Qarakh extended his arm over the stones and squeezed his hand into a fist. Thick drops of blood splattered onto the previous patches of blood. When the old blood had been completely covered, Qarakh drew his hand back and lowered it to his side.
“Welcome home, my khan.”
If she had been a stranger, the interloper would’ve been slain before finishing her sentence. But Qarakh recognized her voice, and so turned calmly to face her. “Deverra.”
He noted that her gaze was fixed on his ragged wrist, and her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent of his blood. He was unconcerned. He doubted Deverra would be so foolish as to give into her Beast and attack him. Still, she was a sorceress and possessed mystic abilities beyond those of ordinary Cainites, and thus bore watching. But then, as far was Qarakh was concerned, everyone bore watching.
He didn’t ask how she knew he was coming and that he would stop at the altar first. She was a shaman; knowing such things was her lot.
She nodded toward the altar. “Building up hiimori, I see.”
Hiimori meant “wind horse,” the power that came from such sacrifices. He gave her a simple nod.
The shaman was not a Mongol. Tall and thin, she dressed in a dark blue robe, its hood down to better display her long flowing red hair. Her features were delicate and fine, and her complexion pale, as was normal for the unliving. Her eyes were a touch too large for her face, but the effect merely added to the overall air of otherworldliness that she and the other sorcerers cultivated. More striking was the color of her eyes: They were a bright emerald green, so bright that, in the right light, they almost sparkled.
“You were gone longer than usual this time,” Deverra said. “Some of the mortals in our flock were beginning to worry that you had run into mischief during your wanderings.”
Her tone was even, but Qarakh detected a hint of disapproval.
“I trust you reassured them otherwise.”
Deverra smiled, revealing the pointed tips of her canines. “Naturally, though some required the special kiss of a priestess to draw out their ill humors.”
Qarakh wasn’t certain how to take this. She sounded almost amused, but he knew from long association that she took her roles as tribal shaman and high priestess of the cult of the Livonian god Telyavel very seriously. She had tended to the needs of the god’s mortal worshippers and taken their blood as her due for many years before he’d come to Livonia, before they had made common cause to create a new tribe. Still, he found her tendency toward ambiguity puzzling and often frustrating. Over the few years he’d known her, he’d learned the best way to deal with her unclear comments was to ignore them, which he did now.
“You have my thanks for coming here to welcome me back, but it was not necessary. I would think you’d have more productive ways to occupy your time.”
Deverra smiled and stepped closer to the warrior. She reached out and gently touched his now-healed wrist. “Is it so hard to believe that I simply might have missed you?”
Another Cainite might have recoiled from Deverra’s touch. She and the rest of her brood of priests were blood sorcerers, and such folk could be very dangerous indeed. Even Qarakh had heard rumors of the sorcerous Tremere who stole the blood of other Cainites in their dark witchery. But Qarakh judged people by the deeds they performed, not by their lineage, and to his mind, the Telyav were nothing like the Tremere.
Deverra rubbed her fingers over his wrist in slow, small circles, then brought her hand to her nose and sniffed. She frowned. “Your vitae is weaker than usual. It has been too long since you fed.” She said this last as if she were a mother chiding a naughty son, despite the fact that Qarakh was her khan—but then she was also high priestess of the Telyavs.
Take her, whispered his Beast. She fed well tonight on one of her acolytes. Think of it! Living blood filtered through the veins of a Telyav priestess… a heady brew indeed!
The Beast’s guttural laughter echoed in Qarakh’s mind, and the Mongol was surprised to discover that his mouth was watering. He found the loss of control most disturbing, and he took a step back from Deverra.
“I will feed upon returning to the camp.” His voice was thick with barely repressed need and sounded too much like that of the Beast to his ears.
If Deverra noticed, she gave no sign. “There is another reason I came here once I sensed you were to return this night.” Her tone became grim. “There have been certain signs of late. The land speaks to me—the wind that rustles the leaves, the squeal of a mouse caught in the claws of an owl, the silhouettes of trees outlined in silver moonlight, they all say the same thing: He is coming.”
Qarakh scowled. “Who?”
Deverra looked at the Mongol for a moment before answering, and the warrior was surprised to see fear in her eyes.
“A prince with the face of a boy.”
Chapter Two
By the time Qarakh and Deverra reached the cluster of round felt tents—what the Mongols called gers—that made up the campsite, the eastern sky was tinted by the coming dawn. Qarakh invited the priestess to seek shelter from the sun in his tent, as was the Mongolian custom. But Deverra declined, giving her thanks (which was not only unnecessary but almost insulting to Qarakh) and walked away from the camp, across the clearing where it was currently set up, and toward a stand of pine trees. Qarakh watched her go, wondering where she spent the daylight hours. To his knowledge, she had never remained in the camp after sunrise. He wondered if it was out of some
