, and a thick drop of crimson welled forth. She dipped her finger in the blood and then touched it to her tongue. She closed her mouth and looked thoughtful for several moments. She nodded to herself and then pressed her fingers to his cheeks. She closed her eyes. Qarakh tensed, wondering if she was attempting to cast some sort of foul spell on Aajav. He decided he couldn’t afford to take any chances and was just about to cut off the priestess’s head when she withdrew her fingers and stood.
“I could detect only the faintest traces of poison in his body,” she said. “Not nearly enough to affect a strong young Cainite like him. I believe that while his body has purged the poison from his system, his mind has retreated into torpor.”
Qarakh had only been a childe of darkness for five years, and he did not know to what the priestess referred. He didn’t wish to appear ignorant, though—especially since he was—so he nodded as if he understood.
“Some Cainites retreat into deep slumber in order to rest while healing from severe injuries. Others lapse into the state as a result of some terrible trauma, while for some it is a last, desperate escape from the tedium of eternal life. As to why Aajav has fallen into torpor…” she broke off and shrugged.
Qarakh looked upon the face of the man who was both brother and father to him and sheathed his sword. “Is there nothing that can be done for him?”
The priestess considered the matter for some time. “We can provide a comfortable place for him to rest, somewhere he will be both safe and undisturbed. I can continue to pray to Telyavel and search for a magical remedy, thought I must be honest with you: I cannot guarantee that Aajav will ever rise again. Some Cainites emerge from torpor after only days or weeks, while others never do. Still, if you are willing to accept my help, I will do everything in my power to restore your brother to you.”
Qarakh looked into the priestess’s eyes and tried to gauge whether he could trust her. He saw no guile or deception in her gaze, only kindness and concern.
He bowed his head. “On behalf of Aajav and myself, I am both honored and grateful to accept your aid, priestess.”
“Please, call me Deverra.”
Qarakh woke to the sensation of warmth. He was lying naked beneath a bearskin blanket, and he wasn’t alone. His bedmate shifted position next to him, and he felt the smooth curve of a feminine behind press against his side. He thought he—they—were inside a ger, but the fire was little more than smoldering embers and didn’t provide enough light to see by, so he wasn’t certain.
Qarakh wasn’t fully awake yet, but he knew something was wrong. He remembered riding toward Alexander’s camp with Deverra… remembered stopping when the eastern horizon began to grow light. They’d tied their horses to the low-hanging branches of a sapling and then walked to a majestic oak that Deverra had chosen. Using
