by R. M Garino
“You should have seen us,” Ba’ril said. “We stood toe to toe with a hundred Elc’atar. Our entire Pride made it through to that point. I have to admit that I was doubtful about Angus’ plan, but it worked better than any of us had hoped.”
“Angus?” Logan said.
Denuelle nudged Ba’ril with her elbow, warning him in silence to hold his tongue.
Angus Kal’Parev. There was that name again. It was fast becoming a source of irritation. There was something that tickled an abstract memory in his mind, something that Logan knew he should remember. He groped for it a moment, and then let the elusive thought slip away. It was of no consequence. He knew what he needed to know.
“I am being rude,” Logan said. “I am keeping you from your meal. Please, see to your needs. I must meditate, and so I will be poor company. I enter the Sur in three days’ time, and I must retain my focus.”
The Pride was taken aback by the dismissal, but they acquiesced. To Gwendolyn, he gestured, Tonight.
“And Ba’ril,” Logan said as the Pride stood. “You must come to my quarters later this evening. It has been so long since I have seen you, cousin. There is much we need to catch up on. I am very eager to hear more about your exploits. I might even be able to give you those pointers you requested.”
Ba’ril gushed, as expected, his sin’del flooding with a mixture of gratitude and self-importance. He agreed to attend, amid the jealous stares of his peers, and then, thankfully, they left him alone.
Logan drew a deep breath to erase the aggravation of the visit from his mind. Only a fool ignored information, no matter how small. His plan, still in its infancy, would have to change by small degrees to fit what he now knew. He had a greater understanding of the situation, and could refine his movements.
A figure appeared on the bench across from him, and Logan started in surprise. One moment the seat had been vacant, and the next it was occupied. A quick appraisal of the features across from him crushed his surprise in a wave of indignation that rose him from his seat.
“Logan Fel’Mekrin,” Angus Kal’Parev said from across the table. “You do know how to make your presence known.”
Logan glowered at him, pushing his feelings down as he reclaimed his seat. This was a conversation he had anticipated for quite some time. So why was it that he could not seem to find his words?
“Do they teach you guys how to glower like that?” Angus said. “Do you practice in a mirror? You do a good job of it. It brings out the amber in your eyes. They’re rather striking, you know.”
Logan remained silent. This was not how he had expected this particular conversation to go, and did not know what to say.
“See, there it is,” Angus said, pointing at Logan’s face. “It must drive the ladies wild. Maybe I should learn how to do that.” Angus screwed his face up into what was supposedly a parody of Logan’s scowl.
“Is there a point to this?” Logan said, fighting to keep his temper in check. A display here and now did not fit into his plans. The occupants of the surrounding tables had all craned their heads to watch, and the conversation in the hall died. Logan drew his brows together as he recognized the sensation the crowded mess was emanating. They were waiting for a fight. A few graduates and pledges from the further tables stood and ambled over to get a better view.
“Just stopping by to say hello,” Angus said. “I wanted to make sure that there were no hard feelings, or anything. You were kind of grumpy when we parted last.”
“You have said your piece,” Logan said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must—”
“Keep your focus.” Angus plucked a small potato off Logan’s plate and popping it into his mouth. “You’re going into the Sur in three days’ time. Heard all about it. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long.”
Logan’s scowl deepened at the interruption. It was bad enough the scrub had the temerity to even speak to him in such a fashion, but to mock him, to sully his meal – this was an insult. He had done that enough already.
“I feel bad about what happened with your sword when you were an instructor in Reven Marthal,” Angus said. “It should not have happened. I wanted to apologize.”
“So it was you!”
“Well,” Angus said, shaking his head and dragging out the word. “Let’s just say that if it was, I would feel really bad about it.”
It was an effort to keep his hands clasped on the table before him, especially with everyone watching. He knew what they wanted, what they were waiting for. Their desires did not fit into his plans. He would disappoint them all.
Gwendolyn and the other Kal’Parev had just entered Logan’s peripheral vision, stalking closer to the scene, the rest of their “Pride” behind them. Angus made a fractional gesture, and they paused their advance.
“Is your empty, clumsy apology supposed to atone for your actions?” Logan said. It was getting harder to resist the temptation of the crowd’s expectations. He very much wanted to beat Angus from one end of the room to the other. “There is much, much more that you have to account for.”
“No,” Angus said, “I’m sure my words wouldn’t placate you. but this will.”
He slid a small box across the table, its lid fixed in place with a minute gold clasp. Logan regarded the object a moment, but made no move to pick it up.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
Logan undid the hasp. Opening the lid revealed an ornate buckle, an emblazoned hawk on the wing standing out in red enamel.
“It’s for your sword belt,” Angus said. “It will prevent any future tampering with your weapon. No one will be able to do that to you again.”
Logan could not help but appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship of the object. “I decline the gift,” he said, pushing the box back toward Angus. “You cannot buy my forgiveness with trifles. There’s bad blood between us, more now than ever.”
“I know,” Angus said. He did not move to pick up the box. “Padric passed along your threat. Very intense. Very dramatic. I would advise against it, myself.”
“So speaks the coward.”
Angus spread his arms as if conscious of the crowd, wanting to play to them. His voice, however, was pitched low, a whisper for just the two of them. “You’re a very small step away from declaring a very prominent blood feud,” he said, the aggravating smirk still on his face. “Stop and think for a minute. You began your campaign against me this evening. Surely you accounted for a counterstroke in your plans. Trust me; things will not end the way you intend. Please, pick up the box, and make a show of accepting it. Wear the buckle, and drop this.”
It was Logan’s turn to smile. Why not give the crowd what they wanted? Everyone was standing now, gathering into the large open circle to better watch the display.
“You cannot buy your way out from the path of my wrath, Kal’Parev,” he said, projected to the crowd.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Perhaps my words were too advanced for you, scrub,” Logan said, raising his voice and pushing his bench back so he could stand. He too could play to an audience.
“Nope!” Angus stood too, and pushed the bench out of his way, his voice still too low to carry. “I heard you just fine, and understood all your bluster. You’re not understanding me.”
“Why should I be afraid of you?
Logan bestowed his attention on the crowd gathered around them, showing them all his disdainful façade. Cheers egged him on, with graduates and Blades alike calling for Logan to “Hit him,” “Give the shit what he deserves,” “Get the bastard,” and the rallying cry of his House, “Forward the Blades!” Others were calling out to Angus to do the same, the members of House Kal’Parev positioning themselves about the room.
“Because I’m not threatening you, stupid,” Angus whispered. “I’m cautioning you. But you’re thinking with your sword, your dick, and your ego, as you always do. That’s your weakness.”
“Step outside and I will show you how weak my sword is.”
The crowd responded with an expectant roar.
“Maybe after a couple of pints. But, thanks for proving my point,” Angus said, his fists on the table. “Look. At. The. Box.”
Logan kept his focus on Angus, refusing to be baited.
“I know my eyes are pretty and all that, but please, fecking look at it.”
Logan refrained from comment and picked it up, examining it with greater attention. On the side, by the lid, was the raised image of a tree on a field of gold, its circular roots a mirror of the leaves above it. A sword lay behind it, piercing a crown. The seals of all five Great Houses adorned its pinnacles.
The royal crest of House Tu’renthien.
Logan did not understand, and made to drop the trinket on the table. Something was amiss; this was a deeper play than trying to avoid a fight. Angus tilted his head, but did not speak, giving Logan the time he needed to understand. Logan did not drop the box, but examined the crest. Understanding crept into his sin’del.
“That’s right,” Angus whispered, to keep his words from the crowd. “It is a vassal gift from my House to yours, given from Heir to Heir. Decline it and you will openly declare to everyone that you, and by extension your entire House, are in opposition to Royal House Tu’renthien. We call that treason. If you accept it, here, in public, you are reaffirming the allegiance of your House to mine, to aid and protect. Do you understand now?”
Logan felt his world diminish as it focused now only on the box before him. The errant thought he’d searched for earlier slid into place. Angus was a Tu’renthien, as much as a Kal’Parev. He was the Matriarch’s grandson. The crowd waited, tense with anticipation, awaiting the opening strike. In the end, what choice did he have? He had to accept it, along with all that it implied. Tu’renthien was their own separate House, much like his own, but while only some of the Lethen’al pledged to House Fel’Mekrin, all Houses swore to the royal House Tu’renthien. In their own way, they were similar to House Rhen’val who ruled the Areth’kon; they were separate from all Houses, but all Houses promised fidelity to them in turn.
Logan brought the box level to his face, and bowed from his waist.
You might want to amplify the showmanship. Angus sent. The crowd’s waiting. Bow down, pup.
He winced at the pain the telepathic communication caused him, stepped away from the table, dropped to one knee, and held it to his heart.
“By the honor of House Fel’Mekrin, I confirm the pledge of my House to yours,” Logan heard himself say.
He was aware of every eye in the crowded mess hall trained upon them, aware of them drinking in every motion and word, aware of the palpable disappointment that there would be no entertainment tonight, aware of the shock that spread through the room. The tale of this would be retold over and over again in the barracks, and Logan fought to retain his composure at the public humiliation.
“By the honor of my Houses, both Tu’renthien and Kal’Parev, I accept your oath, Logan of House Fel’Mekrin,” Angus said, his voice carrying through the room, offering a formal bow with his fist above his heart, as the exchange required.
“I will take my leave of you now, for you must focus,” Angus said. “I wish you success on your trials, and hope for a speedy return.”
He lowered his voice to a more intimate whisper as he walked around the trestle table.
“Stay away from Arielle,” Angus said, his voice a whisper once more. “She has no desire to see you again, and I will consider it a violation of your oath if you seek her out.”
The crowd parted around him in its amazement as he left.
Logan stood, unable to remove his gaze from the box which had preempted the plans he had laid with such care and precision. By feel, more than sight, he found his bench and slumped down in his seat.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The First Clue
Angus left the mess hall, pleased, and half astonished that his idea had worked. By all rights, the problem Logan presented had been neutralized, and they could all go about their lives.
His half of the Pride had had the envious duty of scouring latrines earlier that morning, a break from the tedious enjoyment of bonding with the lo’el. Hironata had procured a jug of whiskey the night before, from where Angus could not guess, and they’d been caught up in the middle of their revelry. Brodhi had not taken kindly to their actions, but he had taken the jug. To be honest, Angus was just relived that neither he nor Thomlin were to blame for once. With all that was going on in his life, he’d let his penchant for mischief fall by the wayside. It was good to see the big guy picking up the slack. He could have done, however, with less time working a mop. Brodhi had wanted to make sure they understood the depths of his displeasure by having them clean not just their latrine, but also the latrines in the command barracks. It was generally agreed that the Mala’kar did not know how to piss straight. His hands were still white from all the scalding water.
Word had not yet reached him of Logan’s arrival as he’d worked, but he had felt it. Dropping his mop, he’d muttered a quick excuse and left. He didn’t know why Arielle was in distress. He only knew that she was. The knowledge spurred him to a run as he headed for the A’gist. As he ran he felt her irritation dissipate, transmuting into despair and grief. Passing the infirmary, he nearly collided with Bicca, who was pacing outside the doors and quivering in a fit of pique. The absurdity of the scene made him stop and inquire after the Elc’atar’s health. How he had raged when prompted, about arrogance and insufferable pride. And then came the name: Logan. Angus knew the cause of Arielle’s distress then, and he knew he had to act. Things were about to change, and all for the worse. He had to stop them before they started. He was not sure where the idea came from, but he knew he had to act in a way Logan did not expect. And he had.
“Angus?” He heard Gwendolyn’s voice before he was more than a few feet from the mess hall door. He stilled the smile from his face. This was Logan’s sister, after all, and he needed to tread carefully.
“Gwendolyn.” He greeted her, waiting for her to catch up. Her sin’del was a mixture of confusion, determination, and joy. He’d spent a great deal of time in her company, but as she was so absorbed with Thomlin, he hadn’t paid too much attention to her. As a result, he’d no idea how to read the chaos of emotions that confronted him.
The punch to the side of his jaw gave him his first clue.
It was not enough to knock him over, and thankfully, his sin’del did not respond as it usually did. Hammer’s training was giving him a semblance of control. It was enough, however, to make him stagger back a few steps and give her his full attention.
“I should’ve expected that,” he said, rubbing his jaw.
“You should have done that in private!” Though enraged, Gwendolyn’s voice did not carry. “You humiliated him in front of the entire complex!”
Angus shook his head, more to negate her claim than to clear it. “It needed to be public. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t have the satisfaction of showing him up!”
Angus paused, taking a breath to retain control of his temper.
“He’s your brother,” Angus said. “You know how he does things. How would he have reacted had I not stalled him in this?”
Gwendolyn opened her mouth for another angry retort, but Angus cut her off.
“Think for a minute, Gwendolyn! What would he have done before his test? What about after?”
Gwendolyn paused, considering his words. Her sin’del made it clear she was not happy with him.
“He had already spoken to Arielle. I’ve no idea what was said, but I could tell by the look of him that he was not pleased. On his way back down here, he just happened to stop off and beat the snot out of the Ninth. Every one of them is lying in the infirmary. That does not sound to me like someone who is coping well to change. So, what would he have done? To Arielle? To me? To our entire Pride?”
She did not answer him, but she could not meet his gaze.
�
��I couldn’t allow that to happen, and I couldn’t face him on his terms.”
“You’re afraid of him.” His statement appeared to clarify matters for her, and she stood a little straighter.
“Only a fool would not be afraid of him,” Angus said, waving away the issue. “He’s the best swordsman we’ve ever produced. Our whole Pride together is not his equal. So, I approached it the way I would any confrontation against a superior force. I neutralized the threat before he could bring his skill to bear. My mind is as much a weapon as his sword. No one berates him when he wins, so don’t do it to me.”
“But you humiliated him,” Gwendolyn said. It was clear she was torn; she understood the need for what Angus did, but she still felt the need to defend her brother.
“Don’t even think about taking that position,” Angus said, folding his arms across his chest. “Logan is known far and wide for degrading his opponents. He goes out of his way to do so, and to make it as painful as possible. You had the same tendency yourself until fairly recently, if I recall. I’m sorry, Gwendolyn, but you’ll get no sympathy from me on that track.”
“You don’t understand,” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head and trying to start over. “Logan’s complicated. There’s more to him than an arrogant bully. And before you say it, I am not trying to support the things he does. He’s my brother, and I will not tolerate him being mistreated.”
“And I commend you for it,” Angus said. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, of all people. But to be frank, I don’t care how complicated he is, or what drives him. Why he menaces us is irrelevant. He positioned himself as a threat to me and mine, and I ended that threat.”
“Angus,” Gwendolyn said, lifting her clenched fists to the sides of her head, “I am not trying to have a conversation with you! I am trying to explain something. And it is important. Stop. Interrupting. Me.”
Angus shrugged, and gestured for her to continue. Gwendolyn took a moment to collect her thoughts.