Krevan’s eyes narrowed.
Tylar read the pain there, deep rooted and old. He had to end this. He spoke up, drawing the Wyr-lord’s attention. “Is there a deal to be struck here or not?”
“To the point,” Bennifren said, ancient eyes staring out of the pudgy, soft face. “Very good. The council has conferred. We will allow you safe passage through our burrows.”
“And the price?” Tylar asked.
“One you can live with, I believe… and that is the point of all this, is it not?”
Tylar smelled sour milk wafting as the Wyr-lord was carried closer.
“For ages upon end,” he continued, “the Wyr clans have sought divinity in flesh. We have made many strides toward that end. The black knight who led you here was but one success, a mortal man almost unbound by time. But he does age, like myself, only much more slowly. A century or more and he will expire, as will I. That is, if he does not die sooner of severe wounds or sickness like any man. We have some manner to go before we can breed godhood out of mortal flesh-but we grow closer with every passing birth.”
Tylar had seen the results of such births over the years: children without limbs, creatures of misshapen flesh, Grace-maddened beasts. But the worst were those like the abomination before him. Twisted by alchemies in the womb, yet wise beyond reason. They were dangerous and cunning.
He would have to tread lightly. He had no misconceptions about the Wyr, and they surely were not blind to his own abilities: from the Grace flowing through his body to the smoky daemon held in check. Yet they allowed him into their Lair without fear. He did not doubt that eyes watched from unseen places, and safeguards were in place to kill them all at the slightest provocation.
“Then what do you want from us?” Tylar asked again.
“As payment for saving your flesh, we ask only that you leave a little of it behind.”
“What do you mean?”
The eyes of the babe flashed brighter. “You have been blasted by Grace, had it infused into your being. One such as yourself could help us achieve our ancient goal in a single generation.
“We want nothing more-and nothing less-than a single sample of each of your eight humours. Leave that behind and passage will be granted to all of you.”
Tylar considered this offer. It was plain enough. He began to open his mouth, ready to agree.
Rogger mumbled around his pipe, the words barely reaching Tylar’s ears, “Bargain, damn you…”
Tylar realized he had been too ready to seal the deal. “You ask for much,” he stumbled out. “I say my blood alone should buy us passage.”
“What you offer so freely we could perhaps take by force,” Bennifren countered, eyes squinting with threat.
“But what will it cost you? You know I am not without weapons.”
“Your daemon…” the Wyr-lord sneered, a disturbing expression on a babe’s face.
Tylar nodded. Let them believe he could wield the creature like a sword. “You would never find your way out of our burrows. We have traps that can kill even a daemon-cursed man. And what of your friends? Do you throw their lives away so easily?”
Tylar sighed and countered. “Then I’ll offer blood and both biles.”
“Shite and piss? That’s how you sweeten the deal. I’m not moved.”
“Then make a counter.”
“I will leave you tears and sweat, and take all else.”
Tylar narrowed his eyes. The Wyr birthed abominations in their drive for divinity. They would want his seed more than anything else. He suspected it was this very reason he was still alive. While the Wyr might harvest most humours from his corpse, his seed would die with him.
Yet now that he considered it, this was the one humour he would keep to himself. He would not have some twisted child born from the seed of his loins. Not among the Wyr. He had only to consider Krevan’s story to know better.
“You may have all my humours except one,” Tylar said.
“You wish to restrain your seed from us,” the babe said, as if reading his mind. “Is this not so?”
Tylar felt a chill despite the hearth. Dark intelligence shone from the little one’s eyes. He sensed a trap being set but had no choice but to step forward. He nodded his agreement.
“We will allow this.”
Tylar could not hold back his surprise and spoke too soon. “Then we have a bargain.”
“Almost… we will allow you to restrain your seed, for now, to keep it safe where it now resides. But we demand a future claim.”
Tylar frowned at this.
“Before you die, you must forfeit your seed to the Wyr.”
He shook his head. “Death can come suddenly, without warning. I cannot promise time to cast my seed.”
The Wyr-lord nodded. “We accept this risk, but in doing so, we require one last concession to seal the bargain.”
“And what is that?”
“One of the Wyr will journey with you from here, to safeguard our claim, to keep its bearer secure.”
“You wish to send a guard along with us?”
“That is our last and best offer.”
Tylar glanced to Rogger. He had remained silent. His only assistance now was a shrug.
Tylar faced the Wyr-lord. He still felt the presence of the noose, but they had no other option.
With a deep sigh, he nodded. “We accept your bargain.”
“So it is spoken, so it is bound,” the lord finished. The woman turned, obeying some unseen signal, driven and ridden like a barebacked horse. “Meet your guardian.”
Tylar prepared himself to face some heaving monstrosity, some muscled mix of loam-giant and Wyr-blasted corruption.
The guardian stepped into the doorway.
Tylar’s eyes widened in shock.
She was as tall as Krevan, stately of limb, decked in deer-skin from boots to furred collar, cut low between her ample breasts. The curves of her body seemed to ripple as she entered the chamber, moving like some feral black leopard. Her ebony hair fell straight to her shoulders, unbraided, untamed. Her skin was the hue of bitternut: dark, but mixed with cream. Her black eyes bore the slightest narrowed pinch, accentuating her feline grace. Her lips were full, nose narrow.
Her calm gaze swept the room and settled on Tylar. A perfume of crushed lilies carried in with her… accompanied by a deeper, muskier scent that quickened Tylar’s breath as he attempted to capture it.
“May I introduce Wyr-mistress Eylan,” the babe-lord said.
Rogger mumbled behind Tylar, “You’d better keep a close eye on that seed of yours. Something tells me you might be giving it sooner than you expected… and willingly at that.”
So here was the Wyr-lord’s trap.
Tylar watched Eylan bow, moving with such unassuming grace.
A trap baited most beautifully.
Deep underground, Tylar stepped from the steaming chamber where a hot spring bubbled. Smelling of salt and iron, the air had seared and drawn sweat from all his pores. Wearing only a breechcloth, he shivered as he entered the neighboring cell, ready to let his sweat be harvested by Wyrd Bennifren’s alchemist.
“Tylar…”
The new voice startled him, unexpected as it was.
Delia stood in the chamber.
He half-covered his nakedness as she crossed toward him.
Past her shoulder, at the entrance, he spotted the thicklimbed giant with the bony brow-his guard-and the wizened old alchemist who wheezed constantly. In the company of these two Wyr-men, Tylar had already emptied bowel and bladder. He had spat until his mouth was paste and had sniffed ground nettlecorn until his nose dripped heavily. Everything had been collected in crystal receptacles, ready for some dark purpose, the thought of which unnerved Tylar.
Delia spoke when she reached his side, glancing askance at his body. “I’ve convinced them to allow me to harvest your last three humours. Blood and tears are especially delicate to collect. And as a chosen Hand, I’ve the most experience.”
He nodded.
She smelled of sweetwater and lemon. Clearly she had been allowed to bathe. Her hair was damp and combed back behind her ears. It looked even blacker, almost oiled. And she had changed out of her muddy wear and into a soft shift of green linen, belted at the waist with a braid of bleached leathers. The shift clung fetchingly to her. He noted how fair shaped she was: apple-sized breasts, slender waist.