The Strange Path (19 page)

The sharp pain in her thigh woke her.

Whiskey sat bolt upright with a hiss, grabbing her leg. Immediately, the pain receded. “Damn it!” She saw she’d been laid on Dorst’s bed. He sat alert on a chair beside it, watching her. “How long have I been out?”

“Not long,
Gasan
. No more than twenty minutes.”

She rubbed her face, and scooted to the edge to swing her feet over. “I’m surprised you didn’t leave me here to find the padre.”

“Your last words before losing consciousness were somewhat enigmatic. I decided to remain here for clarification. Have you been learning our language from Fiona or Cora?”

Brow furrowed, she tried to remember what she’d said before passing out. “No.”

“You spoke Sanguire in your sleep.”

She gaped at him. “Was I repeating a chant?” What kind of damage would it do if she repeated a meditation? Had anyone ever done it before? The thought both intrigued and terrified her.

Dorst slowly shook his head. “No. You were carrying on a conversation with someone.” He leaned on his elbows, coming within inches of her. “Who was it?”

Whiskey debated with herself. What if he was the one who had killed Elisibet in the first place? She shivered. Again she heard the voice in her dream, the man saying,
“What is done is done.”
That wasn’t Reynhard’s voice. Why would he be her
Baruñal
if he meant her harm? Why would she instinctively trust him without knowing him if he’d been responsible for her past death? Her mind reeled from that.
When the hell did I accept what I’ve been dreaming is real?

“Whiskey, you are safe with me. I will not betray you.”

She examined him, letting his image blur slightly in her vision. He told the truth. “It’s a nightmare I’ve been having for months. I’m in a study of some sort, and I’ve been wounded. I hear a man’s voice, then a woman leans over me, crying. We talk to one another, and I get really cold. Then I wake up.”

“Where is the wound?”

“My right thigh.” She ran her hand along her uninjured leg. “I think the artery is nicked. There’s lots of blood, but I don’t die quickly.”

“You’ve been having this dream for months you say?”

Whiskey nodded.

“And they speak Sanguire?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I didn’t understand a word of it until last night. That was the first time I heard it in English.”

He raised a hairless eyebrow. “I don’t believe you heard it in English,
Gasan
. While you were unconscious, you spoke our words fluently. Somehow, you’ve subconsciously picked up the language. I’m uncertain how that could happen.”

She nibbled at her lip. “There’s more.”

Dorst leaned back in his chair, a slightly amused air about him as he regained his equilibrium. “Do tell.”

“This is going to sound stupid.”

“Considering the revelations I’ve received from you over the past few minutes, I highly doubt that. Please continue.”

“I have visions during the meditations. My first one was from my childhood. I saw my parents.”
Gareth and Nahimana Davis.
Glancing at Dorst, she saw his attention appeared politely interested. His eyes intent on hers, however, revealed the lie of his demeanor. She sensed his fascination. His interest bolstered her flagging confidence, and she continued. “The second one—I saw…” She trailed off with a groan. Thinking she’d had visions from a past life was crazy enough. Announcing them aloud sounded even more insane.
He’s going to lock you up in a Sanguire nuthouse.

“Whiskey, I will not judge your visions. As I said, each is personal to the individual. No one will ever hear of them from my lips.”

She nodded. “In the second one, I—I’m Elisibet Vasilla.”

Dorst looked as if someone had gut punched him. His careful control faltered, and his face slackened in shock. It was hard to imagine he could become any more wan, but what little blood remained in his face drained completely. “What did you say?”

“I’m Elisibet Vasilla,” she repeated. His response alarmed her, and she began to babble. “I’m at a dance or something, and I see a woman there, the same woman that leans over me in my nightmare. Her name’s Margaurethe O’Toole. I tell someone that I want her, but I don’t see who answers me. Then I’m overlooking a garden where she’s playing with other women her age. After that, she’s in my suite, and we’re having something to eat.” She blushed hotly at the memory of what happened next, shutting her mouth with a snap.

He stood with such abruptness that she flinched back from him. He stalked away from her. Leaning over, his hands gripped the small table with such force, she heard the wood fibers creak. One of the cups overturned, spilling the dregs of chocolate to pool and drip to the carpet below. He stared out the window, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

Whiskey relaxed. Her instincts had proved true; he hadn’t hurt her, and she still believed he wouldn’t. Whatever he felt wasn’t directed at her. Comparing his scent to that of others she’d smelled over the last few days, she recognized a faint odor of fear. She didn’t have enough experience with her senses to understand what other emotions he felt.

Several minutes passed before the rhythm of his heart slowed to normal. The table stopped shaking. When he spoke, his voice was gruff. “
Zaz ne za tud
?”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered the gibberish. She almost asked him to repeat it again when something connected in her brain. “Do I know who I am?” He didn’t move or answer, forcing her to seriously consider his question. “A few hours ago, I would have said yes. But now, I don’t know. It can’t be possible, Reynhard.”

He straightened, inhaling deeply. “What can’t be possible?”

Whiskey scoffed. “The shit going on in my head!” She tapped her forehead with a finger to accentuate her words. “I was a Sanguire queen several hundred years ago in a past life? And now, I just happen to remember it while going through meditations designed to physically change me into a being that drinks Human blood to survive? It sounds like a movie, or maybe an elaborate hoax. Where the hell’s the camera crew?” She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m going crazy. That’s all there is to it. I’m already in the psych ward at Swedish or something, and this is just a drug dream.”

“Your sanity is not in question, yet.” Dorst left the table to kneel before her. “What is your true name?”

She peered at him. The name she’d so carefully guarded throughout her adolescence rolled off her lips without a qualm. “Jenna Davis.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Davis.”

Whiskey couldn’t resist smiling at the absurd introduction.

He bowed his head. “I, Reynhard Dorst, Master of Spies and Chief Assassin, recognize
Ninsumgal
Jenna Davis as my liege and ruler. My dagger, my blood, my heart is yours, my
Gasan
, to do with as you will.”

Her mouth dropped open. She stared at the three strips of black hair atop his pate.

When she failed to respond, he lifted his head and grinned at her. “Well? Do you accept me?”

Whiskey closed her mouth, eyes wide. “Um. Yeah, I guess.” She forced herself to the task at hand. This required something formal, though she hadn’t a clue how to go about it. “Your dagger, your blood, your heart are mine to do with as I will. In return,” and here she momentarily faltered. “In return, I swear to treat you as you treat me, respect with respect, trust with trust, loyalty with loyalty.”

“Not bad.” He appeared impressed. “This will have to be repeated with the proper witnesses. Until then, may I rise?”

“Oh! Yeah.” Dorst did so, and resumed his chair. “What just happened?”

“I swore fealty to you, my
Gasan
. I’m honored to be the first of what will hopefully be many.”

Slightly suspicious, she wondered if it meant what she thought it did. “What’s ‘fealty?”’

“Ach, American education is sorely lacking these days.” His voice took on a lecturing tone. “Swearing fealty is an act of swearing my loyalty to you. The word was used extensively in the Middle Ages, usually sworn by vassals to their feudal lord. I have, in effect, sworn my life to you so that you may use it as you deem necessary.”

“Your life?” Her head swam at the impact of his statement. “Then it’s real? These visions and dreams are real?”

“I believe they are.”

She shook her head to clear it, her distrustful traits rising to the fore. “You know, skipping past the impossibility of the whole thing, how do you know I’m not just a plant? From what the padre told me about my resemblance to Elisibet, I’ve already figured out what Fiona’s plans are for me. It could just be coincidence that I look like her, and am Sanguire.”

Dorst nodded slowly. “Excellent point, my
Gasan
. However, you’re not taking one thing into consideration.”

“What’s that?”

He smiled. “I knew
Ninsumgal
Elisibet. I have personal experience with the nature of her being.”

Whiskey pursed her lips, not getting the distinction.

“Tell me, how did you discover the priest was Sanguire?” He crossed his legs, and perched his hands upon them.

She remembered the dark chocolate warmth. “I felt him. Like I felt you when I got to this floor.” Reaching out with her mind, she easily engaged with the steel and amber she’d sensed before. “Like I’m feeling you now. Does every Sanguire feel different?”

“Yes, they do. It’s subjective, as well. How I feel to you is different than how I feel to Cora. Sometimes it’s just a matter of degree, but the nature of an adult Sanguire is similar to a person’s appearance—each is varied from individual to individual. No two will ever feel, smell, sense or sound the same.”

“So.” She considered a moment, the thought dawning as he spoke again.

“
Ninsumgal
Elisibet’s essence was a heady mixture of roses, as is yours.” He frowned in thought a moment. “I’ve always wondered if the fairly non-threatening essence of her being had something to do with her rather violent nature.” He shook his head, and waved it away with an elegant gesture. “No matter.”

Violent?
“You’re saying I feel like Elisibet?” The bond between them grew stronger as Dorst focused once more upon her. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but she imagined it had the ability to be so with the wrong person.

“To a good degree,” he pronounced. “There are some slight differences, a hint of water and blood that I don’t remember experiencing. All in all, however, your nature is strikingly similar to hers.”

“Would that mean anyone else who’d known her would find something similar?”

He smiled. “To my knowledge, no Sanguire has ever ‘returned,’ so to speak. Perhaps so.”

Whiskey digested this information. The offhand manner in which Dorst had mentioned Elisibet’s violent personality disturbed her. She was a “monster of composite power” to these people. Castillo had immediately notified the
Agrun Nam
when he’d seen her. Fiona, subtle threats aside, wanted Whiskey under her thumb.
But Reynhard says I feel different than her.

Dorst waited for a response from her, calmly watching her.

Why wouldn’t I feel different? I’m me, not her.
Why would Castillo, a self-proclaimed “expatriate,” notify the leading European council upon seeing her? Why would Fiona think she could use Whiskey just because of her appearance?
Why would Reynhard swear...himself to me? I’m just a screwed-up street kid!

She said, “There’s something missing here, something you haven’t told me. I get that I look like this badass bitch from your past, but what does that have to do with anything? I’m guessing you think I’m the person you’ve been searching for all this time. You said at Malice that you’d thought you’d found her a couple of times, but hadn’t. You just said this has never happened before, so Sanguire don’t reincarnate. Are you here to test me like the Dalai Lama or something?”

He chuckled. “No, my
Gasan
, I will not trot out a favored bowl or pen that
Ninsumgal
Elisibet enjoyed to test you.” He glanced over at the bland knife still on the dresser. “Though, had I done so, you’d already have passed the test.”

“That was hers?” Whiskey stood and stared at it, her body suddenly edgy with the desire to take it from its resting place.

“It belonged to her father, one that he wore all his days. She did, as well.”

Whiskey forced herself to resume her seat, tearing her gaze from the knife with an effort. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“After my
Ninsumgal
was assassinated several bad years passed. They are now known as the Purge. Anyone who was truly loyal to or a patron of Elisibet was hunted down, put on trial, tortured, or outright killed.”

A vision of Margaurethe O’Toole being tortured or killed made Whiskey dizzy. “You survived. Did others?” she demanded, her voice strained.

Dorst cocked his head at her. “If you mean
Ki’an Gasan
Margaurethe, have no fear. She lives.”

Whiskey’s heart pounded.
She does exist. She’s alive.

“Shall I continue?”

“Yeah.”

“The
Agrun Nam
, in all their wisdom, decided to forego a monarchy, and rule in the
Ninsumgal’s
stead. Thirty-two years later, a trio of
ensi’ummai
attended a public session. Their leader, Mahar, proclaimed that Elisibet may be dead, but her spirit lived. She would return to bring order to chaos, compassion to corruption, and peace to warring peoples.”

“Oracles?” She concentrated on the name. “I don’t recall Mahar.”

“Mahar was ancient, one of the oldest Sanguire alive even then. Some said she lost her mind to senility in the shrouded history of our past. Others thought she was someone to venerate for her visions and wisdom.” Dorst gave a light shrug. “She rarely made public appearances, so you can imagine how her words went over with the council.”

Whiskey smirked. “Not well.”

He mirrored her expression. “Exactly. In any case, because the session was a public one, word of Mahar’s prophecy spread far and wide in no time. Hence, my search for you.”