in me somewhat, before it is effective. Such powers grow with practice, and I do not practice often. "
Welstiel rose, donning his cloak. "Stay and write. I will not be long. "
"You go to feed?" Chane asked.
Welstiel picked up his smaller pack and slipped out of the room.
The common room downstairs was nearly empty, but the inn was located in a wealthy district. Late in the evening, most patrons would retire to their rooms or be out seeking entertainment. The street outside was equally quiet but for a small group of guards in their red surcoats. Only once along his way did he spot two others in their pale yellow, lingering under the eaves of a public house.
Welstiel slipped along the streets until he saw no one in any direction, then turned into the alleys and unlit sideways as he headed for the poor district on the city's outskirts.
Killing did not trouble him. He'd committed several brutal acts back in Bela to lure Magiere. Even as a mortal, ordering executions and using violent means to suppress peasant uprisings had been simply part of his duties. What was necessary was sometimes repugnant, just the same.
Food for a mortal was a matter of absorbing life, in one fashion or another. The body consumed materials it could break down and use. Relishing cheese and bread and bits of roasted mutton served on elegant plates had never caused Welstiel to stop in his life and contemplate the nature of sustenance.
The method of nurturing his new existence was far less pleasant.
A drunken bargeman staggered from a tavern door. Welstiel remained in the shadows of the narrow walkway between the tavern and next building. When the bargeman passed by, he grabbed the back of the man's coat and pulled him in.
Welstiel struck the base of the man's skull with his fist, and his prey slumped to the ground unconscious. Though he hated even touching such a lowborn creature, much less needing it, feeding on the better half of society was unacceptable unless there was no other choice. Kneeling down, Welstiel removed an ornately carved walnut box from his pack and opened it.
Resting in fabric padding were three hand-length iron rods, a teacup-size brass bowl, and a stout bottle of white ceramic with an obsidian stopper.
Welstiel took out the rods, each with a loop in its midsection, and intertwined them into a tripod stand. The brass bowl's inner surface was etched with a pattern of concentric rings all the way to its Up, and between these lines were the characters of his conjury. It had taken half a year to fashion it from what little he remembered of working upon Ubad's vat, a task of years in itself. He had not understood all that he had seen; not all, but enough. Though the cup had not the power of that vessel, it served Welstiel's limited needs. He placed it carefully on the tripod.
The white bottle contained thrice-purified water, boiled in a prepared copper vessel whenever he had time to replenish the fluid. He pulled the stopper and poured just enough to fill half the cup.
Welstiel rolled the bargeman over on his back. So much life energy was lost in bloodletting that little was actually absorbed by an undead who drank it. His method was far more efficient and less debasing. He slipped out his dagger, made a shallow puncture in the man's wrist, and let blood collect on the blade's tip. Tilting the blade, he let one red drop strike the water in the cup.
As it thinned and diffused, he began to chant.
The air around him shimmered as in a desert heat, yet he felt it grow humid, more so than even Droevinka's climate could produce. The bargeman's skin started to shrivel and dry from the outside, collapsing into desiccation. When his heart stopped, so did Welstiel's chant. The bargeman was a brittle shell. Even his eyes were dried sockets.
The water in the cup brimmed to the Up and was so dark red, it would have appeared black to a mortal's limited eyes. Welstiel lifted it carefully from the tripod. He tilted his head back and poured the liquid down his throat.
So much life force taken in this pure form was not pleasant. It tasted of ground metal and strong salt if allowed to linger on the tongue. And then it burst inside him to rush through his body.
Welstiel set the cup back in place with a wavering hand, then flattened both palms upon the ground to