Blood Winter: Immortalibus Bella 3 Read online

  Aranthus thumped his staff on the floor after the king's pronouncement. His Majesty stomped off the small dais and out of the council chamber, surrounded by his personal guards, leaving a rising tide of voices at his back.

  Martin hurried through the milling crowds, intent on reaching his father. He was surrounded by a group of outraged nobles, the duchess standing with a faint, amused smile upon her lips. She was the only noble present of the group who wore new clothes in her house colors of black, red, and silver. Despite it, she made the outfit seem as if it was as old, or older, than those around her. The tiara given her by the king sparkled in the oil light.

  “Ridiculous,” spluttered Baron Stavic. “Does His Majesty not understand the kingdom is on the verge of revolt?”

  “Treasonous words themselves. I would be careful to whom and where you speak,” the duchess mildly reprimanded the baron.

  “When they begin storming the palace, and he calls for our personal guards to supplement his own, I intend to remind him of this moment,” Jenabram savagely bit out. He turned to glare at the earl, speaking for his ears alone. “We would already have a new advisor if you had done as I said.”

  Martin didn't miss the comment; neither, it seemed, did the duchess.

  “Done what exactly?” she calmly inquired. “Support your overinflated sense of self? Of your grandiose schemes?”

  The marquis glared at her as the other men in the group continued to bicker among themselves.

  “I have more right to be the advisor than any man in this kingdom. You will cozy up to His Majesty like you always do, and you will strongly suggest my name.”

  “Or what?”

  “What?”

  “Precisely. It sounded as if a threat should be in there somewhere.”

  He gave his habitual sneer to her. “Titles come and go around here, or have you forgotten? Without yours, you would be—are—nothing but a common whore. You think Sydney will still champion your mad schemes if you are condemned by the king? No. He will distance you the same way he does to all the other whores he's used.”

  “I think you are confusing him with yourself. Perhaps the real question should be, what would you be without your title? I think a rabid dog, which should have been put down long ago.” Illyria traded barbs.

  “Duchess, please,” Sydney begged her in an undertone. “We must put aside our personal feelings for one another and work toward securing the kingdom.”

  He was ignored as his lover and the marquis finished up their personal spat.

  “Father,” Martin judged it safe to speak up. “May I have a moment? Please excuse me, my lords, duchess.” He bowed.

  They acknowledged him, drifting a few steps away as Sydney turned toward his son. “I am sorry your first chance to participate ended before it began.”

  “I am sure there shall be more opportunities.” Martin found himself in the odd position of consoling his sire.

  “Yes,” his father conceded. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

  Martin made to reply, but all the doors to the council chamber were thrown open and the royal guards poured in. They shouted at everyone to move—to leave the palace or further risk the king's displeasure, possibly with a stint in the dungeons attached.

  A few men protested, thinking the guards jested. They were proven wrong when they were set upon without delay and dragged off. After a few shocked moments, and some well-placed prodding of spears, the council chambers emptied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The house lay still and dark. Mica opened the door to his room, listening for a moment, but all was silent. As best he could, he quietly walked down the old, wooden floor, but he still set off numerous squeaks. The once-immortal, weak from his continuing illness, paused briefly to catch his breath. As he sucked in air, his throat quivered, and a volley of coughing burst forth. The man did his best to muffle the sound, face turning red as he continued to cough. The bitch’s office only a few more steps ahead, he opened the door to darkness.

  Mica stepped inside and moved to the office’s single, shuttered window, opening it. He backtracked to shut the door. Weak moonlight shone in, providing just enough illumination to outline the dark bulk of furniture and prevent him from stumbling into it.

  He sat behind Illyria’s work table, drew an oil lamp over to him, eventually got it lit. He had to wait for a wave of dizziness to pass. He must not be as well as he thought. A shiver overtook his wasted frame, causing the man to draw his thick wool bed robe tighter around himself. Mica opened the slim middle drawer, where various grades of parchment and vellum, along with quills, resided. He moved on to the left-hand side with sticks of sealing wax, ink, and sand. A small locked box rattled when he picked it up and shook it. It could be a copy of her seal. The right side drawer held a few pieces of correspondence.

  Mica took them out and read each one, gleaning nothing of importance. He shoved the missives back, and sat drumming his fingers on the silky smooth tabletop as he thought.

  Where would a lying, mistrustful vamp keep her secrets? In her crypt, was the first thought, closely followed by not easily accessible. She had to have a place nearby—had to.

  Mica slowly stood, leaning heavily on the table top. He waited for waves of dizziness and lightheadedness to go away. Taking the lamp with him, he picked a wall. It was cold, as not much separated the inner painted plaster from the outside wall. By pressing and knocking, he worked his way around the room until he eventually found an area which sounded different. It took longer than he liked to find the mechanism to open the panel, but behind it was an iron-banded wood door. Naturally, it was locked. He scowled, and began searching the room for something he could use to pick it. Mica knew his brother would be better at the task, but didn't think he'd agree to the act.

  His brother. The thought made him angry. Colin let himself be sucked into that bitch's schemes, was even happy participating! He was teaching those of Illyria's slaves who wanted to learn, how to read, write, and do arithmetic. Mica was so engrossed in his search and sour thoughts, the voice startled him.

  “Would the key help you?”

  Mica jumped in shock, his heart pounding in sudden fear. He spun around to place his back against a wall. The oil lamp bobbed wildly from the movement before steadying.

  Illyria stood half in, half out of the pool of light. One arm, clad in black velvet, extended, a metal two-pronged key held out in her fingers. A faint smile pulled one side of her mouth up.

  They stared at each other for several moments. Mica blinked a drop of sweat out of his eyes. She suddenly stood before him. If he breathed too deeply, their bodies would brush against each other’s.

  “You—”

  “Mica, what do you need that you feel you can't ask me for?”

  “You—”

  “Let us skip the insults. Sit down before you collapse. I'm not going to kill you. There would be no challenge in it; besides, I have too much respect for your brother to make an enemy of him.”

  Mica's head buzzed, his limbs shaking with the strain. He took several staggering steps toward the couch, only to feel his legs give out beneath him. He dimly knew the oil lamp was slipping from his grasp. The room spun, his stomach heaved, and he was sweating profusely despite the fact that shivers racked his body. When he blinked awake from his brief faint, it was to find that Illyria had placed him supine upon the couch and covered him with a thin blanket. The oil lantern he’d nearly dropped sat upon a low table behind his head. His enemy held a small brass goblet out.

  He sat up, too quickly, as the room spun. After it had settled back into place, Mica grabbed the goblet, gulped down the wine within, and held it loosely in one hand. She took the drinking vessel back and refilled it before placing it in his hand again.

  “Let's try once more. What are you looking for? Gold? Blackmail material? A map with a big red X, marking ‘here lies the evil vampire's sleeping lair’?”

  “I hate you.”

  “Yes, darling, I k
now. My dear, white knight will sever my head from my body, yank my black heart out, burn the pieces, and scatter the ash to the four winds.”

  “I am not your anything. Where's my brother?” He meant his demand to come out strong, but in his weakened state it sounded whiney.

  “Sleeping, I would imagine; it is the middle of the night.” She stood, half of her in the glow from the oil lamp, the other half in shadow, no emotion showing on the smooth mask her face became when she was at rest.

  “As soon as I'm well, Colin and I are leaving. When I have released Donny from his torment, I will come back for my vengeance.”

  “I would feel more threatened by your words if you weren't pale and sweating on the couch, looking closer to meeting death. Oh, and if you do die, tell him I said hello.” A brief smile flashed across her lips, crinkling her eyes.

  The man turned his head to glare at her as she dragged a chair over and sat before him, sure she was mocking him. “Tell him yourself, when I end you.”

  She smiled as if in fond remembrance. “It has been awhile. He might not remember me. Or may have another queen.”

  “Quit mocking me!”

  Illyria raised a brow. “But I am not. I have met Death. I have been one of his queens.”

  They stared at each other. Mica felt tired; he knew he needed more rest, but thoughts of Donny and the torment his protégé must be in demanded he rectify the situation.

  “Colin and I are leaving,” Mica began again, more to convince himself than her. “You will—”

  She cut him off neatly. “All that you shall need will be ready. I’d hoped you would wait until you fully healed, and winter was gone. But, I know you'd rather sacrifice yourself for your noble quests than be reasonable.”

  Mica never saw her move. He blinked and she was gone; her voice floated softly back to him. “Please extinguish the light when you leave. The others don't deserve to be homeless because you harbor a grudge toward me.”

  * * *

  A small lunch waited for him when Mica woke and rose the next day. He first soaked in a warm, herb-strewn bath. Fresh clothes, comprising of linen underthings, along with a shirt and pants woven of soft sheep's wool and dyed navy, lay waiting for him when he was done bathing. A pair of felt slippers, lined in wool, kept his feet warm. Mica didn't know if his brother had eaten already or not. No one joined him at table. Mary Elana served him, eyes downcast, mute. She ignored all his attempts at conversation.

  The man dined well on a rich stew redolent of winter vegetables and venison, a thick loaf of mixed grain bread, and hot cider. A small fire burned low in the round, clay stove against one wall. The room’s single window showed nothing but gray sky.

  When he finished, he went in search of Colin, learning from one of the house slaves that his brother was at the palace. A look outside the frosty windowpanes in the sitting room showed snow-covered buildings, and long icicles descending from rooflines. High-walled paths were shoveled to allow movement, and patches of ice gleamed on them when the weak sun hit. The courtyard was a mess of trampled, dirty snow. Occasional squeals and other horse sounds filtered inside from the stable area. He remembered how cold it would be, and found the thought of going out deeply unappealing. Well, his brother had to come back for dinner. Mica needed a plan of how they were going to get to the ancient motherhouse, and then back to Donny's body.

  He could spend his day calculating travel times, and how many supplies would be needed. Mica turned, making his way to a small writing room. It held a hinged-top, plain wooden desk and chair. A rag-stuffed cushion was placed for comfort on the seat. Oil-filled clay sconces on the wall bracketed the writing surface. A few steps behind sat a small clay stove. It had been laid with kindling, ready for whoever needed use of it. The air inside the room was chilly enough for Mica's breath to come out in a faint plume. He started a fire burning, and sat, arranging writing supplies and mixing up a fresh cake of ink.

  Four hours later, Mica tossed his quill down in disgust. If his numbers were correct—and they usually were—it would take him at least a year to travel to the motherhouse. That didn't include finding food and water. He wasn't even sure how many towns and cities had managed to rebuild in the intervening years along the route he and his brother would have to take. He let his head rest in his hands, elbows propped up on the table. Another cough wanted to burst forth, and he couldn't prevent it. When it passed, he was left light-headed and panting for breath.

  A trickle of fear filled him, but he ruthlessly squashed it down. He was fine. He would be fine. A little cough didn't mean anything. He rang a small bell to call a slave. Mary Elana answered, and silently brought him a goblet of hot cider upon his request. Mica was found much later by his brother, still working out the details of his trip. Wads of parchment littered the floor.

  “Hey, how are you? The slaves say you've developed a nasty cough.”

  A brief scowl crossed Mica's face. “I'm fine! It's just a little—” He broke down into a hacking cough, leaving him once more struggling to breathe.

  “You're not all right, bro.” Colin knelt beside his brother, alarm evident in his features. “I don't think you're getting better. I think you're getting worse. Let me send for the royal physician.”

  “No, there's no need.” Mica refused, finally able to get more air into his lungs. He felt drained, but refused to lie down. “I've been calculating our trip to the motherhouse.”

  Colin still knelt, and with great reluctance he stood and leaned against the wall so he could be nearer to his elder brother. Mica laid out his plans, frequently having to stop talking just to catch a breath.

  “Ok. Enough,” Colin interrupted after his brother sat struggling for the nth time. He ran to the door and shouted for a slave.

  When one came, he gave the person some instructions, ignoring his brother's protests. He walked back to Mica, who was clutching the writing top with both hands, head bowed as he fought for air.

  “Shit! Mica!”

  Mica feebly waved him off. He was unaware of his brother running from the room, calling for help as he fought to fill his lungs with air. He toppled from the chair with the force of his coughs, and managed to hack up a great deal of bloody phlegm upon the wood floor and rag-braided rug.

  The effort left him dizzy and short of breath. Mica did his best to crawl over to the doorway, but could not find the strength to stand. Just the little movement he had done left him aching and weak all over. His chest pained him from all the coughing. He leaned back against the door edge, arms dangling by his side. He didn't remember feeling this weak and sick back when he had first been mortal.

  The man would have laughed if he’d had breath for it. Of all the times to be felled by an illness which once could have been easily cured. He didn’t realize he was passing out. Mica woke to the stench of unwashed flesh, piss, and a cup thrust under his nose.

  “Get away from me,” he feebly demanded.

  “Drink it; it will help,” Colin commanded his brother from somewhere nearby.

  Mica shook his head, too weak to do much else, revolted by the filth-crusted hand that held the cup. Movement sounded, the nasty hand withdrew. A firm, masculine hand grabbed Mica's chin and tilted his head back.

  His brother held the cup in his other hand, countenance grim. “You will drink this.” He put the side of the cup to Mica's lip.

  “No,” Mica protested through clenched teeth, trying not to move his mouth too much.

  “Stop being so damn stubborn!” Colin pressed harder with the cup and his hand about his brother's chin. His voice lowered. “Don't make me get the duchess. I have a feeling she'll have no problem prying your jaws apart and dumping this down your gullet. She might even enjoy it.”

  Tears leaked out Mica's eyes, to his dismay and embarrassment. He gave up the fight, opened his mouth, and let Colin carefully pour the drink in a bit at a time.

  “Good, real good. I watched the brew being made. There's nothing in here that'll poison you. It should help l
essen the cough.”

  “Colin,” Mica gasped out between swallows.

  “No, don't say anything.” He fed his elder brother more of the liquid, until it was all down.

  He passed the cup off to Mary Elana, who had stood wide-eyed and silent the entire time.

  “Help me get him up and to his room,” Colin directed.

  Mica saw a few of the house guards step forward and help him off the floor to support his stumbling steps back to his room. He didn't have a chance to thank the filthy, rag-covered person who stood next to the young girl.

  * * *

  Mica was expecting his brother, or a slave, with his supper tray. He was relegated to being back in bed. Whatever had been in the goblet Colin forced him to drink had helped some. He still coughed and wheezed and was weak, but he had managed to get several hours of sleep.

  An icy hand touched his feverish brow, his eyelids snapped open.

  “Get away from me!” He snarled, or tried to, before coughing.

  As was her wont, she ignored him. Illyria brought a chair over to his bedside and sat down.

  “Old friend . . .”

  “I'm not—”

  “New enemy. Do shut up and listen, please. If you don't stop being so stubborn, and let people help you to heal, Donny will never be at peace. Is that what you want?”

  “You bitch! Don't you dare speak his name!” He almost bent double with his coughing fit. When he had flopped back on the pillows that propped him up, she spoke again.

  “You won't listen to your brother, and you call me selfish and heartless. You want to put Donny's remains to rest? You want to have your revenge on me? Then you will have to get better first. That means doing what you are told. Your brother thinks you mean to live as a mortal. Now you are getting a very painful reminder of how hard it is when modern inventions and medicine no longer exist. If you insist on ignoring the infection, it will kill you. Hate me if you must, but think of your brother.”