icked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn't read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father's.
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he opened the front cover. The pages were made of vellum and they smelled old, but the ink was still totally legible.
John thought of those notes he'd written to Trez and iAm back at Sal's and wondered if his and his father's handwriting were at all similar. As the entries in the diary were done in the Old Language, there was no way of knowing.
Focusing his tired eyes, he started out just examining how the characters were formed, how the ink strokes whipped about to form the symbols, how there were no mistakes or cross-outs, how even though the pages were not lined, his father had nonetheless made neat, even rows. He imagined how Darius might have bent over the pages and written by candlelight, dipping a quill pen. . . .
An odd shimmer went through John, the kind that made him wonder whether he was going to have to be sick. . . but the nausea passed as an image came to him.
A huge stone house not unlike the one they were living in now. A room kitted out with beautiful things. A hurried entry made on these pages at a desk before a grand ball.
The light of candle, warm and soft.
John shook himself and kept turning the pages. Sometime along the way he started not just measuring the lines of characters, but reading them. . . .
The color of the ink changed from black to brown when his father wrote about his first night in the warrior camp. How cold it was. How scared he was. How much he missed home.
How alone he felt.
John empathized with the male to the point where it seemed as though there was no separation between the father and the son: In spite of the many, many years and an entire continent of distance, it was as though he were in his father's shoes.
Well, duh. He was in the exact same situation: a hostile reality with a lot of dark corners. . . and no parents to back him up now that Wellsie was dead and Tohr was a living, breathing ghost.
Hard to know when his eyelids went down and stayed there.
But at some point he fell asleep with what little he had of his father held reverently in his hands.
Chapter Eight
1671, SPRINGTIME, THE OLD COUNTRY
Darius materialized in a stretch of thick forest, taking form beside the entrance of a cave. As he scanned the night, he listened for any sounds worthy of notice. . . . There were deer tiptoeing around down by the quietly running stream, and the breeze whistled through the pine needles, and he could hear his own breathing. But there were no humans or lessers about.
A moment longer. . . and then he slipped beneath the overhang of rock and walked into a natural room created aeons ago. Deeper and deeper he went, the air thickening with a smell he despised: The musty dirt and cold humidity reminded him of the war camp--and even though he'd been out of that hellish place for twenty-seven years, the memories of his time with the Bloodletter were enough to make him recoil even now.
At the far wall, he ran his hand over the wet, uneven rock until he found the iron pull that released the hidden door's locking mechanism. There was a muffled squeal as hinges turned and then a portion of the cave slid to the right. He didn't wait for the panel to fully retract, but stepped through as soon as he could wedge his thick chest in laterally. On the other side, he hit a second lever and waited until the section was secured back in place.
The long pathway to the Brotherhood's sanctum sanctorum was lit with torches that burned ferociously and cast hard-lined shadows that jerked and spasmed on the rough floor and ceiling. He was about halfway down when the voices of his brothers reached his ears.
Clearly, there were a lot of them at the meeting, given the symphony of bass, male tones that overlapped and competed for airspace.
He was probably the last to arrive.
When he got to the iron-barred gate, he took a heavy key from his breast pocket and pushed it into the lock. Opening the way took strength, even for him, the huge gate swinging free of its anchor only if he who sought to enter could prove himself worthy of forcing it wide.
When he got down into the wide-open space deep in the earth, the Brotherhood was all there and, with his appearance, the meeting commenced.
As he took a stand next to Ahgony, the voices silenced and Wrath the Fair regarded the assembled. The Brothers respected the race's leader, even if he was not a warrior among them, for he was a regal male of worth whose sage council and prudent restraint were of great value in the war against the Lessening Society.
"My warriors," the king said. "I address you this eve with grave news and a request. A doggen emissary came unto my private home during the sunlight and sought a personal audience. After refusing to present his cause unto mine own attendant, he broke down and wept. "
As the monarch's clear green eyes circled the faces, Darius wondered where this was leading. Nowhere good, he thought.
"It was then that I interceded. " The king's lids lowered briefly. "The doggen 's master had sent him forth unto me with the worst possible news. The unmated daughter of the family is missing. Having taken an early retire, all appeared well with her until her maid brought forth a midday repast in the event she was of a mind for sustenance. Her room was empty. "