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                               BLOOD SEASON
                     The Origin of Chalandra Harkness

                            Chapter Two of Five
                                 "Falling"
                                    by
                               Gary W. Olson


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     "Will she...live?" Chalandra asked.  Her voice was the first significant
sound to break the silence that had settled.
     The old man did not answer, nor look up from his examination of the
pale body that rested on the white satin sheets, like a pearl nestled in a
cloud.  His withered fingers traveled down the length of her right arm,
pressing into the flesh at careful intervals.  He frowned, thoughtfully.
     Chalandra could feel Mandrake's eyes on her, and dismissed, as much as
she could, the crawling feeling on the skin of the back of her neck.  When
she had told him that they would bring this bloodied woman back to the city
with them, he had acquiesed, without comment.  In fact, he had been silent
since the woman had spoken Chalandra's name.
     Mandrake's silences worried Chalandra more than his outbursts.
     They had brought the woman's body to a guest room, and had placed her
onto the bed.  Belim cleaned the blood from her body, and had disposed of
what was left of her clothing.  There were some scars on her, but they looked
old, and certainly couldn't have been responsible for all the blood she had
lost.
     She had spoken Chalandra's name, implying recognition.  Yet, Chalandra
was certain they had never met before.
     The old man withdrew his fingers, and frowned again.
     "She will live," he said, at last.
     "Impossible," Mandrake stated, flatly.  "We saw her fall from a point
miles above where she landed.  Even with the trees to break her descent..."
     "Her bones are not broken," the old man told him, without turning.
"Aside from some cuts, and some possible internal damage, she is healthy."
     "Why won't she wake up?" Chalandra asked.
     "She has likely received a severe blow on the head," the old man told
her.  "It may be that she will wake, after her mind has healed.  Then again,
it may not."
     "Thank you, Sebastian," May said.  "It was most fortunate you could
come around at this early hour."
     "The pleasure is mine, my lady," Sebastian told her.  He stood, and
accepted his coat from Belim.  "Pray call me if her condition worsens."
Mandrake stood aside, as the old man walked past, carrying the black bag of
his trade.  Belim pulled the bedcoverings over the woman's body, up to her
shoulders.
     "Daughter, may I speak with you?" May inquired.
     The question was rhetorical, of course.
     "Yes, mother?" Chalandra asked, in the hallway, after May closed the
door.
     "Chalandra, I appreciate your actions," she said.  "Your concern for a
stranger is noble, and worthy of the upbringing we have given you."
     "But?"
     "We did not get where we are today by opening our house to any squalid
wretch in need of assistance," May told her.  "You should have taken her to
the Convent."
     "Do they have a doctor?" Chalandra asked.
     "They have the Lord," May replied.  "And they have dedicated their lives
to helping the less fortunate.  I will arrange for them to take her in..."
     "Mother..." Chalandra started.
     May waited, patiently.
     "I would like for her to stay, as my guest."
     "Why?" May queried.  "Do you know her?"
     "No," Chalandra said, "but I think she knows me.  When I first saw her,
bloodied and mangled at the foot of the tree, she awoke, and said my name."
     "That must be what has been behind Mandrake's silence," May said.  She
looked into Chalandra's eyes.  "Very well.  She may stay, as your guest."
Chalandra heard the emphasis on 'your.'  "On one condition."
     "Which is?"
     "You will not resist your upcoming marriage with the Baron Phoot," May
told her.  "You will treat him with respect, as a bride and future Baroness
should.  You will give me no future headaches over this matter."
     Chalandra hesitated.  Her resistance didn't matter, as far as the wedding
went.  It had been planned, and the day, just a month and a half hence, was
approaching, regardless of what she said.  She would marry the Baron, whether
she liked it or not.
     But that wasn't the issue that concerned her mother.  May was continually
frustrated by Chalandra's refusal to respect her wishes, even the reasonable
ones.  Cassandra did, glowing with each approving look that May gave her.
Mandrake did, most of the time, because his interests coincided with hers so
often.  Bertrand did, because he had learned it was simply easier that way.
     Chalandra didn't.  At least, not without making it clear that she was
acting under duress.
     She knew what her mother was asking.
     "I will," Chalandra said, quietly.
     "Very well," May said.  She looked at the closed door.  "Your brother will
be furious, of course."
     "He thought she was one of the Seraphim, at first, when he saw her fall,"
Chalandra explained.
     "I do not believe she is that," May said.  "Nor do I believe she fell out
of the sky.  Only fools and zealots would believe such a notion."  She turned
her head to look at Chalandra.  "Leave the talking to me."
     For once, Chalandra was happy to oblige.

                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     Chalandra's eyes swept across the street, peering between the endless
traffic of buyers and sellers in the market square.  It was half past noon,
and the morning fog had burned away to reveal the strata of London: wealthy
gentlemen strolling with their wives, observing those they saw with cultured
disdain; servants arguing with merchants over the price of milk and the
quality of a bolt of silk; a cluster of sailors who looked only slightly
more recovered from last night's drinking than the shiftless creatures that
rested near the enterance to a tavern; mothers scolding freckle-faced
children while their fathers surreptitiously eye any young tart that passed
by.
     They seemed different than she remembered, indistinct and flowing into
one another, reflecting sunlight like water.  The words they spoke merged
together, forming an indistinct cacomphony of noise that hung in the air,
trapped by the heat of the day.
     Warm, flowing blood, heated by the sun...
     "Chal?" Cassandra asked.  "You're wandering again."
     Chalandra blinked, and the spell was broken.
     "What?" she asked, turning to look at her younger sister.  "Oh, sorry.
I was just looking for someone..."
     "Mary said she might be late," Cassandra told her.  "Said she was going
to invite Martin along."
     "I know," Chalandra replied.  "I was looking for someone else.  A young
child with pale skin, named Vrik.  I met him here last week..."  She paused.
Had it only been last week?
     "Pale?" Cassandra asked.  "You mean, like, the woman?"
     "Yes," Chalandra told her.  "It occured to me that they might be related.
Their skin is almost identical...their hair, too, now that I think about it."
     "She's beautiful, whoever she is," Cassandra said, sighing a bit.  "I
hope I'm as beautiful when I get old."
     "By her looks, she's only a couple years older than I am," Chalandra said,
smirking.  "So watch who you're calling old."  Cassandra broke into a pretty
grin, and looked down the street, in the direction that Chalandra had been
looking earlier.
     There was a striking similarity, Chalandra realized.  The black hair, the
slight build, the light skin...at a distance, they might pass for twins.  But
the woman's facial shape was a bit different, and she was a lot paler.  And
where Cassandra's slim build suggested a fragile center, a suggestion that was
not entirely true, the woman's body spoke of strength, and hardships endured.
     Chalandra wished she would wake.  There was so much she wanted to ask.
     "Good morning, Miss Harkness," an accented voice said, from a point to
Chalandra's right.  "And Miss Harkness, too."
     The owner of the voice regarded them with a dignified look, marred only
slightly by a slightly upturned corner of his mouth.  His robes were deep and
crimson, trimmed with golden lining that matched the simple golden cross that
hung from his neck.  His eyes were cold and dispassionate as he spoke again.
     "I apologize for interrupting your afternoon, but I've been looking
forward to meeting you," he said.
     "How nice," Chalandra told him, as a chill went through her.  "May I
ask your name?"
     "I am Cardinal Ricardo Menos, of the Holy Inquisition," he said, bowing
slightly.  "We would have met at the Duke's celebration, last week, had I not
been delayed by pressing matters in Spain?"
     "Don't tell me," Chalandra said, dryly.  "You got your thumbscrew's
stuck in someone's skull."
     The smile on the Cardinal's face did not change.
     "I have learned that you have a guest in your house," he said, as though
he was discussing the weather.  "A woman with pale skin, who was thrown down
from the sky."
     The chill, again.  Mandrake had taken the news to the Bishop, hadn't he?
Or direct to Menos, possibly - the Bishop, while his teachings were strict,
was in his personal life a lech and a drunkard, more interested in his own
sins than in those of his church.
     "She is my guest, yes," Chalandra said.  "Until she has recovered fully
from the injuries she received at the hands of...bandits."
     "Bandits?" Menos asked.  "But I am given to understand that the Harkness
lands are free of bandit attacks.  Your brother assures me that this is so."
     "Well..."  Chalandra found her mouth going dry.  She glanced at Cassandra,
who had moved so that Chalandra was partially shielding her from the Cardinal.
"As you may know..."
     "Bandits may strike anywhere," a firm voice said.  Chalandra immediately
placed the voice as belonging to Martin Luther.  She confirmed this by sight
moments later, and noticed that Mary Ellen was with him, standing a bit closer
than one usually stood to a man of the cloth.
     "I do not believe I have had the pleasure, sir..." Menos said, smiling
artificially.
     "I am Dr. Martin Luther, from Wittenberg," Luther said.  "You must be
Cardinal Menos.  The Bishop mentioned you would be at the celebration."
     "Yes," Menos said.  "As I was just explaining to Miss Harkness, I had been
unavoidably detained."  He looked at Chalandra again.  "Getting my poker
serviced, if you must know."
     Mary giggled a bit, as did Cassandra.
     Menos glared at them, and then looked at Luther.  Luther returned his
gaze, and...
     There.  A look had passed between the two, a look other than what might
pass between two persons who had differing opinions on enforcement of
scriptural doctrine, or on the state of the Church in general.
     They had met before, and were pretending they hadn't.
     "I must be on my way," Menos said.  "The Bishop is expecting me."  He
bowed to Chalandra and Cassandra, and again to Mary, before moving along, into
the shuffle of humanity.  Chalandra watched him go, and exhaled, slowly.
     "Thank you," she said, finally, turning to Martin Luther.  "That was...
scary."
     "The Inquisition is not known for being gentle," Luther said.  "But even
they are only symptomatic of a larger disorder within the Church."
     "Martin..." Mary said, looking up at him reproachfully.
     He smiled.  "I've been telling Mary Ellen about my views for the past
week.  Perhaps I should relent, at least for the afternoon, and simply enjoy
London?"
     "No, go on," Chalandra said.  "She seems to find what you have to say to
be quite interesting."  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mary's
neck redden slightly.

                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     It was nearing midnight, Chalandra realized.  The moon gazed balefully
at her through the window, casting the guest room in a pale light.  The
only sound was of the breaths Chalandra took, and the quiet beat of her
heart.  If the woman in the bed was breathing, Chalandra couldn't hear her.
     The dinner would be tomorrow evening.  Just her, the Baron...and the
Count.  Perhaps the Baron would choke on one of the toads that he put on his
pizza, she thought.  The dinner would be much more pleasant if he did.
     She should return to her rooms, to get the rest she needed.  It would
not be well for her to show at dinner with bags under her eyes.  But the
dreams that came to her every night had not ceased, and it was peaceful right
here, as a cool breeze wafted from the open balcony, playing across her...
     ...sweeping her up, towards the ceiling.  He had found her again, and
though she knew she was dreaming, she couldn't help but reach out for him,
as he floated in front of her, his eyes burning like hot pokers.  His fingers
danced over her again, sweeping from the side of her breast to her neck, up
along the jawbone and behind her head...
     ...and stopping, there.
     She heard a question, but it wasn't the question she had dreamed before.
     He wanted to know who she was.
     He was angry.
     She tried to tell him that she didn't know, but he silenced her with
a kiss, an angry kiss laced with bitter blood and old passion.  He was
accusing her of betrayal, even as she gave herself to him again, as his
hypnotic eyes commanded...
     He kissed her neck, and she tilted her head back, waiting for the wet,
sweet pain to envelop her.  She waited...expecting...
     She opened her eyes, to find herself in her chair.
     An overwhelming sense of sorrow filled her, longing denied, like a
child's face slapped.
     Was he warning her...
     ...or was she warning herself?
     The woman had not moved, in the time that Chalandra had been asleep.
Under the sheets she rested, unknowable dramas playing out underneath her
eyelids.  Chalandra stood, and walked to the edge of the bed.  Silently,
she touched the woman's cheek, as she had days before, upon encountering her
broken form.
     This time, she stayed silent.
     Chalandra drew her finger across the woman's lips, trying to feel her
breath.  It was there, almost too slight to be noticeable, but noticeable
nonetheless.
     There was something else.  Carefully, Chalandra lifted the woman's upper
lip with a fingernail, while pushing down her lower lip with the other.  The
baleful moonlight reflected off of her sharpened teeth.
     Sharpened teeth...
     Chalandra remembered Belim's concern, the morning after she had first
encountered the Count Dracula.  Suddenly, it seemed well-founded.
     Slowly, Chalandra exited the room, not making a sound.

                               ^v^v^v^v^v^v^

     Chalandra stood patiently as Belim adjusted the fit of her dress, and
gazed at her image in the mirror.  It had been a hot day, and promised to be
a very warm evening, so Chalandra had selected a dress that was lighter than
what she would typically wear to a formal dinner.  The color was a cheerful
blue, but looking in the mirror, Chalandra felt as though she was dressing for
her funeral.
     "Please hold still, Chalandra," Belim said.  "I've almost got it...there."
     Belim stood back, and observed Chalandra observing herself in the mirror.
     "Do you think he'll like it?" Chalandra asked.
     "Very likely," Belim told her.
     "And the Baron?"
     "The Baron wouldn't notice real beauty if it cut off his head with his
own sword," Belim replied.  Chalandra raised an eyebrow at Belim.  "So I've
heard," she added.
     "Well, I do agree," Chalandra said.  "It just seems...odd...to hear it
coming from you."
     "Perhaps," Belim said.  Chalandra turned and hugged her, feeling the
warmth of her strong arms again.
     There was a pause.  Chalandra knew what Belim was thinking.
     "I know what I'm getting into," she said, finally, breaking from the hug.
     "Do you?" Belim asked, quietly.
     The way she asked the question startled Chalandra.
     "The Count is a very complicated man," Belim told her.  "Even for one of
his kind.  I've heard rumors...of the business he is involved in.  His
interests are not entirely legitimate, or in the interests of the Church, or
the Crown."
     "I suspected as much," Chalandra answered.
     "With him, it won't be whether you are hurt," Belim told her, "but how
you will be hurt."
     "Days ago, you told me it was my own choice," Chalandra said.  "Now it
sounds like you're trying to talk me out of it."
     "Days ago," Belim said, "you were undecided.  Tonight, you're not."
     Chalandra looked out the open balcony doorway, at the setting sun.
     "It's time," she said, to herself, if not to Belim.

(continued in part two, following...)

+-------- Gary W. Olson --------+        "All roads lead *away* from Ankh-
| swede@drycas.club.cc.cmu.edu  |         Morpork, but sometimes people just
+----- swede@drycas.bitnet -----+         walk along them the wrong way."
                                          - Terry Pratchett, _Moving_Pictures_