the telltale marks of undeath.
The durthans reached the bailey and then the outer gate. It was closed, but the sentries scurried to open it for them, and then Nyevarra beheld Immilmar laid out before her with its ancient, steep-roofed lodge houses rising from the snow and golden firelight shining through the windows. To her surprise, the sight transfixed her and swelled a lump in her throat.
It wasn’t all sacred ground the way the Urlingwood was. But on a more mundane level, it, too, was the heart of Rashemen, the focus of her ambitions, and a place she’d loved ever since she’d first beheld it as a hathran in training. It was also a place that, once it became clear that the durthans’ rebellion was going to fail, she’d believed she’d never see again.
“Are you all right?” one of her sisters asked.
She sighed. “Yes, and we should keep moving. Come on.”
As she led the others through the town, she spied and listened for the signs of ritual. With the wind whistling out of the north, blowing fresh snow from the clouds that mostly obscured the stars, it was a cold night, but still, at one or another of Immilmar’s shrines, there would be witches performing some nocturnal ceremony. There always were.
Before long, she spotted a gleam of yellow fire amid a stand of oaks. The light flickered as figures passed in front of it, walking or dancing around the blaze in a circle. Female voices sang.
Nyevarra raised her hand to halt her comrades. Then they all stood and listened until she’d identified the musical incantation.
When she did, she smiled behind her new leather mask. The hathrans were performing one of the routine rites in honor of the spirits of fertility currently sleeping away the winter like bears. In theory, the ceremony encouraged the entities to wake on time to start the spring.
So Nyevarra and her sisters needn’t worry about disrupting some mighty work of high magic and the potentially explosive consequences that might ensue. That made things simpler.
Still, she spent a while longer crooning her own words of praise and friendship to the spirits of earth, air, flame, and tree the hathrans’ ritual had roused or attracted. She didn’t want them taking the enemy’s side or carrying tales afterward.
For a moment, some of the spirits recoiled from the energies of undeath they felt seething inside her. But they were creatures of magic, and the proper forms placated them. When she was sure they would see what was about to happen as natural and unremarkable, like vines strangling a tree or wolves running down a deer, she motioned the other durthans forward.
The half dozen hathrans had reached a point in the ceremony that required them to take a single solemn step in their circuit around the fire at the end of every line of song. A couple of the mortals glanced at Nyevarra and her sisters as they entered the trees but, seeing nothing amiss, didn’t interrupt the rite with greetings or questions.
Nyevarra suspected she wouldn’t have recognized any of the hathrans even if they hadn’t been masked and hooded. She had, after all, lain dead for decades before Uramar used the magic of the Eminence to call her from her grave. But she was still able to pick out the oldest and thus, in all likelihood, the most powerful. A priestess with a special bond to Selune, the hathran in question had gray hair sticking out over the top of her pale wooden crescent-shaped mask.
Nyevarra waited until the woman’s slow progress around the fire brought her within easy reach. Then she dropped her staff and pounced.
A crescent of pearly phosphorescence glimmered into existence between her prey and her. It looked as insubstantial as mist, but it felt as solid as stone when she slammed into it and rebounded.
Worse, it didn’t disappear after that first impact either. It kept right on floating in the air to protect Selune’s servant. Nyevarra darted to the right in an effort to get around it, but the defense shifted with her.
Meanwhile, the hathran lifted her staff to the night sky and rattled off words of power. Other voices recited other incantations, and one screamed for an instant before something cut the sound off abruptly, but Nyevarra couldn’t look around to see exactly what everyone else was doing. She needed to stay focused on her particular target.
A shaft of pearly light flashed down from the heavens into the hathran’s staff, and her body lit up from within with the same power. She stretched out her other arm, and a beam like a silver sickle slashed from her fingertips.
Nyevarra leaped to the side. The light grazed her shoulder anyway, and though it didn’t cut her like a blade of common steel, pain ripped through the point of contact and a bit of her substance swirled away as mist, without her willing the transformation.
No vampire could suffer such an assault without yearning to strike back, and Nyevarra was no exception. With the moon shield still blocking her and so precluding the use of fang and nail, she clamped down on the urge to hurl lightning or frost. She wanted the hathran alive.
She swayed away from a second sweep of the arc of pale light, dived, grabbed her staff to aid in her spellcasting, and rolled back to her feet. Despite the exigencies of her situation, for an instant, she rejoiced once again in the catlike nimbleness that undeath had bestowed.
She hissed rhyming words in an old Draconic dialect. The moon sword swept low, and she leaped above the stroke without botching her incantation. On the final syllable, she jabbed with the staff as though with a spear.
The glowing shield disappeared.
Instantly, Nyevarra once again discarded her staff, ripped off her mask, and rushed the hathran. Her fangs ached with the need to pierce a vein. Just in time, she realized the mortal was still aglow with white light, and although she considered herself as true a witch as when she was alive, it still might not be prudent to drink in that argent power right along with the human’s blood.
She punched at the hathran’s jaw, and her knuckles cracked the white wooden mask. The mortal witch fell on her rump, and when she lost her concentration, both the pale light inside her and the luminous sickle winked out of existence.
Nyevarra dived on top of the hathran and shoved her down on her back. She tore off the mortal’s mask to expose a plain, square face with finely etched laugh lines, tore aside her cowl too, to finish baring the throat, and then struck like an adder.
For a heartbeat, the hathran struggled. Then she subsided into somnolence, and Nyevarra reveled in the greedy ecstasy of feeding.
It would be so easy to lose oneself and guzzle more and more, especially when the prey had stirred her passions by resisting, indeed, had actually succeeded in wounding her, so she
All was well. Her companions had overwhelmed the lesser hathrans, and apparently without making enough of a stir to alarm anybody else. Nyevarra couldn’t see or hear any sign that anyone was venturing out into the frigid dark to investigate, and she sensed that the assembled fey had watched the fight with a certain curiosity but without caring who won, like men might watch a dogfight.
She looked back down at the priestess of the moon and had to clench herself against the impulse to drink more from the two oozing punctures in her neck. She took a steadying breath, gripped the dazed hathran by her bruised chin, and turned her head so they were looking into one another’s eyes. Then, putting the full force of her will into it, she used her gaze to reinforce the compulsions her bite had already instilled.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Fy … Fyazel,” the hathran whispered.
“And mine is Nyevarra. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fyazel. And you must be pleased to know me, because I’m your whole world now. You’ll love and obey me like you would the mother of your birth, your mothers in witchcraft, and the Moonmaiden herself. Tell me you understand.”
Fyazel swallowed. “Yes. You’re Mother … and Selune … love and obey …”
“Very good, daughter.” Nyevarra climbed off the fallen mortal. “When the weakness passes, you can stand up. Just don’t be alarmed at anything you see. Everything is exactly as it should be.”
So it was. The other vampires were binding the wills of their own new hathran slaves. Because their ability to
