Blood Lies (Dark Brothers of the Light #9) (6 page)

Alons poured three crystal glasses and
tasted each. The whisky and the wine were delightful; however,
Dragonsbreath made Alons gasp, his eyes water and his throat burn.
His surroundings tilted and teetered and finally settled. He felt
for an instant like he was about to fall out of his skin. "Lycans
drink this stuff?"

"With every meal and frequently in between."
Dyna poured herself a glass of Dragonsbreath, drank it and wiped
her mouth on the back of her hand. "That's my kind of drink."

Angrim males prided themselves on their
ability to drink, and Alons’ capacity had just been shamed by an
old crone as thoroughly as his fighting skills had been by a pair
of boys. Attempting to distract himself from his burning cheeks,
Alons pulled off his gloves and brushed his fingers across the
water and the image changed:

Horst's bedchamber appeared. Four myn were
clustered around the side of a curtained bed large enough to hold
four. The curtains had been tied open and tucked around the
stalwart posts. Franz's long, grey hair was unmistakable, even from
the back. Alons could not tell Birthe from Dietlinde until Birthe
settled on the edge of the bed to brush her fingers across Horst's
forehead and he caught a glimpse of her face. The fourth was a girl
with marmalade hair who looked about twelve or thirteen – one of
Dyna's strange children. Lion crept onto the huge bed and laid his
head upon Horst's chest.

A wave of melancholy swept over Alons.

"Birthe loves him. So does the dog and
Dietlinde too, although that's more sisterly. I was in love
once."

Having finished the other two, Alons stared
into the glass of Dragonsbreath, gathering his courage to drink
that also. "I was in love..." He stretched his neck, closed his
eyes; his mouth twisting against the pain. "In Angrim they burn myn
like me."

"Pagan?" Dyna tilted her head, leaning
toward him.

"That also. But before that. I – I loved
this beautiful young boy ... barely sixteen. He was a prodigy. A
sculptor, as beautiful in body and spirit as he was talented." The
strong liquor had loosened his tongue without Alons noticing. He
poured another glass of Dragonsbreath, saluting his masculinity as
he drank it and suffered the effects, which were not as bad this
time. Alons was getting used to it.

"Oooooh." Dyna's eyes widened. "You were
lovers?"

"Nein. I was his patron." He saw her drink
another serving of Dragonsbreath and downed his, grimly deciding to
match her drink for drink if it killed him: Alons refused to be
drunk under the table by a crone. Magical crone or not, she had
pricked his pride.

"So you've got a big helping of honor
guilt?"

"Nein. Fear. If I had guessed wrong about
him, he might have turned me into the church. I would have been
tortured to save my soul and then burned alive."

"What happened to him?"

"That's the irony. It was not me the church
took, but him. He was caught using magic. The church arrested him.
I begged, bribed and even went to the Kyser, all for naught. The
day they executed him, I left to seek the wisdom of the Hermit of
Jasmine Falls in Beltria. I became an apostate there. I found peace
in the comforting arms of the White Lady and took her as my
liege-god."

Alons chugged another glass of Dragonsbreath
and swayed. "Forgive me for becoming maudlin. I think I'm
drunk."

"Not near drunk enough," replied Dyna,
refilling all three of his glasses. "In vino veritas."

"Priest tongue. In wine truth. I was
schooled in that."

"Drink some more and give me some more
truth."

Alons managed a tremulous grin. "I feel
strange and it is not just the liquor. I have never told anyone
what I am telling you, but it somehow seems right. Maybe I am
overwhelmed by the oddness and worry of the day."

"Here, let me help you with some of that
truth." Dyna patted his shoulder. "Some of my favorite folks are
corsach."

"What's that?" Alons lowered his eyes to
gaze into the sapphire blue liquor he held.

"Homoseksueel."

Alons tilted his head, glancing at her from
the corner of his eyes. "How do they hide it?"

"They don't. It's no big crime in most lands
outside of Angrim and Beltria."

"Still, I fear..."

"You don't believe that your White Lady is
changing that? Sharani are triadic."

"I had not considered it. It is hard to let
go of the fear." Alons once more matched her drinking. "The White
Lady told me it would change. But I think ... I..." He blinked and
felt the liquor dragging at him. "When this war is ended and the
victory won, I wish to go to one of those other lands. Suggest one
and see that I don't forget."

"Red Wolf. I'll wait for you there."

"Red Wolf it is. Don't let me forget."
Alons' awareness went black, and he fell into the pool.

"No way in nine hells am I gonna let you
forget." Dyna overturned the tray reaching him. She pulled him out,
rose with him in her arms as if he weighed less than a feather and
vanished back to Angrim with him.

Veranoctem 7, 1077 AQ

Isranon and Anksha occupied the same cozy
suite they had on their last visit a year ago. Back then, Isranon
had been her blood-slave – although they had concealed it for most
of their visit, leading Edvarde and his household to think of her
as his familiar. Love and Isranon's rogue magic had turned the
tables on their relationship, altering the arcane link between
them. His power had crossed the boundaries of species and Anksha,
last of her kind, now carried his child. Isranon filled a large,
wing-backed chair and she curled on his lap, purring. Dressed in
simple clothes, Isranon looked more like a blacksmith than a mage.
The illness had not yet stolen enough of the muscle from his stocky
frame for unfamiliar eyes to detect it fully. Those who knew him
well could see the difference, recognize the loss and be concerned
about it. Over the past couple of years, the muscle had begun to
melt away, sapping the physical strength Isranon had once taken
such joy in with it.

Nevin sat at the round table near the
hearth. Gordain stood behind Nevin, playing with his long black
hair and stealing touches. Nevin captured Gordain's hands, only to
have his lover wiggle free and start up again. Finally, Nevin made
a curt, disapproving noise – like one wolf warning another – and
Gordain stopped. The younger wolf settled into a chair. The legs
made a scraping noise as he nudged it closer and closer to the back
of Nevin's seat, stopping when his knees were nearly against it to
prop his elbow on the table and top it with his chin.

"I thought about it. I'm not some young dog
with more bite than sense." Nevin slid the book and letters across
the table to Isranon. "With snow in the passes, we would never
reach them before spring thaw, and by then it will all be
over."

"Do you now regret coming with me, my
brother?" Isranon eyed his spiritbrother – once his childhood
mentor – while stroking Anksha's hair, causing her to purr
louder.

"I had moments of it last night. But then I
thought, what could I have done? What difference would one mon
make?"

Gordain leaned forward and wrapped his arms
around Nevin. "And then he thought of me."

"That and Todd Sinclair. When a legend
returns to save his people, surely they can be saved."

"I know nothing of your legends – coming
from Sealandia," said Gordain. "However, there is a Sinclair in our
legends. Aristotle."

"Todd claims descent from Aristotle." Nevin
lifted an eyebrow at that. "There are Sinclairs in Sealandia?"

"Warrior kings. They rule the southern
jungles."

Nevin's expression went briefly thoughtful.
He was always learning new things from Gordain. "Someday I want to
explore Sealandia."

"We can do that."

"What about my son?" Isranon grew concerned.
His lover, Merissa Redhand, had borne him a son, Darmyk, in his
absence from Red Wolf. Isranon still held tightly to his dream of
someday meeting the boy, who had to be about three years old
now.

"There is very little about him in either
the letters or the journal." Nevin's voice took on the lecturing
tones of a lawgiver as he continued. "You produced an odd child.
Sa'necari-born. He's a wilderkin predator like Nans and godmarked
by Willodarus. Evidently, you've changed the opinions of the gods
themselves in regards to the sa'necari-born."

Isranon tried to smile, then gave it up and
reached across to touch Nevin's shoulder. "When we have stopped
Galee, we will go to Red Wolf. I swear it."

The door opened and Stygean poked his head
in. "Can I talk to you about something?"

"It's not a good time," Isranon said,
straightening and taking his hand back.

"Are we going to resume my lessons?"

"Eventually. Study your books for now and
enjoy your free time."

Stygean's shoulders drooped. "As you
wish."

The boy withdrew, closing the door behind
him. Nevin stared at it a long time, pulling at his lower lip. "You
can't keep doing that."

"I don't have the time or energy."

"Make some. You're the nearest thing to a
parent he has now."

"I'll try." Isranon rubbed his tired
features. "I've been a loner for too many years ... and just
dealing with myn tires me. Now tell me more about what is in those
papers."

Anksha turned curious eyes upon him. "I
could teach him, my Isranon."

"He's terrified of you."

"But I give him candy. I'll give him more
candy. Lots of candy."

Isranon gave a bemused snort. "I wish life
were as simple as a bowl of candy, Pet. But it isn't."

"And it's never going to be," said Nevin.
"You must stop neglecting the boy."

"I said I would try. That's all I can
do."

* * * *

With his heavy cloak thrown back and his
gloves stuffed into his pockets with his scarf, Stygean wandered
the corridors of the second floor, looking for his friend Iyan. The
eleven-year-old slinger shared quarters with his two older unit
mates, Dahnig and Grygg. Nevin had once told Stygean that twenty
percent of the kandoyarin troops they had picked up in Ocealay were
youths and boys. Most realms conscripted boys as young as
twelve.

After several wrong turns and bad
directions, due mostly to the confusion of their company getting
settled in, Stygean headed downstairs. His pace slowed when he
reached the halls that were decked out in boughs, garlands and
strings of animal figures. Looking at it all gave him a warm
feeling. Sneaking into the Great Hall, uncertain of whether being
there when Edvarde was not holding court was allowed, Stygean spied
something new: presents wrapped in pretty bundles. He stole closer
and saw that some of the packages had tags on them. Then he saw his
own name.

To Stygean. From Iyan.

He knelt to touch it, a warm sensation
spreading through him.

"Uh uh uh." Jeevys cleared his throat,
rising from the far side of the tree. "Don't open until solstice
morning."

Stygean flinched, his heart feeling lodged
in his throat. "I did not see you."

Jeevys tut-tutted for a moment. "Solstice
gifts are opened on solstice morning."

"Solstice gifts?"

"Never had one before?"

Stygean shook his head. "I'm sa'necari.
Winter solstice was a time for cursing and lamentation for us. That
is when your nine elder gods destroyed ours."

"I see. Well, did you never see other
children get them?"

Heat rose to Stygean's cheeks. "Heard it
talked about. My father always took me to our hunting lodge for
holiday."

"I see..." Jeevys tapped his finger against
his lip. "Then your education is lacking."

"Master Isranon doesn't have time for me
right now."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a
priest, perhaps Father Telamon. Let me think about it."

Stygean brightened. "Thank you."

"Off with you, now. I have matters to take
care of. We're going to have a party in a few weeks. So many
details to attend to. The king is coming." Jeevys fluttered his
hands at the boy. "Go on. Go on."

Stygean's gaze went to the door in time to
see Jingen peep around it. A thread of trepidation wound through
him as he moved to obey the castellan. The sense of joy at seeing
the package drained out of him; he wavered, but then his defiant
streak took hold and Stygean marched out the door.

His eyes slued to the side when he crossed
the threshold and spied Jingen squatting to the left of him.

"Waiting for me?"

"Maybe." Jingen cocked his head at a sullen
angle. "What's with pulling the noble son bit? My family's not in
service to yours any longer."

Stygean kept walking.

"We're equals. We're both apprentices."
Jingen pleaded to be taken back into Stygean's good graces - on his
terms, not Stygean's – and both of them knew it.

Stygean resolutely refused to reply, heading
for the front door.

"I thought we were friends..."

Stygean reached the door, paused with his
hand on the knob, and turned to stare at Jingen. "You threatened to
rite me."

Then he jerked the door open and plunged
across the threshold to race over the snow-covered courtyard. Fear
laid hold of Stygean's heels, giving him only a moment to stand on
the cobblestone path glancing about for a fresh direction to run
in. Servants clearing snow ignored him. To his right lay the
stables and a collection of outbuildings. To his left the gardens
spread, dotted with pine coverts and arbors layered in dead vines.
The flowers were gone. The hedges were browned beneath a topping of
fresh snow. Only the evergreens made splashes of color throughout
the winter desolation. He made his decision and fled into the
gardens.