The Darkest Night

by Emma V. Leech

  “You know, of course, what will happen if we share?” Corin asked with a rather malicious edge to his voice as he surveyed the space with dismay.

  Laen glared at him, a warning look that promised him he’d regret this course of action if he persisted, and said nothing. Corin huffed and began unbuckling his sword and threw it down on the mattress that was to be his bed, irritation climbing. “Well, don’t blame me when those rumours start flying again,” he muttered, knowing he was asking for trouble but quite unable to stop himself. It was his favourite manner of riling Laen, and for good reason. "It's only taken the best part of a century for those stories to die down, after all."

  He blew Laen a kiss and watched with amusement as the man’s jaw tightened. “Oh, yes,” Laen said, his tone dry, apparently deciding he was going to be the adult for once and not to rise to the bait. “Like it ever bothered you.”

  Corin shrugged, peeling his sodden coat from his body with a grimace of distaste. “No, it never did. But then, as you have frequently remarked, I have no shame. I couldn’t give a damn what anyone thought. Though, to be honest, why I should be ashamed in those circumstances, I never could fathom. You, however, seemed to have enough for the both of us,” he added, a dig designed to remind Laen of a particularly dark period in their friendship. Laen said nothing, and Corin felt a flicker of satisfaction despite himself. He didn’t know what he was doing, trying to provoke Laen, and for such ancient history, too, but somehow the past was alive in his mind now, old memories surfacing for no reason he could think of.

  “Did your father ever hear of it?” Corin asked, honestly curious now.

  “You don’t think I actually asked him?” Laen demanded, wringing out his sodden shirt and looking around for a place to hang it. Not that it would dry in the damp atmosphere of the tent. “We weren’t exactly on speaking terms by then, and I was in no hurry to face him again. You know damn well what he thought of you, though, so he’d have drawn his own conclusions. You were a corrupting influence.” Corin gave a dark chuckle and even Laen grinned at that. “Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.”

  “Perhaps," Corin conceded, knowing he’d led Laen into a great deal of trouble over the years. He stripped off his soggy shirt and stared at it, wondering if he could dry it with magic. A faint burning sent drifted up as he tried and he flapped the shirt before it caught fire. Perhaps not. "I hope you’re not blaming me for the gossip, though,” he added, turning to look at Laen, who was now hanging his dripping shirt off the hilt of his sword. “It was none of my doing.”

  Laen scowled, his eyes dark with anger. "No,” he said, the word terse and annoyed. “That was all Devil Ravendell's doing, the bastard. I should have taken his head from his shoulders for that," he growled. “I would have, too, if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  "Ah, yes,” Corin snapped, still irritated by the old argument. He’d not been blameless himself, he knew. He’d also gone out of his way to goad Ravendell, who had retaliated in a far more subtle way, designed to make Laen lose his bloody mind. It had worked. “And a pretty can of worms that would have opened, a Dark Fae prince killing a Elven duke? Easily brushed under the carpet, naturally,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Of course, if we had not gone to the party in the first place ..."

  Laen groaned and put his head in his hands. "Oh, gods, not this again."

  Corin shivered as his hair dripped down his back and hunted for something to dry off with. "Well, I've been berated often enough for following petticoats when good sense would suggest it was a bad idea. I really don't see why I can't return the favour. I told you she was trouble, damn you. I could see it a mile off, but no, you had to follow her to that wretched party!"

  Laen muttered something incomprehensible and began to wash the day's dirt off, his pale skin prickling with goose-flesh as the water was already freezing cold.

  Corin was trying to wrestle his wet boot off, but paused to glare at Laen, having caught the gist of his words. "I beg your pardon?" he asked with a touch of acid.

  Laen turned around and pointed at him. "I said it was your bloody idea to drink that bottle of ... Oh, the gods alone know what! I still don't. By the fires of Tartarus, my head aches just thinking about it. I thought I was going to die."

  "Such a cry baby," Corin said under his breath, though not so quietly that Laen didn't hear. He returned to fighting with his boot.

  Laen snorted. "Oh, right,” he said, nodding, though his expression was scornful. “I don't remember you being exactly perky the next day." Noticing his struggle, he sighed and grabbed hold of Corin's boot, giving it a swift tug and chucking it at him.

  "Quite possibly!" Corin scowled as he caught it, covering his hands with mud. "But I healed you, and I don't remember weeping and whining and making such a damned fuss as you did." He got up to shove Laen out of the way so he could wash the mud off as Laen glared at him, open-mouthed.

  "After everything that happened? Seriously? And I did not weep!" he added in disgust.

  Corin raised an eyebrow. "For your information, Devil laced that bottle with Thrallium, so I’d say we got off lightly."

  Laen put his head in his hands and made a desperate noise. “Don’t!" he mumbled, sounding utterly mortified.

  Turning away, Corin bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. He had to hand it to Devil. When the man had orchestrated it so that select members of the cream of Alfheim’s society walked in on the two of them, he’d known what he was about. In truth, the two of them had been quite off their heads, thanks again to Devil, and it had not been just the two of them when they had retired. By morning, however, the girls had gone … and left the two of them in bed together. The delighted look on Devil’s face as he pretended to walk in on them by surprise, with half of Alfheim in tow, still made Laen blush like a maiden. Corin, however, had long since stopped caring what people said or thought about him and had seen the funny side of it. Laen had not.

  “Well, you wanted to share a tent with me,” Corin chuckled, batting his eyelashes at Laen, a rather wicked part of his nature always delighted in tormenting him over it. It was about time the man got over such hang-ups, in his opinion.

  “Shut up,” Laen said, sounding fed-up.

  “Oh, fine.” Corin glared at the wafer-thin mattress and scratchy blankets with consternation. “I’m too tired to argue.”

  “Thank the gods,” Laen remarked as stripped off the rest of his wet clothes and lay down with a heavy sigh.

  Corin, however, had never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie, and baiting Laen was ever a favourite past time. He was far too restless and uptight to sleep, and some demon in his blood insisted that irritating Laen would be more amusing. He didn’t know why he felt the need to dig at his friend, except that it stemmed from an old hurt that he had thought long since buried. He had pretended it buried, at least. “Did you see the look your bat man gave me when you dismissed him and told him we were sharing?” he asked with a nonchalant air as he carried on washing.

  Laen pulled the blanket up over his head and presented Corin with his back by way of answer. Corin snorted and bided his time, knowing that Laen couldn’t keep his tongue between his teeth indefinitely. He was rewarded as Laen turned, his face taut with irritation.

  "Corin, are you not concerned about the fact you're about to go up against the full force of the Light Fae tomorrow? The city is barricaded behind that damned enormous wall ... And you don't seem the least bit concerned. We could be bloody slaughtered tomorrow. Is this really what you want to discuss now?” he demanded, a mixture of frustration and real concern glittering in his dark eyes. “Are you not the least bit worried?"

  "No."

  Laen’s eyes widened in astonishment and Corin shrugged. "I can take the city,” he said, his voice low, avoiding Laen’s eyes now. This he didn’t want to talk about. “I know I can do it. I knew it at the village today." He dared a glance at Laen, knowing how incredulous that must sound. They’d both seen the wall that surrounded the castle and
its vast grounds. It was a fortress, heavily defended on all sides.

  "But...?" Laen began, the scepticism in his voice audible, but he stopped at the look in Corin’s eyes.

  Corin turned away and poured himself some clean water, washing the filth of the day from his skin and shivering with the bitter cold. He reached for the now damp towel, finally voicing the fear that was keeping him from sleep and making him torment his closest friend instead. "But Auberren will invoke the right of the king to stand and contest my challenge, and as much as I want to kill him where he stands, I will be honour-bound to accept."

  Laen sat up, frowning now, his eyes dark with fear in the flickering lamplight of the tent. "Do you doubt you can win?" he asked, sounding as though he didn’t doubt it at all, and not understanding why Corin should.

  “No,” he shook his head. “I don't doubt it, but he has the right to name a date. He can delay for a maximum of three days to prepare to meet me." Corin’s eyes met Laen's and he knew that his friend understood his concern now.

  "You think he will delay,” Laen said. It wasn’t a question.

  He snorted, though it was far from a happy sound. "Of course he will delay. The law states I must wait for that time and make no attempt to connect with the land. Three days, Laen, in the heart of a dying city ... unable to do anything?” Corin lowered his voice. “You've seen how it's been over the past days." He paused as terror rolled over him, prickling down his spine and curling into his heart with fine, sharp tendrils that pierced and worried at his darkest fears.

  "You'll make it," Laen said, his voice firm and utterly confident. “I know you will.”

  Corin nodded and returned a smile he was far from feeling. "Yes,” he agreed, knowing it would be easier said than done. He’d been so close to failing after the last battle, what would the next one do to him? “Let us hope you are right."

  Corin lay down on the mattress at last, muttering and shivering as he felt every rock and stone jutting into his back, and finding the blanket every bit as thin and damp and scratchy as he’d known it would be. "Damn it all, Laen. It's bloody freezing in here."

  "My apologies, Your Highness," Laen said with mock sincerity, sounding weary and rather pissed off now.

  “How many blankets do you have?” Corin demanded, looking at the pathetic scrap of material in disgust.

  “The same as you.”

  A gust of freezing air whistled through the tent and the sides snapped as the icy gale continued to blow outside. Corin shivered. The all too familiar feeling of sickness had begun to creep over him, the ice of a dying land settling into his bones like the marrow had turned to frost. “I hate being cold,” he muttered, trying to force back the despairing feeling it brought with it.

  “Then I wish you to a place of great heat,” Laen murmured.

  “Very amusing, I’m sure,” Corin retorted, pulling the blankets up. "Gods, I need a drink." He paused, wondering if Laen would give him something just to shut him up. “Laen. I want a drink.”

  "Well, I don't have anything. I found your stash and you're not having it!" Laen snapped, apparently coming to the limits of his temper. "Just shut the hell up and go to sleep."

  "There’s no need to be rude," Corin grumbled and was answered with a despairing sigh. "I'm never going to sleep, I'm freezing."

  Laen ignored him and didn't answer. Corin turned on his side and closed his eyes, only to be confronted with thoughts of tomorrow’s battle. Opening his eyes again, he sighed and turned onto his back. He was tired but he was never going to sleep. He wondered if Laen had any drink hidden in his coat. Somehow, he believed Laen would have already thought to have removed it. He turned onto his other side, cursing with annoyance.

  "Dammit, man, stop fidgeting,” Laen yelled, sitting up and staring at him with exasperation. Corin glared at him but lay still. Plotting.

  He allowed silence to fill the tent for a good five minutes before he spoke.

  "Laen?" he said, his voice deliberately soft.

  Laen sighed, sounding like he was going to lose his mind. "What now?" he demanded, not bothering to look up.

  "I really am terribly cold." Corin bit his lip, wondering if he could manage this without laughing.

  There was a pause before Laen answered. "And...?"

  "Well, I was just thinking perhaps ... perhaps we should ... share more than the tent?"

  Laen sat bolt upright and stared at Corin in stunned silence. Corin looked back at him with as an innocent an expression as he could until his shoulders began to shake. Unable to hold it back a moment longer, he roared with laughter. "Oh, by the gods, Laen, your face!"

  Laen scowled at him. "I think I preferred you when you were losing your mind,” he growled. Laying down again, he turned his back to Corin.

  "You are such a narrow-minded prude,” Corin taunted him, still chuckling over the shock in Laen’s eyes.

  "That is not true, you know it isn't," Laen muttered, exasperated.

  "It is,” Corin said, turning the lamp out with a wave of his hand. “It’s a good job you met me, you know. The gods alone know how uptight you’d be if you hadn’t. You’d probably have to get undressed in the dark and say a prayer if you touched yourself.”

  "Oh, sweet mother, Nerthus, shut up."

  "If it weren’t true, you wouldn't get so ridiculously embarrassed,” Corin carried on, relentless, and thoroughly enjoying Laen’s discomfort. “Gods, man, you are so easy to put to the blush, even after all these years. How long have I known you? Over a hundred and eighty years and I can still embarrass you?"

  Laen tried to rearrange the rolled blanket that was serving as his pillow, punching it with rather more force than was strictly necessary. "Yes,” he agreed, his tone rather ferocious. “Nobody else makes me blush, you have a rare gift."

  "So it would seem," Corin replied, still smiling in the dark, adding, "It is cold, though,” with a rather wistful sigh.

  "I really hate you," Laen muttered.

  Corin felt his smile fall away. "No you don't." He listened to Laen's breathing deepen as he drifted into sleep and stared up at the roof of the tent. Any good humour he had managed to cling to dissipated as his thoughts strayed to the future. Either he would betray his oldest friend, or he would die. There was no middle ground, no lesser path to take. Laen didn’t hate him, not yet, but he wondered just how much longer that would be true for, and how he would stand it if there was no longer a friend to torment, or to turn to when things got too dark.

  It didn't bear thinking about.

  Chapter 13

  Jean-Pierre poured out the coffee and put the cake out on the table as he’d been instructed. They’d returned to Inés’ cottage to fetch her supplies, and he could hear her moving about in her herb room, muttering to herself. The words were nothing he recognised, but had the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, his skin prickling with the instinct to run. She had ushered him out of the way as soon as they'd arrived and told him to make himself useful and get some coffee on. He'd done as she’d told him, too awed by her to protest.

  He thought about calling out to her that the coffee was ready, but felt interrupting her mid ... well, mid-whatever it was she was doing might not be wise. Instead, he crept up to the herb room door and peered in.

  She was working, pestle and mortar in hand, and his eyes widened as he saw the magic creeping out of the bowl. At least … he assumed it was magic. It was delicate, a pale silvery white, and the tendrils twined and curled on the air, moving with the rhythm of the strange words she spoke. He watched, entranced, as the magic danced and coiled and Inés worked on. She was lit by candle light, the flames flickering and casting strange shadows around her that seemed to move independently. He felt a shiver of alarm, but could not look away. Her hair was so black it shone blue as a crow’s wing, highlighted with bronze in the warm glow of the candles. A strange smell, sweet and thick, rose up from around her and wrapped around him, sending his blood thrilling in his veins as he watched her. He stepped f
urther into the room, unaware that he was doing so but needing to see more, fascinated even though fear made his heart pound. He stopped in his tracks as those bright green eyes flicked up, meeting his for a moment, but she merely looked away, back to her work, as though he wasn't there at all.

  He stood still, barely daring to breathe, as she worked. Once she had finished, she stoppered a tiny blue bottle with an equally tiny cork, and Jean-Pierre found he couldn't voice the hundreds of questions that were bubbling in his brain. He simply couldn't comprehend the idea that she was really so very old, though the power ... that, he could believe. Simply being in the same room with her was making his skin and his senses prickle and he couldn't understand how he had never felt it before. Perhaps if you didn't believe in magic, you just didn't sense it? Well, he believed now, alright, and the knowledge burned his eyes, bright white, like a magnesium ribbon. He knew now that nothing would ever be the same again.

  "Alors, is that coffee ready?" she demanded, packing away her materials and replacing the various glass jars and phials she’d been using, back where they’d come from.

  "Oui," he replied, wishing he could ask her exactly what she had been doing, but was too dumbstruck to speak at all.

  Inés nodded and carefully wrapped the little bottle, and then began gathering together some of the items she'd been using and packing them into a little wooden box. She handed it to him. "Take care of that into the kitchen for me, will you?"

  He took the box from her, looking at it in alarm, and she chuckled. "Oh, grow a pair, it won't bite!"

  Flushing, he tucked the box under his arm and returned to the kitchen to sit at the table, feeling like an idiot. She followed him out and took a sip from her mug "Well, at least you can make coffee, there's hope yet. Help yourself to the gâteau, I'm just going to pack a few things."

  "Pack?" he asked in surprise, turning to watch as she headed into what he presumed was a bedroom. "You're coming with us?"