Chapter Three

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back. The dark kynaz knelt half-slumped next to him, regarding him with no apparent expression. Merodach glared at her, and then it registered that his wounds no longer pained him. He sat up, staring down at himself.

A thin scum of blood lay over his darkly blotched skin, but even now it was being drawn in as his pores absorbed it thirstily. The cuts across his belly were now mere scars, and his leg was entirely whole.

The dark kynaz held out the fragment of skull, preparing to pour more healing blood over the remaining cut on his arm. Merodach swatted her, knocking her backwards. She sprawled limply for a second, and then she righted herself with the same puppet awkwardness as before. She looked around, found the fragment of skull, and staggered upright to go back to the fountain again.

"How dare you," Merodach said. He tried to get up, but his legs failed him.

The other kynaz came back with another shallow bowlful of blood. "You are no krynvelhat," she said. "Not the one I would have wished. But you are strong, and you are clever. You will do. Drink."

"No," Merodach said, but it was too late. She had healed him enough to prevent his death. That debt was enough to sink him for many incarnations to come. He felt it clinging to him with the fervency humans generally reserve for love and loathing. Merodach snarled at his fate, but there was no point in resisting further. He held out his hand for the bowl, and drank. The kynaz took it from his unresisting hand and filled it again. After the second one he managed to get upright. The dark kynaz watched him with that same lack of affect. He took a couple of weak steps to the fountain and leaned over the spray, drinking as fast as he could swallow.

When he turned away at last, wiping his mouth, he could stand without trouble. The dark kynaz stood with her weight to one side, head and arms hanging as if she could not hold them up. She still watched him, dark eyes behind the wispy fringe of dark hair.

Merodach retrieved his mace without comment. He looked around for the breastplate. It lay against the wall beside his greave. It was completely whole, free even from the ordinary dents of long wear. He armored himself again before he turned his attention to the one he was sure he would learn to hate.

"I could kill you," he said.

"You will not," said the other. "You hold your honor too dear." She crossed the bloody floor back to her corner, which was undoubtedly the cleanest part of the room, and flopped down again. She did not sit down or kneel; she simply dropped as if shot by an arrow. One curly horn bounced against a wall, and then her head sank onto one shoulder.

Merodach sighed as he went to put on his armor again. "Then name the enemy I now serve."

"I am Sodrinye," said the dark kynaz. Her voice was losing volume as he listened. "I am not your enemy. Go and serve your Lord, and return to me again."

"What is wrong with you?" Merodach said.

"I am a Sleeper," said Sodrinye. "I was born so." And then she closed her eyes and said nothing more.

"You cannot stay here," Merodach said. "Others will look for Belteshazzar."

There was no answer from Sodrinye the Sleeper. Merodach finished buckling his greave and went to squat in front of her. She was entirely still, only the regular rise and fall of her chest indicating she still lived. Merodach prodded her shoulder with one finger. Nothing happened. The soft-looking skin was as stiff as a corpse in rigor, if entirely too warm.

I believe I now understand what befell Belteshazzar. A mage who could summon three daedra at once could take him to pieces without trouble, he thought. If she were awake. He looked around. The chamber that had held the two clannfear was small, but the doorway was unobtrusive. Merodach tugged experimentally on Sodrinye's wrist. There was no response. Her wrist and arm were as hard as her shoulder, though she was obviously without much muscle. Merodach consigned that paradox to a later time and moved to hoist her over his shoulder.

She was surprisingly heavy. Merodach carried her into the smaller room and slung her down in a corner. She lay where he put her, though the position did not look particularly comfortable.

"I do not care about your comfort," Merodach told her. She did not seem to hear. The room also held one of the Punished, a red sac held onto its rack by stringy tendons. It expanded and contracted regularly, like a heart beating. Merodach dragged it into the center of the room so that its shadow fell across the Sleeper. She should be entirely invisible from the doorway.

It was as much as he was prepared to do. Merodach turned to go.

---

Mishael was still waiting at the bottom of the ramp.

"Hail," said Merodach. The other kynaz turned to watch him approach. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Merodach's repaired armor.

"Hail," said Mishael. "I am impressed, brother caitiff."

"Without cause, I assure you," Merodach said, smiling tightly. "I must tell the kynreeve of Belteshazzar's death. You will pardon me."

"Yes, of course," said Mishael. He shot Merodach a sly glance. "Whatever became of the kynval's toy?"

"I assume his summonings consumed her, as they did him," Merodach said, lying without a second thought. "These walls thirst at all times. The room will cleanse itself soon enough."

"It is even so," said Mishael.

"I believe you said you had a question for me, brother caitiff," said Merodach.

Mishael grinned, showing his jagged yellow teeth. He tapped the hilt of his longsword. "I believe you have answered it. You are above my level. I must bide my time, or choose another soul."

"I will be honored by the challenge," said Merodach. "Should you prefer not to wait, I understand Abednego has been growing careless of late." He turned and walked away, putting his back to the other kynaz without a second thought. Mishael was not like Belteshazzar. He would never attack from behind. Even with that level of scruple, his longsword skill would probably raise him above the rank of caitiff soon.

I probably will not be a caitiff much longer, either, Ebel-Merodach thought dryly. Whatever the Sleeper plans for me, I cannot imagine I will enjoy it.