Bitter Moon Saga

by Amy Lane

  “He really means it,” Djali mumbled. “He’s going to make us change.”

  “Foolish,” Eljean muttered. “Foolish and blind.” He shook his head, a look crossing his face an awful lot like regret, but for what, nobody at the railing would say.

  “I’m going to help him,” Aerk said, a note of surprise in his voice as though he’d expected to hear himself say something else.

  “Me too,” Keon agreed. Neither of them had taken their eyes from the tableau below, so they both sucked in their breaths again when they saw Rath prepare to speak.

  “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” the consort said smoothly, his mustache hardly twitching with his breath. “Nobody in this room would sanction such a distasteful act. It must have been the work of one of the Goddess worshippers that Moon housed. You were a boy. You were simply mistaken.”

  Rath was giving him an out. Aerk had never seen that before. Ellyot was being given a chance to back out of an absolute so he might emerge on Rath’s side.

  “Rath’s afraid of him,” Jino acknowledged quietly, and Aerk and Keon nodded.

  “He should be,” Aerk observed. “After nine hours, Moon’s barely broken a temper, and has seriously not broken a sweat.”

  “I was old enough to know that the workers on our land were slaughtered before my family,” Ellyot was responding with ferocious dignity. “Who do you think we went to for protection?”

  They all saw it, and it startled them enough not to comment on it for a moment while the drama went on before them. While they were holding their breaths in shock, Dimitri wandered in from wherever he had been, because none of them wanted to dwell on the idea that Ellyot had known where he would go before they did, and asked, “What’s happening?”

  “He flinched,” breathed Marv.

  “Moon?” Expectation. Mockery.

  “No. Rath.”

  The sound that came from Dimitri’s throat could only be described as wounded, and the look Eljean shot him was disappointment in the highest order.

  “He was telling the truth,” Eljean told him unnecessarily. “He said the Goddess folk had been slaughtered before his family. Rath didn’t think he’d know that.”

  “He’s real,” Aerk murmured, “and it’s time to stop this.”

  In the memory of the junior regents, not one of them had ever actually spoken when an issue was being debated. They were young, there by their parent’s sufferance, and not one of them wanted to draw attention to himself by having Rath speak ill of him to his father. Aerk’s heart was thundering in his ears as he leaned over the railing and spoke to the general assembly, as was the custom when an issue had been debated enough and was ready for a vote.

  “May I ask, Consort, are there any other doubts in house about the identity of Ellyot Moon?”

  Rath actually looked startled as he jerked his eyes from a deadlock with Ellyot. He had to shake his head before he could orient himself enough to answer. “I beg your pardon?”

  Aerk swallowed and sallied again. “Consort—” He made a quick look around the room. “—fellow regents, Ellyot Moon has not asked us to take action on any of the things he has said here. All he’s asked for is a voice—a voice that is rightfully his by succession. I’m asking if there are any more doubts as to who he really is. If there are not, then I do believe we have other work to do.”

  The silence was so sharp Aerk thought the tortured breathing of his shocked companions might bleed on it.

  “Of course we doubt—” The secretary general spoke wildly into the silence.

  “I don’t,” said Keon, meeting Aerk’s eyes in a grim attempt at self-assurance.

  “Me neither,” said Marv and Jino at the same time. They only needed three calls for a vote—everyone knew that. Accepting a regent into the hall needed a quorum, though, a two-thirds majority. If the vote was over 50 percent and not quite two-thirds, the new member would be voted on repeatedly until he was either accepted or rejected. Aerk knew that if he and the others spoke up, the half of the regents consigned to the balcony at least, would vote in Ellyot’s favor. Even if he wasn’t voted in by a quorum he would be allowed to stay in the Hall and speak on issues until he was either voted in and allowed to vote himself, or voted out, in which case his cause would be for naught. He said he wanted change instead of vengeance; the first step to that was having a voice in the hall.

  “I do believe,” came Eljean’s voice with a mocking insouciance, “that we have a call for a vote.”

  “We have a call?” The secretary general looked downright shocked. “What good would a call do now?”

  “Well, for one thing, it would keep me from getting dissected like a bug by a schoolboy,” Ellyot drawled with a deceptively lazy look up at the balcony. To Aerk’s relief, there was a hearty scatter of laughter—a surprising amount from the lower tier.

  Aerk took heart, both from the look, which masked a profound gratitude, and from the laughter, which said that odds were good Ellyot would be around long enough to give voice to the things that were pressing on his chest.

  “It doesn’t matter what good it will do you, if you’ll beg my pardon, Sir Secretary General,” Aerk called cheerfully. “The vote’s been called for!”

  Almost resentfully Aerk looked at Ellyot’s cool stance again and wondered when the sweat had started dripping from under his own arms. Well, he guessed, some people were heroes by birth, and some just had to sweat it out.

  “Then I suppose the hall is open for debate before the vote,” the secretary general said uncertainly, trying hard to duck the glare of the consort. But glare or no glare, it couldn’t mask the fact that the two had been maneuvered into a position they neither liked nor could get out of.

  “Of course,” said Rath delicately from his throne with the portable desk at its front, “I would think it should be much more comfortable for our young Sir Moon if he were not present for this?”

  Aerk and Keon met eyes and grimaced, and the others turned toward them. “It’s common practice,” Aerk agreed softly, “but it means that I can’t be the only one arguing. Are we in?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Dimitri said with a bitter pout. “I just went to the privy.”

  “Wherever you went, Dimitri, it’s certain that you stink,” Marv snapped, and the rest of them turned away from him. Dimitri looked surprised at first, and then he gave a noisy sigh, turning toward them anyway, obviously not to be left out of whatever it was they were doing—whatever his reasons.

  “I’m in,” said Jino. Aerk had known that if Marv was in then Jino would be too. Jino was the thoughtful soldier, and although Marv tended to act first and think later, he relied on Jino for insight.

  “Yes,” Djali said quietly, with a furtive look at his father, who did not seem to have even noticed that Djali was up in the balcony with the dissenters.

  Eljean glanced at Dimitri. For the last few months, he had always glanced at Dimitri for an opinion, and Dimitri sneered at him, trying to look bored. Eljean looked away then and down onto the floor, where Ellyot Moon was accepting a glass of water from a servant and gracing the man with the sweetest smile he had ever seen. The servant walked away, and Ellyot’s face relaxed again, leaving him unutterably weary and a little lost.

  “Eljean?” Aerk asked gently. He’d seen that look on Eljean’s face for months—ever since Dimitri had come to town and been inducted into the Hall of Regents, actually—but he had never seen it turned with such thoughtfulness on any other soul.

  “Yes,” Eljean murmured faintly. He turned toward his friends with a little more action in his shoulders. “Yes. Absolutely. You lead the way, Aerk, and we’ll argue ’til we’re hoarse.”

  “Ugh….” Aerk shuddered. He loved to debate with his fellows, but he really hated speaking in public. “He’d better be for real,” he said in disgust. “If he’s not for real, I might not be able to sneak in his room and cut his throat as he slept, but I surely could run him down in the road with an Oueant-gelded nag, that’s for cer
tain.” Aerk sighed. The rest of the assembly had broken into murmuring conferences just like their own at Rath’s “suggestion” that Ellyot leave the room, and now he was aware that they were waiting for some sort of acknowledgment that they would proceed.

  “Mister Secretary General, Honored Consort,” he called down to the floor, garnering an instant silence that made his hands pop out in cold sweat and his stomach churn, “I think you’re absolutely correct. Perhaps we should break for dinner, and when we come back I’m sure Sir Ellyot will want to get some rest after this most exhausting day, don’t you think?”

  Ellyot looked up and graced Aerk with a smile much like the one he had turned on the servant, only about a million times more grateful. “That would be more than hospitable, sir,” he said with a deep flourish and a bow. He turned toward the consort, and the smile disappeared; his face remained crinkled up at the same dimensions, but nobody, not even the secretary general, could call the expression a smile. “Will that meet your needs, gentlemen?” he asked with enough courtesy to flood a plain.

  “Um….” The secretary looked behind him to the consort’s infinitesimal nod. “Yes. Certainly.” He raised his head and addressed the assembly. “We shall see you all after dinner hour. Tomorrow’s session will be postponed if need be, but we shall have the vote by the end of the night.”

  With that, the assembly broke up, leaving Aerk and Keon to sit back on their cushions and try to figure out if their shirts were wringing wet from the heat inside the building or the cold anxiety that had sprung up at their own daring.

  “Ye gods!” Aerk swore absently. “What is it about that smile?”

  “I’m still not a Goddess boy,” Keon agreed, running a hand through his short, dark hair and making it spike out all over, “but that smile makes me wish I were.”

  “Perverts,” sneered Dimitri, and they ignored him.

  “You know,” Aerk mused, testing his knees to stand, “if all that charisma really does come from the Goddess, I can see why we might need to lock up our virgins when her children are near….”

  Keon burst out laughing. “Shut up, and let’s get out of this roasting pan. I need a cold drink, good food, and a chance to ask myself what in the name of Dueant’s enormous manly pride we’ve done here.”

  Eljean seconded, and together, on shaky legs and hopeful fears, they moved out.

  The Goddess’s Sons

  TORRANT CAME abruptly awake, his knife in his hand, slashing downward and crying, “Dammit, was that the bell?”

  “Easy there, brother,” Aylan said gently from the doorway. “The last bell to ring was the one that broke up the convocation for dinner, about a half an hour ago.” After rooming together for a winter, he knew very well that when Torrant was truly asleep, his body was huddled into a tight, self-protective little ball. When Aylan had entered the room, his brother had been sprawled on the top of the bed wearing his breeches and one boot, with his shirt dangling from his hand. The bells in the city had been off for the day, and it appeared as though Torrant had only just managed to drag himself in.

  “Augh….” Torrant gasped, using his free hand to scrub his face. He looked horrible—his eyes were red, and his hair, usually kept back in a neat, dark queue, was pulled out in clumps that stuck out all over his head, the band holding the queue dangling at his neck. It was still strange to see it look all brown. Until this moment, Aylan hadn’t been aware of what a drain it probably was to maintain the tiny bit of illusion that hid the white sorcerer’s streak. He needed a shave as well. Aylan noted that it was a good thing his friend didn’t go in for beards because his stubble pattern was uneven and patchy around his cheeks and chin.

  When it became clear that the knife had been tucked safely back under the pillow, Aylan stepped forward with a meat pie in one hand and an apple in another and was disheartened when Torrant collapsed back on the pillows, shaking his head.

  “No thanks, brother,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not hungry right yet. I need to listen for the bell. When the senate breaks up again, there’s no telling what the damage will be in the ghettoes.”

  “Why? What are they deciding?” Aylan sat on the edge of the bed and put the food on the chest at the end, determined to see it gone before he left.

  Torrant grimaced in disgust. “They’re trying to decide if I’m really Ellyot Moon, of course.” He tried to force himself off the bed, but his body screamed that he hadn’t slept in nearly forty hours, so he fell back against the pillows with an oath.

  “Oh Goddess.” Aylan paled. “They were questioning you this whole time? I mean…. Torrant, they didn’t break for lunch. The whole town was like a shaken beehive, they were so unnerved…. The whole time?”

  Torrant grunted. He’d needed to channel a little bit of his gift in the end, in order to maintain his composure and stay upright. After a brief word of acknowledgment to Aerk, he had walked purposefully for his apartment. His relief when he’d come through the door had been so strong that he dropped the power and had barely enough strength to stumble to the bed. Fitfully, he raised his wrist and started pulling at the tightened cuff of his shirt. His eyes bleared shut, and his hand fell on his chest, and then he was aware that Aylan was working the cuff off his hand.

  “Need to wake up at the bell,” he rasped again. “I’ve got people arguing for me…. They should be thanked.”

  “You’ve got friends already?” Aylan worked the shirt free and tucked Torrant’s hands up on his chest with an unhidden tenderness. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “They were curious, at first,” Torrant mumbled, keeping his eyes closed. He opened them again when Aylan went to work on his other boot. “Aylan, you’re not here to wait on me….”

  The boot came free with a pop that landed Aylan on his arse, and with a surprising heave it went sailing toward Torrant’s head. It was a good thing temper set his aim off, because Torrant was too weary to duck. “Apparently I’m not here as anything but decoration, then, am I!” He stood up and glared at Torrant, who could only sit back and look puzzled.

  “What in the name of Dueant’s sainted arse are you talking about?”

  Oh Goddess, Aylan wanted to kick something. It wasn’t fair. He had a right to be raging and furious, but Torrant could barely keep his eyes open. “Go back to sleep, brother,” he commanded. “We’ll talk when you wake up.”

  “We’ll talk now!” Torrant collected all his will and swung his legs over the bed. As angry as he was, Aylan pressed his advantage.

  “We’ll talk when you’re awake enough to eat!”

  “My stomach’s off,” Torrant complained.

  “Your stomach’s always off when the pressure is on. If I bring you back to Yarri with your ribs popping from your skin, she’ll never speak to me again.”

  “If you bring me back to Yarri alive, period, she’ll do everything but have your babies, and you know it,” Torrant grunted with half a laugh. “Now give me my dinner and tell me what crawled up your arse, bit twice, and died.”

  “Stand up,” Aylan commanded sharply.

  “Aren’ I ea’in’?” Torrant asked, confused. “Hey!” he objected, sputtering crumbs all over his bare chest even as he stood. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Aylan grabbed Torrant’s breeches as he stood and pulled them down, taking the hose he was wearing underneath with them. His hand, shaking and delicate, traced the swollen pinkness of the new scar that curved from lower buttock to thigh. It was, had Torrant known it, the exact same shape as the “healed” portion of Aylan’s new and terrible gift. The sound Aylan made was somewhere between a cry and a snarl, and his hand flattened against the tender flesh as he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the proof anymore.

  Torrant forced a bite of shepherd’s pie down his throat that felt like it was the size of the entire shepherd—or at least a hefty sheep. “Aylan…,” he said tentatively, not objecting to the touch even though now that he and Yarri had been together the time for such intimacy should have passed.r />
  “Don’t say anything,” Aylan whispered, leaning his head on his brother’s hip. “Don’t say anything until I’m sure I’m not going to clock you in the jaw or throw you on the bed, or maybe some combination of them both.” A heartbeat, a breath against Torrant’s bare thigh. Aylan cleared his throat and stroked the newly injured skin.

  “How could you do this to me, you wanker?” he asked roughly at last.

  Torrant’s hand came down, the one that wasn’t holding his forced meal, and stroked through Aylan’s surprisingly soft, curly blond hair. It was the only answer he had.

  “You’ll take it back,” Aylan insisted, holding up a fold of the cloak even as it sat heavy on his shoulders. “You’ll take the cloak back and….”

  “It’s already been blooded,” Torrant told him, not stopping the stroking. “It’s yours—the gift, I mean. I told it I would feel in truth the wounds on your body that I would feel in sympathy. You wore it—the charm is already set. If you take it off, it just makes it easier for me to….”

  “To bleed,” Aylan finished bitterly, wondering how long it would take for the leather to take his sweat and start chafing his very soul. “It makes it easier for you to bleed. For me.” Torrant felt harsh, seething breaths against his skin as Aylan’s head shuddered under his hand.

  “Aylan, brother,” he said softly after a moment, “what exactly do you think is going to happen if I survive and go back to Eiran without you?”

  Aylan’s body stiffened. He pulled back, his face as naked as Torrant’s body, his hand still cupped protectively over the recent wound.

  Torrant reached down and pulled up his pants with one hand, relieved when Aylan recovered himself enough to help him out a little, and then plopped bonelessly on the top of the bed. He stuffed the last of the meat pie in his mouth and wrapped his arms around his best friend, his brother. With his last swallow, he said, “I’m serious. Do you think I’d go home, be really sad for a while, and then just go on? Yarri and I would live happily ever after, you’d get your honored-dead letter once a year, and… and that’s the end? Do you think there would be enough pieces of me left to put back together and just do that?”