He stumbled through the door and into his mother's arms. "We thought you were dead," she said, joyfully running her hands over his face, studying his back and chest, clucking at the bruises he'd gotten in the fight.
"I was well treated," he said. "And when I asked to leave, the baroness let me go."
"She let you?" his mother asked incredulously.
"She treated me like a guest. She gave me a message to relay to the village, but I can't talk to anyone now. I'm too tired."
His mother brought him water and made him lie down. He slept through the night and late into the following afternoon, when the sparse trees threw thin shadows across the land and his stepfather and brother came home from the fields. He sat at the table with them and ate the food his mother had prepared only because it would concern her if he did not. Actually he had no appetite, but that hardly surprised him. He'd eaten so well in the last few days.
When Erich, his stepfather, served Baron Janosk, he'd lived in the castle in the barracks and lower halls. Emory, on the other hand, could describe the rooms of state, and his family listened intently. As Emory spoke, he discovered broad gaps in his memory, especially in the last few hours before his release, but hid his concern as best he could.
When he explained the baroness's request that he tell others about her plans for Nimbus, his brother Arman asked, "Should we walk to town with you?"
"I'd like to walk there alone," Emory said. "I have to clear the cobwebs from my head."
"It's almost dark. You shouldn't go alone. I'll come along, and I won't say a word," Arman said.
Of course, he wouldn't keep his promise. Arman never stayed quiet for more than a few minutes, Emory knew, but his chatter was harmless and easily ignored.
Arman's physical presence was harder to deal with. At first, his panting as they hurried on grated on Emory. Later, it began to excite him as did the heat of the boy's body whenever he moved close.
They passed two other farms and were on the edge of the town when Arman heard the bleat of a lamb on the hill above them.
"One of Mirci's flock, I suppose. Let's retrieve it so he owes us a favor for a change."
Emory had also heard the low growl of a mountain cat, but felt no fear-not of the cat or the gathering gloom. He climbed the hill, his brother close behind.
The lamb, just old enough to graze, was a white ball against the circle of rocks where it had taken shelter. The cat teased it, slashing out, watching the helpless animal cower, then attacking again. Blood stained the side of the lamb's nose, and one front leg. The scent of it seemed to hang heavy in the air. Emory was about to comment on the scent, then realized he shouldn't be able to smell it at all. The cat screeched as they neared, a hunter defending its prey.
"What in the name of the fates…" Arman began.
"Shhh," Emory said. "Move back."
Arman did, keeping his eyes on the beast. Three steps back, he fell. Emory turned. As he did, the cat saw its advantage and attacked.
Emory knew wildcats were wily; the way the animal fought proved it. It had no desire to attack Emory, instead trying to drive him from its meal. Emory stood his ground, pulling out his knife. Smelling no fear, the cat retreated, still between the boys and the lamb.
Arman pulled out his own knife and tugged at Emory's sleeve. "It's Mirci's lamb, not ours. Let the cat have it," he said.
Emory shook his head. In a move that would have seemed suicidal had it not felt so natural, he attacked.
The cat fell onto its back, its claws ready to rake Emory's chest and belly. Instinctually, Emory did the same, landing next to the cat and sinking his knife into its side, ripping it open.
The cat screeched again, this time in pain, and rolled to face Emory. As it did, Arman tried to move behind it. He was too slow, and the cat slashed his arm. Meanwhile Emory made a slash of his own, opening the feline's throat.
Emory heard Arman whoop with triumph, but the sound was dim, meaning nothing. Only the blood coating his arms and chest was real. He licked it, then slid over to the dead beast, buried his face in the soft, wet flesh and began to drink.
"Emory! What are you doing?" Arman grabbed Emory's arm, intending to pull him away.
Reacting with the same instincts as the cat, Emory slashed backward with his knife.
Arman fell, clutching his stomach, moaning as he tried to stop the flow of blood.
Hearing his cry, Emory turned and rushed to his brother's side. "Arman, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why I did that."
Arman looked up at him, seeing the bloodstained face. "What are you?" Arman whispered.
"I don't know," Emory replied. But he did. The marvelous taste of the blood, the life he felt coursing through him, told him exactly what he had become.
Arman sensed the lie, and the truth behind it as well. "You walked home in daylight," he said.
"It pained me."
"You ate Mother's food."
"But I didn't like it."
"Who does?" Arman coughed. "You ate it just the same."
Though it was now fully dark, Emory could see the stain of his brother's blood spreading on the ground and knew the wound was mortal. He cut his arm and held it out. "Arman, if I am… if I am what I think I am, the only way you will survive is to join me."
"Wh-What do you mean?" Arman whispered.
"Do it!"
"You're sure?"
"Arman, please! Do it!"
Arman drank, gagging at the thought of what he was doing, gagging until he died.
Emory sat with his brother across his knee, singing an old song they both loved. Arman never stirred. Emory felt the last shreds of life leave his brother's body, and he mourned. This gift, this curse, this thing that had happened to him probably couldn't be passed on. Arman's body was already cooling in the chilly night air. There was no life here, nor any hint of unlife.
Emory picked up the body and carried it to the corpse of the wildcat. Let the village think his brother died valiantly, slaying the cat.
He mourned, yes, but did he feel remorse? No. He found his lack of remorse natural. What he had done had been an accident, and though he loved Arman and mourned him, he didn't feel responsible.
Not responsible for the boy's death… but responsible to carry the words of Baroness Ilsabet.
He climbed up the stand of rocks where the Iamb had taken shelter, then picked up the frightened animal and took it down the hill to the tavern.
Still dazed by what he'd done, he summoned tears to his eyes, walked through the tavern's doors, and set the lamb on a table near the door, where Mirci was sitting with friends.
"That cat won't plague your flocks anymore," he said thickly. "My brother died while killing it. I left him there because I had no way to carry him home."
Mirci looked up in shock, and saw Emory and his bloody clothes. "Arman is… is dead?" he asked.
"Yes."
Mirci wrapped his cloak about the shivering boy, sat him down, and bought him a drink. With halting phrases of grief, Emory explained about slaying the cat, that his brother had sought to rescue the lamb but was attacked, and only after a bloody battle did they bring the cat down. Then, shivering and tearful, he snuffled and changed the subject, as though he could speak no longer about the trauma. Instead, he told them about Baroness Ilsabet, relaying the message she'd given him.
The sympathy of the men turned suddenly hard. They, too, seemed happy for a new topic, one that brought anger, not grief. "And we're to believe she has our interests at heart? What about the men her soldiers took?" Mirci asked.
"They all but killed someone. That could hardly be overlooked," the innkeeper said. He'd been serving ale to soldiers and rebels alike for years. Everyone knew he longed for peace.
"They were Emory's friends," Mirci went on. "They fought for the boy."