Blood Hope

Isranon closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his clasped hands as he found his center, and prayed ever more fervently to his liege gods, Kalirion and Dynanna, for the forgiveness that he found impossible to grant himself. In still moments alone, he grappled with his memories of the four imps at the village of Chyniolus, how they had screamed and twisted in his grip as he sank his fangs into them one at a time, draining them to death in the madness of hunger. Amiri had insisted that his draining of the imps had been a hemovore's natural response to the stress of a prolonged battle. Yet he could not forgive himself, and doubted that he ever would.

He had departed so deeply from his dead father's teachings of absolute non-violence, of not taking a life out of appetite or for pleasure, that Isranon knew there could be no turning back to the way he had been raised. When his father had found the blades that his lycan mentor, Nevin, had given him, Isranon Soulspeaker had told Dawnreturning that the only way he would ever be able to keep the teachings would be to die. He had been a month shy of twelve-years-old and two weeks later his father and all of the Dark Brothers were dead.

Sometimes he thought he heard his father's voice condemning him in the night as he struggled for sleep and finally resorted to drugs to gain the slumber he needed.

Each day when he rose from sleep, he felt again for the godmarks on his body to reassure himself that their favor had not been withdrawn from him: Kalirion Sun-Lord's sunburst godmark on his forehead; Dynanna God of Cussedness and Perversity's squiggle on his scarred chest; and Dynarien's rose on his neck. They were all still there.

Isranon tried to focus on his prayers, but his thoughts kept flickering back to his father with intense feelings of shame. His hand went out to the enchanted staff of his ancestor and namesake, Isranon Dawnhand, and caressed it as if it were a talisman to ease his heart. At eight years old, Isranon had vowed to find it; and his father had chastised him for being arrogant. A year ago he had persuaded the God of Cussedness to relinquish it to him from her hoard.

He ran his eyes down the staff known as Warrior and managed a small smile. Even from where he sat Isranon could feel the power and energy coiled around Warrior's six feet of hard rock maple. Nine inches of diamond had been magically grown onto the butt and the shaft was incised with intricate Kalirioni runes amid vines and leaves in jeweled inlays. The upper body, head, and wings of a pegasus topped it, so solidly done in heavy burnished kendaryl that it could be used to strike with that end also.

Anksha darted into the tent, threw her cloak over a chair, and wiggled her body in gratitude to the warmth of the spell Isranon had placed over the tent.

"Baby's growing." She slipped into her comfortable patois as she rubbed against him, patting her puffy belly. She could speak perfectly in several languages, but often reverted to the way she had spoken as a child. The tight curl of her tail showed how happy she felt. The tiniest bit of fur, so sleek as to be indistinguishable from the skin of her face, throat, and hands, showed beneath the edge of her neckline. Except for that it was easy for her to pass for human. "Anksha not one of a kind anymore."

Isranon caressed her with a fond smile. For centuries, his wife had been the only surviving member of her species. No one had ever realized how profoundly lonely she felt until he came into her life. His rogue magic had crossed the boundaries of their species and given her the child she had always craved. The pregnancy had relieved her abiding sense of isolation. She was his lion on love's leash; and he loved her with all of his heart.

She searched his face for signs of his mood, the tip of her tail beginning to twitch. "You're brooding, again?"

Isranon kissed her forehead. "Always."

"You are a good mon, my Isranon." She watched his expression.

"No, I am not. The darkness in my soul does not yield easily to my good intentions, Pet."

Anksha blinked and considered. "Hoon is bad. Sometimes…" She paused and thought for a bit more. "Sometimes, I think I always knew it. He did not kill Dawnhand, but he stole the staff so that Waejonan could do it. I was a baby." Anksha extended her hand to indicate how small she had been. "I forgave him. I was always forgiving him."

Isranon heaved a sigh and shook his head. "If you are saying that what I have done is forgivable…"

"No, not saying that. You're not a bad mon. You're teaching me not to eat little children. I liked the taste of babies. I still do. But now I want to know if they are good children or bad children before I eat them." She gave him a cheeky grin, displaying her huge tearing fangs. Anksha had the instincts of a cat that liked to play with its food and steal nestlings out of trees; armed with a feline's claws and fangs and possessed of a taste for blood and flesh – especially the blood of the powerful. "I only eat bad children now."

"You should not eat children at all." He ruffled her thick mane of black hair.

Anksha scowled. "I want to eat Stygean. He's bad."

Isranon stiffened. He could not let go of his belief that he could turn Stygean Loosestrife from the path leading to the darkness of the rites of mortgiefan, before the boy's soul could become tainted by them.

"Promise you won't eat him or take him as a blood-slave, Anksha. Please?" Isranon remembered the way he had suffered when Anksha took him as a blood-slave, setting her Dominance-Links through all the fibers of both his physical and psychic body; and he shivered at the thought of her doing the same to Stygean.

"If he's bad…"

"I should be the one to decide that."

"Jingen likes my candy. I give him candy all the time. Stygean says mean things to me when I offer him candy."

"Give him time, Anksha. He will come around." Isranon's thoughts strayed to the two boys. Jingen would be thirteen soon; Stygean already was. They were sa'necari-born and had already matured into their fangs, powers, and appetites for both blood and sex. Many of Isranon's companions had tried to pressure him into having both boys killed on the grounds that they were too old and indoctrinated into the ways of their people to ever change. Isranon felt driven to try and salvage them. Jingen parroted Isranon's teaching at everyone. Stygean constantly threw his sa'necari beliefs in their faces and rejected the teachings. Yet, Isranon felt most drawn to Stygean; seeing something of himself in the boy. Defiance had been Isranon's sword and shield after he lost his family to sa'necari raiders at twelve. Stygean's defiance reminded Isranon of his own.

"I have a dream, Anksha. I am the last Dark Brother of the Light, and I have chosen a path that leads counter to some of the teaching. I think salvation for my people can only be achieved if I found a new Dark Brothers. One based upon a middle path. You captured twenty-eight sa'necari-born children during the fighting at Ocealay. I want them. I want to teach them to follow my path."

"Including Stygean and Jingen?"

"Yes."

"Stygean wants to kill you."

"Possibly." Isranon gave a weary shrug. "Stygean is sa'necari, born and raised. However, he is not yet tainted by the rites. He's known love, and I'm certain he still craves it. How can I hope to end the cycle of hatred if I fail to turn boys like Stygean from the paths of darkness?"

"I eat them. No more hatred."

"It's not that simple." He stroked his fingers through her hair. "Redemption is not cheaply bought. Neither mine nor his."

GODWAR CENTRAL

Blood Hope