The sky was the color of a drowned corpse, and its effluvia fell heavy on the city, coursing off the rooftops in narrow streams and pooling in the gloomy streets below. The lanterns were out, and the few people outside the carriage windows rushed by as little more than shadows. Anya shivered, and drew the hood of her cloak tight around her drooping ears.
“We’ll be at the manor soon enough. Here, this is for you to wear.” The beaver sitting across from her, so close their kneecaps touched whenever the carriage hit a loose stone, reached into a pouch on his belt. He wore the breastplate and fine livery of a knight, and a tall sword wrapped in cloth was propped at his side.
“After seven days of silence, I had thought you were not permitted to speak with me.” The beaver had come to Rus to collect her, but they had ridden in separate carriages until the final leg into Parisi, capital city of the Gaulish Empire, when the servants accompanying Anya had at last turned around.
“I imagined you would be disinclined to speak to the man delivering you to the proverbial slaughter.” He spoke Gaulish with a mild provincial accent, and his off-orange incisors showed whenever he opened his mouth.
He handed her a red ribbon, bound at its front to a wooden medallion depicting a wolf biting into the neck of a unicorn. A claim-seal, indicating she belonged to the House of Clary and was otherwise off-limits for hunting. The beaver had the same seal embossed in his breastplate.
“The man whose consort I am to become - I presume you know him? What is he like?” Anya tied the ribbon around her neck. It was smooth against her fur, like the scales of a constrictor-beast that at any moment might spring to life.
“Marquis Yvon? He was given significant responsibility over the Clary business from a young age, and that responsibility became the river that carved the banks of his soul. He cultivates honesty, dignity, and a sharpness of pride, and thus he calms the flood. In that sense, he is a remarkable man.” The beaver looked wistful for a moment. “Oh, right. I will need to take your arts-focus before we arrive. It’s the knife hidden in your sleeve, isn’t it?”
Anya removed the knife, a thin iron blade carved with spindly runes. As she touched the hilt, something stirred in the dim recesses of her mind.
The carriage pulled past a large gate flanked by guards, and Anya was surprised to find herself in a field surrounded by a small forested park. At one end, a lake stood next to a stave lodge, its surface whipped into whorling froth by the rain and wind.
Anya swallowed, and instinctively reached for the saint-icon that hung just above her chest, running its smooth metal back and forth under her fingers.
Saint Georgei and Saint Ascalon slew the great fire-draugr, because they were quick and clever and banished prey-fear from their hearts. I too will be quick. I too will be clever. I too will be unafraid.
She took the beaver’s offered arm, cold mud climbing around her toes as she stepped into the waterlogged grass. Behind her, a second carriage pulled up, and a disheveled wolf emerged, his face criss-crossed by scars. Anya remembered that some important general of Gaul had been captured during the war, and had been sent with her as a part of the peace treaty.
“Alain!” A voice boomed across the field, and Anya looked through the rain to see a wolf bounding towards them. He was young, and perhaps twice Anya’s height, with narrow, angular features atop a surprisingly soft physique. The fur on the back of his head and neck was tied in intricate braids, and he wore a richly embroidered doublet and knee-high paw-boots.
“Master Yvon. I am glad to be returned.” Alain knelt in the mud.
“I…um…” Anya executed a clumsy curtsy. “I offer myself to you.”
Yvon ran a familial hand through the beaver’s - Alain’s - fur. “Knock it off, Alain. There is only us and the consort.”
He seemed to become aware of her presence, and slowly lowered his body until his head was just above hers, his fangs mere inches from her skin. Unlike Alain, he had not masked his scent - it was strong and earthy, with a masculine tinge. She could see herself shaking in his amber eyes.
“Anna, Princess of Rus, heritor of the crimson arts, now Consort of Gaul. Enough to hold a fraction of my curiosity, I suppose. Alain, give me her focus.”
He looked at the knife for a moment and stowed it in his cloak. Alain began to say something, but Yvon waved a hand, and leaned closer until his snout was just at the base of Anya’s ear, his breath hot against her clammy fur.
“At the moment, I have decided it is in my best interest to play along with this charade of consortship. Perform your role, and do not give me a reason to change my mind.” He stood up and waved them away. “Alain, come find me after the ceremony. I would hear your opinions on Rus.”
Only a half minute after Yvon’s departure did Anya realize she was still holding her breath.
—
“Do you know what is to happen at the ritual?”
The last hour had passed in a daze. Alain had handed her off to a maid - a weasel who spoke Gaulish quickly but roughly, and whose hands moved with near-manic efficiency - and she had been stripped, bathed, combed, lathered in scent-masking perfume, and finally thrown into a dress made from thin white layers that seemed only a marginal improvement over nudity. She was now once again with Alain, arms tight over her bosom, shivering in a antechamber filled with seemingly disused furniture.
“Perhaps I would if you had told me during our journey.”
“Better you kept your mind off such things.” Alain shrugged. “It is a modification of the rite of predation. You will take a meal with Yvon and his family. Towards the end of the meal, you must try to escape. Yvon will catch you, and bite your neck just enough to draw blood. He has some practice, so it should not hurt more than necessary.”
“Practice?”
“The Clary family performs the rite of predation only symbolically. A blood-hetaera is paid to perform, and the bite is only to bleed.”
“As opposed to…” Anya drew a line across her neck, and Alain nodded.
“Then Yvon must be in possession of both boundless generosity and boundless self-restraint.”
“The family has a royal monopoly on the sale of certain goods, but must still rely on grass-eater artisans for their manufacture. It is easier to do business when you do not regularly make meals of your partners’ children.”
Alain checked her over, then motioned for her to follow, leading across the lodge to a great hall. Its construction was entirely wood, and brightly painted carvings wound around the wall-posts and across the ceiling beams - ferns, mice, and badgers near the floor, then deer and wolves locked in circular chases, then squirrels and birds as one reached the apex. At the end of the room stood a heavy triptych embossed with gold leaf, showing a wolf and a deer locked in mortal struggle. St. Hughbert of the Lupi and the sorceress Morgana, before their reconciliation and marriage. Before Morgana lay on her deathbed, and Hughbert took her flesh within himself.
Anya shrunk into herself as she saw several wolves seated around a stone altar-table, and before them a mass of well-dressed, bored-looking people of all species on wooden benches. A beautiful goat woman with flowers woven around her horns turned her head, and Anya’s heart skipped - there was something unnerving in her gaze, like looking into a deep lake and seeing nothing but a hollow void below.
“The people at the table are Yvon, his parents the Count and Countess Clary, Yvon’s younger sister Marie, and Duke Hugh Artois, who is representing the royal family. Now, when you try to run, move slowly and keep to a straight line. Yvon is not known for his dexterity,” Alain whispered, before offering a sheepish smile. “Yvon won’t truly hurt you, and it will be over soon enough.”
Alain cleared his throat and guided her into the doorway. “Anna of Rus, eldest kit of Patriarch Vadim III of Rus, consort-to-be of Marquis Yvon Clary.”
It felt as though gaze in the room was upon her, worming past her useless dress and burrowing under her skin. She gripped her icon tightly and let Alain lead her to the table, heart hanging like lead in her chest. As she passed the front row, someone snarled at her -the general from before.
Yvon barely glanced at her as she took her seat next to him at the altar-table. To his left was a stern wolf couple, a younger she-wolf wearing priest’s robes, and at last a wizened old wolf sitting in a wheelchair. The meal had already been set out, and Alain inconspicuously retreated to the benches.
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Silence, the air tense as a bowstring. The wolves’ eyes orbited around her, sneaking glances without making eye contact. At last Yvon took his cutlery and began to work on his fish, every scrape of metal on plate seeming to ring throughout the hall.
“How goes the Hunting Council, father?” Yvon asked.
“If our aim was to hunt each other, one would think it a success. Ten weeks to agree to Rus’ offer of twenty million livres in war reparations, and not a sentence can pass without someone bringing up the succession. Duke Artois, I daresay the late king would-”
“Twenty million? You have all been played for fools. Peace only gives them more time to outbreed us,” the general interjected.
“Silence, Gaspar,” the duke said, his voice like leaky bellows. “The Council has made its decision.”
“And what of the company, boy?” the count asked.
“Well enough, considering the circumstances. The contracts for military supply have mostly run their course, but trade across the White Seas will no longer be disrupted. As Rusian nobles appear to now speak perfect Gaulish,” Yvon glanced at Anya, “we may find an appetite for Gaulish goods.”
“May? Why is it not already done?”
“There are tariffs and monopoly rights to be negotiated around, and the few open roads are still infested with deserters and brigands.”
“Do not waste my time with problems and hypotheticals. There is money to be made, so make it.”
Anya saw that she had no cutlery for the bread and herbs before her, no doubt part of the ritual. Gingerly, she brought her snout forward and began to eat.
“Ah, the tapeworm takes its fill. I do hope it finds the Clary corpus a pleasant home,” the count said. “Marie, I have heard on good faith that rabbits have no season, and are instead eager in perpetuity. It may only be a few hours until our bloodline is desecrated.”
“Father!”
“Mind your words, sir,” the duke growled. “Your son receives the honor of consortship by will of the Hunting Council, and hence by will of the late king. The crimson arts are no small gift.”
The duke glared at the count, as if waiting for an apology, but none was forthcoming. Anya buried herself in her plate, her ears red with shame.
As she began to eat, the conversation settled into a dialogue between Yvon and his father on the more arcane points of Imperial economic policy, and she became increasingly aware that she occupied a large part of the duke’s intention.
“Anna, you do carry the arts of Fyodor the Terrible, do you not?” He at last spoke, and wheeled his chair to face her. His fur was falling out in many places, and a scarf was tightly wrapped around his head.
“Yes, I believe so. Are you likewise a magus?”
“I was a close companion of the old King Henri, back when we were both young and the Dawn Army was still full of fresh blood. His solar arts were like golden tapestries filling the sky, and we felt we could march to the ends of the earth beneath that light. Alas, I am solely an observer.”
“I do not think you would find my arts as beautiful.”
“I have heard there is a field in Rus where Fyodor once felled an army with a single stroke, and the flowers bloom crimson to this day. A queer sort of beauty, but I would like to see it.”
“The smell is unpleasant, and the flowers hide snares and thorns.”
“After you had seen it - the next time you drew your focus and called upon your draugr, what did you think?”
That if I pushed a little harder and reached a little further, perhaps I could grasp that power with my own hands.
“Only that Fyodor’s boyars stole his focus, threw him from the palace roof, and stabbed his corpse until they were sure he was dead. And that I should remain a healer.”
He chuckled and reached forward, cupping her hand in his skeletal fingers. His touch was gentle, but his hands were cold.
“I think you lie, and a sliver of Fyodor’s spark lives in you. Henri was the same, you know, always looking towards the light. A shame your issue are condemned to be half-bloods.”
“Excuse me?”
The duke stared blankly forward, as if trying to glimpse something with his mind’s eye, and it was a long few seconds before he turned back to her.
“Ah, no need to mind the ramblings of a lost old man. It appears Yvon is close to finishing, and you ought to make your move.” He smiled, all crooked fangs, and began to wheel himself back to his place.
It was time. She realized she did not feel fear, only a dull finality that pressed heavy on her skin. She took a deep breath, and gripped her icon one last time.
On her first step, she tripped on her dress and went tumbling to the floor. It still took Yvon a moment to reach her, but soon his teeth found the scruff of her neck and she was dragged before the triptych.
“Listen,” he whispered, his saliva dripping down on her. “If the pain is too much when I bite, squeeze.”
They both went on their knees in front of the triptych, facing the crowd. Yvon placed his free hand on her shoulder, and her heart began to race - some ancient part of her brain knew what was coming, and wanted her to scream and writhe and bite.
Marie stood, and approached Anya with an ornately carved chalice.
“We are gathered to witness the holy union of Marquis Yvon Clary and Royal Consort Anna Vasilev. They walk in the footsteps of St. Hughbert, who took his bride in soul and flesh, and Morgana of Avalon, who was made pure in his love.”
Anya’s eye caught something shiny. It was in the front row, quickly passed between a servant and the general.
Before she could flinch, Yvon dove down on her, lips pressing wetly in broad arcs across her neck and shoulder. She began to shudder, but his hand and bite held her down, and he slowly increased the pressure, teeth sliding into the gaps between her bones. Her skin yielded and broke, and blood-spots blossomed across her dress. Her nerves screamed, but it reached her mind as only a faint whisper.
“There, there. It is done,” Marie whispered, coming forward. Yvon released his teeth, and Marie used a spoon to carefully direct Anya’s blood into the chalice. She handed it to Yvon, who took a tiny sip, and turned to bring it to the table.
“The saint’s will is done, and the blood shall bear his blessing,” she spoke. The blood in the chalice hissed as the saint-arts worked, and when she offered a sip to Yvon, it dripped out as a golden fluid.
“Wait. With more force, boy. You hardly tickled her,” the count interjected. Behind him, the general fiddled with something in his mouth.
He was a magus, wasn’t he? How did his arts work?
Yvon sighed. “The priestess has confirmed the ceremony, father. It is done.”
“Are you a mewling grass-eater, or a wolf of Clary? I will not accept a pittance of blood.”
His draugr was…oh. Yobaniy v rot.
“Traitor!”
The general lunged at the servant, tearing through his throat in an instant. His mouth glinted in the candlelight - steel dentures, his preferred focus. Anya felt a pressure in the air, and smelled the familiar corpse-stench of a draugr forcing its way into the corporeal world.
“Yvon!” Anya gasped.
The general’s flesh began to boil, and his skull split open with a wet crunch, revealing a maw filled with dozens of rows of jagged teeth. His body grew to nearly triple its former size, and dozens of pustules swelled along his back and flank, bursting to reveal mouths ringed with serpentine red eyes.
“Get the family back! Ready silver speartips!” someone shouted. The draugr pounced, far quicker than a creature of its size should be able to move, and the ram pulled Jean away a moment before the draugr’s claws cleaved a chunk from the stone table. The thing looked at her for a moment, eyes quivering and rotating in their sockets, before fixing on the Count and Countess.
Anya felt a second presence, and thorny vines erupted from the ground, shattering the floorboards and wrapping around the draugr’s legs. Alain held a flat-tipped executioner’s blade wrapped in flowering vines, and he rushed forward, interposing himself between the draugr and its prey. Thorns burst through his neck in a green ring, and he grimaced in pain.
She turned to Yvon, but he stood dumbfounded. The draugr grunted and raised its foot, ripping the encircling vines from the earth. Red-black blood oozed from hundreds of thorn-wounds, sizzling where it struck what was left of the floor. Alain changed tactics, weaving new vines into a thorny dome, but he was running out of time.
Blood. It if had blood, it was fully corporeal.
And if it could bleed, it could die.
She kicked Yvon in the groin and snatched her knife as he fell to his knees, drawing it across the scar on her left arm in a single practiced motion. The knife drank her blood, and sensation flooded into her - dozens of beating hearts, vessels pumped full of adrenaline and fear. And a familiar presence, something made of flesh and sinew that didn’t fit right in her reality, hovering just at the edge of her perception.
“Enkidu, with me. I’ll wither its legs.” Pain shot through her arm as her blood began to evaporate, and she turned her mind to the draugr. Its transformation had already left its organs unstable, and she overlaid her will on its flesh.
“Work of life, be unmade.”
The draugr roared, a sound like glass on stone, and its legs began to putrefy to organic muck. Agonizing hunger backscattered through Anya’s mind.
Anya’s pulse raced, and her limbs felt weak. The usual symptoms of rapid blood loss. The draugr reared up to strike.
“I’ll enter its bloodstream and burst its heart. Take as much blood as you want, just don’t kill me.” She swallowed and plunged the knife into her chest, severing a key artery. Her throat felt unbearably tight, and could feel the adrenaline in her system struggling to keep her afloat. She slipped a will-cord into the draugr’s blood, letting it be carried to the thing’s heart.
“Flesh, forget your form, and grow beyond your end.”
Surging power, hot under her skin. The draugr froze and turned to her, and Anya thought she saw panic in its eyes. Then its torso bloated and burst open, revealing a mass of tumors where its heart had been. It collapsed, spraying viscera across the altar, and Anya let out a screeching laugh. She had turned its flesh against it, and the monster was no more. The last thing she registered before her consciousness faded was the prince’s eyes, wide with awe and shock.