Lord of the White Hell Book One

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Lord of the White Hell Book One Page 21

by Ginn Hale


  Between the theater tents, merchants’ stalls brimmed with countless diverse goods. Just in the small area Kiram had explored so far there were cut flowers and bolts of cloth, strings of beads, garlands of garlic, powdered saints’ bones, horse shoes, red squash, arrowheads, chests of spices, ivory dice and jars of pressed sunflower oil. Men in piebald coats and extravagant hats wandered the open grounds hawking dueling knives, exotic perfumes and decks of blessed cards. Their offers hardly carried over the noise of the surrounding crowds.

  The wild shouts of the fair criers, bartering merchants and music blurred through Kiram’s drugged thoughts. The vivid colors of the painted sign and red striped tent in front of him seemed to jump and waver before his eyes.

  A man brushed past Kiram leading his newly purchased goat. A few yards away, two youths shouted out enticements as they held up squealing black piglets. A dog raced past with a haunch of roasted lamb in its mouth and two plump women came running after it shouting insults and threats, which Kiram doubted would help to attract the dog. He took a breath and thought he could smell every creature that had ever lived.

  Beside him, Nestor held his kerchief and studied the yellow butterflies embroidered in the corners. He looked almost guilty when he noticed Kiram watching him and he quickly tucked the kerchief back into the pocket of his academy uniform.

  “Your arm’s not hurting you, is it?”

  Slowly, Kiram’s attention drifted down to his own forearm. A long red seam of broken skin was surrounded by a wide expanse of deep purple bruises. Black silk stitches laced the wound closed like the ribbons of a lady’s dress. It was almost pretty, though it looked like it should hurt.

  “I’m not feeling a thing.” Kiram swayed and Nestor braced him.

  “Steady now,” Nestor said. “Scholar Donamillo gave you a very strong dose. Maybe we should find a place to sit down.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Kiram shook his head. The sensation of his hair swinging against his neck distracted him; then he focused his concentration. “We have to see the fair with Javier. We’re going to meet dirty Irabiim and have our fortunes told and probably get robbed.”

  “I’d rather not be robbed,” Nestor commented.

  “Where’s Javier?” Kiram suddenly demanded. He stared around him. Three girls hurried after their mother with piglets clutched in their arms. A group of Yillar students passed by and then ducked into a striped tent. But Javier was nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s getting us some food,” Nestor said. “He’s only been gone a few minutes, you know.”

  “I know. I know,” Kiram said and suddenly he had the urge to be completely honest with Nestor.

  “I want to see him. But can I? No. Who could? I mean, I honestly want to, but it’s just so stupid. Look at where we are.” Kiram waved vaguely at a man with puppets on his hands. “Is this the kind of place for that?”

  “Puppets?” Nestor didn’t seem to have really grasped Kiram’s confession. Kiram tried again.

  “This isn’t Anacleto,” Kiram pronounced firmly. “And even if it were, Javier is still going to have to buy a damn monkey and —my god! Look at that pig!” All of Kiram’s thoughts of Javier’s obligations to wed and his own duties to his family instantly dispersed before the amazing girth of a huge black boar with painted gold tusks. The colossal animal trailed behind an old woman who led it by a chain attached to a ring in the end of its nose. Despite the packed crowd, people stepped aside giving the woman and her boar a wide berth.

  Nestor grinned. “He’s big, isn’t he?”

  “He is one of the old gods brought low by mortal flesh!” Kiram pronounced. The idea felt amazingly profound. A moment later, with the boar out of sight, Kiram forgot it completely.

  “Where’s Javier gotten off to?” Kiram demanded.

  “He’s gone to the kingdom of Yuan.”

  “What? That bastard!”

  “Oh, look, there he is.” Nestor pointed past the pig sellers, to a tall man with jet-black hair. An older, bland-looking man and two women stood with him. One of the women looked about sixty and wore a widow’s veil over her white hair. The younger woman resembled the man in her plain features but Kiram guessed she was only sixteen or so. All three of the people wore black bands of mourning around the sleeves of their fine silk clothes. The black-haired man was dressed in a blue academy uniform and smiled widely up at the sky.

  “That’s Fedeles,” Kiram said.

  “Is it?” Nestor squinted intently. Fedeles caught sight of the two of them and waved both his arms in the air as if he were flagging down a passing ship. “Yeah, that’s Fedeles all right.”

  Fedeles pushed and danced his way through the crowd. The Quemanors followed him, though they looked annoyed by the effort. Fedeles easily outdistanced them, having no inclination to either apologize for or excuse his intrusions.

  “Firaj! Firaj!” Fedeles shouted and he hugged Kiram to him with bruising force, shoving his face into Kiram’s hair with the rough propriety of a dog snuffling someone’s crotch.

  “Careful, Fedeles.” Nestor pulled him back. “Kiram’s hurt.”

  Fedeles looked shocked and quickly disengaged. He peered at Kiram’s stitches and whimpered. Then he patted Kiram’s head. “Don’t run away. It hurts but don’t run away.”

  “I won’t.” It was surprising how much Fedeles resembled Javier physically and yet his mind was so different. Though there were moments, just instants, when Kiram thought he could see Javier’s expressions on Fedeles’ face. A thoughtful frown would flash across his sharp features only to be engulfed in a maniacal grin.

  It was almost like Kiram’s thoughts right now, as he floated through a drugged haze. There were moments of clarity, which the duera distorted and consumed, so that he could hardly communicate. Was that how Fedeles felt?

  “You are trying to tell me something, aren’t you?” Kiram asked.

  “Yes, yes!” Fedeles hugged Kiram to him again fiercely, hissing into his ear. “He wants to kill Lunaluz. Help us.”

  “Who?” Kiram demanded.

  “Pretty!” Fedeles released his grip on Kiram and lunged after a flower seller. Nestor sprang forward and caught his arm.

  “Fedeles. No!” Nestor said. “Look, your family is here. See?”

  Fedeles’ grandmother gazed at him with a look of long suffering affection. Fedeles smiled, but sadly, as if he knew how his behavior horrified her, as if some sane, dignified aspect of himself was trapped within his madness, witness to all this humiliatingly childish activity but utterly helpless to stop it.

  Kiram wondered if being drugged really was offering him an insight into Fedeles’ mind or if the idea was itself a delusion of the duera coursing through his bloodstream. At the moment it felt like genuine insight.

  He turned to Fedeles and clutched his hand.

  “Don’t give up, Fedeles,” Kiram said. “I’ll find a way to get you free. Nestor and I, we’re both looking for a way.”

  “Brave ponies!” Fedeles threw his arms around both of them.

  “Lord Quemanor.” Nestor pulled free of Fedeles’ grip and bowed his head to Fedeles’ father. “It’s good to see you at the tournament. We missed you last year.”

  “Thank you for your compliments, young Master Grunito. Your good manners lead me to believe that you will understand why we have no wish to remain in your company at present.”

  Kiram wriggled free of Fedeles’ arm, scowling at Fedeles’ father. What had he just said? It had sounded like a kind of insult but Kiram wasn’t thinking well enough to be sure.

  Then out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Javier. He stood back in the shadows of a theater tent just watching them all. There was something in his expression that stopped Kiram from calling out to him, though he wanted to.

  Beside him Nestor bowed slightly to Fedeles’ father.

  “Of course. I understand, sir. Your family has my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you. Though I am sorry to be told that members of my e
xtended family have been offered far more of the Grunito sympathy than have those of us who suffered the greater loss.”

  Kiram had no idea what the man was talking about but Nestor seemed embarrassed by it.

  “Come, Fedeles.” Fedeles’ grandmother took his hand. “Shall we go look at the horses in the auction?”

  Fedeles nodded vigorously. She led him away without a further word to either Nestor or Kiram.

  “That was ugly,” Nestor said.

  “What was he talking about?” Kiram asked.

  Nestor squinted around at the surrounding crowd, then he stepped closer to Kiram and lowered his voice.

  “Lord Quemanor may always hate Javier but he’s just cutting himself out of society when he refuses to socialize with any of Javier’s acquaintances. If it comes down to it, who in his right mind is going to side with Quemanor against the Duke of Rauma?”

  “Side with him over what?” Kiram asked.

  “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

  “You’re the only one who tells me anything, Nestor.”

  “And I didn’t mention the duel over Fedeles?”

  Kiram shook his head.

  “Well, it’s not exactly table conversation. But you ought to know,” Nestor said quietly. “Javier killed Fedeles’ older brother in a duel two years ago.”

  “Was it during a tournament?” Kiram could easily imagine something going wrong in one of the fencing circles.

  “No, it was a real blood duel. Prince Sevanyo sanctioned it. Herves Quemanor made some nasty claims about Fedeles and Javier challenged him to a duel.”

  “Why would Herves insult his own brother?”

  “That’s just it.” Nestor lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. Kiram had to lean in to hear him. “After Fedeles went mad, Herves claimed he wasn’t his full brother. He said that the rumors about Javier’s father having an affair with their mother were true. He called Fedeles a foul, illegitimate product of Tornesal incest.”

  “What a rotten brother.” It was the first thing Kiram thought, though almost immediately he wondered if Herves’ claim could have been true. It would explain why Fedeles, of all the Quemanor children, was the only one afflicted by the Tornesal curse.

  “People claim Fedeles never really understood what was happening but I think he did. I think it hurt his feelings pretty badly when Herves started talking about having Fedeles disinherited. That’s when Javier challenged him to the blood duel and killed him.”

  Kiram glanced over Nestor’s shoulder to where Javier lurked in the shadows of the theatre tent. Now he realized why his first impression of Javier had been that he resembled the mercenary street snakes of Anacleto. There was a cold assurance to the way Javier met other men’s glances. He knew he was capable of killing and his gaze conveyed that.

  Javier met Kiram’s gaze and his grim countenance changed completely. He offered Kiram a warm, almost boyish smile. He stepped out of the shadows, swiveled between two men, and sidestepped an old woman. He held up a fistful of roasted meat skewers. In the other hand he held a reed basket full of some kind of bread.

  “Are those the chips all you Cadeleonians eat?” Kiram asked.

  “What?” Nestor asked.

  “That basket of chips Javier’s bringing.” Kiram pointed.

  Nestor spun around. “Good eyes, Kiram. Yeah, they’re casocres. God, he’s nearly here. I would have still been babbling about him when he came up, if you hadn’t seen him.”

  Nestor was always so willing to compliment another person. Kiram felt a sudden warmth for him and his effortless generosity of spirit.

  Javier reached them, handed the basket of casocres to Nestor, and frowned at Kiram. “What’s the happy occasion?”

  “What do you mean?” Kiram accepted a beef skewer.

  “You were grinning like an idiot just now,” Javier said. “Relief from Lord Quemanor’s company couldn’t have left you that happy.”

  “No.” Kiram took a bite of the thinly sliced beef. It was salty and greasy and just a little sweet. He took another bite.

  “I was just thinking of how lucky I am,” Kiram said at last. “I could have had the worst time at the Sagrada Academy these last four months but I haven’t. I’ve been really happy.”

  “Have you?” Javier handed a skewer to Nestor.

  “Well, not when Master Ignacio berated me or when he struck me or when Genimo cropped me, but other times…with the two of you. I’ve been happy and it’s because you’re good people. Don’t give me that look, Javier. You are a good man.”

  The smirk didn’t drop from Javier’s face but he managed to look somewhat contrite. “Has he been like this the whole time?”

  “More or less. He’s a nice-tempered drunk, that’s for sure.” Nestor ate several of the crispy chips.

  “I’m not drunk,” Kiram objected.

  “Not exactly sober either.” Nestor handed Kiram the basket of casocres. Kiram took one of the small triangular chips. A thin layer of cheese had been melted over it, and there was a strong scent of mustard on it as well. The chip was amazingly crisp and it tasted delicious with Kiram’s beef skewer.

  “Try these with the meat.” Kiram offered the basket to Javier. “They’re amazing.”

  “Really?” Javier gave him an amused look.

  “You already knew they went well together, didn’t you?”

  “I had reason to suspect so, yes. I’m glad to know that you agree though.” Javier turned to Nestor. “So, what did Quemanor have to say?”

  Nestor floundered, so Kiram answered for him. “Apparently, he came over to tell Nestor that he wasn’t going to talk to him. Quemanor said it nicely enough I suppose but it was still a rude thing to do and I didn’t understand what was going on at all because I didn’t know about your duel with Fedeles’ brother.”

  “Odd that you’d mention it without knowing it took place,” Javier said.

  “Well, I know now.” Kiram finished his beef and tossed the wooden skewer aside. “Nestor just told me.”

  “Of course he did.” Javier gave Nestor a reproachful glance.

  Nestor flushed guiltily. “Everybody at the academy knows. I didn’t see any reason Kiram shouldn’t.”

  “I suppose there isn’t any.” Javier ate the last of his beef and tossed his skewer on top of Kiram’s. “So, Master Kir-Zaki, are you feeling up to a stroll through the fair or should I take you back to my townhouse?”

  “I want to see the Irabiim and Nestor says there’s a Mirogoth performer who comes every year and turns into a wolf.”

  “I wouldn’t say he turns into a wolf so much as he steps behind a curtain and shoves a rangy dog out onto the stage,” Javier replied.

  “No,” Nestor objected. “You have to have an open mind about it to really appreciate the transformation. You hear all these terrible noises coming from behind the curtain and then a wolf steps out. I swear it’s a real wolf, Kiram. And it has the same color eyes as the Mirogoth man. It’s shocking.”

  It didn’t take them long to find the tent where a red-haired woman was selling tickets to witness her brother reveal his beast-soul. Signs painted with huge wolves stood outside the small tent and the woman’s wild hair was tied up to resemble two long ears flopping down over her shoulders. Though the woman was clearly of Mirogoth descent, she spoke flawless Cadeleonian.

  Most of the people buying tickets were parents, escorting their young children inside. From time to time the red-haired woman gave a wink and reassured a mother that her wolf-brother attended chapel every Sacreday.

  Javier bought tickets for all three of them and they filed into the dark confines of the tent. Two lamps at the foot of the stage provided the only light. The three of them kept to the back of the tent, so as not to block the views of the many children assembled inside. As the space filled up Javier stepped slightly behind Kiram, allowing several children to squeeze in closer.

  The performance itself was rather simple. A red-haired man walked onto stage, explained in an exag
gerated Mirogoth accent, that among his people there were those who walked as men but could assume the forms of beasts.

  Few could bear to witness the transformation directly, the Mirogoth man warned them gravely. The sight had driven horses mad and turned milk sour. For their own sakes, he told the children, they should not look too closely.

  Then he picked up one of the lamps and stepped behind a curtain. His terrible change was all a matter of strange noises and silhouettes cast up on the curtain by the flickering lamp. Nestor watched with rapt attention.

  Kiram hardly noticed the performance. All of his attention focused on the sensation of Javier’s hand touching his own. His fingertips sent a thrill up Kiram’s right arm. He traced the delicate skin of Kiram’s palm and wrist. His touch was light and flirtatious. Kiram returned Javier’s motions. He pushed his fingers between Javier’s and Javier clenched his hand around Kiram’s, gripping him tightly.

  Javier leaned closer, his thigh brushing the back of Kiram’s leg. As their hips brushed together an aching desire pulsed through Kiram’s groin. He longed to press into Javier, but Nestor was standing only a breath from them. Dozens of children were gathered all around them.

  Kiram pulled away but he didn’t release Javier’s hand. Not yet.

  A theatrical howl rose up from behind the curtain. Then the lamp there suddenly went dark, leaving only the single flame illuminating the empty stage. A lanky, reddish dog padded out from behind the curtain. Gasps and squeals escaped the children. Nestor leaned forward.

  “That’s definitely a wolf.” Nestor peered intently at the animal.

  Kiram had never seen a wolf and had no idea if this animal was one, but it looked too thin to somehow encapsulate the entire mass of the man who had stood on the stage earlier.

 

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